Obsession (Year of Fire) (2 page)

Lars halted his frenetic typing, stretched his arms, cracked his neck and took a sip of coffee. He read through the first few lines of his piece. His research into mercenary organizations was revealing some of the darkest and cruelest aspects of human nature. The United Nations had approved a resolution condemning “the contracting, financing, training and operation of mercenaries” and recently had even named an expert for mercenary activities charged with ensuring that the ban was observed. The previous week Lars had interviewed him in his office at UN headquarters, in Turtle Bay, Manhattan. During the interview, the expert had offered him some advice: “Let me be clear. If you want to find out more about the world of so-called private military companies, your man is Eliah Al-Saud. All roads lead to him.”

He felt a slight vibration run through his body, barely a tickle. He looked at his mug. Concentric waves spread out across the surface of his coffee, accompanied by a whine that quickly developed into a roar, thundering through the double-glazed windows. Now the whole house was shaking.

Lars ran onto the balcony. On seeing what awaited him outside, he uttered, “It’s all over.”

The gigantic airplane’s nose was pointed straight at him and would crash into the building in seconds.

He had heard it said but never believed it until that day: in the instant before death, your whole life, from childhood to maturity, flashes before your eyes.

The plane swerved to the left, toward a neighboring building. It seemed to Lars that if he had stretched out his hand, he would have been able to touch the belly of the aircraft. He ran to the telephone and called the emergency services.

The phone rang again in the office of katsa Ariel Bergman.

“Yes.”

“The plane has just disappeared from the radar screen,” the sayan informed him. “It crashed! It hit the ground!” Bergman stood up. “We can see the column of black smoke in Bijlmer from the control tower.” He pronounced the neighborhood “Beilmer.”

“Bijlmer,” Bergman murmured. He had to lean against his desk for support. “Bijlmer!” he shouted, because he knew that it was one of the most densely populated areas in Amsterdam.

Lars Meijer rescued many of his neighbors who had been trapped in their apartments by the flames that roared and licked around the building’s structure. Days later, when the chief firefighter explained that the wings of the 747 were carrying more than fifty thousand pounds of fuel, he would understand why the fire had spread so quickly and burned so ferociously.

The number of victims rose to forty-three, including the flight crew: the captain, copilot and engineer. The plane had blown a hole in the long block of apartments, splitting it in two. The international press speculated about the cause of the accident. Terrorism was on everyone’s lips, even though weeks went by and no organization claimed responsibility for the disaster. No evidence of explosives was found among the wreckage. A member of the public who had been sailing on Lake IJssel provided the first ray of light for the investigation when he testified that he had seen the 747’s engines falling into the bay. The engines hadn’t stopped functioning; they had fallen off the plane. Divers found engines three and four and the crash technicians started their work.

Lars Meijer attended the press conference in which it was announced that the engines had fallen off due to metal fatigue in the joints that fixed them to the wing.

“If it had just been a case of the engines failing,” the head investigator explained, “the plane would have been able to land without any trouble. But, having lost both engines, the wing suffered a design fault and lost stability.” With images and diagrams, he explained the phenomenon of air passing above and below the wing at different speeds that makes it possible for aircraft to fly. “The part that joined engine three to the wing was defective. Eventually it gave way, releasing engine three, which subsequently crashed into number four, ripping it from the wing as well.”

Lars raised his hand to ask a question. He explained that it was for El Al’s PR manager.

“Can you explain why, weeks after the disaster, some residents of Bijlmer, myself included, have suffered respiratory problems, acute dermatitis, and stomach, eye and nerve ailments? Some are even vomiting blood.”

“We haven’t received any information about that. Any other questions?”

“There are those who compare the symptoms to those suffered by Iranian soldiers during the Iran-Iraq war,” Lars insisted.

“No comment. Any other questions?”

CHAPTER 1

Ministro Pistarini International Airport, thirty-five miles southwest of Buenos Aires, Argentina. December 31, 1997.

