House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(19)

“Happy?” asked Nouredine Zakaria.

“Rapturous.”

The Moroccan lit a cigarette of his own, a Gauloise. “Where’s Yannick?”

“Under the weather.”

“So you’re the boss?”

Keller allowed the question to pass unanswered. The fact that he was the boss, he thought, was manifest.

“I don’t like changes,” the Moroccan said. “They make me uneasy.”

“Change is good, Nouredine. It keeps everyone on their toes.”

An eyebrow rose above the yellow-tinted aviators. “How do you know my real name?”

Keller managed to appear offended by the question. “I wouldn’t be here,” he said evenly, “if I didn’t.”

“You speak like a Corsican,” Zakaria said, “but you don’t look like one.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

The Moroccan made no reply. The dance was almost complete, thought Keller, the dance that two seasoned criminals engaged in before getting down to business. He had no interest in seeing it come to an end, not yet. He was no longer a contract killer, he was a gatherer of information. And the only way to get information was to talk. He decided to drop another coin in the jukebox and stay on the floor a little longer.

“Yannick tells me you’re interested in acquiring twenty pieces of merchandise.”

“Is twenty a problem?”

“Not at all. In fact, my organization generally deals in much larger quantities.”

“How large?”

Keller glanced at the clouds, as if to say the sky was the limit. “To tell you the truth, twenty is hardly worth our time or effort. Yannick should have checked with me before making any promises. He has a bright future but he’s young. And sometimes,” added Keller, “he doesn’t ask enough questions.”

“Such as?”

“My organization operates a bit like a government,” Keller explained. “We want to know who our buyers are and how they intend to use our merchandise. When the Americans sell airplanes to their friends the Saudis, for example, the Saudis have to promise they won’t use the planes against the Israelis.”

“Zionist pigs,” murmured the Moroccan.

“Nevertheless,” said Keller with a frown, “I trust you see my point. We won’t fill your order without certain restrictions.”

“What sort?”

“We would need your assurance that nothing will be used here in France or against citizens of the Republic. We’re criminals, but we’re also patriots.”

“So are we.”

“Patriots?”

“Criminals.”

“Are you really?” Keller smoked in silence for a moment. “Listen, Nouredine, what you do in your spare time is of no concern to me. If you want to make jihad, go ahead. I’d probably make jihad too if I were in your position. But if you use the weapons on French soil, there’s a good chance they’ll be traced back to my boss. And that would make him extremely unhappy.”

“I thought you were the boss.”

A cloud of smoke came billowing across the table. Keller’s eyes watered involuntarily. He had never cared for the smell of Gauloises.

“Say it for me, Nouredine. Swear to me that you won’t use my guns against my countrymen. Promise me you won’t give me a reason to hunt you down and kill you.”

“You’re not threatening me, are you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I just wouldn’t want you to do something you might regret later. Because if you behave yourself, my boss can get you anything you want. Do you understand?”

The Moroccan crushed out his cigarette, slowly. “Listen, habibi, I’m beginning to lose patience. Shall we make business, or should I find someone else to sell me the guns? Someone who doesn’t ask so many fucking questions.”

Keller said nothing.

“Where are they?”

Keller glanced toward the west.

“Spain?”

“Not quite that far. I’ll take you there, just the two of us.”

“No, you won’t.” Zakaria picked up his mobile and with a second text summoned the Citro?n. “Change in plan.”

“I don’t like changes.”

“Change is good, habibi. It keeps everyone on their toes.”





11





Grasse, France



Keller, as instructed, sat in the passenger seat, with Nouredine Zakaria directly behind him. The Moroccan wondered aloud whether Keller might want to place his hands on the dashboard, a suggestion Keller rejected with a few choice Corsican obscenities and a murmured proverb. Zakaria didn’t bother to ask whether Keller had a gun. Keller was posing as an arms dealer, after all. Zakaria probably assumed he had an RPG in his back pocket.

The Citro?n stopped once on the outskirts of Nice, long enough for another North African to slide into the backseat. He was a smaller version of Zakaria, a year or two younger perhaps, with a deep scar along one cheek. In all likelihood, Keller was now surrounded by three career criminals with ties to ISIS. As a result, he spent the next several minutes choreographing the complex sequence of moves that would be required to extricate himself from the car if the deal went sideways.