Dark Matter (10 page)

'Before Gregori got his...hobby
,
he was never happy, nothing was ever right for him.  Since, he has become more content and with it kinder, gentler and a more considerate lover.  He is far better father.  It would be much worse if he drank or gambled; besides she is really nice and I know he loves me.'

'Well I'll be a son-of-a-bitch!' exclaimed Mary.

'You will?' asked Anna, missing the meaning and translating it literally.

'No, no,' replied Mary, 'I just meant that it never occurred to me that a woman could see her husband having a mistress as a good thing.'

'You would be surprised how circumstance can changed your views.'  Anna replied.

Elizabeth, ignoring this last exchange was just thinking to herself,
this can't be a coincidence, but just in case I will tread lightly.

6
Enemies

14:43 
              31 October  [20:43  31 October  GMT]

Suite 413, Hotel Del Presidente, Mexico City, Mexico.

Ordinarily the Swiss would have hosted the meeting.  They could always be relied upon for their discretion, their banking secrecy is nothing compared to their diplomatic secrecy.  This however was different.  There could be no mistakes.  Total secrecy and total deniability was needed.  The first to ensure that word did not get out, the second in case it did.  Officially, only twenty-seven people in the world knew that this meeting was taking place.  Five of the twenty-seven were at the meeting.  There was to be no official host.  The Americans had made the arrangements and were providing an arbitrator and two protection officers.  The remaining two were the negotiators, one only from each side.  Senior men, they could both report confidentially and directly to their respective superiors.

The place chosen was a simple hotel.  A mid-market venue in which five men having a meeting would go unnoticed.  They held three suites between them, the two protection officers taking the twin room, the American's suite hosting the talks.  The official language for the talks was English.  The two negotiators both spoke English fluently.  They were well educated.

The American paced his suite nervously.  This was without doubt his most important assignment to date.  The problem, if you could call it that, was that it was not high profile. 
It is no-profile,
he thought,
if such a phrase exists, a black operation in the field of diplomacy.
  As far as his wife and friends were concerned, he was on a diplomatic training course, sharing knowledge and experience with other diplomats at a luxury resort in the Caribbean. 
This is not a luxury hotel by any means and Mexico is certainly not the Caribbean.
  He checked his watch, again. 
14:47
. A knock at the door made his heart skip a beat and brought him out of his daydreaming.

He answered the door to a man of dark eyes and olive complexion, a little taller than the American at 5' 10” he had the air and presence of a man who had known death from both sides.  Had he not known who he was, the American would have guessed correctly, he was unmistakably of middle-eastern appearance. 

'Fursa Sa'eeda' the American said, offering a traditional Palestinian greeting.

'It is good to see you again too.’  Saeb Tibi replied in English. 

'I am here first?’  Saeb asked, trying and failing to keep both the tension and his annoyance out of his voice.

'Yes,' the American replied, 'I don't think we will have long to wait, can I get you some coffee?'

'Coffee would be good, thank you.'

Saeb Tibi sat down on one of the sofas, reflecting on his current mission.  He lit up a Rothman after accepting his coffee, which his host had thoughtfully made in the middle-eastern or Turkish fashion.  Deeply infused to produce a deep rich flavour, sweetened well with raw cane sugar, like a thin coffee treacle.  Saeb drew deeply on his cigarette, and thought back to his briefing prior to these meetings. 

He was chosen as he was exactly the wrong man for the job.  He had no background in diplomacy; he had lost so much at the hands of the enemy.  Of his four brothers and three sisters he had lost one of each indirectly, they had died in infancy through lack of medicines.  He had lost two more of his brothers to gunfire at the hands of the enemy and later three of his toes during interrogation.  In truth, he had also lost his entire family; he was married to his work with no time for a wife or children.  The enemy had cost him a great deal, and now he was meeting with one of them on a regular basis and negotiating.  Not for the first time he felt sick with himself.  He also knew that negotiation was the only true way forward for his people.  His people needed a future, a future without war and strife. 
A future where we can shape our own destiny.
  Their future was in his hands.  He knew that his superiors would make the ultimate decisions and that when his work was done a whole team of negotiators would handle all the detail.  However, his negotiating was the basis for it all.  He drew again on his cigarette and waited.

