The Devil's Banker

Chapter 21

In the gloom of his private study, Marc Gabriel sat on the edge of his glass desk and waited for his son to join him. His hands flitted to his chin, adjusted the knot of his Hermès tie (a habit he violently combated, as it darkened the fine silk with grease), and patted down his hair. It had been a tumultuous two days, but Gabriel had known the death of close ones and the terror of imminent discovery before. On balance, the day’s news should have eased, rather than provoked, his concerns. The professor had made contact. In forty-eight hours he would be in Paris. Rafi Boubilas had been released from custody without divulging news of their relationship. A decision had been taken about Gregorio. Gabriel had yet to pack his bags, sort out his passports, and place a few calls to Ciudad del Este in advance of his flight to South America later that evening, but these were trivial duties. The fact was that when the sun set this evening, the family’s dream would be closer to fruition than any of them might have dared imagine even a year ago.

At six o’clock, the two-story town house buzzed with the frenetic activity of his three bright and active children, his French family. Upstairs in the living room, Geneviève could be heard practicing a Chopin nocturne. The melancholy strains grew in intensity, then softened, not a note misplayed. Just twelve, she was uncommonly gifted, and though she was afraid to tell him, he knew she hoped for a career in music. In two weeks, she was scheduled to play a recital for the city’s most talented young pianists at the Salle Pleyel. It was a shame she would not be in Paris to attend.

From the kitchen issued the sound of his seven-year-old, Arthur, demanding a sweet before dinner. Silently, Gabriel urged his wife to be firm, knowing all the same that she was powerless against him, as a proper mother should be toward her sons. Amina’s singsong voice was barely audible above the merry clamor of pots and pans. Lamb was on the menu, if his nose did not deceive him. One sound was pleasantly absent. The incessant jabber of TV. Television was not permitted in the Gabriel household.

“Amina said you wanted to see me.”

Gabriel rose from the desk, an arm extended in welcome. “Ah, George, come in, come in.”

George Gabriel entered the room hesitantly, hands jammed in the back pockets of his Levi’s, eyes black as a well staring out of a strong, handsome face. He was a big boy, six feet two inches tall, with shoulders that put Atlas to shame and a forthright, uncomplicated manner. As usual, he wore the navy jersey of the French national soccer team. What wasn’t usual was the newly razored scalp. “Like Zidane,” his wife had forewarned him. “It’s important to him that you like it.”

“Come here, then. Let me have a look at you,” said Gabriel, swallowing his anger. “Makes you look older. Responsible.” What it really made him look like was a muscle-bound hooligan. Brooding, angry, and a little too dangerous. “Sit down. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. How are your studies progressing? Finally getting the hang of derivatives? You’ll have to master math if you want to become a doctor.”

“I’m past those. It’s binomials that are tripping me up now. I have plenty of time to get the hang of them. The Bac’s in June.” “Bac” meant the baccalaureate, the national examination that determined which children would go on to university. In his final year at gymnasium, George Gabriel was an honor student as well as captain of the soccer team. He played center forward with a joyous ferocity that thrilled his father.

“I’m sure you’ll do splendidly. Me, I was a poor student. You’ve already outshone me ten times.”

Gabriel ushered his son into the room, closing the door behind him. The study was a private enclave-no trespassing allowed-and George checked out the surroundings with a burglar’s admiring glower. The décor was French minimalist: sleek bookshelves and lacquered Roche Bobois credenzas done in neutral tones. “Have you got a game this weekend?”

“Just practice. Coach is sick. I’m taking over.”

“I hope you’re not neglecting your other studies.” Gabriel regretted the words the moment they’d left his mouth. It wasn’t like him to preach. No dawah from Daddy. That was the rule. He did not drink alcohol. He did not use foul language. He did not stay out late and carouse. He lived as he hoped his children would live and expected his example to suffice.

