Shah stared back dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious. We created the CDL to fight that kind of echo chamber mentality.”
“We created the CDL to defend Islam. Our enemies will try to use this against this. We have to make it work to our advantage.”
Her passion radiated through her hand into his, burning through his reflexive opposition. “How exactly do we do that? Do we say it’s Roche’s fault for not being Muslim?”
He said it half-jokingly but to his astonishment, Gabrielle nodded. “Just like we did after the Charlie Hebdo shootings. We’ll release a statement saying that, while we do not condone what happened, we strongly condemn the sort of blasphemy that prompted a young man to martyr himself.”
Shah’s forehead creased in a frown. “The cable news outlets will make hay out of rhetoric like that.”
“It doesn’t matter what they do with it.” She squeezed his hand again. “All that matters is that your people — our people — will recognize your strong and decisive leadership.
Shah felt his resistance crumbling. “You’re very persuasive.”
“Only because I’m right about this. Trust me. And don’t worry. We’ll run the statement past legal to make sure it’s airtight.” She paused a beat. “You said this happened in Peru? What was Roche doing down there?”
“I have no idea. He’s been hiding out ever since…that thing with his publisher.”
“The shooter, he was a student, right?” Gabrielle pressed. “An archaeologist? We need to know how he came to cross paths with Roche. The old crank might be dead, but he can still hurt us if he told someone what he knows or gave them his book.”
“I’m not sure there’s much we could do about it if he did.”
Gabrielle’s expression hardened abruptly, her dark eyes boring into him. “Atash, I don’t think you fully appreciate just how serious this situation is.”
Shah gaped at her. “How can you say that? I’ve been in damage control mode ever since I heard about the shooting.”
“I’m not talking about Roche’s death. I’m talking about his secret. It must stay buried. At all costs. If he’s shared this knowledge with anyone we have to find out. And we have to silence them.”
“Silence them?” The question came out much louder than Shah intended. He imagined the government surveillance team hastily sweeping his building with parabolic microphones, trying to reacquire him. In a more subdued voice, he continued. “We’re journalists, Gabrielle, not killers.”
Gabrielle regarded him with a cool gaze. “You’re right, Atash. We’re not killers. But this is a war and whether you intended to or not, you have built an army. There are a lot of young men like this Rafi Massoud out there just waiting for someone to tell them what to do. The only question is whether you have to courage to be their leader.”
Shah swallowed. He did not feel very courageous, but he knew he would never be able to say ‘no’ to her.
PART TWO — FACES
SEVEN
As Jade stared at the queue of black TX4 Hackney cabs lined up outside the arrivals gate at London’s Heathrow Airport — all facing the wrong direction, or so it seemed to her — she could not help but think back to her last visit to the city and her first meeting with Gerald Roche. Although that trip had been a net success, it had not gone smoothly and she had left believing that she had made an enemy in Roche. Now, Roche was dead and she was back in London, hoping to solve the mystery behind his murder and possibly fulfill his last request.
“Truth is the only protection,” Roche had said just before his death. “But knowing the truth is not the same as proving it.”
Proving Roche’s pet theory was not her objective. The only truth that she cared about right now was the truth about why Roche had been killed, and why Rafi, without any apparent provocation, had pulled the trigger and subsequently immolated himself. She did not know if there was a connection to Phantom Time, or one of Roche’s other wild conspiracy theories — her instincts told her there was — but it was a starting point.
Professor selected the third taxi in the line and waved for Jade to join him. She shouldered her backpack, the only piece of luggage she had brought along and crossed to the waiting cab where he was holding the door open for her. It was early afternoon but the gray sky seemed unusually dark and depressing after the sunny equatorial clime of Peru. Nevertheless, despite the fact that she was exhausted from the trip — long flights and even longer layovers — Jade was eager to get started, and couldn’t resist tapping her foot and shifting in her seat throughout the forty-five minute ride from the airport to Bedford Square in the Borough of Camden, where Chameleon Press International’s offices were located.
The idyllic setting, nestled amid garden squares and elegant historical buildings that dated back as early as the 17th century, seemed wholly inappropriate for a publisher who dealt primarily with sensational speculative topics, but like its namesake, Chameleon seemed to blend right in, occupying a small corner of the Bloomsbury district, a place synonymous with London’s historic literary culture.
The office was little more than a room with two cluttered desks and a handful of chairs, occupied solely by a handsome if a bit harried-looking man, about her age, with light brown hair and blue eyes that peered out through tortoiseshell framed spectacles.
As Professor opened the door and stepped aside to allow Jade to enter, the man at the desk looked up from his computer screen, then jumped to his feet and rushed over the greet his visitors. “Hello. You must be Dr. Ihara.”
Though she had never seen him before, Jade recognized the friendly voice and understated accent from their earlier phone conversation. She put on her most winning smile and extended her hand. “And you must be Mr. Kellogg.”
“Please, it’s just Jordan.” After introducing himself to Professor, he gestured toward the chairs positioned in front of his desk. “I am sorry that I wasn’t more help over the telephone. Things have been a bit chaotic of late. Recent events…” He shrugged. “I’m the…well, I used to be the assistant editor and vice-president, but that’s not as impressive as it must sound. There was only ever just Mr. Parrott and myself, and since his disappearance, it’s essentially a one-man show, and I’m the one man.”
Jade heard no trace of lingering grief in Kellogg’s tone at the mention of Parrott’s fate. Maybe three weeks had taken the edge off the tragedy. She decided to probe a little deeper. “How will Roche’s death affect the business?”
“Well this may sound a bit ghoulish, but business has never been better. As soon as word of his death hit the news, the booksellers started calling. I’ve emptied the warehouse and I’m going to have to order print runs of several backlisted titles. Tricky business, that. It’s impossible to predict how long we’ll be able to capitalize on public interest. If the buzz fades away too quickly, I’ll be stuck with a warehouse full of unsold books.”
“Must be tough,” Professor muttered, and Jade had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Kellogg however seemed immune to sarcasm.
“You have no idea. Thank goodness for e-books. That’s where most of our money is made anyway. Instant gratification.” He tapped the side of his nose in a gesture that meant absolutely nothing to Jade.