Gold of Kings (20 page)

E
MMA WEBB SNAPPED HER PHONE
shut and stowed it in her purse. She pressed her sunglasses tighter against the bridge of her nose. Her hand slipped down to apply thumb and forefinger to the corners of her mouth, holding tight until she was certain the smile was well hidden. The one that had almost erupted into laughter while Harry was still on the phone. She could do nothing about the funny little quivers disturbing the space below her rib cage. It had to be jet lag.

Emma crossed the Nice airport arrivals hall, back to where Hakim stood speaking in fluent French with a local police officer. He asked, “Trouble?”

“Harry and Storm need to locate somebody. Storm thinks it could be critical.”

Hakim spoke to the policeman, who sketched a tight bow in Emma's direction and backed off. Emma related what Harry had told her. Most of it, anyway.

Hakim's reply was instantaneous. “They are blown.”

“Harry wonders if maybe the guy was just trying to avoid paying any debts his uncle might have racked up with Syrrell's. Storm thinks otherwise.”

“The woman is correct.” Hakim's tone brooked no doubt. “Business at this level is done with courtesy. Particularly in that region. Even enemies are treated with respect. Especially in public. Honor is everything. They have done business before, yes?”

“With the uncle, not the nephew.”

Hakim waved that aside as unimportant. “More is at work here than a whiff of former obligations. I will inform our driver that departure must wait until I speak with Istanbul. Would you be so kind as to buy me a water for the journey?”

“Sure thing.” Emma walked to the café and ordered a double espresso and two bottles of water. The Nice airport was a palace of light and gentle French chatter. Even the flight announcements sounded enchanting. Emma had never been anywhere in France outside of Paris. Before this morning, visiting the Côte d'Azur had been just another item on the long list headed “Sometime.” As in, one day she would get around to something more than work.

Standing in a golden French midmorning, staring out forty-foot windows at palms and Mercedes taxis and a world from her dreams, probably had a little to do with why she thought again of Harry Bennett and let her smile slip out.

The waiter set her coffee on the bar and must have thought the smile was for him. He gave her liquid French eyes and scoped her from bar to hairline and back. Emma had known medical exams that were less thorough. The bartender said, “You wish to see the Riviera with me? I can show you many secret things.”

“Hey, that's a super offer and I'm really tempted, but I'm here to do business with those police officers over by the door. You understand police?”

The waiter sniffed an extremely Gallic response and flipped the dish towel off his shoulder to slap the espresso machine.

“Yeah, that's what I thought.” Emma picked up the thimble-sized cup, turned her back to the bar, and recalled the conversation with Harry Bennett.

After passing on news of the confrontation and Storm's request, Harry had finished with “You really in Monte Carlo?”

“Outskirts. Hakim thinks we might have found something important, don't ask me what.”

Harry had made a sound intensely like a growl. “Should I be jealous?”

“Excuse me?”

“Here I was, thinking maybe, I don't know…”

Emma astonished herself, how much she wanted to have him finish that thought. When he remained silent, she prodded, “This from the man holding hands with the lollipop in Istanbul.”

“Number one, Storm is no lollipop. Number two, old Harry's got his eye on bigger game.”

“Thanks a lot. Give me a second to decide which I like less, being big, or being a game.”

“I didn't mean, big as in hefty.”

“Wait, I got it. You meant tough. As in, old shoe leather.”

“You're saying I should stop while I'm in reverse.”

“Before you drive straight off that cliff behind you.”

“I'm a little out of practice.”

She had clenched her teeth to hold in a retort about Harry's jail time. When she remained silent, he asked, “Maybe you'll give me a chance to polish my act?”

“In your dreams, sailor.”

“Please tell me that's just a cop's way of saying yes.”

Emma broke all her own rules. She said what she thought, using the low voice she'd almost forgotten about. “You know what? I'd really like for us to find some time together.”

Harry gave that a respectful beat, then said, “This place is way too hot to be giving me a case of the shivers.”

Which was sort of funny, since she had been thinking the exact same thing.

