“Merde,” said the minister softly.
There was a silence. Dust floated in the sunlight streaming through the window like fish in an aquarium. Rousseau cleared his throat gently, a signal he was about to venture onto treacherous ground.
“I know that you and Martel are friends,” he said at last.
“We are acquainted,” countered the minister quickly, “but we are not friends.”
“Martel would be surprised to hear that. In fact, he invoked your name several times before finally agreeing to cooperate.”
The minister could not hide his anger at Rousseau for airing dirty French laundry in front of an outsider, and an Israeli at that. “What is your point?” he asked.
“My point,” said Rousseau, “is that I’m going to need Martel’s continued cooperation, which will require a grant of immunity. Such a grant might be sensitive given your relationship, but it’s necessary for the operation to move forward.”
“What is your goal?”
“Eliminating Saladin, of course.”
“And you intend to use Martel in some sort of operational capacity?”
“It is our only option.”
The minister made a show of thought. “You’re right, a grant of immunity would be difficult. But if you were to request it—”
“You’ll have the paperwork by the end of the day,” interjected Rousseau. “Frankly, it’s probably for the best. You’re not the only one in the current government who’s acquainted with Martel.”
The minister was shuffling papers again. “We gave you wide latitude when we created the Alpha Group, but needless to say you’ve overstepped your authority.”
Rousseau accepted the rebuke in penitential silence.
“I won’t be kept in the dark any longer. Is that clear?”
“It is, Minister.”
“How do you intend to proceed?”
“In the next ten days, Martel’s Moroccan supplier, a man named Mohammad Bakkar, is going to send several large shipments of hashish from ports in Libya. It is vital that we intercept them.”
“You know the names of the vessels?”
Rousseau nodded.
“Bakkar and Saladin will suspect there’s an informant.”
“That is correct.”
“They’ll be angry.”
Rousseau smiled. “That is our hope, minister.”
The first ship, a Maltese-registered floating coffin called the Mediterranean Dream, was not due to leave Libya for another four days. Her point of departure was Khoms, a small commercial seaport east of Tripoli; and after a brief stop in Tunis, where she was scheduled to take on a load of produce, she would make directly for Genoa. The other two vessels, one flying a Bahamian flag, the other Panamanian, were both scheduled to depart Sirte in one week’s time, thus presenting Gabriel and Rousseau with a minor quandary. They agreed that seizing the Mediterranean Dream while the other two vessels were still in port in Libya would be a miscalculation, as it would provide Mohammad Bakkar and Saladin an opportunity to reroute the merchandise. Instead, they would wait until all three vessels were in international waters before making their first move.
The delay weighed heavily on them both, especially Gabriel, who had watched Saladin’s retouched face emerge from the labors of his own hand. He carried the sketch with him always, even to his bed in Jerusalem, where he passed four restless nights at the side of his wife. At King Saul Boulevard he sat through endless briefings on matters he had left in the capable hands of Uzi Navot, but everyone could see his thoughts were elsewhere. During a meeting of the Cabinet his mind drifted as the ministers bickered endlessly. In his notebook he sketched a face. A face partially concealed by the hood of a djellaba.
Rousseau woke Gabriel early the next morning with news that the Mediterranean Dream had left Tunis overnight and was now in international waters. But did it contain a concealed shipment of hashish from Morocco? Only one source said it would, the man who lived across the Baie de Cavalaire from Dmitri and Sophie Antonov. The man whose many sins had been officially forgiven and who was now under the complete and total control of a consortium of three intelligence services.
To the uninitiated eye, however, there appeared to be no outward change in his conduct, save for the constant presence at his side of Christopher Keller. Indeed, everywhere Martel went, Keller was sure to follow. To Monaco and Madrid for a pair of previously scheduled business meetings. To Geneva for an eye-opening session with a Swiss banker of questionable ethics. And finally to Marseilles, from which the chief of Martel’s illicit narcotics division had vanished without a trace, leaving behind two dead bodyguards in his electronics shop overlooking the Place Jean Jaurès. The Marseilles police were under the impression René Devereaux had been killed by an underworld rival. Devereaux’s associates, including one Henri Villard, were of the same opinion. During a meeting with Martel and Keller in a safe flat near the Gare Saint-Charles, Villard was on edge about the upcoming shipments. He was afraid, rightly, that there had been a leak. Martel calmed his fears and instructed him to collect the cargo in the usual manner. Close scrutiny of the recording produced by the phone in Keller’s pocket—and of Villard’s movements and communications after the meeting—suggested Martel had not tried to send a clandestine warning to his old network. The hashish was on its way, the payment was loaded into the pipeline. For both the drug dealers and the spymasters, all systems appeared to be go.