Scorpion Betrayal Read online

  “Now the computer. Delete the files and then empty the Deleted Files folder.”

  Scorpion watched him do it. When he was satisfied, he gave Javor the money, then took out his gun and pointed it at the Serb. Javor’s eyes narrowed and he held out the money.

  “Take it back. I don’t want,” he said.

  “The only way to be sure you’ll keep this to yourself is to kill you,” Scorpion said.

  “Please, meneer. This is my business. If I am talking, people don’t come to me. Someone would kill me before this. I don’t even know your name. Take money back.”

  “Keep the money,” Scorpion said, putting away the gun. “Just remember. This never happened. You never saw me. You don’t know the name on the card or passport.”

  “I swear,” Javor said.

  “Don’t bother,” Scorpion said as he opened the shop door. “If you lie, you’re dead anyway.”

  He walked the dark streets to the Metro station, checking his reflection in store windows and waiting at corners to make sure he wasn’t followed. He took the Metro to Central Station and slept for a few hours in a nearby hotel. He woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, short of breath and staring blindly into the darkness. They were hanging by a thread, he thought. The entire operation had come down to a night security guard and a whore. He got up and drank some water from the bathroom sink and fell back into a fitful sleep.

  In the morning, he put on the fake beard and went to the ABN-Amro bank in the business district and opened an account for Ouaddane, using the fake ID and the papers supplied by Zeedorf. He got rid of the beard in a FEBO restaurant bathroom, then went to an Internet café and transferred the money from the account in Luxembourg to Ouaddane’s new account. He finished by getting cash at the Credit Suisse branch near the Van Gogh Museum and caught the next train back to Utrecht, where he picked up the motorcycle from the parking lot.

  He met Anika for lunch at a pub by the Oudegracht Canal. This time she wore tight jeans that were more than sexy enough and a Disturbia THIS AIN’T NO DISCO T-shirt. With her blond hair pulled back and without the heavy makeup, she looked like a fresh-faced college student. They sat inside at a back table, Scorpion facing the front of the restaurant.

  “Why are we sitting inside?” she asked.

  “We can’t be seen together.”

  “We were seen together last night.”

  “Last night I was just a john. Twice is a relationship.”

  “What’s wrong with relationships?” she said, provocatively licking the mayonnaise off her pomme fritte with the tip of her tongue, then smiling.

  “They complicate things. Besides, this is business, isn’t it?”

  “Speaking of which, you never told me. What is your business?”

  “I’m a lawyer. I’m on a case.”

  “Not a very ethische, how do you say it?”

  “Ethical?”

  “Yes, not a very ethical one.”

  “I’ve got plenty of company.”

  “So now what do we do?” she said suggestively, touching her lip with the tip of her tongue.

  “We rent you an inexpensive car. The kind a university student would drive. Then we go to the apartment so you know where it is and you can get used to it, so you can act like you live there. Did you buy a book?”

  She showed him a large textbook on Islam and its role in the contemporary world.

  “Did you read any of it?”

  “Very little. It’s stupid,” she said. “The whole thing is stupid.”

  “You won’t tell him that?”

  “I’ll tell him it’s interessant, so interessant, but I need someone to explain things to me and I’ll lean forward and let my breasts touch his arm.”

  “That should do it.” Scorpion smiled. “It would do it for me, but I’m easy.”

  “No,” she said, studying his gray eyes. “You aren’t.”

  After they rented the car, he showed her the apartment and gave her a key. He watched her drive off in the rented Renault Clio, then headed to the camera shop he’d found on the Internet in nearby Nieuwegein and got the minicamera and recorder and tools. He installed the camera behind a wall in the apartment. He set it so it could shoot Anika’s bedroom through a hole in a print of a windmill hanging on the wall. Afterward there was nothing to do but sit in a chair in the other bedroom and think of all the things that could go wrong.

  He awoke with a start. He must’ve fallen asleep, he realized. The room had grown dim. Shadows from the window stretched across the floor. He heard the sound of the key turning in the front door lock. It must have been what woke him up.

