The Devil's Banker (31 page)

With Hugo Luytens’s last-minute donation, she’d surpassed her target.

Sliding closer to the desk, she sifted through the storm of papers until she found the one she was looking for. It was hard to get too enthusiastic. There were too many wildfires burning in Africa, Southeast Asia, and more and more in South America, too, to grow complacent. Just getting the WHO to act in a rapid manner was hard enough. To her mind, they spent too much time advising countries about what drugs they needed, how to distribute them, how to oversee the proper dosages, so on and so forth, and too little time procuring and supplying the drugs themselves.

Spinning in her chair, she stared out the window. A calm expanse of lawn rolled down to the shores of Lake Geneva. Water lapped at the sandy banks. A few sailboats were out on the lake, and she wished she could take a long lunch, maybe drive to Ouchy and sip a
balon
of the local rouge along with a
salade niçoise
on the terrace of the Beau Rivage. She had a ravenous appetite, but she was not allowed to eat too much. It was paramount that she remain thin.

Samuel’s gleaming bald head rounded the doorway. “Madame Charisse. I have Global Trans on the phone. They say there is a problem with the paperwork for some of the drugs. The Larythomine and Erythronex. They need your signature.”

“At the airport?”

“Yes.”

Claire grimaced. There was always such a hassle with the newer palliative drugs, many of which relied on radioactive isotope therapy to lessen the pain caused by rapidly growing tumors. The drugs wouldn’t cure you, but they would make the last months of your life bearable. Anything, however, involving nuclear medicines raised eyebrows and demanded extra scrutiny.

“Tell them I’ll be right out. And next time, we use DHL!”

Claire Charisse slowed long enough to open her desk drawer, grab a few cigarettes, and stuff them inside her purse. Camel with no filters. It was her bones, not her lungs, that were supposed to be the death of her. With a brief wave, she set out down the hallway. The headquarters of the WHO was as large as the Louvre. It took her ten minutes to negotiate the sterile hallways and cross the parking lot to her battered Ford. She’d wanted an Audi, but Glen insisted she drive American.

It was a straight shot on the highway to the airport. Midday traffic was light. Ten minutes later, she was nosing her car through the entry to the cargo terminal, rolling down her window, and extending her WHO pass to the security guard. Recognizing her, he waved her through. He was not so slack, however, as to neglect calling Global Trans to advise them of her arrival. She made it her business to notice such things.

Parking the Ford in front of the office, she nodded a frosty hello and walked through the door. “Gentlemen, I trust there is a problem of mammoth proportions that requires my personal presence.”

Bill Masters, the British office manager, answered with a no-nonsense glare. “Can’t ship your Larythomine and Erythronex.”

“What do you mean?”

“New regs. Sorry.”

Claire planted herself on the desk.
“New regs, sorry?”
she repeated. “We’re talking about medicine that will prolong the lives of a good many boys and girls who are suffering from leukemia, myelogenous myeloma, Hodgkin’s disease, and about a dozen other ailments I can’t even pronounce.”

“Terrible, I know, but look, you can read them yourselves.”

Claire accepted the memorandum and eyed it cursorily. “It’s a crock of shit. Medicine is medicine. What? Does someone think the stuff is going to explode?”

Masters shrugged. “Don’t know, ma’am.”

“I don’t want to be melodramatic, but lives are at stake.”

Masters lowered his eyes. “Look, Claire, we just fly the stuff for you. We’re already giving you a preferred rate. All it says is that you have to have a representative of the local government examine the cargo and sign off on it.”

“I’m with the WHO. The world’s a helluva lot bigger than Switzerland. I’d say that’s good enough.”

“ ’Fraid not. We need a Swissie.”

“Where are the papers?”

Masters handed over a clipboard with a sheaf of forms attached.

Claire leafed through the pages, licking her thumb every so often. Finally, she snatched a pen from the desk and signed a name to the forms.

“Hey!” Masters protested, jumping out of his chair and taking the clipboard. He read the name. “You are not Dr. Robert Helfer.”

“You wanted a signature. I gave you one. Helfer’s the local in charge. Who’s going to know the difference?” She stepped close enough to Masters to see that he needed a shave and that he’d had more than orange juice for breakfast. “Screw the regs,” she whispered through a conspiratorial smile.

