House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(90)
The security guard returned to the game he was playing on his mobile phone; the beach boys, to the shade of their hut. Natalie stepped out of her sundress and placed it in her Vuitton beach bag. Olivia unknotted her wrap and removed her top. Then she stretched out her long body on the chaise and turned her flawless face to the sun.
“You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“I was only playing a role.”
“You played it very well.”
Natalie adopted Olivia’s reclined pose and closed her eyes to the sun. “The truth is,” she said after a moment, “you’re not really worth disliking. You were simply a means to an end.”
“Jean-Luc?”
“He’s a means to an end, too. And in case you were wondering, I like him even less than I like you.”
“So you do like me?” said Olivia playfully.
“A little,” Natalie admitted.
Two muscled Moroccan men in their midtwenties walked past in the ankle-deep surf, chatting in Darija. Listening, Natalie smiled.
“They’re talking about you,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
Natalie opened her eyes and stared at Olivia blankly.
“You speak Moroccan?”
“Moroccan isn’t a language, Olivia. In fact, they speak three different languages here. French, Berber, and—”
“Maybe this was a mistake,” said Olivia, cutting her off.
Natalie smiled.
“How is it you speak Arabic?”
“My parents were from Algeria.”
“So you’re an Arab?”
“No,” said Natalie. “I’m not.”
“So Jean-Luc was right after all. When we left your villa that afternoon he said—”
“That I look like a Jew from Marseilles.”
“How do you know?”
“How do you think?”
“You were listening?”
“We always are.”
Olivia rubbed oil onto her shoulders. “What were those Moroccans saying about me?”
“It would be difficult to translate.”
“I can only imagine.”
“You must be used to it by now.”
“You, too. You’re very beautiful.”
“For a Jewish girl from Marseilles.”
“Are you?”
“I was once,” said Natalie. “Not anymore.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Being a Jew in France? Yes,” said Natalie, “it was that bad.”
“Is that why you became a spy?”
“I’m not a spy. I’m Sophie Antonov, your friend from across the bay. My husband is in business with your boyfriend. They’re doing something together here in Casablanca that they don’t like to talk about.”
“Partner,” said Olivia. “Jean-Luc doesn’t like to be known as my boyfriend.”
“Any problems?”
“Between Jean-Luc and me?”
Natalie nodded.
“I thought you said you were listening.”
“We are. But you know him better than anyone.”
“I’m not so sure about that. But, no,” said Olivia, “he doesn’t seem to suspect that I was the one who betrayed him.”
“You didn’t betray him.”
“How would you describe it?”
“You did the right thing.”
“For once,” said Olivia.
The two muscled Moroccans had returned. One stared at Olivia without reserve.
“Are you planning to tell me why we’re here?” she asked.
“The less you know,” replied Natalie, “the better.”
“That’s the way it works in your trade?”
“Yes.”
“Am I in danger?”
“That depends on whether you remove any more clothing.”
“I have a right to know.”
Natalie gave no answer.
“I suppose it has something to do with those shipments of hashish that were seized.”
“What hashish?”
“Never mind.”
“Exactly,” said Natalie. “Anything I tell you will only make it harder for you to play your role.”
“What’s that?”
“The loving partner of Jean-Luc Martel who has no idea how he really makes his money.”
“It comes from his hotels and restaurants.”
“And his art gallery,” said Natalie.
“The gallery is mine.” Drowsily, Olivia said, “There’s one of your friends.”
Natalie looked up and saw Dina walking slowly toward them along the water’s edge.
“She seems very sad,” said Olivia.
“She has reason to.”
“What happened to her leg?”
“It’s not important.”
“None of my business—is that what you’re saying?”
“I was trying to be polite.”
“How refreshing.” Olivia raised a hand to her brow to shade her eyes from the glare. “It’s funny, but it looks like she has the same bag as you.”
“Does she really?” Natalie smiled. “Isn’t that a coincidence.”