by David Lender
“Something that could be cleverly exploited.” Yassar felt a rumble of apprehension. He paused, sighed. “Anything else?”
Assad raised his eyes. “We have been observing him for some time. The other area of major concern is his commitment. He has recently toyed with the idea of leaving his business.”
Yassar shrugged. Who hasn’t? He felt the weariness in his limbs. They moved on to the next file.
Two hours later Yassar pushed his chair back from the desk, rubbed his eyes and looked at his itinerary. “Visits to New York, London, Paris and Tokyo for interviews and final choices.” He looked at Assad. “I’ll be gone for ten days. And you?”
“Our agents are in place and I have our intelligence networks at full alert. We have only to…”
The sound of a fist pounding on the door interrupted him.
“Minister! Commander!” a voice called from the hallway. The door swung open and a guard with perspiration on his face bustled into the room, then pulled himself to attention. “The student protest has turned violent. A thousand of them have pinned two of our units against the steps of the Labor Ministry. Our men are armed with only live ammunition and the students are hurling rocks. We’re afraid our men will be forced to fire!”
Assad looked at Yassar, then back at the guard. “Our men do not have rubber bullets for crowd control?” Assad demanded.
“No.”
Yassar said, “We need to stop them before we have an incident that will cause repercussions!” He had a flash in his mind of dead students in front of the Labor Ministry, front-page photographs in The New York Times of bloodied steps and fleeing bystanders. Assad strode from the room, Yassar behind him.
Assad heard him and turned, alarm in his face, holding up his hand as if to stop Yassar. “Minister, it is too dangerous.”
“I’m coming.”
Bin Abdur, Yassar thought. He felt his blood rise to his face.
July 2, This Year. New York City. The first class passengers on Air France 244 to JFK had a jump on everyone deplaning, and Lydia made sure she kept a brisk pace in the corridor. She knew the lines for the passport control checkpoint at JFK were always long, and waiting on the things was more mind-numbing than having her hair done at Isolde’s on Place Vendome. She put on her sunglasses as she approached the checkpoint. When she turned the corner she saw thirty or so on the “U.S. Citizens” line. Another flight must have arrived just before hers. The “Foreign Nationals” line was empty.
She ducked under the cordon and strode up to the first agent in the “Foreign Nationals” area.
“Passport,” the dead-eyed man said.
“Good afternoon,” Lydia said, smiling.
The man looked at her, then at her passport, then back at her. He paused.
She pulled off her sunglasses, then the Hermès scarf from her head, and shook out her black hair, letting it fall to its full length halfway down her back.
“It’s me,” she said, smiling again at the rumpled man and cocking her head to the side. She made eye contact with him and held it. He looked down.
“The reason for your visit, Ms. Fauchert?” he said.
“Business. I’m a fashion photographer. A photo shoot in New York City and then perhaps some sightseeing.”
“How long is your stay?”
“Two weeks.”
He continued looking at her passport, as if it would tell him if she were being truthful, or whatever these silly men concerned themselves with.
“Enjoy your stay,” he said, stamped and handed her passport back without looking at her.
After she checked into the St. Regis and dropped off her bags she walked down to Rockefeller Center, stopping in front of the skating rink. She looked up at 30 Rockefeller Plaza. It was troubling, this feeling she had. If she had lead feet now, how would she feel in weeks, or months?
She told herself to relax, then started to walk around the rink toward the entrance to 30 Rockefeller Plaza. She took a deep breath. She only wished she didn’t feel so empty.
Her next sensations were unworthiness, then guilt, and she had to remind herself she was grateful for the opportunity. The opportunity for whatever name it was given in English, none of which captured it: absolution, atonement, redemption. It was something she’d try to work out during this lifetime. She offered a short prayer to her Hindu god Ganesha.
July 2, This Year. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Yassar stood in front of the Labor Ministry, clenching and unclenching his jaw, waiting. Assad’s man had exaggerated: there weren’t a thousand protesting students, perhaps only 600. But it was bad enough, hearing them growling, shouting—he could even smell their sweat—seeing them force their way in against the police. Two units of Assad’s men, 50 at best, the front row doing all they could with their riot shields to keep the students back from the steps of the Labor Ministry. The others stood in a line behind and above them on the steps, rifles poised. He saw their fear in the beads of moisture inside their riot facemasks.
