He was taller than Mikhail remembered, and broader through the chest and shoulders. Perhaps it was because he’d had sufficient time to recover from his injuries. Or perhaps, thought Mikhail, it was his clothing. He had been wearing a dark business suit that night and had been seated across from a beautiful young woman whose dark hair was dyed blond. Occasionally, he had stolen glances at the television above the bar to view the results of his handiwork. Bombs had exploded at the National Counterterrorism Center in Virginia and at the Lincoln Memorial. But there was more to come. Much more.
Mikhail’s first impression of Saladin’s new face was that it did not suit him. It was too thin through the nose and cheekbones, and the movie-idol chin was something a vain man might choose from a magazine in his plastic surgeon’s office. Substantial work had been done to the eyes as well, but the irises themselves were as Mikhail remembered—wide and dark and bottomless and shimmering with profound intelligence. They were not the eyes of a madman, they were the eyes of a professional. One would never want to play a game of chance against such eyes, nor sit across from them in an interrogation chamber. Or a camp at the edge of the Sahara, thought Mikhail, surrounded by several hardened jihadis armed with automatic weapons. He resolved to conduct the meeting swiftly and then send Saladin on his way. But not too swiftly. Saladin was about to present Mikhail with his weapons wish list, which meant there was priceless intelligence to be gained. The opportunity was unprecedented. It could not be squandered.
The introductions had been brisk and businesslike. Mikhail had accepted the proffered hand without hesitation. The hand that had condemned so many to death. The hand of the murderer. It was thick and strong and very warm to the touch. And dry, observed Mikhail. No sign of nerves. Saladin was not anxious or uncomfortable, he was in his element. Like his namesake, he was a man of the desert. The Moroccan mint tea, however, was clearly not to his liking.
“Too sweet,” he said, making a face. “It’s a wonder Moroccans have any teeth.”
“We don’t,” said Mohammad Bakkar.
There was restrained laughter. Saladin tilted his face to the sky and searched the stars.
“Do you hear that?” he asked after a moment.
“What?” asked Mikhail.
“Bees,” said Saladin. “It sounds like bees.”
“Not here. Flies, perhaps, but not bees.”
“I’m sure you are right.” His English was heavily accented but assured. He lowered his gaze and fixed it securely on Mikhail. “I take it we have cleared up any lingering confusion about your profession.”
“We have.”
“And you are in fact a Russian?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I won’t hold that against you,” said Saladin. “Your government has committed horrible atrocities in Syria while trying to prop up the regime.”
“When it comes to Syria,” responded Mikhail, “Russia has no monopoly on atrocities. The Islamic State has plenty of blood on its hands, too.”
“When one is making an omelet,” said Saladin, “it is necessary to break eggs.”
“Or slaughter innocent civilians?”
“No one is innocent in this war. So long as the unbelievers kill our women and children, we will kill theirs.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “It is as simple as that. Besides, a man in your line of work is in no position to lecture anyone about collateral casualties.”
“There’s a difference between collateral casualties and the deliberate targeting of civilians.”
“A narrow one.” He drank some of the tea. “Tell me, Monsieur Antonov, are you a spy?”
“I live in a mansion in the south of France that’s filled with art. I’m no spy.”
“In Russia,” said Saladin knowingly, “spies come in all shapes and sizes.”
“I am not, nor have I ever been, a Russian intelligence officer.”
“But you are close to the Kremlin.”
“Actually, I do my best to avoid them.”
“Come now, Monsieur Antonov. Everyone knows that the Kremlin picks the winners and losers in Russia. No one is allowed to become rich without the tsar’s approval.”
“You know my country well.”
“I had many dealings with Russia in my past life. I know how the system works. And I know that a man in your line of work cannot function without the protection of friends in the SVR and the Kremlin.”
“All true,” said Mikhail. “And I would quickly lose my friends if they ever learned I was thinking about doing business with the likes of you.”
“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t meant as one.”
“I admire your honesty.”
“And I yours,” said Mikhail.
“Are you opposed in principle to doing business with us?”
“I have few—principles, that is.”
“I pity you.”
“Don’t.”
Saladin smiled. “I’m looking to acquire some merchandise for future operations.”
“Weapons?”
“Not weapons,” said Saladin. “Material.”
“What kind of material?”
“The kind,” said Saladin, “that the government of the former Soviet Union produced in great quantity during the Cold War.”
Mikhail allowed a moment to pass before answering. “That’s a dirty business,” he said quietly.
“Very dirty,” agreed Saladin. “And lucrative.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“Cesium chloride.”
“I assume you intend to use it for medical purposes.”
“Agricultural, actually.”
“I was under the impression that your organization took possession of material like that in Syria and Libya.”
“Where did you hear something like that?”
“The same place you heard I was an arms dealer.”
“It is true, but a portion of our supply recently went missing.” He was staring at Jean-Luc Martel.
“And the rest of it?” asked Mikhail.
“That is none of your affair.”
“Forgive me, I meant no—”
Saladin held up a hand to indicate that no offense had been taken. “Is it possible,” he asked, “for you to obtain such material?”
“It’s possible,” said Mikhail carefully, “but extremely risky.”
“Nothing worth doing is without risk.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mikhail after a moment, “but I can’t be a party to this.”
“To what?”
Mikhail made no reply.
“Will you at least hear my offer?”
“Money isn’t the issue.”
“Money,” said Saladin, “is always the issue. Name your price, and I will pay it.”
Mikhail made a show of thought. “I can make inquiries,” he said at last.
“How long?”
“As long as it takes. It’s not something that can be done quickly.”
“I understand.”
“Do you require technical assistance, too?”
Saladin shook his head. “Only the material itself.”
“And if I acquire it? How do I contact you?”
“You don’t,” said Saladin. “You contact your friend, Monsieur Martel. And Monsieur Martel will contact Mohammad.” He stood abruptly and held out his hand. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
“You will.” Mikhail once again accepted the hand and held it tightly.
Saladin released his grip and turned his face once more to the sky. “Do you hear that?”
“The bees are back?”
Saladin made no reply.
“You must have excellent hearing,” said Mikhail, “because I can’t hear a bloody thing.”
Saladin was still searching the stars. At length, he looked at Mikhail. The dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“Your face is familiar to me, Monsieur Antonov. Is it possible we’ve met before?”
“No,” said Mikhail, “it is not possible.”
“In Moscow perhaps? In another life?”
The eyes moved slowly from Mikhail to Jean-Luc Martel and then to Mohammad Bakkar. At last, he looked at Mikhail again.