  “Here zijn we. Dit is mijn appartement,” he heard Anika say as the door opened.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Turin, Italy

  They drove the Autostrada dei Fiori along the coast between the hills and the sea. Past Voltri the A10 narrowed, the road running parallel to the railroad tracks across the green slope of the hills. The Palestinian wore an armored car guard’s uniform. He sat next to the Moroccan from the van, who was driving.

  “Once we get past Savona, we take the A6 to Torino,” the Moroccan said in Darija, the Moroccan form of Arabic. “We haven’t eaten. Maybe we could stop at an Autogrill?”

  “Speak Fusha,” meaning standard Arabic, the Palestinian said. “What’s your name?”

  “Mourad. Mourad Ran—”

  “First names only!” the Palestinian said, cutting him off. “Call me Mejdan. We don’t stop for anything. Armored bank trucks should never stop for anything anyway. It might be a robbery.”

  “Mejdan is an Algerian name,” Mourad said, not looking at him.

  “Many Algerians have Italian names. It’s good cover for Italia.”

  The truck slowed as they climbed the hills above Cogoleto. Looking down, the Palestinian could see the buildings of the town stacked below on the hillside, and below that the sea. He checked the side mirror. Behind them the second armored truck had fallen back. He glanced at Mourad.

  “The bearded one, the one I killed? You were his friend?”

  “Cousin,” Mourad said, not looking at him. The engine labored as the truck climbed higher into the hills. The Palestinian hesitated, his hand resting on his leg near his armored truck guard’s pistol. If the Moroccan considered it a matter of ikram—honor—it would be best to kill him as soon as possible. The truck went into a tunnel in the hill, and he thought inside a tunnel would be a good place to do it, but it would make everything more difficult. He decided to wait. They came out into the sunlight on the other side.

  “You came to work with us,” the Palestinian said. “You’re still here. So either you stayed to try to kill me or because you believe in jihad. Which is it?”

  “Mos zibbi,” Mourad said, using the Arabic vulgarity to tell the Palestinian what part of him to suck. “What do you think?”

  “I think you are a martyr. One of Allah’s chosen. But there can be only one capo. Adil did not accept this. I had to kill him.”

  “He was of much pride,” Mourad muttered. “I told him his mouth would get him killed.”

  Past Savona, they headed north on the A6 toward Torino. He told Mourad to idle the truck by the side of the road till the second armored truck caught up. When it lumbered into view and stopped behind them, they started up again through the pass in the mountains. Just before Priero they had to slow for a police roadblock.

  “What’s this?” the Palestinian asked.

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t here when we came through this morning,” Mourad said nervously.

  “Call the other truck. Tell them if the polizia stop us and try to look inside either truck, we kill them and get out of here. Understood?”

  Mourad nodded, pulled out his cell phone and told the other truck. The Palestinian took the safety off the gun, but kept it below the window level, so it could not be seen. Mourad pulled a gun from beneath the dashboard. A policeman stood beside the barrier, looking at each car as it stopped and the
n waited until he waved them toward the barrier. Behind the policeman were two police cars.

  “Is he carabiniere?”

  “No, guardia, Polizia di Stato,” Mourad said.

  The Palestinian felt a slight lessening of tension. The Carabinieri were the best of the Italian forces, and a roadblock here might have meant a security alert. It was why he purchased the armored trucks and had them painted with the BANCA POPOLARE DI MILANO logo. In theory, that should get them through. Police didn’t like to stop armored trucks, which were presumably carrying a lot of money; nobody wanted the responsibility of something being splashed all over the evening news. Still, he could feel the sweat breaking all over his body as they approached the barrier. A handgun wasn’t sufficient, he told himself. He needed something that would take out the policemen from both cars, plus any bystanders who got in the way. From now on, anywhere they went, they would be better armed, he decided.

  They stopped next to the barrier. The policemen looked at the Palestinian through the window’s bulletproof glass, and for a moment their eyes met and the Palestinian was glad he was wearing an armored truck guard’s uniform. Neither of them smiled. The policeman looked at Mourad, and his eyes ran over both armored trucks, engines idling at the barrier. After a long moment he waved them on.