Another knock at the door.  The American rose from the opposite sofa and answered the door.  The other negotiator had arrived.  He was similar in appearance to the first, although he had piercing blue eyes and his skin colour was lighter, he was also of middle-eastern origin.  The American welcomed the second negotiator into his suite.

'Shalom' the American said, using a traditional Jewish welcome.

'Hello again my friend' replied Benjamin Yogev.  He entered the suite and walked over to Saeb Tibi to greet him as well.  'It is good to see you again Saeb.'

Saeb had stood as Benjamin had entered the room; he took the Israeli's hand and replied.  'It is good to see you too, Benjamin.' 

There was no warmth between them.  None.  The American had insisted, from the conclusion of the first meeting, that they would greet one another as friends.  He did not expect this to have an immediate impact, but he knew that, given time and enough repetition, they would start to see the other as an individual and not the representation of evil that they saw initially. 
We need more meetings,
the American thought.  They took their seats at the round table set to the left-hand side of the suite, a single water jug and three glasses to mark their seats.  Benjamin, deaf in his left ear sat to Saeb's left-hand side so that his good ear was close to him.  The American spoke first by recapping the last negotiations and the points agreed to date; these were few in number and not of any great significance in themselves.  However, they had reached agreements on certain issues and that was more progress than most had ever made.  Benjamin let the American continue, not paying much attention, he had an excellent memory for detail, and he drifted off, memories running up to the start of this mission calling to him.

Benjamin had been surprised when he was told that there were going to be secret negotiations with the Palestinians.  He had protested at length, given chapter and verse at how much Israel and its people had suffered at their hands, how he had seen his own brother disappear in a ball of flame at one of many suicide bombings.  He was shocked and appalled that his superiors were considering such a course of action, he had asked what idiot they had chosen to give away their land.  “That would be you.”  Had been the reply.  He was mortified at being chosen,
how could I, in good conscience negotiate with a Palestinian whom I would rather see dead?
  That was why they wanted him he had been told, because of his history and his hatred.  A diplomat would see the common ground, whilst he would see the real issues for what they were.  It was not a volunteer mission, he had been chosen and that was that.

What Benjamin had not said, what he had dared not admit, even to himself, was that he had become increasingly uneasy about Israel's policy towards Palestine and the Arab world generally.  He had grown up through it all.  He had seen men, women and children die on both sides and what had been accomplished?  He wasn't sure.  Surrender was never an option, but victory seemed further and further away.  He wasn't even sure that anyone knew what victory for Israel looked like anyway.  Now he was watching an entire new generation of Jews and Arabs make the same mistakes he and his generation had.  If the only answer to bombs was shells, and neither side was going to run out of either, then what was the future?  It was these thoughts that occupied Benjamin's mind whilst the American was talking.

The American finished, it was Saeb's turn to open negotiations this time.  He shuffled his papers, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

'Thank you,' he began 'I would like to raise the issue of' he was interrupted by shouting coming from outside the suite.  The unmistakable sound of Spanish hailed though a megaphone, followed by the English translation.

'Throw down your weapons and face the wall with your hands on your head.'              The Mexican police sergeant instructed the two protection officers outside the suite.  They, unfortunately, had clear instructions, no one inside.  They both drew their weapons and fell in a hail of bullets from the multitude of police officers.  The door burst open and four Mexican officers stormed in, led by the Sergeant.  The American, startled and confused jumped out of his seat, turned to face the officers.  He reached for the passport that declared him a simple businessman.  This was an unfortunate mistake.  He received four shots to the chest, close together from the Sergeant and the other officer nearest to him.  The American fell down and didn't move. 

