In the terminal he went to a telephone kiosk and dialed the number for a freight forwarding company in Brussels. He identified himself as Stevens, one of his many telephone names, and asked to speak to a Mr. Parsons. He heard a series of clicks and hums, then a female voice, distant and with a slight echo. The girl, Gabriel knew, was at that moment seated on the Operations Control desk at King Saul Boulevard.
“What do you require?” she asked.
“Voice identification.”
“You have a recording?”
“Yes.”
“Quality?”
Gabriel, using Hebrew terms no listener could comprehend, tersely relayed to the girl the technical means with which he had captured and recorded the subject’s voice.
“Play the recording, please.”
Gabriel pressed PLAY and held his recorder up to the mouthpiece of the receiver. Male voice, perfect French.
“It’s me. Give me a ring when you have a chance. Nothing urgent. Ciao.”
He lowered the tape player and placed the receiver against his ear.
“No match on file,” said the woman.
“Compare to unidentified voiceprint 698/D.”
“Stand by.” Then, a moment later: “It’s a match.”
“I need a telephone number ID.”
Gabriel located the second intercept, then pressed PLAY and held the recorder up to the phone again. It was the sound of Mimi Ferrere making an international call from the phone in her office. When the last number had been dialed, Gabriel pressed PAUSE.
The woman at the other end of the line recited the number: 00 33 91 54 67 98. Gabriel knew that 33 was the country code for France and that 91 was the city code for Marseilles.
“Run it,” he said.
“Stand by.”
Two minutes later the woman said: “The telephone is registered to a Monsieur Paul Véran, 56 boulevard St-Rémy, Marseilles.”
“I need another voice identification.”
“Quality?”
“Same as before.”
“Play the recording.”
Gabriel pressed PLAY, but this time the voice was drowned out by the sound of a security announcement, in German, blaring from the speaker above his head: Achtung! Achtung! When it was over, he pressed PLAY again. This time the voice, a woman’s, was clearly audible.
“It’s me. Where are you? Call me when you can. Much love.”
STOP .
“No match on file.”
“Compare to unidentified voiceprint 572/B.”
“Stand by.” Then: “It’s a match.”
“Please note, subject goes by the name Mimi Ferrere. Her address is 24 Brazil Street, apartment 6A, Cairo.”
“I’ve added it to the file. Elapsed time of this call four minutes, thirty-two seconds. Anything else?”
“I need you to pass a message to Ezekiel.”
Ezekiel was the telephone code word for the Operations directorate.
“Message?”
“Our friend is spending time in Marseilles, at the address you gave me.”
“Number 56 boulevard St-Rémy?”
“That’s right,” Gabriel said. “I need instructions from Ezekiel on where to proceed.”
“You’re calling from Frankfurt airport?”
“Yes.”
“I’m terminating this call. Move to another location and call back in five minutes. I’ll have instructions for you then.”
Gabriel hung up the phone. He went to a newsstand, bought a German magazine, then walked a short distance through the terminal to another kiosk of telephones. Same number, same patter, same girl in Tel Aviv.
“Ezekiel wants you to go to Rome.”
“ Rome ? Why Rome?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
It was no matter. Gabriel knew the answer.
“Where should I go?”
“The apartment near the Piazza di Spagna. Do you know it?”
Gabriel did. It was a lovely safe flat at the top of the Spanish Steps, not far from the Church of the Trinità dei Monti.
“There’s a flight from Frankfurt to Rome in two hours. We’re booking a seat for you.”
“Do you want my frequent-flyer number?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Have a safe trip,” said the girl, and the line went dead.
PART THREE. THE GARE de LYON
15 MARSEILLES
FOR THE SECOND TIME IN TEN DAYS PAUL MARTINEAU made the drive from Aix-en-Provence to Marseilles. Once again he entered the coffeehouse on the small street off the rue des Convalescents and climbed the narrow stairs to the flat on the first floor, and once again he was greeted on the landing by the gowned figure who spoke to him quietly in Arabic. They sat, propped on silk pillows, on the floor of the tiny living room. The man slowly loaded hashish into a hubble-bubble and touched a lighted match to the bowl. In Marseilles he was known as Hakim el-Bakri, a recent immigrant from Algiers. Martineau knew him by another name, Abu Saddiq. Martineau did not refer to him by that name, just as Abu Saddiq did not call Martineau by the name he’d been given by his real father.
Abu Saddiq drew heavily on the mouthpiece of the pipe, then inclined it in Martineau’s direction. Martineau took a long pull at the hashish and allowed the smoke to drift out his nostrils. Then he finished the last of his coffee. A veiled woman took away his empty cup and offered him another. When Martineau shook his head, the woman slipped silently from the room.
He closed his eyes as a wave of pleasure washed over his body. The Arab way, he thought-a bit of smoke, a cup of sweet coffee, the subservience of a woman who knew her place in life. Though he had been raised a proper Frenchman, it was Arab blood that flowed in his veins and Arabic that felt most comfortable on his tongue. The poet’s language, the language of conquest and suffering. There were times when the separation from his people was almost too painful to bear. In Provence he was surrounded by people like himself, yet he could not touch them. It was as if he had been condemned to wander among them, as a damned spirit drifts among the living. Only here, in Abu Saddiq’s tiny flat, could he behave as the man he truly was. Abu Saddiq understood this, which was why he seemed in no hurry to get around to business. He loaded more hashish into the water pipe and struck another match.
Martineau took another draw from the pipe, this one deeper than the last, and held the smoke until it seemed his lungs might burst. Now his mind was floating. He saw Palestine, not with his own eyes but as it had been described to him by those who had actually seen it. Martineau, like his father, had never set foot there. Lemon trees and olives groves-that’s what he imagined. Sweet springs and goats pulling on the tan hills of the Galilee. A bit like Provence, he thought, before the arrival of the Greeks.
The image disintegrated, and he found himself wandering across a landscape of Celtic and Roman ruins. He came to a village, a village on the Coastal Plain of Palestine. Beit Sayeed, they had called it. Now there was nothing but a footprint in the dusty soil. Martineau, in his hallucination, fell to his knees and with his spade clawed at the earth. It surrendered nothing, no tools or pottery, no coins or human remains. It was as if the people had simply vanished.
He forced open his eyes. The vision dissipated. His mission would soon be over. The murders of his father and grandfather would be avenged, his birthright fulfilled. Martineau was confident he would not spend his final days as a Frenchman in Provence but as an Arab in Palestine. His people, lost and scattered, would be returned to the land, and Beit Sayeed would rise once more from its grave. The days of the Jews were numbered. They would leave like all those who had come to Palestine before them-the Greeks and Romans, the Persians and the Assyrians, the Turks and the British. One day soon, Martineau was convinced, he would be searching for artifacts amid the ruins of a Jewish settlement.
Abu Saddiq was pulling at his shirtsleeve and calling him by his real name. Martineau turned his head slowly and fixed Abu Saddiq in a heavy-lidded gaze. “Call me Martineau,” he said in French. “I’m Paul Martineau. Doctor Paul Martineau.”