Contract With God Part 29

'It looks much prettier on a computer screen,' Orville said, caressing his flattened nose, which was now orange from the Betadine. Albert had tried to set the nose straight using a piece of cardboard and some tape, but he was aware that if he didn't get Orville to a hospital soon, in a month they'd have to break the nose again to straighten it.

Albert thought for a moment.

'So this Huqan, he was going to go after Kayn.'

'I don't remember too much, other than that the guy seemed pretty serious. The truth is that what I gave Kayn was raw information. I hadn't had a chance to a.n.a.lyse anything in detail.'

'Then . . .'

'It was like a free sample, you know. You give them a little then sit back and wait. In time they'll ask for more. Don't look at me like that. People have to earn a living.'

'We have to get that information back,' Albert said, drumming his fingers on his armchair. 'First, because the people who attacked you were worried about what you knew. And second, because if Huqan is part of the expedition-'

'All my files have disappeared or been burned.'

'Not all of them. There's a copy.'

Orville was slow to understand what Albert meant.

'No way. Don't even joke about it. That place is impregnable.'

'Nothing is impossible, except one thing - that I go another minute without eating,' Albert said, picking up his car keys. 'Try to relax. I'll be back in half an hour.'

The priest was about to go out the door when Orville called to him. Just the idea of breaking into the fortress that was Kayn Tower was making Orville feel anxious. There was only one way to overcome his nerves.

'Albert . . .?'

'Yes?'

'I've changed my mind about the chocolate.'

54.

HUQAN.

The imam was right.

He had told him that the jihad would enter his soul and his heart. He had warned him about the ones he called weak Muslims because they called true believers radicals.

'You cannot be afraid of how other Muslims will feel about what we do. G.o.d did not prepare them for the task. He didn't temper their hearts and souls with the fire that is within us. Let them think that Islam is a religion of peace. That helps us. It weakens the defences of our enemies; it creates holes through which we can penetrate. Cracks.'

He felt it. He could hear the screams in his heart that were only mumblings on others' lips.

He felt it for the first time when he was asked to be a leader in the jihad. He was asked because he had special talent. Gaining the respect of his brothers had not been easy. He had never been in the fields of Afghanistan or Lebanon. He had not followed the orthodox path, and still the Word had clung to the deepest part of his being like a vine to a young tree.

It happened outside the city, in a warehouse. Some brothers were holding another who had let the temptations of the outside world interfere with G.o.d's commandments.

The imam had told him he must remain firm, prove himself worthy. All eyes would be watching him.

On the way to the warehouse he had bought a hypodermic needle and bent the end of it lightly against the car door. He was supposed to go in and talk with the traitor, with the one who wanted to embrace the comforts that they had been called to erase from the face of the Earth. His job was to convince him of his error. Completely naked, his hands and feet tied, the man was sure to listen.

Instead of talking, he had walked into the warehouse, gone directly to the traitor and plunged the bent syringe into the man's eye. Ignoring the screams, he had yanked out the syringe, lacerating the eye. Without waiting, he had then stabbed the other eye and pulled.

Not even five minutes had pa.s.sed before the traitor was begging them to kill him. Huqan smiled. The message had been clear. His job was to cause pain and make those who went against G.o.d want to die.

Huqan. Syringe.

That day he had earned his name.

55.

THE EXCAVATION.

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN.

Sat.u.r.day, 15 July 2006. 12:34 p.m.

'A white Russian, please.'

'You surprise me, Ms Otero. I imagined you would drink a Manhattan, something more trendy and post-modern,' Raymond Kayn said, smiling. 'Let me mix it myself. Thank you, Jacob.'

'Are you sure, sir?' said Russell, who didn't seem too happy about leaving the old man alone with Andrea.

'Relax, Jacob. I'm not going to jump on Ms Otero. That is, unless she wants me to.'

Andrea realised she was blus.h.i.+ng like a schoolgirl. As the billionaire made the drink, she took in her surroundings. Three minutes before, when Jacob Russell had come to the infirmary to get her, she'd been so nervous her hands were shaking. After a couple of hours spent correcting, polis.h.i.+ng, then rewriting her questions, she had ripped out the five pages from her notebook, crushed them into a ball, and stuck them in a pocket. That man wasn't normal and she wasn't going to ask him the normal questions.

When she entered Kayn's tent she had begun to doubt her decision. The tent was divided into two rooms. One was a kind of foyer in which Jacob Russell obviously worked. It contained a desk, a laptop, and, as Andrea had suspected, a shortwave radio.

