Scuttling backward on his hands and knees, Gabriel waited for the bite of the cuffs, the icy fire of the pepper spray. Incredibly, they ignored him. All eyes were on George. The police pulled the radios from their belts, talking feverishly to headquarters. Several ran into the street to wave down the approaching squad cars. No one had the least idea who Gabriel was.
Suddenly, police were everywhere. Swarming like bees around their queen. More arriving every moment.
Brushing himself off, Gabriel rose and crossed the street with a host of his fellow Parisians, also eager to flee the crime scene. The pen was still in his hand. Carefully, he replaced it in his breast pocket. On the opposite sidewalk, he paused to take a final look. His last image was of the girl’s blond hair swimming in a pool of her own blood. He thought that they had probably killed her.
Chapter 40
Eventually all men talked.
That was the rule and that was why all members of Hijira had sworn to take their own lives before they could be captured. George, too, had known the rule, had sworn his allegiance, and Marc Gabriel had trusted his vow. Yet, within the past twenty-four hours his son had failed him twice. How long could he be counted on to resist the police’s interrogation? Hours? Days? Was he talking even now? And what about the girl? How much did she know about Hijira?
All these thoughts raced through Marc Gabriel’s mind as he unlocked the door of his office and marched to his desk. He knew he must proceed as if nothing were wrong. It was a footrace now. The finish line was in sight: Saturday night at eight-thirty when the newly crowned King of Saudi Arabia stepped into the blue room at the White House and toasted the American President as a prelude to ushering in a new era of goodwill between the two nations. He only needed to outrun the Americans.
Gabriel logged on to his computer. There were a few last things to be done. A trail to leave behind so there would be no doubt who was responsible. He tapped in the web address for the Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden, then entered his account number and password. The twelve million dollars Gregorio had stolen from Inteltech would prove useful. It would be seen as a last-minute payoff, the investigators would say later. The irrefutable link between the bombers and the crazed Israeli physicist.
The screen blinked, and Gabriel was surprised to see that the bank was denying him access to his account. He tried again with the same result. Something was wrong. The denial was no coincidence. Calling the bank, he requested the account officer in charge of the Holy Land Charitable Trust.
“Reinhard.”
Reinhard? Gabriel stiffened, as if readying for the lash. Jurgen Reinhard was the bank’s chairman. What trouble could have brought him to the phone? The day was shaping up to be a monumental disaster.
“Ali al-Maktoum speaking,” said Gabriel, adopting an Arabic accent. “Chief administrative officer of the Holy Land Trust. I’m calling regarding our account. We are expecting a large transfer this afternoon. Twelve million dollars, to be precise. I would like to confirm its arrival. Then I shall ask you to make a further transfer of funds on our behalf.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible,” said Reinhard.
“Excuse me?”
“I said it is impossible. The account has been frozen by the United States government, pending an investigation into your organization’s ties to a terrorist group. I have been instructed to ask you to contact the United States Treasury Department. A Mr. Adam Chapel. I have his number here.”
Gabriel’s heart caught in his throat. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, before hanging up.
Striding to the window, he looked down the block toward the spot where his son had been arrested fifteen minutes earlier. It was clear that the police had been waiting for someone to use the ATM. Gabriel required only a minute to piece together how they’d come up with the information. Taleel. The Cité Universitaire. Azema Immobilier. The Banque de Londres et Paris. He considered how he might have done things differently but was unable to come up with an answer. One had to pay rent by bank transfer or check. These days, cash was the vehicle of the poor and the dishonest, neither of which made desirable tenants. A trail was unavoidable.
But the Holy Land Charitable Trust was a different matter. Gabriel compartmentalized his operations to prevent authorities from using monetary data to link one entity to another. The Holy Land Charitable Trust operated as a legitimate enterprise. For years, Gabriel had set aside a portion of income generated by Richemond’s portfolio for urgent pleas from those in need in Yemen, Palestine, Lebanon, and Saudi Arabia. He’d also used funds in the account to pay salaries to directors of the trust, including a hundred thousand euros a year to Abu Sayeed (under an alias) in a Pakistani bank, and a similar sum to Gabriel’s younger sister, Noor, in a Swiss numbered account. Though Noor held a legitimate position, he could hardly expect her to survive on a bureaucrat’s salary.
Gabriel was vexed. Nothing linked Taleel to the Trust. It was impossible to mentally retrace all the deposits, payments, and transfers he had made into and out of its account. Yet, somehow they had found it. Then it came to him… Rafi Boubilas. A year earlier, Gabriel had asked him to wire the proceeds of a sale of two thousand carats of raw diamonds to the Trust’s account. Despite assurances to the contrary, the owner of Royal Joailliers had talked.
And if the Americans had the Holy Land Trust’s name, they had more. Inteltech. The Deutsche International Bank. Bank Montparnasse. Bank Menz. The web was endless.
The Americans.
Chapel.
Gabriel remained still a moment longer. His body grew rigid; his heart pounding inside his chest. Then he could stand it no more. Grabbing his chair, he spun in a wild circle and hurled it against the wall. This was too much. Taleel, Gregorio, George, and finally, the account in Dresden. His carefully constructed world was tumbling down on top of him. Twenty years of painstaking and meticulous effort. He wanted to calm himself, but calm was out of reach. He had only black emotions to console him. Hate, impatience, shame, and the will to revenge.
Yet, what had changed? he demanded. What really had changed?
The bulk of his money was situated neatly, ready to reap profits from the Dow’s imminent plunge. Men stood ready to act, awaiting only his signal and the arrival of the large sums he had promised to them in their bank accounts. They were men in high positions at the ministries of the interior, finance, and defense; at the royal barracks, and inside the palace itself. The money was not a bribe, but an interim budget to assert their legitimacy as their country’s new leaders. These were men who thought as he did; principled men who believed that power was to be treated responsibly, that wealth was no excuse for wanton behavior, and that whores, alcohol, and profligacy were the devil’s handmaidens and had no place inside the royal palace.
If he just thought clearly… if he separated his anxieties from the reality of the moment, he would see that everything remained as it had when he had awoken that morning.
It was a race, he reminded himself. He must simply run a little faster.
Breathing easier, Gabriel poured himself a glass of water and walked to the window. The Eiffel Tower shimmered in the morning sun. If someone could dream of building that, he could dream of retaking his country. Both were feats of engineering and the will to conquer.
His older brother’s fault was that he had acted with passion. He had let blood rule him completely. What had he hoped to accomplish by storming the Grand Mosque at Mecca and seizing the Ka’aba? All his calls for a holy government, for reform, for simple fidelity to the Prophet’s teachings as mandated by the country’s constitution were drowned out by fears that he might destroy Islam’s holiest site. He and his band of rebels had managed to hold out two weeks before royal troops had stormed the mosque and, with the help of their French advisors, overpowered them. The insurrection was over in minutes.