“Yes,” he answered.
“I shall be arriving in Paris, the day after tomorrow. Sometime in the afternoon. Do you have the cash?”
Gabriel winced at the hard Israeli accent. “Of course. Do you have the package?”
“I do.”
Gabriel swallowed. The world had begun to spin on a new axis. “Do you need a place to stay while you’re here? I can arrange something.”
“I’m quite capable myself, thank you.”
“Shall we set a time to get together?”
“That would be impractical.”
A baby’s cry broke the morning still. Gabriel turned his head toward the noise. It would be Fayez, his seventh son, just a few weeks old. Suddenly, he wanted very badly to sit with his wife in the darkness and watch as she nursed the boy.
“I will contact you in forty-eight hours,” said the caller. “If you do not hear from me, presume I’ve been taken. I am not a brave man. I will talk. I do not know your true name, but you may wish to take precautions.”
“Good luck,” said Gabriel, hanging up.
The professor was on his way.
It was five o’clock. Gabriel had one last item to take care of. He sat at his desk, a commander of one. His eyes fell to his notepad. The name “Gregorio” was circled crazily, reflecting his own frustration. He picked up the phone and dialed the ten-digit number. A cheerful, Spanish-speaking woman answered. “Inteltech, buenos días.”
“Buenos días, Gloria,” said Gabriel, his own Spanish very good, but not fluent. “I would like to speak to Señor Gregorio, if you would be so kind.”
“Señor Gregorio is not in-”
“Gloria,” Gabriel cut in, steel in his voice. “Pass me to Señor Gregorio. Immediately.”
“Sí, Jefe.”
The faint hum of Latin Muzak tickled his ear and he wondered why no one thought of broadcasting something uplifting instead of this insipid fare. A minute passed, and to his horror he discovered he was humming the tune. Disgusted, he bit his lip. It was insidious. The rot was everywhere. Even in a backwater like Ciudad del Este.
“Gregorio speaking.”
Marc Gabriel hunched forward and spoke. “Ah, I’m happy to have caught you, Pedro. There’s been a small misunderstanding.”
“Hello, Marc. A misunderstanding? What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“I am talking about the sum of twelve million dollars. The sum that you had promised to wire to our partner’s account last week. I’m certain it’s an oversight.”
With annual revenues of nearly seventy million dollars, Inteltech was a leader in the sales and distribution of over-the-counter software to the rapidly growing markets of Southeast Asia, South America, and Eastern Europe. Last year, the company had shipped more than one million copies of Microsoft Office, Lotus Development, and Corel WordPerfect. It was a lovely business. Gross margins of eighty percent. No marketing costs. No advertising expenses. After the cost of goods sold, the largest below-the-line item constituted “official gratuities,” which Gabriel knew better as bribes to government officials. Every last copy Inteltech sold was a pirated, or “bootleg,” edition reproduced with the company’s proprietary counterfeiting technology. Richemond’s ninety percent stake in the company accounted for one of the holdings’ largest investments.
“An oversight on the bank’s behalf,” said Gregorio. “I can tell you I was on the phone screaming bloody murder. It’s terrible here. You have no idea. They have a completely different conception of time.”
“I can imagine,” said Gabriel agreeably, as he toyed with his letter opener. It was Gregorio who was the problem, however. Gregorio, who had an excuse for every occasion. Gregorio, who’d honed his lying skills as an executive at BCCI, the Bank of Credit and Commerce International, the Pakistani financial institution whose spectacular flameout in the early nineties had earned it the moniker the “Bank of Crooks and Criminals Indicted.”
Gabriel continued. “Be that as it may, your primary responsibility is to see that our funds are transferred as directed.”
“Apologies, Jefe. I will call the bank immediately and see that it is carried out as soon as possible.”
“Not as soon as possible,” said Gabriel, pressing the point of the opener into his leg. “Now. This very instant. We no longer have use for this enterprise. Our energies are required at home. Your travel documents are in order?”
Again, Gregorio said yes.
“Very good. Go in peace.”
As Gabriel hung up, he could not ignore his lingering suspicions. “Señor Gregorio” could not be trusted. He’d been too long in the jungle, too long away from his people. The rot had consumed him.
Gabriel stood, adjusting his cuffs, tightening the knot of his tie, counting the days until he could be rid of the constricting clothing. The twelve million dollars was necessary, a crucial component to the lie. It must come from South America. It took him only a few moments to decide.
The professor was due in forty-eight hours.
There was time.
Before going home, he booked a flight for that evening to Buenos Aires with onward connections to Foz do Iguaçú, returning the next day, then reserved a motorbike, something nimble to negotiate the knotted traffic.
As he walked along the Rue Kleber, passing from the shade of one elm to the next, he carried the briefcase casually, letting it bang against his leg. A stiff wind had come up, and women were fighting to keep their dresses down and their hair in place. He checked the sky. Dark clouds were on the march from the north. Almost unconsciously, he checked over his shoulder. He saw nothing. It was Sayeed who was bothering him. Had he talked before dying? When had his death actually taken place? Facts were still sketchy. Gabriel had too few people on the ground, and news reports were unreliable.
He whistled a tune to distract himself. It took him a moment to recognize it as the same unpleasant ditty he’d heard while on hold to Gregorio. He stopped. Fishing in his jacket, he found his sunglasses and put them on. Hidden behind the mirrored lenses, no one could see the worry in his eyes.
Chapter 17
To be alone was to stand out.
To be alone was to be vulnerable.
To be alone was to be a target.
He had left Athens an hour ago. The bustling, chaotic city lay behind him like the memory of a warm bed. The coast highway had narrowed to two lanes. He followed its undulant, graceful curves halfway up a steep mountainside. Whitewashed villages crouched among copses of pine and thistle to his left. The endless expanse of the Aegean spread to his right. The water was coursing with activity, ferries, tugs, and fishing boats scratching white trails across the azure surface. The bigger vessels, the cruise liners packed with sun-starved tourists, the supertankers that belonged to the scions of Onassis and Niarchos, the mile-long cargo ships loaded with the East’s bounty of cars, televisions, stereos, and computers, had docked at Piraeus. He was patrolling the old Greece, the territory of the partisans, the hills of Pan and Apollo, and the invasion route of the Huns.
For the moment, he saw no other cars on the highway. His rearview yawned empty. The road ahead beckoned, an untrammeled pathway to a glorious future. At the wheel of his sparkling gold BMW 750iL, he was just another transnational tourist trawling Europe’s unmatched highways. He drove the speed limit-no slower, no faster-though the muscular automobile begged to be given its reins, like a racehorse on an early morning run.
By now, the efforts to track him would have gathered a critical mass. He was sure they’d worked up a good story, something urgent, but hardly an emergency. Something along the lines of a Palestinian spy who’d escaped with some marginally important data about troop strength on the West Bank. They’d confine their inquiries to the local level. They liked to work quietly and would not wish to attract undue attention. If they contacted the state police, if the whole affair went federal, it would be only a matter of hours until the Americans started asking questions.