Mikhail carried his bag and briefcase into the elevator foyer. An empty carriage waited, its doors open. He stepped inside and, grateful for the solitude, pressed the call button for the fourteenth floor. But as the doors were closing, a hand poked through the breach and a man entered. He was thickset, with a heavy ridge over his brow and a jawbone built to take a punch. His eyes met Mikhail’s briefly in the reflection of the doors. A nod was exchanged, but no words passed between them. The man pressed the button for the twentieth floor, almost as an afterthought, and picked at his thumbnail as the carriage rose. Mikhail pretended to check his e-mail on his mobile and while doing so surreptitiously snapped the blunt-headed man’s photograph. He forwarded the photo to King Saul Boulevard, the location of the Office’s anonymous Tel Aviv headquarters, while walking along the corridor to his room. A glance around the door frame revealed no evidence of tampering. He swiped his card key and, bracing himself for attack, entered.
The sound of Vivaldi greeted him—a favorite of arms smugglers, heroin dealers, and terrorists the world over, he thought as he switched off the radio. The bed had already been turned down, a chocolate lay on the pillow. He went to the window and saw the roof of Sami Haddad’s car parked along the Corniche. Beyond was the marina, and beyond the marina the blackness of the Mediterranean. Somewhere out there was his back door. He was no longer allowed to come to Beirut without an offshore escape hatch. The next chief had plans for him—or so he had heard through the Office grapevine. For a secure institution, it was a notoriously gossipy place.
Just then, Mikhail’s mobile blossomed with light. It was a message from King Saul Boulevard stating that the computers could not identify the man who had joined him in the elevator. It advised him to proceed with caution, whatever that meant. He drew the blackout shade and the curtains and switched off the room lights one by one until the darkness was absolute. Then he sat at the foot of the bed, his gaze focused on the thin strip of light at the bottom of the door, and waited for the phone to ring.
It was not unusual for the source to be late. He was, as he reminded Mikhail at every opportunity, a very busy man. Therefore, it was no surprise that ten o’clock came and went with no call from Sami Haddad. Finally, at quarter past, the mobile flared.
“He’s entering the lobby. He has two friends, both armed.”
Mikhail killed the call and remained seated for an additional ten minutes. Then, gun in hand, he moved to the entrance hall and placed his ear against the door. Hearing nothing outside, he returned the gun to the small of his back and stepped into the corridor, which was deserted except for a single male member of the housekeeping staff. Upstairs, the roof bar was the usual scene—rich Lebanese, Emiratis in their flowing white kanduras, Chinese businessmen flushed with drink, drug dealers, whores, gamblers, adventure seekers, fools. The sea wind toyed with the hair of the women and made wavelets in the pool. The throbbing music, spun by a professional DJ, was a sonic crime against humanity.
Mikhail made his way to the farthest corner of the rooftop, where Clovis Mansour, scion of the Mansour antiquities-dealing dynasty, sat alone on a white couch facing the Mediterranean. He was posed as if for a magazine shoot, with a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette smoldering in the other. He wore a dark Italian suit and a white open-neck shirt that was handmade for him by his man in London. His gold wristwatch was the size of a sundial. His cologne hung around him like a cloak.
“You’re late, habibi,” he said as Mikhail lowered himself onto the couch opposite. “I was about to leave.”
“No, you weren’t.”
Mikhail surveyed the interior of the bar. Mansour’s two bodyguards were picking at a bowl of pistachios at an adjacent table. The man from the elevator was leaning against the balustrade. He was pretending to admire the view of the sea while holding a mobile phone to his ear.
“Know him?” asked Mikhail.
“Never seen him before. Drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s better if you drink.”
Mansour flagged down a passing waiter and ordered a second glass of champagne. Mikhail drew a buff-colored envelope from his coat pocket and placed it on the low table.
“What’s that?” asked Mansour.
“A token of our esteem.”
“Money?”
Mikhail nodded.
“I don’t work for you because I need the money, habibi. After all, I have plenty of money. I work for you because I want to stay in business.”
“My superiors prefer it if money changes hands.”
“Your superiors are cheap blackmailers.”
“I’d look inside the envelope before calling them cheap.”
Mansour did. He raised an eyebrow and slipped the envelope into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“What have you got for me, Clovis?”
“Paris,” said the antiquities dealer.
“What about Paris?”
“I know who did it.”
“How?”
“I can’t say for certain,” said Mansour, “but it’s possible I helped him pay for it.”
4
BEIRUT—TEL AVIV
IT WAS HALF PAST TWO in the morning by the time Mikhail finally returned to his room. He saw no evidence to suggest it had been disturbed in his absence; even the little foiled chocolate lay at precisely the same angle atop his pillow. After sniffing it for traces of arsenic, he nibbled at a corner thoughtfully. Then, in an uncharacteristic fit of nerves, he hauled every piece of furniture that wasn’t bolted down into the entrance hall and piled it against the door. His barricade complete, he opened the curtains and the blackout shade and searched for his bolt-hole among the shipping lights in the Mediterranean. Instantly, he reproached himself for entertaining such a thought. The escape hatch was to be utilized only in cases of extreme emergency. Possession of a piece of intelligence did not fall into that category, even if the piece of intelligence had the potential to prevent another catastrophe like Paris.
They call him Saladin . . .
Mikhail stretched out on the bed, his back propped against the headboard, the gun at his side, and stared at the shadowy mass of his fortifications. It was, he thought, a truly undignified sight. He switched on the television and surfed the airwaves of a Middle East gone mad until boredom drove him toward the doorstep of sleep. To keep himself alert he guzzled a cola from the fridge bar and thought about a woman he had foolishly let slip through his fingers. She was a beautiful American of flawless Protestant pedigree who had worked for the CIA and, occasionally, for the Office. She was living in New York now, where she oversaw a special collection of paintings at the Museum of Modern Art. He’d heard she was seeing a man quite seriously, a bond trader, of all things. He contemplated calling her, just to hear the sound of her voice, but decided it would be unwise. Like Russia, she was lost to him.
What’s his real name, Clovis?
I’m not sure he ever had one.
Where’s he from?
He might have been from Iraq once, but now he’s a son of the caliphate . . .
Finally, the sky beyond Mikhail’s window turned blue-black with the coming dawn. He put his room in order and thirty minutes later slumped bleary-eyed into the back of Sami Haddad’s car.
“How did it go?” asked the Lebanese.
“Total waste of time,” replied Mikhail through an elaborate yawn.
“Where now?”
“Tel Aviv.”
“It’s not such an easy drive, my friend.”