 

THE RENAULT WAITING FOR THEM
at curbside could only have been an unmarked cop car. The blue was a shade that nobody except a government official would ever dream of buying. The driver ushered them both into the rear seat, started his supercharged motor, and zoomed away. Hakim addressed the driver in French, then said to Emma, “We should be there in just under an hour.”

“Where are we headed?”

“Grasse. A lovely city. Heart of the perfume industry. Alas, we shall have no chance to view the valleys of lavender and thyme. Our destination is far less scenic.”

“Your French is fluent?”

“French, Arabic, English, a Lebanese hill dialect my mother made me learn. I loathed it. A barbaric tongue.”

It was the most he had ever spoken of himself. “You're Syrian, right?”

“My father. So officially, yes, though I only lived there two years. My mother is Marionite. You have heard of this perhaps?”

“The name, sure.”

“Marionites were some of the earliest Christians. A few remain as hill tribes above the Bekaa Valley. Our territory once extended as far south as the Golan Heights. Now we are dispersed all over the world. My mother's parents worked in Beirut when the Lebanese civil war broke out. They died in the early fighting.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you. My mother was sent to live with relatives in Damascus. She fell in love with a Syrian Muslim. You must understand, the Syrians were deeply involved in the same civil war that had killed my grandparents. My mother's act was unthinkable. She was banished from her family. My parents lived in Damascus for a time, with my father's family. But this too was difficult, so they fled, first to France and then to Canada. Now they are in Jordan.” Hakim flattened his moustache. “It is a familiar story in the Middle East. Our Bedu past breeds a common restlessness. We have always been migrants.”

His story was fascinating enough to take her mind off the road, at least until a tight curve jammed her into Hakim's side. “And I thought I was an aggressive driver.”

“He is probably showing off.”

“Tell him it's a wasted effort.”

“He is French. He would only drive faster. You have been to France before?”

“Paris. As a student.”

He gave an airy wave to the yawning drop and the Mediterranean beyond. “This road is known as the Corniche. It was originally laid by the Romans, who used Nice as one of their ports. Here the Alps begin very close to the sea. We are going to a natural plateau region. Plenty of sunshine, a long growing season, water pouring off the mountains beyond, small tight valleys that form natural hothouses for grow
ing flowers and herbs that create the aromas to make a woman more alluring.”

Emma spotted the driver giving her a tight grin through the rearview mirror. “Keep your eyes on the road, bub.”

“He claims not to speak English. Which may mean he speaks it perfectly, but was ordered simply to repeat back to his superiors whatever we say.”

“I thought we were on the same side.”

“Like our esteemed allies in Washington, yes?” Hakim slipped a pair of sunglasses from his pocket. “We are invited here because the local authorities need something. What exactly, I am not sure.”

They powered through countless switchbacks in tightly controlled four-wheeled skids. The road had no barrier between them and the abyss except occasional painted stone markers.

Hakim said, “After the second World War, international conventions and public shaming forced the French to close their South American penal colonies. They reopened a prison originally built by the Romans as a fortress.”

They turned off the main road, onto a narrow lane the color of the surrounding ochre hills. The driver whipped around a turn and the world dropped away. Thirty miles to the south, the Mediterranean sparkled and beckoned, bordered by a necklace of beaches and seaside towns and verdant green hills. Their road, carved from a cliff face, swept them away from the sea and into a vista of dry alpine peaks. The rising heat separated the mountains from the earth, such that they rested upon clouds of shimmering dust, their summits melting into the chalk blue Provençal sky.

Hakim appeared as unconcerned with the view as with their speed. “The practice of tattooing prison rage has been imported from America. But here it is done with French flair. Each prison has its own signature. The symbol for our destination is a burning rose. The next valley north is used for growing wild roses. I am told you can smell their fragrance when the wind is right.”

A final turn revealed an earthen bridge set upon a ridgeline. The road narrowed further, to where the tires seemed ready to fall away on either side. At the far end, a lone mountain had been flattened, as though
mashed flat with a giant's hand. Upon it was set a fortress from beyond time.