Finally the microphone was ready. Yassar saw Assad motion to him. Yassar started out from behind the protective group of Royal Guards encircling him and walked toward the microphone stand. Quickly, he told himself. The jeers began as the students saw him, then rose into a crescendo, a roar like a jet plane taking off. Yassar squinted against the sun, smelled the dust swirling on the plaza, then saw the stone hurtling toward him, too late. He heard the dull thud as it hit him in the forehead, felt his knees go weak. Dark shapes danced in his peripheral vision and then he heard sharp pops like firecrackers. Only when he collapsed onto the steps did he realize the sound was shots from the police rifles.
As the Royal Guards pulled him to his feet he saw the students running, shouting and screaming in panic. And now he saw at least a dozen students lying on the ground, some writhing, most not, with blood oozing in pools beneath them.
Allah be with them. And with us.
Then he clenched his fist. Bin Abdur, something must be done about you.
July 2, This Year. New York City. Daniel felt the heat of the afternoon sun on the polished brass of the revolving doors before it blasted him when he stepped into the wall of a moist New York July outside 30 Rockefeller Plaza. The air already tasted like the silt that hung on his skin when he got home in late August. He glanced in either direction and chose a route for a “lap,” a circuit of Rockefeller Center. It always raised Daniel’s spirits when he was down, recharged him when he was tired and further animated him when he was happy. It was his reminder that New York was the center of power, of commerce, of money, of the arts, the center of everything that up to now meant anything to him.
Wow. He raised his chin and relit his cigar, reflecting on the last half hour. He’d almost quit and walked out of his bonus negotiation with Dieudonne. Instead it had ended with a deal that could net him more in bonuses over the next few years than he’d made in his entire career. Daniel had started by encroaching on Dieudonne’s space, commandeering one of his good Cubans—a Cohiba Esplendido—from his humidor to join Dieudonne in a smoke, de rigeur in Ladoix Sayre’s custom of ignoring New York’s no smoking laws. Dieudonne had humored Daniel with a smile, then sucker-punched him by insisting the Dorchester fee of 6.3 million was next fiscal year’s revenue, having closed one day after the end of Ladoix’s June 30th fiscal year. He awarded Daniel a bonus of 650 thousand based on his other 5 million of fee income for the fiscal year. Daniel had struggled to collect himself—he was angry at himself, not Dieudonne, that he hadn’t seen it coming—feigned genuine outrage and countered by informing Dieudonne the fee had already been paid by wire transfer, reminding Dieudonne that he was the firm’s entire franchise in oil and gas, then jabbing him with a not-so-veiled threat to take his business across the street to the Rothschilds if Dieudonne didn’t pay him an appropriate bonus—20%—of the Dorchester fee. Dieudonne blew cigar smoke at him and offered 1 million when he signed up the Saudis. Daniel said to himself, Ah, negotiating leverage, and told Dieudonne that was bullshit. He was of
fering Daniel less than what he already deserved on Dorchester for signing on a piece of new business that would make the firm hundreds of millions in fees over the next few years, based on the Saudis’ grand-scale acquisition objectives. Dieudonne said, Okay, he’d throw in 10% of all the Saudi fees as well if Daniel signed up the Saudis for at least two years and stuck around to do the deals. Daniel then got genuinely pissed and told Dieudonne he knew damn well 20% was standard, and to commit to this he needed 30%, since life was too short to fight this fight every deal, every client, every year. Dieudonne laughed, blew more smoke and said he couldn’t possibly do 30%. Daniel stood up to leave, glaring at Dieudonne and said, “You can do whatever you want,” and started for the door, meaning to keep going when he reached it.
“Alright,” Dieudonne had said when Daniel was halfway across the room. “Twenty-five percent. A million on signing them up, a minimum engagement of two years. Do we have a deal?”
“If it’s in writing,” Daniel had said, turning and looking Dieudonne in the eye.
