"Look at that ceiling," Alicia said as the revolving door deposited them in the long, bright marble-walled lobby.
High above them, gods of some sort hovered among fluffy white clouds in a pale blue sky painted on the arched ceiling.
"Do you think they're Greek or Roman?" Alicia said.
"I think some folks are taking themselves just a bit too seriously. And do you really care?"
"Come to think of it… no."
"What floor are they on?" Jack said as he led her to the directory that took up a large section of one of the west walls.
"Twenty-something."
He found it. Looked like they called the whole twenty-third floor home.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched the guard at the security desk watching them. It was after hours and they didn't look all that presentable, what with Jack in jeans and Alicia wrinkled from being taped up.
"We shouldn't risk trying to go upstairs tonight. Don't want to arouse any suspicions or put anyone on alert. But I wish I could get a look at their office layout."
"Not much to see," Alicia said. "You step out of the elevator and face a glass wall with a receptionist on the other side. I'm sure she's gone now, but even when she's there, you don't get past that wall until she hits a button to release the door."
Damn, Jack thought. Getting a client list was going to be tough. Maybe impossible.
"Why all the security, you think?"
Alicia shrugged. "Well, you never know what kind of riffraff will be sneaking around after hours."
"Oh-ho!" he said. "The doctor makes a funny."
"Mark the date and time," she said. "It doesn't happen very often."
"Can I help you folks?"
The security guard had walked over. He was big and black, and acting friendly, but Jack could tell he was all business. If they didn't have any business in the Hand Building, he was going to ask them to please move themselves back to the street. No monkey business on his shift.
"Fascinating architecture," Jack said. "When did this building go up?"
"I'm not sure," the guard said. "I think there's some sort of plaque in the corner behind that tree by the door. Take a look at it on your way out."
Jack gave him a nod and a smile. "Heard and understood. We're on our way."
The guard returned the smile. "Thanks."
Just to keep up appearances, Jack peeked behind the ficus tree sitting in front of the brass plaque, but he never got to read the inscription. Something else snatched his attention.
"I'll be damned!"
"What?" Alicia said. "What is it?"
"See that little mark there on the corner molding above the plaque? The black circle with the dot inside?"
"That magic marker thing?"
"That's it. I know the guy who made that. His name's Milkdud… Milkdud Swigart."
This was good. Better than good. This was great.
"And…?"
"It means this building's been hacked."
"I don't get it."
"I'll explain later. But it means we may have a way to find out who's backing Thomas."
11.
"Kemel groaned as he hung up the phone. Surely Allah had deserted him. First he had learned of Baker and Thomas Clayton's crazy stunt tonight. The sister would certainly file felony charges against her brother, setting back the whole operation months, perhaps years, perhaps permanently."
He had been so furious, he'd even told the swollen-nosed Baker that Nazer should have fired him last week when Kemel had told him to. Baker had not taken that well, but that was too bad. The man was jeopardizing everything.
But then Kemel's brother, Jamal, called from home, and his fury evaporated like water spilled on summer sands of the Rub al-Khali, replaced by dread for his eldest son.
"It's Ghali," Jamal said. "He's been arrested."
Kemel felt the heart dropping out of his body. Ghali? His eighteen-year-old son, the pride of his life… arrested? No, this could not be.
"For what? What happened?"
"He has been accused of stealing a camera from the wife of a visiting American businessman."
"Impossible! Ridiculous!"
"That is what I said," Jamal told him. "But there are witnesses. And he had the camera with him when they caught him."
"Oh, no." Kemel moaned. He closed his eyes to squeeze out the light. "Oh, no, this can't be true. Why would he do something like this?"
"I don't know, brother. Perhaps if you were home…"
Yes! Home! He had to go home immediately!
But he could not. Not yet.
"I will come as soon as I can. But I cannot leave right now."
"What business could be more important than this?" Jamal said with what sounded like scorn. Never in all his years had he spoken to Kemel like that. He would not use that tone if he knew the nature of Kemel's business here.
Kemel ached to tell his younger brother why he was in America but did not dare. Jamal and his whole family would be in jeopardy if it was discovered that Kemel had breathed so much as a word of it to him.
"Where is Ghali now?"
"It took me all night, but I managed to secure his release. I am keeping him at my house—I have taken responsibility for him."
Kemel calculated that the eight-hour time difference made it six a.m. in Riyadh. "Thank you, Jamal. I can never thank you enough."
"This is far from over, Kemel. I will do whatever I can, but Ghali may have to stand trial."
Kemel nodded, though there was no one to see. Yes, yes, he knew. Especially since a foreigner was involved. The Saudi authorities seldom passed up a chance to demonstrate the superiority of Islamic Law to westerners. Even if this American woman asked that no charges be brought, they might still proceed with trial and punishment.
And punishment would mean the loss of Ghali's right hand.
How could this happen? Ghali had always been wild and headstrong, yes, but never a thief. What could have possessed him? He wanted for nothing, yet he stole a camera! A camera! There were almost a dozen fine cameras lying about the house!
This made no sense.
He had to turn to a higher power for help. Tomorrow was Friday, the holy day. He was bound to say his noontime prayers in the mosque. Tomorrow Kemel would pray all day in the mosque for his errant son.
FRIDAY
1.
After a couple of rounds of answering-machine tag, Milkdud's last message had said to meet him at Canova—not Canova's, just Canova—on West Fifty-first at ten-thirty. So that was when Jack showed up. He rode the lemming crowd of parents and kids streaming toward the red neon Radio City sign dead ahead on the far side of Sixth Avenue. With Ruth's Chris behind him and Le Bernadin across the street, Jack found Canova.
He leaned his forehead against the front window and peered past the faux pilings lined up on the other side of the glass. Looked like one of those buffet places that had been multiplying like coat hangers through most of the nineties.
He stepped inside and looked for Milkdud.
Canova was a little more elaborate than most of its buffet kin. Usually they were strictly takeout—fill your containers at the buffet counter, weigh and pay, then be on your way. Canova offered two buffet areas, and seating.
The crowd was thin—still a while before the lunch mob hit—but Jack didn't spot Milkdud. And Milkdud was hard to miss.
He tapped the Korean guy wiping a nearby table.
"I was supposed to meet someone here—" he began.
"I don't know," the Korean said quickly, vigorously shaking his head. "I don't know."
"He's a black guy," Jack said. He pointed to his forehead. "And up here he's got—"