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
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.’
The next image showed a younger version of the same woman, this time on a college campus and dressed in a graduation gown.
‘Daphne Brent was an expert chemist who worked at Infinity Pharmaceuticals until the owner took a liking to her and they got married. When she fell pregnant, Marcus turned her into a housewife overnight. That’s all we know about Fowler’s family, except that young Anthony went to Stanford instead of attending Boston College like his father.’
Next slide: young Anthony, looking not much older than a teenager, with a serious expression on his face, standing beneath a banner that read ‘1971’.
‘He graduated magna cum laude at the age of twenty with a degree in Psychology. The youngest in his class. That photo was taken a month before classes ended. On the last day of the term, he collected his things and walked into the university recruitment offices. He wanted to go to Vietnam.’