  As the truck rumbled past the barrier, the Palestinian saw a car, smashed at an angle and overturned in the ditch beside the road. It was just an accident, he told himself, but he didn’t relax or speak till they drove into Turin and to the warehouse they had taken him to the previous week. He was glad to see they had followed his orders and put up a sign over the door, COMPAGNIA BOLOGNA PARTES DI CAMIONS ALL’INGROSSO, a truck parts company, to help explain the comings and goings of people and trucks at the warehouse. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew there was a security camera hidden behind the sign and other cameras at the corners of the roof. Mourad honked the horn twice and then twice again, and the loading door opened and they drove inside, followed by the second truck.

  By evening the Palestinian had organized the teams and set up the workshops, labs, and dormitory spaces. He set up a separate closed-off space to work on the uranium. They unloaded and stored the steel drums, sheathing, explosives, and other materials from the armored trucks and then he called a meeting in the lunch area, two rows of metal tables set next to a small kitchen that smelled of lamb fat and cumin. He counted ten of them, eight young men and two women wearing black hijabs. There were supposed to be fourteen.

  “Where are the missing four?” he asked Mourad in Fusha Arabic.

  “I will find out,” Mourad said.

  “This is unacceptable. Our biggest danger is security,” he told them, putting a Beretta 9mm handgun on the table in front of him. “All of you are shaheedin volunteers for martyrdom, but none of you knows what the operation is. You will not be told your assignment until the last moment. Keep any thoughts, any guesses, to yourself.

  “If you have any suspicion about someone, anything at all, you must tell me at once,” he said, picking up the Beretta. “If I believe there is any danger, that person dies. From this moment none of you will leave here alone. You will always be with another, and each time, who that person is will change so there can be no plotting among you. You may plot, but as the Sura says, ‘waAllahu khayru almakireena.’ Allah is the best of plotters. As for the four who are missing, bring them here and keep them under guard. I’ll deal with them later tonight.”

  That evening, after working on the uranium, he met Francesca Bartolo at her restaurant in Milan. She ordered Negronis and an antipasto for both of them.

  “So there was no trouble with the dogana?” she said. The Customs.

  “It was good,” he said. “The Camorra should run Italy.”

  “Bene,” she laughed. “We would do a better job than this coglione government we have now.” She leaned forward, beckoning him closer. She was wearing a low-cut grape-colored designer dress that enabled her to show off her designer cleavage. “Listen, caro, where is the second sixty thousand?”

  “Where’s the remaining item I requested?”

  “There’s been a problem,” she said, biting off the tip of a strip of nervetti meat like a guillotine. “It’s not so simple.”

  “Meaning you want more money.”

  She smiled. “I like you, caro. You are understanding me very good. A real man understands what a woman wants without her even having to say a word.”

  “A real man doesn’t let a woman take advantage of him,” he said, crumpling his napkin and putting it on the table as if ready to leave. She put her hand on his.

  “Don’t leave,” she said. She was smiling, but her eyes checked behind him to see that her bodyguards were in place near the door. “I want to go back with you to your hotel. But primo, business is, how we say, business.”

  “What would Carmine ‘il brutto’ do if someone was trying to shake him down for more money?”

  She frowned. “He does not like that name.”

  “What would he do?”

  “His first impulse would be to kill them. Per fortuna, most of the time he talks with me first or half of Italy would be dead. This matter is difficult. That’s why you came to us.”

  “How much?”

  “You see! I knew I liked you,” she said, putting her hand under the table and running it as far up his thigh as she could reach. “Double, caro. One hundred and twenty thousand more and you tell me what it’s for.”

  “I don’t have that kind of cash.”

  “But you can get it.”

  “A bank. That’s the job,” he said.

  “Which one?” she asked, giving his thigh a squeeze before withdrawing her hand.

  “Does it matter?”

  She thought for a moment. “Not really. Do you have sixty thousand now?”

