House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(102)

“I don’t want to bear the costs for the last disaster alone. It isn’t just.”

“Agreed,” said Martel. “What did you have in mind?”

“A fifty percent price increase. One time only.”

“Fifty percent!” Martel waved his hand dismissively. “Madness.”

“It is my final offer. If you wish to remain my distributor, I suggest you take it.”

It was not Mohammad Bakkar’s final offer, not even close. Martel knew this, and so did Bakkar himself. This was Morocco, after all. Passing the bread at dinner was a negotiation.

And on it went for several more minutes, as fifty shrank to forty-five and then forty and finally, with an exasperated glance toward the heavens, thirty. And all the while Mikhail was watching the man who was watching him. The man sitting behind the wheel of the Toyota, with an unobstructed view into the center of the camp. He wore a djellaba with the pointed hood up, and his face was in deep shadow. Even so, Mikhail could feel the leaden weight of his gaze. He could feel, too, the absence of a gun at the small of his back.

“Khalas,” said Bakkar at last, rubbing his hands together. “Twenty-five it is, payable on receipt of the merchandise. It is far too little, but what choice do I have? Would you like the shirt off my back, too, Jean-Luc? I can always find another.”

Martel was smiling. Mohammad Bakkar signed the deal with a handshake and then turned to Mikhail.

“You will forgive me, but Jean-Luc and I had serious business to discuss.”

“So it seemed.”

“You don’t speak Arabic, Monsieur Antonov?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Even coffee is a challenge.”

Mohammad Bakkar nodded sympathetically. “Different pronunciations for different countries. An Egyptian would say the word differently from a Moroccan or a Jordanian or, say, a Palestinian.”

“Or a Russian,” laughed Mikhail.

“Who lives in France.”

“My French is almost as bad as my Arabic.”

“So we’ll speak English.”

There was a silence.

“How much has Jean-Luc told you about our business together?” asked Bakkar finally.

“Very little.”

“But surely you must have some idea.”

“Oranges,” said Mikhail. “You supply the oranges that Jean-Luc uses in his restaurants and hotels.”

“And pomegranates,” said Bakkar agreeably. “Morocco has very fine pomegranates. The best in the world, if you ask me. But the authorities in Europe don’t want our oranges and pomegranates. We’ve lost several large shipments lately. Jean-Luc and I were discussing how it happened and what to do next.”

Mikhail listened, expressionless.

“Unfortunately, we lost more than just fruit in the recent seizures. Something irreplaceable.” Bakkar looked at Mikhail speculatively. “Or perhaps not.”

Bakkar beckoned for more tea. Mikhail watched the man in the Toyota while the glasses were filled.

“What sort of business are you in, Monsieur Antonov?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your business,” repeated Bakkar. “What is it you do?”

“Oranges,” said Mikhail. “And pomegranates.”

Bakkar smiled. “It is my understanding,” he said, “that your business is arms.”

Mikhail said nothing.

“You’re a careful man, Monsieur Antonov. I admire that.”

“It pays to be careful. Fewer shipments go missing.”

“So it’s true!”

“I am an investor, Monsieur Bakkar. And I have been known on occasion to broker deals that involve the movement of goods from Eastern Europe and the former Soviet republics to troubled places around the world.”

“What sort of goods?”

“Use your imagination.”

“Guns?”

“Armaments,” said Mikhail. “Firearms are only a small part of what we do.”

“What sort of merchandise are we talking about?”

“Everything from Kalashnikovs to helicopters and fighter jets.”

“Aircraft?” asked Bakkar, incredulous.

“Would you like one? Or how about a tank or a Scud? We’re running a special this month. I’d place your order now, if I were you. They won’t last long.”

“None for me,” said Bakkar, holding up his hands, “but an associate of mine might be interested.”

“In Scuds?”

“His needs are very specific. I would prefer to let him explain.”

“Not yet,” said Mikhail. “First, you tell me a little bit about him. Then I’ll decide whether I want to meet with him.”

“He is a revolutionary,” said Bakkar. “I assure you, his cause is just.”

“They always are,” said Mikhail skeptically. “Where’s he from?”

“He has no country, not in the Western sense of the word. Borders are meaningless to him.”

“Interesting. But where will I ship his arms?”

Bakkar’s expression turned suddenly serious. “Surely you are aware that the recent political turmoil in our region has erased many of the old borders drawn by diplomats in Paris and London. My associate comes from such a place. A place of great upheaval.”