Eliah couldn’t take his eyes off the girl as she crouched down to get something from her backpack; the ends of her hair touched the floor. He was surrounded by women who wore their hair long: his sister, Yasmín; his mother; his aunt Fátima.
Samara
, he thought, and clenched the cell phone tightly in his fist. Just thinking her name caused him pain.

The girl was still there, rummaging through her backpack as her hair brushed against the linoleum floor. He had never seen hair this long, this blonde or this striking. It didn’t hang limply but rather fell, languidly, in a cascade of ringlets that shone in the dimly lit airport. Was she Swedish? Danish, maybe? He moved closer to get a better look at her face.
She must be stupid
, he thought; he preferred brunettes.

His cell phone rang.

“
Allô?
”

“Eliah,
c’est moi
. André.”

“
Á la fin
, André. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

“What’s up? What’s the big rush?”

“I need to ask you a favor. I’m at the airport in Buenos Aires and I need to get a seat on the next Air France flight. The one that leaves at two.” André didn’t respond. “
Allô?
André? Are you there?”

“Yes, yes, sorry. It’s just that you surprised me. You? A seat on the next Air France flight? What about your plane?”

The question annoyed Eliah Al-Saud. Blame it on his profession, or perhaps his temperament, but the truth was that he rarely had much patience for being questioned; even when he was a little boy, he’d refused to explain himself, regardless of the punishments he’d received as a result. In fact, there was no doubt that it was in his character to bristle when questioned, and maybe that was why he was good at what he did. But since he was asking Yasmín’s boyfriend for a favor, he decided to make an exception.

“I flew my plane to Buenos Aires but when I tried to take off today, I heard a rumbling in the fuselage that I didn’t like the sound of and decided not to risk it. The technicians can’t look at it for at least two days. And it’s extremely urgent that I get to Paris tomorrow. I have a meeting with Shiloah Moses, who’s getting in very early from Tel Aviv.” He had revealed too much information. His mood started to deteriorate.

“Which plane? The Learjet 45?”

Eliah raised his eyes to the heavens as he heard his sister’s voice: “André, leave him alone. You’re annoying him with all these questions.”

“I mean the new plane, the Gulfstream V. The point is, André, that I need to be in Paris tomorrow morning.”

“So buy a ticket then.”

Sometimes Eliah had trouble understanding how his future brother-in-law had risen so high at Air France; he was also baffled by Yasmín’s taste in men.

“André, I’m calling you because the saleswoman at Air France has just told me that there aren’t any seats left in first class, just business. It’s because of the special offer on first class—”

“Yes, the two-for-one offer,” André interrupted. “We’re making a big effort to push first class on our new Boeing 777.”

“Yeah, it’s a great deal,” Al-Saud said sarcastically. “Two for one and now there’s no room in first class. I’m not going to fly in business class. I need to sleep. I have to work tomorrow.”

“Eliah, it’s New Year’s Day tomorrow. You’re not thinking about going to work?”

“André, Shiloah doesn’t care about New Year’s Day. Have you forgotten that he’s Jewish? He already celebrated Rosh Hashanah and now he’s about
to ruin my first day of the year. Now, can you get me the damn first-class ticket,
please
?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re one of the directors of Air France!” He spun around, driven by impatience. “What do you mean you’ll…?” He checked himself.

“
Allô?
Eliah?”

The woman was just a few feet away, right in front of him. She was surrounded by a group of people. She was smiling, her cheekbones raised and eyes open wide, as though the very act of expansion surprised her.
She’s beautiful.

“Eliah?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here.”

“Get yourself a seat in business class. I’ll have you upgraded to first class once you’re on the plane.”

He called his contact in the Secretariat of Intelligence and asked him discreetly to help clear his path to the plane; he was armed and didn’t feel like arguing with some self-important civil servant about the propriety of boarding a commercial flight with a Sig Sauer nine millimeter strapped under his suit. Even though he was celebrating New Year’s Eve, the agent at the Secretariat of Intelligence was quick to comply with Eliah Al-Saud’s request. He was, after all, well paid for his services.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and walked toward the Air France counter. The salesclerk spoke good French but he spoke to her in Spanish.