So that's how you keep in touch with the s.h.i.+p . . . I thought you wouldn't be disconnected like the rest of us.

To the right, a thin curtain separated the foyer from Kayn's room, proof of the symbiosis between the young a.s.sistant and the old man.

I wonder how far these two take their relations.h.i.+p? There's something I don't trust about our friend Russell, with his metros.e.xual att.i.tude and his self- importance. I wonder if I should hint at something like that in the interview.

As she'd come through the curtain, she'd discerned a light aroma of sandalwood. A simple bed - But definitely more comfortable than the inflatable mattresses we're sleeping on But definitely more comfortable than the inflatable mattresses we're sleeping on - took up one side of the room. A smaller version of the toilet/shower that the rest of the expedition used, a small desk without papers - and no visible computer - a small bar and two chairs completed the furniture. Everything was white. A pile of books as tall as Andrea was threatening to tip over if anyone came too close. She was attempting to read the t.i.tles when Kayn appeared and came straight over to greet her. - took up one side of the room. A smaller version of the toilet/shower that the rest of the expedition used, a small desk without papers - and no visible computer - a small bar and two chairs completed the furniture. Everything was white. A pile of books as tall as Andrea was threatening to tip over if anyone came too close. She was attempting to read the t.i.tles when Kayn appeared and came straight over to greet her.

Up close he seemed taller than when Andrea had caught a glimpse of him on the rear deck of the Behemoth Behemoth. Five feet, seven inches of shrivelled-up flesh, white hair, white clothes, bare feet. Still, the overall effect was oddly youthful, until you took a closer look at his eyes, two blue holes surrounded by bags and wrinkles that put his age back in perspective.

He didn't extend his hand, leaving Andrea's hanging in the air as he regarded her with a smile that was more of an apology. Jacob Russell had already warned her that under no circ.u.mstances should she try touching Kayn, but she wouldn't have been true to herself if she hadn't tried. In any case, it gave her a certain advantage. The billionaire obviously felt a bit self-conscious as he offered Andrea the c.o.c.ktail. The reporter, true to her profession, wasn't about to turn down a drink, no matter the time of day.

'You can learn a great deal about a person by what they drink,' Kayn said now, handing her the gla.s.s. He kept his fingers near the top, leaving Andrea plenty of room to take it without touching him.

'Really? And what does a White Russian say about me?' Andrea asked as she took a seat and had her first sip.

'Let's see . . . a sweet blend, plenty of vodka, coffee liqueur, cream. It tells me that you like to drink, that you can hold your liquor, that you've spent a while finding what you like, that you're attentive to your surroundings, and that you're demanding.'

'Excellent,' Andrea said, with some irony, her best defence when she was unsure of herself. 'You know what? I'd say that you had me investigated beforehand and knew perfectly well what I like to drink. You don't find a bottle of fresh cream in just any portable bar, let alone one that belongs to an agoraphobic billionaire who rarely has visitors, especially in the middle of the Jordanian desert, and who, from what I can see, drinks Scotch and water.'

'Well, now I'm the one who's surprised,' said Kayn, his back to the reporter as he poured his own drink.

'That's as close to the truth as the difference in our bank balances, Mr Kayn.'

The billionaire turned to her, frowning, but did not reply.

'I would say that this has been more of a test, and I gave you the answer you expected,' Andrea went on. 'Now, please tell me why you're granting me this interview.'

Kayn took the other chair but avoided Andrea's gaze.

'It was part of our agreement.'

'I think I've asked the wrong question. Why me?'

'Ah, the curse of the g'vir g'vir, of the rich man. Everybody wants to know his hidden motives. Everyone supposes he has an agenda, even more so when he's Jewish.'

'You haven't answered my question.'

'Young lady, I'm afraid you'll have to decide which answer you want - the answer to that question, or all the others.'

Andrea bit her lower lip, angry at herself. The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d was sharper than he appeared.

He's thrown me a challenge without even ruffling his feathers. OK, old man, I'll follow your lead. I'm going to open my heart completely, swallow your story and when you least expect it I'll find out exactly what I want to know, even if I have to yank out your tongue with my tweezers.

'Why do you drink if you're on medication?' Andrea said, her voice intentionally aggressive.

'I suppose you have deduced that I use medication because of my agoraphobia,' answered Kayn. 'Yes, I take medication for anxiety and no, I shouldn't be drinking. I do it anyway. When my great-grandfather was eighty years old, my grandfather hated seeing him s.h.i.+ker s.h.i.+ker. That's drunk. Please interrupt me if there is a Yiddish word that you don't understand, Miss Otero.'

