Be calm, he told himself. And above all, be confident.
After all, Khalid Nazer was his superior here. As long as Kemel remained in America, he would answer directly to Nazer. And Nazer liked to receive his progress reports in person.
Nazer waited on the threshold. He was as fat as Kemel was lean; where Kemel's beard was ragged and untrimmed—as it should be, according to the Prophet—Nazer's was neatly edged and clipped to a uniform length. Nazer's excuse was that an unkempt beard was a hindrance to his work here as a trade envoy attached to the U.N. Kemel suspected that Nazer simply wanted to appear more attractive to the infidel women he consorted with in the weeks and months he spent away from his wife.
Kemel did not like this man. His antipathy began with the man's lax attitude toward the faith, but from there his reasons were strictly personal. He would dislike Nazer's superior air even if he were a righteous believer.
As he pulled the door open, Kemel smiled and said, "Welcome."
He stood aside and allowed Nazer to huff his considerable bulk through the door, then followed him into the apartment.
"Well, Kemel," he said as soon as the door was closed. "I go away for a weekend recess, and when I return, I learn that the Clayton woman's lawyer is dead—murdered. How does such a thing happen?"
Kemel was taken aback by Nazer's abruptness. Usually they went through the routine of Kemel offering coffee and sweet cakes and Nazer refusing, as if such things could not possibly interest him.
And he resented the fat one's tone. Yes, Nazer was his superior, but only in his position in Iswid Nahr. In every other way, Kemel exceeded him. In brains, in courage, in lineage. His grandfather was a bedouin from the desert Nejd region, who fought side by side with Abdel Aziz al-Saud in the wars to unite the country now called Saudi Arabia. And Kemel had been with Iswid Nahr for almost twenty years. He was well-known and respected in Riyadh. His duties had brought him into contact with members of the royal family many times. Yes, America was Nazer's domain, but he had no right to treat Kemel as if he were a mere hireling, recruited like Baker. Who was this overstuffed toad to speak to him so?
"It happens because I am forced to work with fools," he said, venting only a small portion of the heat he felt. "This mercenary you assigned to me is like a mad scorpion, stinging everything he nears."
Nazer blinked at Kemel's reply, then shrugged. "We had to move quickly. We had a record of this man Baker offering his demolition services for hire to the government during the Gulf War. We contacted him. And he has proved most useful so far."
"But we don't need him anymore. We should be rid of him and simply hire a commercial security company to watch over the property."
"Get rid of Baker?" Nazer said, shaking his head. "No, I'm afraid that even if we had the time to make other arrangements, we are, in a sense, married to this man. And as you well know, time is in short supply. This has dragged on far too long already."
Kemel knew… knew all too well. He wanted this matter settled, not simply because the fate of his homeland and the entire Arab world depended on it, but because he was not cut out for this sort of… intrigue.
Yes, the blood of bedouin warriors ran in his veins, but he was a businessman, a negotiator, a—what was the American term? A lobbyist. When he succeeded in his mission, he expected to be well rewarded, enormously rewarded, and would spend the rest of his days in wealth and leisure, adding a second and perhaps a third wife, both in their teens, of course, to his hareem.
And yet he would give up the chance at that dream life in a heartbeat if someone showed up and offered to remove the burden of this terrible responsibility from his shoulders. He would give it up gladly, and then flee this devil country back to his home and his sons in Riyadh.
But that was a fantasy. No one was waiting to take over. Only a few in Iswid Nahr knew of Ronald Clayton's secret, and Kemel was one of them. To reveal it even to one more person was unthinkable.
And so he had to remain here, taking orders from Khalid Nazer, consorting with the likes of Sam Baker, and doing whatever was necessary to succeed.
"Baker is dangerous. This is a delicate matter—"
"Perhaps it is less delicate than you think," Nazer said. "Perhaps witnessing the sudden, violent death of her lawyer will finally convince the Clayton woman that selling the house is the wiser—and safer—course."
"Perhaps," Kemel said slowly. "But I would not count on it. She has not acted rationally since this began. I see no reason why we should expect her to start now."
Nazer sighed. "This is what happens when women are let out of the hareem and permitted to act as equals. The Prophet said it best: 'Men have authority over women because Allah has made one superior to the other.'"
Not to be outdone, Kemel could not resist adding, "He also said, 'Do not give to the feebleminded the property with which Allah has entrusted you.'"
They stood in silence a moment, then Nazer said, "Is it still working?"
Kemel nodded, hiding his annoyance. "Yes, of course. I would call you immediately if it stopped."
"I know you would, but I wish to see it."
Kemel could not blame the man. He saw it every day and was still awestruck by the wonder of it.
"Come."
And he led Nazer to the rear of the apartment.
9.
Yoshio Takita heard the voices fade from the living room pickup, so he switched to the one in the second bedroom. If Kemel Muhallal and Khalid Nazer followed their usual routine, that was where they'd be headed. He put down the stick of Little Caesar's Crazy Bread, wiped his fingers on a kitchen towel, and raised his binoculars. He focused on the lighted window.
Sure enough, through the slightly open slits of the other apartment's Venetian blinds, he saw the two bearded Arabs enter the room and go directly to the lamp. And as usual, they stood over it, staring down at something.
But at what?
Yoshio had been recording every conversation and every phone call in and out of that apartment, and he still didn't have a clue as to what they found so fascinating in that room.
Whatever it was, it must need light, because Kemel Muhallal left it burning day and night. Yoshio figured they had to be growing something—a fungus, a plant, an algae—something that needed light.
Again—what?
Yoshio hadn't been aware of anything special going on in the second bedroom when he'd planted the bugs. They must have brought it in after.
He might have to return for a second look, but only if absolutely necessary. So far, the Arabs had no inkling they were being watched. Or listened to. Yoshio knew only a smattering of Arabic, so he sent the tapes downtown to an office in the financial district leased by Kaze Group. There they were translated and then transcribed; one set of the encrypted text files was immediately expressed to Tokyo; another was returned to him on disk the following day. Yoshio pored over each transcript but could not find a clue in anything that was said.
The two Arabs were saying nothing now.
Speak! he urged, wishing he were telepathic. Say something about what you are staring at!
But they did not heed him. Yoshio watched them hover around the lamp in silence, seemingly in awe.
And then the fat one left, leaving Muhallal alone. Muhallal retired soon after, turning off all the lights but one. He left the lamp in the second bedroom lit, just as he had every other night.
Why?
Yoshio doubted the Arab was afraid of the dark…