Daniel now puffed on his cigar, turned, and looked back up at the majestic seventy-story art deco masterpiece of 30 Rock. A million when I sign up Yassar, and who knows how much? Twenty-five percent of the fees on billions of deals. Amazing.
And then there she is again, in those staccato photographic images that assault him just when he feels he’s safe from them. Angela Elizabeth Theodore as a twenty-four-year-old long-waisted beauty, her hair up, empresslike, over a white, white neck that curves into shoulders that hover over a gown pretending to deserve the perfection it holds; Daniel bending to Chip Barnaby to ask who this otherworldly creature is. Next, Bucwald “Teddy” Theodore, Angie’s father, a fast-talking, fast-food mogul, son of a son of an authentic New York real estate tycoon, ravenously shaking Daniel’s hand, beaming at his future son-in-law, welcoming him into the Greater Metropolitan Theodores (“he’s a Vice President at Goldman Sachs where being a Vice President still really means something”). Then Angie cupping Daniel’s cheeks in her hands, her brown eyes…
“Stop it,” Daniel said aloud. An Asian girl spun from taking her father’s photograph in front of the skating rink, her eyes startled. Daniel felt his face flush and strode a quick few paces away.
He stared at the motionless American flags on the face of Saks across Fifth Avenue at the other end of Rockefeller Center, brushed beads of perspiration off his eyebrows. A year or two with this Yassar fellow and I’m out of here. Maybe Congress after all. Or teach? Write? He turned that over in his mind as he rolled his cigar between his fingers. He got no answer. The Dorchester deal came back to him. Damn. That was the problem, the hunt without the thrill of the chase anymore.
“You’ve got enough,” Michael’s words came back to him. “Why not head off to the beach?” That was right, he didn’t need the money, so why was he still doing it?
He stopped in front of a topiary at the entrance to the Channel Gardens in the middle of Rockefeller Center. He looked back at 30 Rock, then turned again toward Fifth Avenue and Saks. He reminded himself he loved this place, and now he tried to recapture the sense of home and balance that the elite retail stores up Fifth Avenue—Tiffany, Van Cleef and Arpels, Versace, Gucci, Bergdorf Goodman—conjured up in his mind, a quarter of a mile of the most exclusive retail space in the world. He groped for the secure presence of the cream of the world’s business community headquartered within a twenty-minute cab ride in either direction—TimeWarner, Sony, Bank of America, American Express. He sighed, then walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue.
That Yassar fellow. He’ll certainly get the juices flowing again. He could even help Daniel prove a point: you can still make an honest buck on Wall Street without screwing anybody and check out on an uptick. Then he could forget about dealing with sleazeballs like Dieudonne forever. And guys like that lying bastard, Kovarik.
He smelled hot dogs on a musty breeze, then the perfume of two women in front of him. Then there she is again: Angie in Peru, coaxing Daniel by the hand to the shaman’s hut, the one that took them three days of hiking in the mountains to find; next Angie with her lips on the wooden bowl containing the shaman’s hallucinogenic potion; then Angie on the moist dirt floor of the hut after thirty-six hours on the trip Daniel came down from but she never did, boiling with spinal meningitis.
He forced the image away, exhaled heavily. He lifted his cigar to his mouth, realized it was out. He threw it in the wastebasket. So what do I do with all this? He let the question sink in and the answer came back: “Somebody.” Somebody to share it all with.
Another shot of Angie, smiling mischievously then running into his closet and crinkling his rows of freshly starched shirts when he had particularly infuriated her. Her smile softens. Now he sees her expressionless in the hospital bed, dark circles under her closed eyes, face beaded with sweat from the fever that alternately rages, abates, then consumes her. Then another, the faces of Dr. Arbouthnot and his resident in infectious diseases at NYU Hospital, shaking their heads after Daniel tells them of the shaman’s potion. The images swamp the thought of anyone else taking Angie’s place in his life. But that’s really what I need. He stops, expecting another assault. Then, as anticipated, a stinging wave of guilt.
Daniel faced the statue of Prometheus holding his flame over the skating rink and stood for a few minutes without speaking. A spark of fire? Yeah, maybe that’s what I need.