Even Hakim slid forward in his seat for a clearer view. “Legend has it that eight thousand Roman slaves lost their lives levelling that peak and building this road.”

The prison's outer walls were built of dry cut stone. Emma found it impossible to tell where the old stone ended and the new stone began. The yellow dust turned every surface the same pale and hopeless shade.

Hakim said, “The prisoners call this place
La Parfumerie
. The perfume factory.”

The driver radioed ahead. A claxon sounded from the fortress wall and massive steel doors slid back. They entered a confine beneath dual guard towers. The driver pulled into a parking space and pointed them toward a door. As Emma rose from the car, he winked at her and said, “Have a nice day.”

 

THEY PASSED THROUGH TWO SECURITY
portals and entered the prison's admin wing. Guards coming off duty barked their words, their faces taut. A subaltern approached, saluted smartly, and addressed Hakim in rapid-fire French. They were led to a narrow antechamber between the main guardroom and the commandant's office. All the guards she could see wore uniforms of police blue cut in a distinct military style, with caps fitted into their shoulder lapels, cloth badges of rank, and then trouser legs tucked into polished leather boots. Emma stepped to the window as Hakim's phone rang. The view was of hills baking under a porcelain sky.

Hakim shut his phone, joined her at the window, and handed Emma a slip of paper. “Tell them that Mehmut Ozman can be found at this place now.”

She read, “Ciragan Palace.”

“Harry Bennett has been in Istanbul before?”

Emma reached for her phone. “That's the impression I have.”

“He will know this place. Tell them to hurry.”

She had time for a few terse words with Harry before the door opened. A battle-hardened officer entered the room, lantern-jawed,
grey hair cut to nubs, eyes of cold smoke. He inspected them both, then spoke in French. Hakim responded. The officer had a remarkably soft voice, toneless and flat. Behind them, the guardroom banter had vanished.

Hakim said, “Colonel Bretin speaks some English, but would prefer that I translate.”

“I can wait here if you like.”

The colonel addressed her directly, his accent so thick it shellacked the words. “You have seen this man?”

“For a millisecond only. There and gone in a flash.”

The colonel's implacable gaze swiveled to Hakim, who translated. Emma went on, “But I've interviewed the eyewitness to one murder in London and two further attempts in Florida. That is, assuming your guy is our guy.”

When Bretin reached out his hand, the subaltern had the file ready. He checked the contents, then handed Emma the folder.

One look at the mug shots was enough. “That's him.”

Bretin asked directly, “You are certain?”

“No question. Who is he?”

“Yes. That is what we also wish to know.” The colonel indicated the door. “Please. Come.”

They were joined by two guards who carried long batons at the ready. They descended stone stairs, passed through another checkpoint, and were buzzed into the prison yard.

The cells had been built up the interior fortress walls, five stories of rough stone and bars. The cells faced inward, overlooking a broad exercise yard. The yard was rimmed by guard towers with downward-slanted mirrored windows. A wedge had been cut from the interior square by walls of steel mesh. The colonel led them across the main yard to a metal door. At their approach a claxon sounded and the door ground open. They entered the miniature yard, tighter than the walls were high. The heat was as vicious as the stench. The only sound was the door grinding shut behind them.

The colonel's voice matched the prison's atmosphere, all force and emotion concealed beneath a brutal exterior. He stood to Emma's left, Hakim to her right. The effect was a sibilant stereo. Bretin pointed to a narrow steel-plated door and spoke. Hakim translated, “This leads to
the prison's oldest section, known as
Les Bains
. The narrow pits were once used as baths by the Roman soldiers. Now they are the punishment block. Do you wish to see inside?”

“Not a chance.”

“The exterior wall faces east by south. In the summer, inmates must hunch away from that wall because the stones will blister the skin. They stay there twenty-three and a half hours each day, panting like dogs and dreaming of the Côte d'Azur, where people sit in umbrella-shaded cafés and watch the naked bodies glisten upon the beaches.”