Obsession (Year of Fire) by Florencia Bonelli Page A

personal card that read, Ezequiel Blahetter. Mannequin. 29 Avenue Charles Floquet, troisième étage , and listed the phone numbers. Below, her friend had written by hand: Almost at the corner of Avenue du Général Tripier.
    “Anything you need, Mat, anything , you call me. Don’t hesitate, day or night.”
    Ezequiel’s insistence reminded her of the scene on the plane. She sighed.
    “Ciao, baby doll!”
    “Ciao, Eze!” Juana called from the bathroom. “See you soon!”
    “I’ll walk you down,” said Matilde, pulling on her coat.
    They hugged on the sidewalk, and Ezequiel kissed her on the forehead. Neither of them realized that someone was taking pictures of them from a car parked in front.
    “Thank Jean-Paul for sending the supplies.”
    “He wants to meet you. He told me that he’s going to throw a party in your honor.”
    Matilde brought her hands to her chest and blinked.
    “What an honor!”
    “Do you need any cash? I can lend you some until you exchange yours.”
    “We brought some francs with us. Tomorrow’s Friday, so the banks and currency exchanges will be open, won’t they?”
    “Yes, tomorrow is a normal workday.”
    They said good-bye. Ezequiel got into the BMW and read the letter from Roy.
    Brother, Matilde is going to Paris, far away from me. I am entrusting you with her. Take care of her and keep the ferocious wolves at bay. I don’t need to tell you what she means to me. I really fucked it up this time, I know, and I’m sure she told you everything as she always has. But I’m going to get her back. She’s my life. I’m hoping to see you soon because I may be coming to Paris in a few weeks (don’t tell Matilde). A hug, Roy.
    He put the car in gear and drove toward Rue Cujas, which circles the Sorbonne. For a moment, he was blinded by a flash in his rearview mirror. He assumed that it was from a tourist photographing the university’s facade.
    Vladimir Chevrikov, who had withstood five years in Lefortovo prison, on the outskirts of Moscow, wasn’t sure that he’d survive his hangover that morning. The sound of his insistently ringing doorbell wasn’t making it any easier.
    “Who is it?”
    “It’s me. Medes.”
    He opened the door and Al-Saud’s chauffeur pushed past him to go inside.
    “What the fuck could you possibly want at this hour of the morning on New Year’s Day?”
    “I need you to develop some pictures. The boss needs them right away.”
    Vladimir mumbled curses in Russian before adding, “I’ll make some coffee.”
    Medes walked through the apartment to Chevrikov’s laboratory. As usual, he took a moment to admire the instruments, liquids, dyes and glues, stamps and other materials that Vladimir used to forge all manner of documents. The adjoining room, which was sealed and windowless, with carefully controlled humidity levels, housed printing templates and originals for most existing passports. Medes suspected that some of the printing presses were also used to forge money.
    During the Cold War, Chevrikov was the best forger at the KGB, the Soviet Union’s secret service. Presently, it was said that he was the best forger in the world. He had a special talent for copying and especially for detecting the traps that organizations and institutions planted in documents. He made the paper himself, recreating the composition of the originals after extensive microscopic study. He was feared by governments across the world, because bills forged by Chevrikov were almost impossible to detect.
    Vladimir had ended up in prison after a spurned lover turned him in for selling fake passports to Russian deserters. The KGB had interrogated him until he persuaded them that he was working alone and not for the CIA or SIS, the British intelligence service. Medes knew that Chevrikov limped because he was missing two toes on his right foot due to the torture he had suffered. He also knew that Al-Saud paid him a fortune to work exclusively for him, and that he had made him a