Masters shook his head, laughing, then turned. “Load it up, boys. There’s a new boss in town, and her name’s Claire.”

Claire Charisse stood on her tiptoes and gave Masters a peck on each cheek. “Doesn’t it feel nice to do something correct, instead of correctly?”

Chapter 34

George Gabriel walked briskly past the apartment building at 23 Rue Clemenceau. It was a modern structure with a floor-to-ceiling glass window running the length of the ground floor. Laywers, doctors, the crème de la crème of professional Paris lived there. Instead of a concierge, the building had a doorman who spent the day sitting behind a desk reading the sporting gazette and sneaking out for cigarette breaks. His name was Henri, a Senegalese who talked often about bringing his family to Paris as soon as he had saved enough money. Raising a hand to his face, George glanced at the row of mail slots. The box for apartment 3B was still full.

He had been skulking around the neighborhood for an hour. He had eaten a Coupe Denmark at one café and ordered an egg frittata at another. Across the street there was a dingy bar he hadn’t been in yet, but the thought of either eating or drinking anything more made him feel sicker than he already did. Worried about appearing conspicuous, he ducked into a corner kiosk and began browsing through the latest soccer mags. One eye glued to the apartment’s entry, he skimmed stories on Ryan Giggs and Oliver Kahn. He would never be a pro now, he mused acidly. He’d been a fool to think he’d ever had a chance.

A clock behind the counter read 3:45. He had fifteen minutes to wait. When the newsagent shot him a dirty look, he bought a pack of Mary Longs and returned to the magazines.

Fifteen minutes.
The time stretched in front of him like a deserted highway.

George Gabriel was hardly recognizable as the young resident who had nearly murdered a female doctor at the Hôpital Salpetitpierre that morning. Fleeing the hospital, he had taken the Métro across town to Montmartre and lost himself in the crowded cobblestone alleys of La Goutte d’Or. There, he had slipped into one of the cheap fashion bazaars and bought a pair of baggy jeans, an oversize white T-shirt, a pair of Nike hightops, some wraparound sunglasses, and a New York Yankees baseball cap he wore bill backward. He was one more hip-hop punk among thousands. The lessons he had learned at camp about evading capture were depressingly useful.

From La Goutte d’Or, he had walked to the Opéra, continuing on to the Tuileries. The gardens swarmed with tourists. For an hour, he had lost himself among them. He bought sweet popcorn. He sat beside one of the ponds and watched a small boy sail his boat. He took a ride on the Ferris wheel for the first time in his life.

Despite his anxiety and the near-incapacitating fear that gripped him, he had been able to keep his mind focused on his most immediate concerns. Where could he hide? Where should he go? How could he escape? He had his passport and a plane ticket. If he wanted, he could go directly to the airport and get on the plane to Dubai. And then? Who would be waiting for him?

George had tried to reconstruct the police’s actions, step by step. The pretty doctor and the American cop had seen him close up. George could count on an accurate description of him being passed to the gendarmerie; an order given to keep a lookout for a six-foot-two-inch man with a Mediterranean complexion who had been too frightened to take a life.

No one would doubt but that Chapel was the target. The attempt on the American following yesterday’s bombing would make the would-be murderer’s apprehension a high priority, even if the police were scratching their heads wondering why he’d made such a mess of it; what reason there might have been for his failing to kill the woman.

It wasn’t the police who worried him, so much as his father. The man had too many contacts in high places and too many friends in low ones. A city of four million inhabitants offered little security. His father would not forget. Nor would he give up until he had found him. George Gabriel had committed the ultimate sin. He had failed his father. Failed
the family
. There was no greater betrayal.

Drawn by the flocks of tourists and the promise of anonymity, George drifted toward the Louvre. Inside the museum, he traversed the long dusky tunnel to the Pavillon Richelieu and climbed the marble stairs past the Venus de Milo, past Winged Victory. Ambling from room to room, he felt safe in the
grandes salles’
grainy light, a refugee sheltered by Rembrandt and Rubens, Vermeer and Van Dyck. The Romantics had always been his favorites, and after a half hour, he found himself glued to the floor in front of a giant canvas by Delacroix entitled “Entry of the Crusaders into Constantinople.”

