Adopting different identities on the web, the young man found out that the Internet was a paradise for extremists. It didn’t matter physically how far apart ten radicals might be; online, the distance was measured in milliseconds. Their identity might be secret and their ideas insane, but on the Net they could find people who thought just like them. In a matter of weeks, Orville had accomplished something that nobody in Western intelligence could have achieved by conventional means: he had infiltrated one of the most radical networks in Islamic terrorism.
One morning towards the beginning of 2002, Orville drove south to Washington with four boxes of files in the boot of his van. Arriving at CIA headquarters, he asked for the person in charge of Islamic terrorism, stating that he had important information to divulge. In his hand was a ten-page summary of his findings. The lowly official who met with him made him wait two hours before even bothering to read his report. When he had finished reading, the official was so disturbed that he called in his supervisor. Minutes later four men showed up, threw Orville to the floor, stripped him, and dragged him into an interrogation room. Orville smiled inwardly throughout the humiliating procedure; he knew he’d hit the nail on the head.
When the big shots at the CIA grasped the magnitude of Orville’s talent, they offered him a job. Orville told them that what was in the four boxes (which eventually produced twenty-three arrests in the United States and Europe) was just a free sample. If they wanted more, they should contract the services of his new company, Netcatch.
‘Our prices are very reasonable, I should add,’ he said. ‘Now, may I please have my underwear back?’
Four and a half years later, Orville had put on another twelve pounds. His bank account had also gained some weight. Netcatch now employed seventeen full-time workers who produced detailed reports and information searches for the main governments of the Western world, mostly on security-related issues. Orville Watson, now a millionaire, was once again beginning to grow bored.
Until this new assignment came up.
Netcatch had its own way of doing things. All requests for its services had to be made in the form of a question. And this latest question came with the words ‘budget unlimited’ attached. The fact that it came from a private company, and not a government, also aroused Orville’s curiosity.
Who is Father Anthony Fowler?
Orville got up from the plush waiting-room sofa in an attempt to ease the numbness in his muscles. He put his hands together and stretched his arms behind his head as far as he could. A request for information from a private company, especially one such as Kayn Industries, which was ranked among the top five of the Fortune 500, was unusual. Especially such a strange and precise request about an ordinary priest from Boston.
… about a seemingly ordinary priest from Boston, Orville corrected himself.
Orville was in the middle of stretching his upper limbs when a dark-haired, well-built executive dressed in an expensive suit entered the waiting room. He was barely thirty years old, and was regarding Orville seriously from behind his rimless glasses. From the orange tint of his skin, it was clear that he was no stranger to using a sunbed. He spoke with a clipped British accent.
‘Mr Watson. I’m Jacob Russell, executive assistant to Raymond Kayn. We spoke on the telephone.’
Orville tried to regain his composure, with little success, and extended his hand.
‘Mr Russell, I’m very happy to meet you. Sorry, I…’
‘Don’t worry. Please follow me and I’ll take you to your meeting.’
They crossed the carpeted waiting room and reached a set of mahogany doors at the far end.
‘Meeting? I thought that I was supposed to explain my findings to you.’
‘Well, not exactly, Mr Watson. Today Raymond Kayn will hear what you have to say.’
Orville was unable to respond.
‘Is there a problem, Mr Watson? Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘Yes. No. I mean, there’s no problem, Mr Russell. You simply took me by surprise. Mr Kayn…’
Russell pulled a small knob on the frame of the mahogany door and a panel slid open to reveal a simple square of dark glass. The executive placed his right hand on the glass and an orange light appeared, followed by the brief sound of a buzzer and then the door opened.
‘I can understand your surprise, given what the media has said about Mr Kayn. As you probably know, my employer is a person who values his privacy…’
He’s a fucking hermit, that’s what he is, thought Orville.
‘… but you needn’t worry. Ordinarily, he doesn’t want to meet strangers, but if you follow certain procedures…’
They walked down a narrow hall, at the end of which loomed the bright metallic doors of a lift.
‘What do you mean, “ordinarily”, Mr Russell?’
The executive cleared his throat.
‘I should inform you that you will be only the fourth person, aside from the top executives of this firm, to have met Mr Kayn in the five years I’ve worked for him.’
Orville let out a long whistle.
‘That’s something.’
They reached the lift. There was no up or down button, only a small numerical pad on the wall.
‘Would you kindly look the other way, Mr Watson?’ Russell said.
The young Californian did as he was told. There was a series of beeps as the executive punched in a code.
‘You can turn around now. Thank you.’
Orville turned back to face him again. The doors of the lift opened and two men stepped in. Again there were no buttons, only a magnetic card reader. Russell took out his plastic card and slid it briefly into the slot. The doors closed and the lift moved smoothly upward.
‘Your boss certainly takes his security seriously,’ Orville said.
‘Mr Kayn has received quite a few death threats. In fact, some years back he suffered a rather serious attempt on his life and was lucky to emerge unharmed. Please don’t be alarmed by the mist. It’s absolutely safe.’