“No,” said George, sinking into a chair in front of the desk, balancing his muscled frame on the edge, a none-too-subtle indication he hoped the meeting would be brief. Small talk had never come easily between father and son. Gabriel didn’t usually arrive home from work until eight P.M. By then, the children were either doing their homework or getting ready for bed. It might be a mother’s job to tend the children, but the fact did little to ease his sadness at not knowing them well enough. He could not lie to himself that things would change anytime soon. If anything, he would soon be even busier.

Sliding into the chair opposite his son, Gabriel appraised him a last time. It wasn’t a question of whether he was up to the task. He was. He’d spent six weeks at a camp in the Bekaa last summer learning the rudiments of a soldier’s trade. Prior to graduation, he’d broken the arm and jaw of his hand-to-hand combat instructor. The boy was strong and capable. Still, camp was only a rehearsal.

And there was the other matter. The reason, he could now admit, for his anxiety. A subtle, but unmistakable, resistance had cropped up since the boy’s return from the Middle East. Not rebellion so much as a guarded criticism of all around him. Gabriel could see it in his eyes, and in the reticent way his son carried himself inside the house, and in the newly acquired habit of taking Amina’s side in disputes. The rot was seeping in.

“I am worried about one of the Americans,” he said. “Someone who may hurt us. There is a question of his interfering with our plans.”

“Is he here in Paris?”

“Yes. One of those responsible for Taleel. We must take measures. So close, we can leave nothing to chance.”

Reaching into his pocket, Gabriel took out a ticket jacket bearing the Air France logo and placed it on the table in front of his son. George opened it, and studied the details. Round trip, economy class Paris-Dubai. His eyes flickered. “By we… you mean me?”

“You’re no longer a child. It’s time you shared the family’s responsibilities.”

George nodded, his eyes keenly focused as a new alertness came over him. “I’m ready,” he said, and Gabriel noted that his son had tilted his head slightly to one side, and that he wore the vaguely self-satisfied air he put on after scoring a goal. “Never cocky, just confident,” his son liked to say.

“The prospect of killing does not frighten you?”

“Yes-I mean, no. I’ve taught myself to block that part of my heart. It scares me, but I’ll be all right.” He thought a moment longer. “This means I’m leaving-I mean, this is it-all that you’ve worked toward these years.”

“We are all leaving.”

George shook his head in amazement. “It’s really happening. I mean, it’s happening now?”

“This weekend.”

“So soon?”

Gabriel wondered if he’d said too much. Reluctantly, he explained. “Abu Sayeed has been killed. It is not known whether he spoke before dying. This is our time. The time for our family to act.” He rose from the chair, and when his son rose, too, he hugged him. “You have made me proud in so many ways. I wanted to give you the chance to make your name, to show your commitment so that all will recognize what you have done for our cause.”

“Thank you, Father. I’m grateful.”

“As for the Bac, I’ve made arrangements for you to take it at home. You’ll sit for the exam at the French school in Jidda next May. Same day as in Paris, I’ve been made to understand. Just a different location.”

George Gabriel flipped open the ticket jacket and studied the flight details. A shudder passed through his sturdy shoulders, followed by a sigh that frightened his father. “Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “I am sorry that it must be so. Understand, son, that I would do this myself if it were at all possible. Unfortunately, I have a problem of my own abroad. I must leave this evening. At such a decisive moment, we can only trust our own.” He reached for his son’s hands. “Am I right to put the trust in you?”

“Yes, Father.”

He kissed his son on the cheeks, and when he embraced the boy, he was pleased to feel the muscled arms hug him in return. He put the sudden tremor, the uneasy sigh, down to nerves. He was, after all, asking a lot of the boy.

Gabriel gave him the details of what needed to be done, the location of the hospital, the name of the attending doctor, a layout of the burn unit. “You’ll be finished by noon. Your flight will depart at nine-fifteen. Someone will meet you at the airport in Dubai and drive you into the desert.” He patted his son’s shoulders. “Your grandfather will be more than proud.”

“Father, may I ask one question?”

“Of course, my son.”

George Gabriel narrowed his eyes, and his father knew he was already steeling himself for the task. “From near or far?”

Gabriel clasped his son’s neck and drew him close. “From near. You will have the pleasure of seeing the kuffar’s soul depart his body.”