'Then I'm going to have to interrupt you a lot, because I don't know any.'

'As you wish. My great-grandfather drank and drank, and my grandfather used to say: "You should take it easy, tateh tateh". He always replied: "Go f.u.c.k yourself, I'm eighty years old and I'll drink if I want to." He died at the age of ninety-eight when a mule kicked him in the gut.'

Andrea laughed. Kayn's voice had changed as he spoke of his ancestor, enlivening his anecdote like a born storyteller and using different voices.

'You know a lot about your family. Were you close to your elders?'

'No, my parents died during the Second World War. Even though they told me stories I don't remember much because of the way we spent my first years. Almost everything I know about my family has been gathered from a variety of outside sources. Let's just say that when I was finally able to do so, I combed all of Europe in search of my roots.'

'Talk to me about those roots. Do you mind if I record our interview?' Andrea asked, taking her digital recorder out of her pocket. It could hold thirty-five hours of top-quality voice recording.

'Go ahead. This story begins one harsh winter in Vienna, with a Jewish couple walking towards a n.a.z.i hospital . . .'

56.

ELLIS ISLAND, NEW YORK.

December 1943

Yudel cried quietly in the darkness of the hold. The s.h.i.+p had reached the pier and the seamen were motioning the refugees crowded into every inch of the Turkish freighter to leave. All of them hurried forward in search of fresh air. But Yudel didn't move. He grabbed Jora Myer's cold fingers, refusing to believe that she was dead.

It was not his first contact with death. He had seen plenty of it since leaving the hiding place in Judge Rath's house. Fleeing that small hole, which had been asphyxiating but safe, had been a tremendous shock. His first experience of sunlight had taught him that monsters lived out there in the open. His first experience of the city taught him that any little nook was a hiding place from which he could scan the street before scurrying rapidly to the next. His first experience of trains terrorised him, with their noise and the monsters walking up and down the aisles, looking for someone to grab. Luckily, if you showed them yellow cards they didn't bother you. His first experience of an open field made him hate snow, and the brutal cold made his feet feel frozen as he walked. His first experience of the sea was one of a frightening and impossible vastness, the wall of a prison seen from the inside.

On the s.h.i.+p that took him to Istanbul, Yudel began to feel better as he huddled in a dark corner. It had taken them only a day and a half to reach the Turkish port, but it was seven months before they were able to leave it.

Jora Myer had fought tirelessly to get an exit visa. At that time Turkey was a neutral country and many refugees crowded the piers, forming long lines in front of the consulates or humanitarian organisations such as the Red Crescent. With each new day Great Britain was limiting the number of Jews entering Palestine. The United States refused to allow more Jews to enter. The world was turning a deaf ear to the disturbing news about the ma.s.sacres in the concentration camps. Even a newspaper as prominent as The Times The Times of London referred to the n.a.z.i genocide merely as 'horror stories of London referred to the n.a.z.i genocide merely as 'horror stories'.

In spite of all the obstacles, Jora did all she could. She begged in the street and covered the tiny Yudel with her coat at night. She tried to avoid using the money that Dr Rath had given her. They slept wherever they could. Sometimes it was a smelly inn or the crowded entrance hall of the Red Crescent, where at night refugees covered every inch of the grey-tiled floor and being able to get up to relieve yourself was a luxury.

All Jora could do was hope and pray. She had no contacts and could speak only Yiddish and German, refusing to use the first language since it brought unhappy memories. Her health was not getting any better. The morning when she first coughed up blood she decided she couldn't go on waiting. She screwed up her courage and decided to give all their remaining money to a Jamaican sailor who worked aboard a freighter that flew the American flag. The s.h.i.+p was leaving in a few days. The crewman managed to smuggle them into the hold. There they mixed with the hundreds lucky enough to have Jewish relatives in the United States who backed up their requests for visas.

Jora died of tuberculosis thirty-six hours before reaching the United States. Yudel had not left her side for a moment, despite his own illness. He had developed a severe ear infection and his hearing had been blocked for several days. His head felt like a barrel filled with jam, and any loud noises sounded like horses galloping on its lid. That's why he couldn't hear the sailor who was yelling at him to leave. Tired of threatening the boy, the sailor began to kick him.

'Move it, blockhead. They're waiting for you in Customs.'

Yudel again tried to hold on to Jora. The sailor - a short, pimply man - grabbed him by the neck and prised him away from her violently.