House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(72)
“I told her I had a business meeting.”
“And she believed you?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“Because you have a bit of a track record.” Rousseau gave a confiding smile. “What you do in your spare time is none of my business. We’re French, you and I. Men of the world. My point is, it would not be altogether troubling to us if Madame Watson were left with the impression you were with another woman tonight.”
“Not troubling for you,” said Martel, “but for me . . .”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something to say to her. You always do. But back to the matter at hand,” said Rousseau. “It should be obvious by this point that you have been the target of a carefully planned operation. Now it’s time to move to the next phase.”
“The next phase?”
“The prize,” said Rousseau. “You’re going to help us find him. And if you don’t, I’m going to make it my life’s work to destroy you. And Madame Watson.” After a silence, Rousseau added, “Or perhaps the thought of Madame Watson suffering for your crimes doesn’t bother you. Perhaps you find such sentiments old-fashioned. Perhaps you’re not that sort of man.”
Martel returned Rousseau’s gaze calmly. But when his eyes settled once more on Gabriel, his confidence appeared to waver.
“In any case,” Rousseau was saying, “now might be a good time to listen to the rest of René Devereaux’s interrogation. Not the entire thing, that would take too long. Just the relevant portion.”
He glanced at Mikhail, who tapped a key on a laptop computer. Instantly, the room swelled with the sound of two men speaking in French, one with a distinct Corsican accent, the other as though he were in physical pain.
“Where do the drugs come from?”
“We get them from all over. Turkey, Lebanon, Afghanistan, everywhere.”
“And the hash?”
“The hash comes from Morocco.”
“Who’s your supplier?”
“We used to have several. Now we work with one man. He’s the largest producer in the country.”
“His name?”
“Mohammad.”
“Mohammad what?”
“Bakkar.”
Mikhail paused the recording. Rousseau looked at Jean-Luc Martel and smiled.
“Why don’t we start there,” he said. “With Mohammad Bakkar.”
39
C?te d’Azur, France
There are many reasons why an individual might agree to work on behalf of an intelligence service, few of them admirable. Some do it out of avarice, some for love or political conviction. And some do it because they are bored or disgruntled or vengeful at having been passed over for promotion while colleagues, whom they invariably regard as inferior, are pushed up the ladder of success. With a bit of flattery and a pot of money, these contemptible souls can be convinced to betray the secrets that pass between their fingertips or through the computer networks they are hired to maintain. Professional intelligence officers are more than happy to take advantage of such men, but secretly they despise them. Almost as much as the man who betrays his country for reasons of conscience. These are the useful idiots of the trade. For the professional, there is no lower form of life.
Nor does the professional trust those who volunteer their services, for oftentimes it is difficult to assess their true motives. Instead, he prefers to identify a potential recruit and then make the first move. Usually, he comes bearing gifts, but occasionally he finds it necessary to employ less savory methods. Consequently, the professional is always on the lookout for failings and weakness—an extramarital affair, a predilection for pornography, a financial indiscretion. These are the master keys of the trade. They unlock any door. Moreover, coercion is a great clarifier of intentions. It illuminates the dark corners of the human heart. The man who spies because he has no other choice is less of a mystery than one who walks into an embassy with a briefcase full of stolen documents. Still, the coerced asset can never be fully trusted. Inevitably, he will attempt to find some way to repay the injustice visited upon him, and he can be controlled only so long as his original sin remains a threat to him. Therefore, asset and handler invariably find themselves entangled in a love affair of the damned.
It was into this category of asset that Jean-Luc Martel, hotelier, restaurateur, clothier, jeweler, and international dealer of illicit narcotics, fell. He had not volunteered his services. Nor had he been lured to the table through the power of persuasion. He had been identified, assessed, and targeted with an elaborate and costly operation. His relationship with Olivia Watson had been torn asunder, his business associate had been beaten mercilessly with a hammer, he had been threatened with prison and ruin. Nevertheless, a recruitment still had to be made. Coercion could open a door, but to close a deal required skill and seduction. An accommodation would have to be reached. It was unavoidable. They needed Jean-Luc Martel much more than he needed them. Drug dealers were a dime a dozen. But Saladin was one of a kind.
He did not go easily to his fate, but this was to be expected; a man who kills both his father and his mentor is not a man who frightens easily. He evaded, he counterattacked, he made threats of his own. Rousseau, however, did not rise to Martel’s bait. He was the perfect foil—unthreatening in appearance, slow to anger, patient to a fault. Martel tested Rousseau’s forbearance often, such as when he demanded written assurances, beneath an official Interior Ministry letterhead, granting him immunity from prosecution, now and forever, amen. Such clemency was not Rousseau’s to bestow, for he was operating without ministry mandate or even the knowledge of his masters at the DGSI. And so he smiled in the face of Martel’s intransigence and, with a nod in Mikhail’s direction, played a moment or two of René Devereaux’s seaborne interrogation.