House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(74)

“Obviously,” said Rousseau, “you’re joking.”

“Not at all. Mohammad is quite intelligent, and he’s interested in the world beyond the Rif.”

“How would you describe his politics?”

“He’s not an admirer of the West. He harbors a particular resentment toward France and America. As a rule, I try not to utter the word Israel in his presence.”

“It angers him?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“And yet you do business with such a man.”

“His oranges,” said Martel, “are very fine.”

“And when you’re done talking about the state of the world? What then?”

“Prices, production schedule, delivery dates—that sort of thing.”

“Prices fluctuate?”

“Supply and demand,” explained Martel.

“A few years ago,” Rousseau went on, “we noticed a distinct change in the way oranges were moving out of North Africa. Instead of coming across the Mediterranean one or two at a time aboard small vessels, it was tons of oranges in large cargo ships, all of which departed from ports in Libya. Was there a sudden glut on the market? Or is there some other reason to explain the shift in strategy?”

“The latter,” said Martel.

“And that was?”

“Mohammad decided to take on a partner.”

“An individual?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose he would have to be a man, because someone like Mohammad Bakkar would never deal with a woman.”

Martel nodded.

“He wanted to take a more aggressive market posture?”

“Much more aggressive.”

“Why?”

“Because he wanted to maximize profits quickly.”

“You met him?”

“Twice.”

“His name?”

“Khalil.”

“Khalil what?”

“That’s all, just Khalil.”

“He was a Moroccan?”

“No, he was definitely not a Moroccan.”

“Where was he from?”

“He never said.”

“And if you were to hazard a guess?”

Jean-Luc Martel shrugged. “I’d say he was an Iraqi.”





40





C?te d’Azur, France



It was clear to everyone in the room—and once again the hidden cameras confirmed it was so—that Jean-Luc Martel did not understand the significance of the words he had just spoken. I’d say he was an Iraqi . . . An Iraqi who called himself Khalil. No family name, no patronymic or name of an ancestral village, only Khalil. Khalil who had found a partner in Mohammad Bakkar, a hashish grower of deep Islamic faith who hated America and the West and would fly into a rage at the mere mention of Israel. Khalil who wanted to maximize profits by forcing more product onto the European market. Gabriel, the silent observer of the drama he had conceived and produced, cautioned himself not to leap to a premature conclusion. It was possible the man who called himself Khalil was not the man they were looking for, that he was merely an ordinary criminal with no interests other than making money, that he was a wild goose chase that would waste precious time and resources. Still, even Gabriel found it difficult to control the banging of his heart. He had tugged at the loose thread and connected the dots, and the trail had led him here, to the former home of a vanquished foe. The other members of his team, however, seemed entirely indifferent to Martel’s revelation. Natalie, Mikhail, and Christopher Keller were each peering into some private space, and Paul Rousseau had taken that moment to load his first pipe. A moment later his lighter flared and a cloud of smoke rolled over the two Venetian canal scenes by Guardi. Gabriel, the restorer, winced involuntarily.

If Rousseau were even remotely intrigued by the Iraqi who called himself Khalil, he gave no outward sign of it. Khalil was an afterthought, Khalil was of no importance. Rousseau was more interested, or so it seemed, in the nuts and bolts of Martel’s relationship with Mohammad Bakkar. Who ran the show? That was what he wanted to know. Who held the upper hand? Was it Martel the distributor, or Bakkar the Moroccan grower?

“You don’t know much about business, do you?”

“I’m an academic,” apologized Rousseau.

“It’s a negotiation,” explained Martel. “But ultimately the producer holds the upper hand.”

“Because he can cut out the distributor at any time?”

“Correct.”

“Couldn’t you find another source of drugs?”

“Oranges,” said Martel.

“Ah, yes, oranges,” agreed Rousseau.

“It’s not so easy.”

“Because of the quality of Mohammad Bakkar’s oranges?”

“Because Mohammad Bakkar is a man of considerable power and influence.”

“He would discourage other producers from selling to you?”

“Strongly.”

“And when Mohammad Bakkar told you he wanted to sharply increase the amount of oranges he was sending to Europe?”

“I advised against it.”

“Why?”

“Any number of reasons.”