Saeb Tibi and Benjamin Yogev both sat quite still at the table, both experienced in warfare they knew their only chance was to keep still and cooperate.  Neither of them had any weapons.

'Put your hands on your heads' the Sergeant instructed them both. 

They complied.  Two of the officers moved around to their backs and locking a handcuff on one wrist, they brought their arms down behind their backs, and secured the other wrist into the other handcuff.  Neither man resisted, or protested. 

'Search them' the Sergeant instructed.

'Nada.'  Nothing the first said in Spanish, the second agreed, yes nothing. 

Odd
, the Sergeant thought to himself,
these drug dealers always carry weapons
.  He looked around the room, no briefcase of money, nor of drugs, no scales, nothing in fact to show this was the drug deal he was tipped off about.  Just the two men out front with guns and the guy on the floor, he pointed to the American. 

'Recover his weapon' the Sergeant instructed one of his officers.

'He hasn't got one' the officer replied, after searching the cooling body thoroughly.

'What?  He was reaching for a gun.  Check his left inside jacket pocket.' the Sergeant was starting to get a very uneasy feeling. 

The officer pulled out the passport and showed it to his Sergeant.

'It's only his passport.  It says he was a machine-tool dealer.'

'Mierda...... mierda mierda mierda, cogida!,' The sergeant swore several times, realising that this was looking less and less like the drug bust he had been expecting. 

'Check those two.' he instructed the officer.

The officer reported that both the others had business cards identifying them as owners of engineering businesses.  The sergeant didn't like were this was going. 
But
, he thought to himself,
I was given a reliable tip.  Fourth floor of the Hotel Del Principado. 
He looked again at the piece of paper he had written down the location of the drug deal.  He looked at the hotel's headed paper on the desk against the wall. 
Hotel Del Presidente,
he read, he read the paper again.  They were similar, but not the same,
I'm at the wrong hotel.  I AM AT THE WRONG HOTEL.
 
I've got to make this right somehow
, the thought insisted itself on him.  He pulled out an evidence bag and slid the American's briefcase into it. 
I'll deal with this later. 
He called for the bodies to be taken to the mortuary and had the two “businessmen” arrested for drug dealing.

15:27 
              31 October  [21:27  31 October  GMT]

Booking desk, Central Police Station, Mexico City, Mexico.

The desk sergeant was overwhelmed with petty criminals.  When the arresting sergeant offered to book the evidence in the desk sergeant readily agreed.  He knew it was against procedure, but these things tended to be flexible at peak times and he knew that the arresting sergeant would leave him to sign the forms so everything looked official.  The arresting sergeant, alone in the evidence room placed the revolver in the briefcase and took one of the bags of cocaine destined for destruction and placed that in the briefcase. 
That should do it,
he thought to himself,
after all, they might really be drug dealers after all, who knows?

18:09 
              31 October  [00:09  01 November GMT]

Interview Room, Central Police Station, Mexico City, Mexico.

They had both refused consular access.  They were, after all, holding fake passports, good ones, but officials from the countries of their fake passports would spot them quickly enough.  They both stuck to their cover stories, they were businessmen from two South American countries and were interested in purchasing high quality second-hand machine tools.  The American had come recommended and they were meeting him together to share a container and thus save on shipping costs.  They knew of each other through the person who had recommended the American.  They both had to use the same court appointed lawyer, as they had no one to contact.  When the lawyer arrived, both their hearts sank; he was young, looked tired, and carried a huge pile of case files.  When the lawyer mentioned the find of drugs and a gun in the American's briefcase they could not refute it.  This was supposed to be the first time they had met the American, so they just had to say that they didn't know what was in the American's briefcase.  The lawyer said that this would not be an easy case.  Being in association with a drug dealer carried the same penalty as drug dealing.  In any case, they were looking at a year or more of prison before trial.  They both stuck to their cover stories, aware that more than their lives were at stake.