A Bedouin with a two thousand year heritage of open space and arid sands, he could not imagine being locked in a tiny box and thrown into the sea, and he prayed Mohammed could survive the ordeal. Perhaps he would emerge babbling on the other end, but it had to be risked. Mohammed’s face was too well known to the western authorities to get him into the United State any other way.
“Reinforced, absolutely guaranteed to float” Biddle said, running his hands over the seals around the container’s hatch. “Everything inside will be perfectly safe and dry.” He stepped in, stooping to avoid the low ceiling, and pointed to five large tanks strapped to the back wall. “Ten days’ worth of oxygen. Far more than your man will need.”
He clicked on a light above the built-in cot, indicated the row of batteries that provided power, pointed to several crates of health bars, dried fruit, nuts, and bottled water, even a small portable toilet. “All the comforts of home,” he said.
Abu Sayeed turned back to Naif and Mohammed and nodded. They went into the ambulance and emerged with the first crate, carrying it with care as if they feared waking whatever lay inside. They lowered it onto a hand truck and wheeled it toward the container. Then, neck veins bulging from the strain, they hoisted the crate inside, laying it crosswise in front of the oxygen tanks where they fastened it in place with metal brackets. A minute later, they returned with the second crate.
“Aren’t you going to give us a look?” Biddle asked.
“It is not safe,” Abu Sayeed replied.
“That’s eight hundred million of my dollars in there,” Biddle insisted. “I want to see it.”
Abu Sayeed shrugged. “Be my guest, but if you open the lid, the radiation signature may signal a satellite or one of the roving detection trucks. The French and the Americans are hunting for these.” Abu Sayeed nodded to Mohammed who scowled but opened a Swiss Army Knife and started to remove the first of the screws that held the lid in place.
Biddle’s eyes flickered back to Abu Sayeed. “That won’t be necessary.”
As Mohammed stopped removing the screw and then helped Naif finish fastening the crate in place, Abu Sayeed experienced a momentary sense of wonder at what they were about to attempt, and he wondered what Allah could be planning. Success? Failure? Perhaps something that no one expected?
Biddle interrupted his thoughts. “Which one goes?” he demanded.
Abu Sayeed nodded toward Mohammed.
Biddle turned. “You understand English?”
“Of course,” Mohammed growled.
“You must remember two things,” Biddle said. “First, strap yourself into the cot before they shove the container off the freighter. Second, never open the hatch.” He turned back to Abu Sayeed. “When it goes in the water, the container will turn right side up and float, but it will be almost completely submerged. A locating device will signal my boat. We’ll pick it up within an hour or two.”
Abu Sayeed saw fear in Mohammed’s eyes as he stared into the suffocatingly small box. Abu Sayeed cleared his throat. “You are certain everything will work as you predict?”
Biddle nodded. “All the arrangements have been made. We are doing God’s work. He will not let us fail.”
Abu Sayeed bowed his head. “God is infinitely great,” he said quietly.
“He is,” Biddle agreed.
THIRTEEN
OYSTER BAY, LONG ISLAND, JUNE 25
SATURDAY EVENING, BRENT GOT DRESSED and drove out to Biddle’s estate for the firm’s annual black-tie party, even though on a list of things he hated, attending black tie soirees ranked just above bar fights.
He followed the directions to a secluded lane in Locust Valley and turned at a pair of tall stone gateposts. A security guard checked his invitation and identification then directed him down the winding drive through several hundred yards of manicured grounds, to a grand brick house set near the water. Brent relinquished his vintage BMW to a parking valet then followed other arriving guests through the house and onto the veranda at the rear.
He paused there to gaze at Biddle’s grounds, with formal gardens to the left and the cool lights of a swimming pool glimmering off to the right. Further to the left, across several acres of lawn, a tall hedge outlined a tennis court, while directly behind the house a series of descending walkways led to a huge white tent. Beyond the tent the calm waters of Long Island Sound glittered like a field of gems, reflecting the lights of the party.
So this was how people lived when they had the really big bucks, he thought, in a house as big as a Marriott with a yard the size of a county park. He found it strangely disappointing and thought about Maggie, knowing her reactions would have been the same. He tried to ignore the sharp pang he felt.
After another moment he joined the flow of guests down the garden path beneath a broad stone and wood trellis thick with flowering vines. Time to get it over with, he thought. The only people he’d know would be the other GA people, so he planned to put in a brief showing then hurry back to Manhattan for a late movie.
He was nearing the tent when he heard his name and turned, surprised to see that the voice belonged to Prescott Biddle. Biddle detached himself from a cadaverous woman who lurched a little as he released her arm, until someone, maybe one of Biddle’s staff, swooped in and steadied her. Biddle appeared tanned and relaxed in a double-breasted tuxedo. He smiled broadly and gave Brent’s shoulder a warm squeeze.
“Delighted you could make it,” Biddle said. He took Brent’s arm as though they were the oldest of friends and began to walk him into the tent. “Stay with me. There are a number of people I’d like you to meet.”
For the next twenty minutes, Biddle kept his grip on Brent’s arm, introducing him to the quarterback for the New York Jets, the Yankees’ new first baseman, a lead tenor for the Metropolitan Opera, and several Fortune 500 CEOs. During one lull in the conversation, Brent caught sight of Owen Smythe beside a pretty blonde woman. He started to go move in their direction, but Biddle grabbed him again.
“This way. I’ll introduce you to your largest account,” Biddle said as he towed him toward an elderly man with olive skin and an eagle’s beak for a nose.
“Khaled,” Biddle said. “This is Brent Lucas, the young man I told you about. He’s our new young star, who now has day-to-day responsibility for your account.” Biddle gave Brent a wink. “Why don’t you get to know each other for a few minutes.”
As Biddle spun away and disappeared into the throng, Dr. Faisal turned to inspect Brent with a pair of deep-set eyes. His baldhead and concave cheeks gave great prominence to his bone structure, making him appear both gauntly ascetic and immeasurably wise. Brent might have found his gaze unnerving if not for the laugh lines that crinkled at the corner of his eyes. “Mr. Lucas,” he said in a warm voice. “My new financial oracle.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Brent said with a laugh. He tried to hide his nervousness at meeting the man who was entrusting him with over three quarters of a billion dollars.
Dr. Faisal gave him a wry smile. “Such a young man. You have a grave responsibility managing so large an account.”
Brent nodded uncertainly and tensed for the admonition that seemed likely to follow.
“The better you do,” Dr. Faisal continued, “the more money we will have for great purposes.”