“I’d like to buy that business-class ticket you just offered me.”

“I’ll get that for you right away, sir.” She tapped at the keyboard, then asked, “Name?”

“Eliah Al-Saud.” He spelled it out.

“Passport number?” Eliah gave it to her.

More typing.

“That will be five thousand, eight hundred and thirty-four dollars, including taxes and fees.”

Eliah reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He removed a black card engraved with the silver head of a Roman centurion from his wallet. The salesclerk concealed her surprise. It was the new Centurion American Express card. Although she was aware they existed, she’d never seen or
handled one. It was cold to the touch, confirming that it was indeed made of titanium rather than plastic. American Express only issued these cards to customers by special invitation, and if their expenses ran over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year. This man, in his perfectly cut blue silk suit and Serengeti sunglasses, certainly fit the bill.

“Señor Al-Saud, our airline can offer you a very comfortable lounge while you wait for your flight.
Le Salon Air France
.” She spread open a map of the airport and circled the lounge with a blue pen. “It’s here. Your American Express card also grants you access to the Centurion VIP room. Here.” She drew another circle with her pen. “The first- and business-class check-in desks are over there. I wish you a good trip.”

Al-Saud just nodded without saying anything or even offering a smile. He was in a bad mood. This wasn’t unusual for him; his severe features accentuated the cold, reserved impression he made. Setbacks such as the problem with his state-of-the-art plane served to aggravate his reputation for being antisocial. He ran into the crew from the Gulfstream V on his way to the check-in desk.

“The airport doesn’t have a hotel, sir. We’ll have to go back to Buenos Aires and spend a night or perhaps two there while the technicians check the aircraft,” the captain informed him.

“Captain Paloméro,” Eliah said, “I know you think I was being overcautious in deciding not to fly.”

“Not at all, Mr. Al-Saud!”

The captain, a short Frenchman who barely reached Eliah’s chest, took off his hat and twisted it for emphasis. He wasn’t about to argue with Eliah Al-Saud, a decorated war pilot.

Al-Saud made his farewells to the crew of the Gulfstream V, whom he left in charge of bringing it back to Le Bourget Airport, seven miles to the north of Paris, and headed to the business-class check-in desk, passing by the group with the blonde girl. He looked for a wall—he never rested with his back exposed, a habit he had acquired during his years in L’Agence—and leaned back to observe her. Another girl, with dark hair and skin and a slender frame, was resting her elbow on the blonde’s left shoulder. Also there were an older man, who had a certain resemblance to the tall brunette, a woman of about fifty, and two boys, who were obviously brothers. He wondered who was going on the trip; it was pretty
clear that they were flying Air France; they were queuing at the economy check-in counter.

“My father,” the blonde was saying, “promised he would come. I don’t want to leave without saying good-bye.”

Eliah drew several conclusions from this statement. First: the girl was from Córdoba, a province in Argentina. He could tell from her distinctive accent. His mother, his aunt Sofía and, especially, his uncle Nando all spoke that way. He would never have noticed it had he not also had dealings in the horse trade with
porteños
, as the inhabitants of the city of Buenos Aires were called. Second: she was the one who was going to take the Air France flight. Third: he found her voice captivating. He always noticed voices; it was almost an obsession, maybe because he was a music lover, maybe because his
sensei
had assured him that voices revealed the interior music of human beings. “There are voices,” his mentor had explained, “that are out of tune. Sharp as blades, they make you want to cover your ears. There are those who raise their voices too much, who shout instead of speaking. This reveals their desperation, their anxiety. Their interior harmony is upset by extremely negative energy vibrations. However, when the spirit is in harmony, the voice flows forth like a gently absorbed caress, to soothe us.” The girl’s words had certainly caressed him. Their sound was crystalline and cultured.