Bourne increased the number of bills he fanned out. -This amount will cover it, won‘t it. It wasn‘t a question; neither was it a statement. It was, rather, a command, which caused the lurker to twitch uncomfortably. -Or should I find someone else? Bourne added. -You did say that you were the best guide in the city.
— That I am, sir! The lurker snatched the bills and stuffed them away.
— No one else in the entire city could get you in to Seven Seventy-nine. They are most careful about visitors, but — he winked- my cousin‘s cousin is a guard there. He pulled out a cell phone, made a local call, and talked rapid-fire Arabic. There ensued a short argument that seemed to concern money. Then the lurker put away his cell and grinned. -This is no problem. My cousin‘s cousin is downstairs now, while the truck you see there is unloading. He says it‘s an excellent time, so we go now.
Without another word Bourne followed him back down the street.
Checking her watch one last time, Tracy strode across El Gamhuria Avenue and opened the wooden front door. Directly inside was a metal detector overseen by two grim-faced guards, which she and the wrapped Goya went through without incident. This place didn‘t seem like the headquarters of any airline she‘d ever encountered.
She walked up to the circular desk, as high and harsh looking as the exterior of the building itself. A young man with an unfriendly, angular face glanced up at her approach.
— Tracy Atherton. I have an appointment with Noah Per-Petersen.
— Passport and driver‘s license. He held out a hand.
She expected him to check her ID then hand the documents back to her, but instead he said, — These will be returned to you at the end of your visit.
She hesitated for just a moment, feeling as if she‘d turned over the keys to her apartment in Belgravia. She was about to protest, but the man with the unfriendly face was already on the intrabuilding phone. The moment he cradled the receiver his demeanor changed. -Mr. Petersen will be down to fetch you momentarily, Ms. Atherton, he said with a smile. -In the meanwhile, please make yourself comfortable. There‘s tea and coffee, as well as a variety of biscuits on the sideboard against the wall. And if there‘s anything else you require, just ask.
She kept up a monologue of meaningless chatter, all the while taking in her surroundings, which seemed as oppressive in their way as the interior of a church. Instead of being dedicated to the glory of God, the architecture seemed to deify money. In just the same way churches-particularly those of the Roman Catholic religion-were meant to draw a reverence from the parishioner, to put him squarely in his lowly place vis-a-vis the divine, so the Air Afrika headquarters sought to intimidate and demean those penitents entering its portals who could not conceive of the half-a-billion-dollar cost of construction.
— Ms. Atherton.
She turned to see a slim man, handsome despite his hatchet face, with salt-and-pepper hair and an amiable demeanor.
— Noah Petersen. He smiled winningly and stuck out his hand for her to shake. It was firm and dry. -I put great store in punctuality as a human trait. He lifted a hand, indicating they should walk back the way he had come. -It says so much about an orderly mind.
He slipped a metal key-card in a slot, and after a moment of clicks a red light turned green. He leaned on part of the wall, which turned out to be a door set flush with the massive concrete panels on either side. Inside, Tracy was obliged to put her package through an X-ray scanner, then they rode up to the third floor in a small elevator. Exiting, he took her down a corridor with twelve-foot mahogany doors. These doors had neither a name nor a number on them and, after negotiating several turns, she had the sensation of being in a labyrinth. Music was playing out of hidden speakers. Occasionally they passed a photo close-up of part of an Air Afrika plane with a half-clad model posing beside it.
The conference room into which he led her was decorated for a party, with colored balloons, the long table covered with a gaily striped cloth and groaning with a seemingly endless array of savory food, sweet-meats, and fruit.
— Having the Goya here at last is cause for celebration, Noah said, which was apparently all the explanation she was going to get. He pulled a slim briefcase out from under the striped cloth and, setting it on the one clear space on the tabletop, twiddled the combination lock and disengaged the snaps.
Inside, Tracy saw, was the cashier‘s check for the balance of her fee, made out to her. Seeing this, she stripped off the packing to reveal the Goya.
Noah barely glanced at it. -Where‘s the rest?
She handed over the document of authenticity, signed by Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuigaof the Museo del Prado in Madrid. Noah studied it for a moment, nodded, and put it alongside the painting.
— Excellent. He reached into the attaché case and handed her the check.
— I believe this concludes our business, Ms. Atherton. At that moment, his cell rang and he excused himself. His brows knit together. -When? he said into the phone. -Who? What do you mean alone? Dammit, didn‘t I-All right, don‘t fucking move until I get there! He cut the connection, his face dark.
— Is something wrong? Tracy asked.
— Nothing that need concern you. Noah managed a smile through his annoyance. -Please make yourself comfortable here. I‘ll come and fetch you when it‘s safe.
— Safe? What do you mean?
— There‘s an intruder in the building. Noah was already hurrying across the room to the door. -Not to worry, Ms. Atherton, it seems we already have him cornered.
We were picked up the moment we arrived in KRT, Amun Chalthoum said as he and Soraya drove into the city. KRT was the aviation acronym for the Khartoum International Airport, which had been appropriated by the Sudanese themselves.
— I saw them, Soraya said. -Two men.
— They were joined by two others. Chalthoum glanced in the rearview mirror. -All four of them are in a gray 1970s-vintage Toyota Corolla three car-lengths behind us.
— The men at the terminal looked local.
Chalthoum nodded.
— I find that odd, because no one locally knew we were coming to Khartoum.
— Not true. A small, secretive smile played about the Egyptian‘s lips.
— As the head of al Mokhabarat, I was obliged to tell a superior I was leaving the country, if only temporarily. The man I chose to tell is the one I have suspected for some time of secretly undermining me. His eyes once again flicked to the image in the rearview mirror. -Now, at last, I have my proof of his treachery. Nothing will stop me from bringing one of these miscreants back to Cairo to denounce him.
— In other words, Soraya said, — we need to let them catch us.
Amun‘s smile broadened. -Catch up to us, he corrected, — so we can catch them.
The poker game had given up the ghost an hour ago, leaving the house off Dupont Circle redolent of the scents of men-and women-hard at play: cigar ash, leftover pizza, stale but honest sweat, and the ephemeral but powerful odor of money.
Four people draped themselves over purple velvet art deco sofas: Willard, Peter Marks, Police Commissioner Lester Burrows, and Reese Williams, whose house, surprisingly, this turned out to be. Between the four principals, on a low table, sat a bottle of scotch, a bucket half full of ice, and four fat old-fashioned glasses. Everyone else had packed up what was left of their poker stakes, if any, and had staggered home. It was just after twelve on a night without either moon or stars, the clouds so thick and low that even the lights of the district were reduced to murky smudges.