47

Casablanca, Morocco

Later that morning Jean-Luc Martel, hotelier, restaurateur, clothier, jeweler, international dealer of illicit narcotics, and asset of French and Israeli intelligence, boarded his private Gulfstream aircraft, JLM Deux, at Nice’s C?te d’Azur Airport and flew to Casablanca. He was accompanied by his not-quite wife, his not-quite friends who lived in the monstrous villa on the other side of the bay, and a British spy who until recently had earned his living as a professional assassin. In the annals of the global war against Islamic terrorism, no operation had ever had such a beginning. It was a first, everyone agreed. Against all reason, and with no justification, they hoped it would be the last.

Martel had arranged for a pair of Mercedes limousines to ferry the party from the airport to the Four Seasons. They roared past the flashy new apartment blocks and the squalor of the Bidonvilles before turning onto the seafront Corniche and making their way at motorcade speed to the hotel’s heavily defended entrance. JLM and party were expected. As a result, the cars received only a cursory inspection before being waved into the motor court, where a small battalion of bellmen waited to receive them. Doors were flung open, and a mountain of matching luggage was loaded onto the waiting trolleys. Then the baggage and its owners squeezed through the choke point of the magnetometer. All were admitted without delay, save for Christopher Keller, who twice set off the alarm. The hotel’s chief of security, after finding no prohibited objects on Keller’s person, joked that he must have been made out of metal. Keller’s tight, unfriendly smile did nothing to allay his suspicions.

A chapel silence hung over the cool of the refrigerated lobby, it being high summer in Morocco and therefore the low season for beachfront hotels. Followed by their caravan of belongings, JLM and party flowed toward reception, Martel and Olivia Watson dazzling in white, Mikhail and Natalie feigning boredom, Keller still smarting over his treatment at the door. The hotel’s general manager handed over the room keys—as usual, Monsieur Martel had been granted the luxury of an advance check-in—and offered a few syrupy words of welcome.

“And will you be dining in the hotel this evening?” he wondered.

“Yes,” answered Keller quickly. “A table for five, please.”

It was an upside-down hotel—lobby on the top floor, guest floors below. JLM and party were on the fourth. Martel and Olivia were in a room together, with Mikhail and Natalie on one side and Keller on the other. When the bags had been delivered, and the bellmen tipped and dismissed, Mikhail and Keller opened the interior communicating doors, turning the three rooms effectively into one.

“That’s much better,” said Keller. “Lunch, anyone?”

The message arrived at the House of Spies shortly after noon, as Hamid and Tarek were standing over the toilet in Gabriel’s bathroom, reciting verses of the Koran to drive away the jinns. It stated that JLM and party had arrived safely at the Four Seasons, that there had been no communication from Mohammad Bakkar or his surrogates, and that JLM and party were now sharing a lunch at the hotel’s terrace restaurant. Gabriel fired the message securely to the Op Center at King Saul Boulevard, which in turn forwarded it to Langley, Vauxhall Cross, and DGSI headquarters in Levallois-Perret, where it was greeted with a level of interest that far outweighed its operational significance.

The prayers over the toilet bowl ended a few minutes after one, lunch at half past. Dina and Yaakov Rossman departed the House of Spies a few minutes later in one of the rented cars. Dina was wearing a pair of loose cotton trousers and a white blouse, and was clutching a shoulder bag that bore the name of an exclusive French designer. Yaakov looked as though he were about to make a night raid into Gaza. By two o’clock they were reclining in a private cabana at the Tahiti Beach Club on the Corniche. Gabriel instructed them to remain there until further notice. Then he turned up the volume on the audio feed from the three connecting rooms at the Four Seasons.

“Someone needs to bring the bag into the hotel,” said Eli Lavon.

“Thanks, Eli,” replied Gabriel. “I would have never thought of that myself.”

“I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Forgive me, it was the jinns talking.”

Lavon smiled. “Who did you have in mind?”

“Mikhail is the most obvious candidate.”

“Even I would be suspicious of Mikhail.”

“Then maybe it’s a job for a woman.”

“Or two,” suggested Lavon. “Besides, it’s time they declared a truce, don’t you think?”

“They got off on the wrong foot, that’s all.”

Lavon shrugged. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”

There was a security guard at the gate that led from the back of the hotel’s secluded grounds to the Plage Lalla Meriem, Casablanca’s main public beach. Dressed in a dark suit despite the midafternoon heat, he watched the women—the tall Englishwoman whom he had seen several times before, and a Frenchwoman of sour disposition—making their way across the flat dark sand toward the water’s edge. The Englishwoman wore a shimmering floral wrap knotted at her narrow waist and a top of translucent material, but the Frenchwoman was more modestly attired in a cotton sundress. Instantly, the beach boys were upon them. They placed two chaises at the tideline and erected two umbrellas against the scalding sun. The Englishwoman asked for drinks and, when they arrived, tipped the boys far too much. Despite many visits to Morocco, she had no familiarity with Moroccan money. For that reason, and others, the boys fought over the privilege of waiting on her.