  He nodded and pushed a messenger bag toward her under the table with his foot. She bent down, opened the bag, glanced in and closed it. She patted her mouth with her napkin and put it down.

  “Let’s go to the hotel now,” she said.

  “When do I get my item?”

  “A few days. I’ll let you know.”

  “When I get it, we’ll celebrate,” he said, getting up and heading for the door.

  An hour later he parked the car near the warehouse in Torino and went inside. Mourad, his friend Jamal, and two other Moroccans were holding guns on four young men, one of them still a teenager, sitting on the floor in the warehouse office. The Palestinian came in and sat on the desk, facing them.

  “Where were you?” he said in Arabic to the first, a thin bearded Moroccan in a Windbreaker.

  “My wife. She doesn’t know what I’m doing, just that it’s something to do with the mosque, but she doesn’t want me to be here. She says I need to be at home. We argued, the baby was crying, she said she would call the polizia if I left. I didn’t know what to do,” he said, rubbing his face with his hand.

  “And you? You were ordered to be here and yet you weren’t here. Where were you?” he said to a curly-haired young Moroccan in a black Settlefish Band T-shirt.

  “We were at the movies. Driss and me,” indicating the faintly cross-eyed long-haired teenage boy squatting next to him. “E chi se ne frega?” he sneered—What’s it to you?—looking around to see if his arrogance was being appreciated by the others.

  “Why didn’t you come?”

  “We figured finish the movie and then we come,” the curly-haired man said.

  “Good movie?” the Palestinian asked.

  “Pretty good. Lots of action. Explosions. When that guy was on fire, that was hajib.” He grinned, looking at the boy, Driss, for confirmation.

  “That’s good,” the Palestinian said, and fired the Beretta into the curly-haired man’s head, the sound of the shot reverberating in the office. As the body toppled over, he aimed at the teenager.

  “La!” Don’t, the teenager cried out, holding his hand protectively in front of his forehead. The Palestinian fir
ed again, the bullet tearing through the teenager’s hand and into his face, killing him. When he was lying on the floor, the Palestinian fired again into his head, just to make sure.

  “What about you?” the Palestinian asked the last man, a sanitation worker in his thirties still in uniform, his face shadowed with resignation like a stain on a statue.

  “The capo at work. He makes us work late. Just the Moroccans. You shouldn’t kill me,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Not before I kill Italians,” he said, looking into the Palestinian’s eyes.

  “Maashi,” the Palestinian said. Okay. “You,” he said to the bearded Moroccan. “You go home. Don’t come back. Say nothing. Not to your wife, not to anyone, even yourself. Here.” He reached into his pocket and handed him a fifty euro note. “Buy her something. Take her to someplace halal for dinner. But if she ever mentions the polizia again, come and tell me.”

  The man nodded and left. The Palestinian ordered the others to pick up the two bodies and cram them into a refrigeration locker at the back of the warehouse, motioning to Mourad and the sanitation worker, whose name was Hicham, to stay behind. He told them they would be his lieutenants and would lead the others, who would be broken up into teams, with each team not knowing what the others were working on.

  “They will be talking about this,” Hicham said, indicating the bodies.

  “I want them to,” the Palestinian said.

  He felt the buzz of a text message on the cell phone in his pocket. It was his emergency phone. Only one person in the world had the number and it was never to be used unless it was absolutely critical. He read the screen message, decoding the text with growing anger and disbelief. The message threatened the entire operation; everything he had worked for all this time. Either the world had turned upside down or it was a death trap.

  He had no choice. He would have to leave Italy at once.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kanaleneiland, Utrecht, Netherlands

  “Do you like her?” Scorpion said in Arabic.

  Abdelhakim stared at him from the chair, his eyes burning. He had tried to make a break for the apartment door, and Scorpion had to use the Kimura shoulder lock on him, taking him down and pushing the wrist till the pain was so intense the Moroccan had agreed to sit still in the chair. The woman, Anika, had gotten dressed and left. As she did, her hands were shaking and Scorpion had to whisper to her that there would be another thousand euros for her if she would just wait somewhere nearby for his cell phone call.