A team of mounted Saracens dressed in flowing robes and helmets, their banners crackling in the wind, dominated the picture. The Crusaders had taken the city, yet behind them the battle still raged. Turks and their women lay prostrate, begging to be spared. One captive was bound and tied to the commanding officer’s horse. What would happen next? Would the Crusaders kill all the survivors, women included? Would they free them? The lack of resolution fired his imagination.

But today, George found himself asking another question. One of a more personal bent. To which group did he, himself, belong? To the victorious, and (he was certain) benevolent crusaders, whose faces spoke of reason, mercy, and strength? Or to the defeated, biblical Turks, whose long beards and impassioned countenances screamed fear, dogma, and fanaticism?

The answer came to him immediately. It required no introspection, no painful examination of his loyalties. By blood, he might be an Arab, but by nature, by temperament, by virtue of reason, he was a Westerner. He did not wish to reject Islam. In his heart, he was devout. He believed in the Prophet. He held his teachings dear. It was his head, however, that took exception. Islam’s view of women as inferior, its impossible double-talk about paying them the ultimate respect by imprisoning them in the household, angered him. Similarly, its ideas on punishment, revenge, and education were outdated. The world was moving forward, yet Islam remained rooted in the past.

That had been three hours ago.

Gabriel slipped the magazine back into the rack as a familiar red Mercedes turned the corner and continued down the street fifty meters before stopping. A door opened. A flash of blond hair and a patch of denim crossed the sidewalk and disappeared inside the apartment building. George waited until the car had pulled away to leave the kiosk. Circling the block, he came upon the apartment from the rear, walking through the small alley that led into an expansive interior court. He had a key. He opened the garden entrance and slid inside the emergency stairwell. On the fourth floor, he cracked the door and slipped his head into the hallway. It was quiet.

“Who is it?” came a singsong voice, after he’d knocked.

“It’s me. Open up.”

Claudine Cauzet opened the door. Her bright smile faded as Gabriel shunted past her without a word. “What is it?” she asked.

“I’m in trouble.”

He’d told her everything—at least everything he knew about his father’s plans and his own place in them. He rattled on about Hijira, about the U.S. agents tracking his cousin Mohammed al-Taleel, about his misadventure in the hospital that morning and his failure to kill Adam Chapel. He’d left nothing out. It was one o’clock. He lay beside Claudine in her bed, the moon’s silver light dancing on their faces as an unsteady breeze billowed the curtains.

“Now you know what it feels like to be me,” he said, feeling sorry for himself. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You did the right thing, George. I’m proud of you.”

“I let him down.”

“Let him down?” said Claudine disgustedly. “I should think he’d be proud to have a son who can stand up to him, who can make his own decisions.”

“He’s not your dad.”

“You can say that again.”

Claudine’s parents, both doctors, were the model of progressive thinking. For the past week they’d been at their vacation home on the Spanish island of Ibiza, leaving her to fend for herself—something Gabriel’s father would never allow.

George raised himself on an elbow, wanting her to understand. “Family comes first. It’s everything to us: who we were, who we are, who we’re supposed to become. In Islam, family is the center of your life.”

“It is in Christianity, too,” Claudine retorted. “That doesn’t mean you can ask your son to kill for you. What if you’d been caught? What if you’d been killed? Or would that make you some kind of martyr who gets to go to heaven with however many vestal virgins and then it would be okay?”

“I wouldn’t be a martyr, just a good son. That would be enough.”

“You are a good son. Just wait, he’ll forgive you.”

“Never. He’s been planning this for twenty years. Ever since his brother was killed.”

Claudine sat up, pulling a pillow onto her lap and hugging it. “His brother deserved it,” she stated firmly. “You cannot take that many people hostage and expect to get aw—”

“He let most of them go,” George interrupted. “In the end, it was just him and the rebels.”

“And they all got killed.”

“Either in the raid or afterward.”

“But . . .” Claudine appeared to struggle with the futility of the whole thing, just as George had done once himself. “Did he really think he would succeed?”