“I need more than that,” he said aloud. I need Prince Yassar. And a year or two to slam out a few hundred billion in deals for him. And twenty-five percent of the fees as my cut, maybe twenty to thirty million for myself. He savored that for a moment, realized that wasn’t all. That, and a good woman. Someone to make it worthwhile.
His stomach was calm.
CHAPTER 3
July 2, This Year. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Sheik bin Abdur understood that one accustomed to American standards would consider the shampoos, hand lotions and miniature soaps found in the baskets in the bathrooms as pedestrian pleasures; still, the Riyadh Hilton seemed opulent to him. His aides had rented the penthouse suite as much to make him comfortable as to provide for the round-the-clock security they felt necessary. Things were getting hotter with the Saudi Secret Police.
He was still adjusting from the hasty airplane flight from Buraida. After his prayers, Sheik bin Abdur entered the living room, noting with disapproval that Henri Ledouce, that odious little man, had already arrived, along with Habib. Ledouce was a paunchy, perpetually sweaty man who nervously darted his eyes around any room. His hair was greasy and he always wore a disheveled suit that seemed to have been handed down to him from an older brother. He smelled of wine. Worse than that, the odor of pork emanated from his pores. But Ledouce knew computers and therefore had to be tolerated. For now.
“Hello, Henri, delightful to see you,” Sheik bin Abdur said, without extending his hand.
“Your Excellency.” Ledouce stood and bowed. “I’m pleased to be of service to you again.”
Sheik bin Abdur needed someone of Ledouce’s skill to assist him in his upcoming meeting with a young man known to him only as Ali. The Sheik’s aides had prepped Ledouce in advance, insisting he question the young man in such a way as to reveal Ali’s expertise or to expose him as a fraud. He was reputed to have tackled every major computer network in the U.S., Russia and China, even breaking into one of the CIA’s mainframes at its headquarters in Langley, Virginia. He was the smartest, fastest and most undetectable computer hacker that Sheik bin Abdur’s organization could find.
The Sheik and Habib exchanged nods. Habib would assess the young man’s mettle.
Sheik bin Abdur seated himself, staring at the doorway through which he knew Ali would enter. He was beyond making small talk with a piece of rotting flesh like Henri Ledouce.
It was 4:28 p.m. Mercifully, Ali arrived two minutes early, admitted by one of the Sheik’s aides.
“I am Ali.” He bowed. “I am pleased to meet you. I trust you are Sheik Mohammed Muqtada bin Abdur.”
The heavy weight the Sheik had felt in his chest lightened. Ali wore casual Western clothes, a polo shirt and khakis and those curious American sneakers, but he was freshly scrubbed and beautiful to behold. And, to judge by his demeanor, he was respectful of the Sheik’s position and of the Islamic ways.
“Come close and sit, please.” Sheik bin Abdur motioned to a chair immediately to his left. Henri Ledouce shifted uneasily. The Sheik froze him with a glance. Ali took the seat he was offered. “I understand you are Saudi. And Shiite?”
“Yes, Sheik bin Abdur.”
“That is good. Come, let us share food together.” Two of the Sheik’s aides moved a room service table between the two men and placed plates with various fruits, breads, sweet cakes and spiced grains in front of them. Sheik bin Abdur opened his palms and offered the meal to Ali, feeling the spirit of genuine Muslim brotherhood. Ali bowed and ate eagerly. Finally Sheik bin Abdur said, “I’m interested in engaging your services on a sensitive project.”
“Yes, Sheik bin Abdur.” Still the respectful young Muslim.
“I should like to understand something of your capabilities, beyond what we have already been able to find out on our own, and learn if these capabilities suit our needs.”
“You may ask what you wish.”
“Very well. I’ll be blunt. We’re interested in your ability to penetrate the computer networks of various industrial facilities.”
“I’m prepared to describe my skills in that regard, Sheik bin Abdur.” Ali leaned forward, eager. “I am at your service.”
The Sheik turned to Ledouce. Would that one day he would not need the services of a pork-eating infidel like him. He cringed as he nodded to Ledouce to begin his questions.
“Please give us some examples of your computer infiltration experiences over the previous few years,” Ledouce asked. “Your ‘hacking,’ as we professionals call it,” he threw a ridiculous glance at the Sheik.