Orville was wondering what on earth Russell was talking about, when a fine mist began to fall from the ceiling. Looking up, Orville observed several devices that were spewing out a fresh cloud of spray.
‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s a light antibiotic compound, absolutely safe. Do you like the smell?’
Hell, he even sprays his visitors before he sees them to make sure they’re not going to give him their germs. I’ve changed my mind. This guy’s not a hermit, he’s a paranoid freak.
‘Mmmm, yes, not bad. Mint, right?’
‘Essence of wild mint. Very refreshing.’
Orville bit his lips to suppress a reply, and concentrated instead on the seven figures he’d be billing Kayn once he emerged from this gilded cage. The thought revived him somewhat.
The lift doors opened on to a magnificent space filled with natural light. Half of the thirty-ninth floor was a giant terrace enclosed by glass walls, providing a panoramic view of the Hudson River. Straight ahead was Hoboken and over to the south, Ellis Island.
‘Impressive.’
‘Mr Kayn enjoys remembering his roots. Please follow me.’ The simple decor stood in contrast to the majesty of the view. The floor and the furniture were all white. The other half of the floor, with a view of Manhattan, was separated from the glassed-in terrace by a wall, also white and with several doors. Russell stopped in front of one of them.
‘Very well, Mr Watson, Mr Kayn will see you now. But before you go in, I’d like to outline a few simple rules for you. First of all, do not look directly at him. Second, do not ask him questions. And third, do not attempt to touch him or go near him. When you enter you’ll see a small table with a copy of your report and a remote control for your Power Point presentation which your office provided us with this morning. Remain by the table, do your presentation, and leave as soon as you’ve finished. I’ll be here waiting for you. Is that clear?’
Orville nodded nervously.
‘I’ll do the best I can.’
‘Very well then, go on in,’ said Russell, as he opened the door.
The Californian hesitated before entering the room.
‘Oh, one more thing. Netcatch has discovered something interesting in a routine investigation we did for the FBI. There are indications to suggest that Kayn Industries could be targeted by Islamic terrorists. It’s all in this report,’ said Orville, handing the assistant a DVD. Russell took it with a worried look. ‘Consider it a courtesy on our part.’
‘Thank you very much indeed, Mr Watson. And good luck.’
5
HOTEL LE MERIDIEN
AMMAN, JORDAN
Wednesday, 5 July 2006. 6:11 p.m.
On the other side of the world, Tahir Ibn Faris, a minor official in the Ministry of Industry, was leaving his office a bit later than usual. The reason was not his dedication to his job, which was in fact exemplary, but his desire to avoid being seen. It took him less than two minutes to reach his destination, which was not the customary bus stop but the luxurious Meridien, the finest five-star hotel in Jordan, which was currently lodging the two gentlemen who had requested this meeting through a well-known industrialist. Unfortunately, this particular intermediary had made his reputation through channels that were neither respectable nor clean. Tahir therefore suspected that the invitation for coffee might have shady undertones. And although he was proud of his twenty-three years of honest work at the Ministry, he was beginning to have less use for pride and more for hard cash; the reason being that his eldest daughter was about to get married, and that was going to cost him.
On his way to one of the executive suites, Tahir examined his reflection in the mirror, wishing he had the look of a greedier man. He was barely five feet six inches tall, and his belly, greying beard, and increasing baldness made him look more like an affable drunk than a corrupt government employee. He wanted to erase the slightest trace of integrity from his features.
What more than two decades of honesty couldn’t give him was the correct mind-set for what he was doing. As he knocked on the door, his knees made their own percussion. He managed to calm himself down an instant before entering the suite, where he was greeted by a well-dressed American who looked about fifty. Another much younger man was seated in the spacious living room and was smoking as he talked on his mobile phone. When he noticed Tahir, he ended the call and stood up to greet him.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan,’ he welcomed him in perfect Arabic.
Tahir was taken aback. When, on various occasions, he had refused bribes to reclassify land for industrial and commercial use in Amman - a veritable gold mine for his less scrupulous colleagues – he had not done so out of a sense of duty, but because of the insulting arrogance of westerners who, within minutes of meeting him, would drop wads of dollar bills on the table.
The conversation with these two Americans couldn’t have been more different. Before Tahir’s astonished eyes, the older one sat down in front of a low table, where he had prepared four dellas, Bedouin coffee pots, and a small coal fire. With a sure hand he roasted fresh coffee beans in an iron frying pan and let them cool. He then ground the roasted beans with more mature ones in the mahbash, a small mortar. The whole process was accompanied by a steady stream of conversation, except when the pestle was rhythmically striking the mahbash, since this sound is considered by the Arabs as a kind of music whose artistry should be appreciated by the guest.
The American added cardamom seeds and a pinch of saffron, meticulously brewing the mixture according to a tradition that went back centuries. As was customary, the guest – Tahir – held the cup, which had no handle, while the American filled it halfway, for it was the host’s privilege to serve the most important person in the room first. Tahir drank the coffee, still slightly sceptical about the results. He thought he wouldn’t have more than one cup since it was already late, but after tasting the brew he was so delighted that he drank four more. He would have ended up having a sixth cup, were it not for the fact that it was considered impolite to drink an even number.
‘Mr Fallon, I never imagined that someone born in the country of Starbucks could perform the Bedouin ritual of gahwa so well,’ said Tahir. He was by now feeling quite comfortable and wanted them to know, so that he could find out what the devil these Americans wanted.
The younger of the hosts extended a gold cigarette case to him for the umpteenth time.
‘Tahir, my friend, please stop calling us by our surnames. I’m Peter and this is Frank,’ he said as he lit yet another Dunhill.
‘Thank you, Peter.’
‘Good. Now that we’ve relaxed, Tahir, would you consider it bad manners if we discussed business?’
The ageing civil servant was again pleasantly surprised. Two hours had gone by. An Arab doesn’t like to discuss business before half an hour or so has passed, but this American was even asking his permission. At that moment Tahir felt ready to reclassify any building they were after, even King Abdullah’s palace.
‘Absolutely, my friend.’
‘Good, this is what we need: a licence for Kayn Mining Company to dig for phosphates for one year, starting from today.’
‘That is not going to be so easy, my friend. Almost the entire Dead Sea coast is already occupied by local industries. As you know, phosphates and tourism are practically our only national resources.’
‘No problem there, Tahir. We’re not interested in the Dead Sea, only in a small area of roughly ten square miles centred on these coordinates.’
He handed Tahir a piece of paper.
‘29° 34’ 44” north, 36° 21’ 24” east? You can’t be serious, my friends. This is just north-east of Al Mudawwara.’
‘Yes, not far from the border with Saudi Arabia. We know, Tahir.’
The Jordanian looked at them in confusion.
‘There are no phosphates there. It’s desert. The minerals there are useless.’
‘Well, Tahir, we have great confidence in our engineers, and they feel they can extract a significant amount of phosphates in that area. Of course, as a gesture of our good will, there will be a small commission for you.’
Tahir’s eyes grew wide as his new friend opened his briefcase.
‘But that must be…’
‘Enough for the wedding of little Myesha, right?’
And a small beach house with a double garage, Tahir thought. These damned Americans probably think they’re sharper than anyone else and can find oil in that area. As if we haven’t searched there countless times. Anyway, I’m not going to be the one to ruin their dreams.
‘My friends, there is no doubt that you are both men of great worth and knowledge. I’m sure your business will be welcomed in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.’
Despite Peter and Frank’s sugary smiles, Tahir kept racking his brain as to what it all meant. What the hell were these Americans looking for in the desert?
As much as he wrestled with the issue, he never came close to guessing that in a few days this meeting was going to cost him his life.
6
HEADQUARTERS OF KAYN INDUSTRIES
NEW YORK
Wednesday, 5 July 2006. 11:29 a.m.
Orville found himself in a darkened room. The only light came from a small lamp shining at a lectern ten feet away on which his report sat along with a remote control, just as the executive had told him. He walked over and picked up the remote. As he examined it, wondering how to begin the presentation, he was suddenly startled by a bright glow. Not six feet from where he was standing was a large screen twenty feet wide. On it was displayed the first page of his presentation, with the red Netcatch logo.
‘Thank you very much, Mr Kayn, and good morning. Let me begin by saying that it’s an honour-’
There was a small buzz and the image on the screen changed, revealing the title of his presentation and the first of the two questions:
WHO IS FATHER ANTHONY FOWLER?
Clearly, Mr Kayn valued brevity and control,
and had a second remote to hand in order to speed up the process.
OK, old man. I get the message. Let’s get down to business.
Orville pressed the remote to bring up the next page. It showed a priest with a thin, craggy face. He was balding and whatever hair he had left had been cut very short. Orville began speaking to the darkness before him.
‘John Anthony Fowler, alias Father Anthony Fowler, alias Tony Brent. Born 16 December 1951 in Boston, Massachusetts. Green eyes, roughly 175 pounds. Freelance agent for the CIA and a total mystery. Solving this mystery took two months of research carried out by ten of my best investigators, who worked exclusively on this job, as well as a considerable amount of cash in order to grease the palms of some well-placed sources. That explains in large part the three million dollars it cost to produce this report, Mr Kayn.’
The screen changed again, this time displaying a family photo: a well-dressed couple in the garden of what looked like an expensive home. At their side, an attractive, dark-haired boy about eleven years old. The father’s hand seemed to be squeezing the boy’s shoulder and all three wore tense smiles.
‘The only son of Marcus Abernathy Fowler, business magnate and owner of Infinity Pharmaceuticals. Today it’s a multimillion-dollar biotechnology company. After his parents died in a suspicious automobile accident in 1984, Anthony Fowler sold the company, along with the rest of their assets, and donated everything to charity. He held on to his parents’ mansion in Beacon Hill, renting it out to a couple with children. But he kept the top floor for himself, and had it converted into an apartment containing some furniture and a whole bunch of philosophy books. He stays there every once in a while, whenever he’s in Boston.’
Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition Page 3