From his bottom drawer, David retrieved the thermos flask he carried every day with his packed lunch. When he opened the lid, a few wisps of vapor escaped as the dry ice within evaporated. He bedded the test tube snugly in the center of the cold crystals, secured the cap, and placed his precious cargo in his backpack next to his laptop.
David slung the bag over his shoulder and, for the final time, left his Phoenix office.
Chapter 8
Two weeks before the Oxford Circus tube train attack, Abdul Ahmed weaved past dozens of work cubicles identical to the one he’d just vacated on the third floor of the Times of London headquarters. He skipped up the stairs to the fifth floor, nodded to the receptionist, and headed to his senior editor’s office.
He glanced at the letter in his hand and tapped on the door.
Rafiq looked up from his monitor. “What’s up, Abdul?”
“Sorry to interrupt. Can you take a look at this? I think it might be important.” Among his morning mail, Abdul had received a letter, hand-written in Arabic and postmarked from East Jerusalem. He had translated it and now handed a printout and the original to his boss.
Rafiq scanned the document then pointed to the single-word signature, a swirling Arabic rendition of the name Ghazi, which translated as one-who-struggles. “Do you know this man?”
“No, but my family may. I could call my uncle and check.”
“Let’s wait until we’ve spoken to the chief.” Rafiq pressed a speed dial on his desk phone, and the editor-in-chief’s secretary picked up. “Amy, is Scott available for ten minutes?”
“I’ll see.” A few seconds later, she came back on the line. ”Come on up, Rafiq.”
Abdul had met the editor-in-chief only once when, six months before and fresh out of college, he’d landed his first job as junior Middle-East correspondent for the newspaper.
Two walls of Scott’s sixth-floor office were lined with tables covered in papers and Post-it notes. Cleaners were forbidden to enter the room unless Scott was present, in case they disturbed anything. Scott Shearer, a small, wiry man, sat behind an oversized desk, also strewn with papers. White hair, the result, he often claimed, of twenty years spent answering stupid questions, topped a lined face. He looked all of his fifty-five years, plus maybe another ten.
Rafiq handed over the letter and the translation, which his editor began reading as he waved at two chairs on the other side of the desk.
“Whose translation?”
“Mine, sir,” Abdul said.
“I’ve checked, Scott. It’s perfect,” Rafiq said, and Abdul smiled.
“Can we verify the source?”
“Abdul suspects they got his contact information from his family in Jerusalem. He’s volunteered to call his uncle.”
Scott lifted his head and stared at Abdul with ferret eyes — gray, and hard. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” The intensity of Scott Shearer’s stare was the stuff of Fleet Street legend. Abdul felt its heat. “Have we heard of…” Scott released Abdul from his glare and glanced at the translation, “… Allah’s Revenge before today?”
“Seems to be a new group,” Abdul said. “I did a Google search. It’s a generic term for any disaster that happens in the West. The financial meltdown was Allah’s revenge, AIDS is Allah’s revenge, also the 2004 tsunami, 9/11 and so on.”
“The letter says they want to meet you, Abdul, to ‘instruct’ you about their mission and make you…” Scott faced Abdul as he emphasized the last few words, “… their messenger to the world.”
Scott stood, turned his back on them, and paced the length of the full-wall window, which was the only indication they were in the office of the most influential newspaper editor in London. “If Ghazi is a terrorist, you might not want him making house calls on your family. On the other hand…” Scott reached the end of the window, stopped, and gazed out at the dreary English rain. “… I’m not comfortable involving the police. If it’s a hoax, we’ll look stupid, and if not, by the time they’ve finished plodding about it’ll be worthless.”
“I could take the meeting.” The words tumbled from Abdul’s mouth and his heart rate tripled. Could this be a breakthrough story so early in his career?
Scott terminated his examination of the window and focused on Abdul. “What do you think, Rafiq?”
“Depends on what we hope to gain.” Rafiq also faced his junior correspondent. “Do you want to do this, Abdul?”
“Yes, I think it could be important.”
Scott sat opposite them and folded his hands on the desk. Abdul received the stare again. The room went quiet for five beats. Throat tight with nerves, Abdul swallowed, twice.
Scott said, “You do understand the risks? You wouldn’t be the first journalist taken hostage.”
“I’ve thought of that, sir. They’re an unknown organization. They want publicity. Hamas or Al-Qaida can take hostages and use them as leverage. But if a new group shows bad faith at an initial meeting, no one will ever deal with them.”
“You still have family in Jerusalem, right?”
“Yes. My parents and siblings were the only family members to leave.”
“Okay, Rafiq, let’s set it up.” Scott scanned the letter. “They’re going to call him at the King David hotel in Jerusalem at 6:00 p.m. next Wednesday. Abdul, why don’t you go a few days early? Visit with your family. Adjust to the time zone and the language.”
“Thank you sir, I’d like that. It’s been many years since I was back.”
“No, thank you, young man, and good luck.” Scott stood and took a firm grip of Abdul’s hand across the desk. “Rafiq will set up a communications regimen. Don’t miss a scheduled call or you might find the cavalry smashing into your room and turning you out of bed.”
Scott’s mouth smiled, but his eyes did not.
Chapter 9
One week before the tube train massacre, Nazar Eudon stood stage center at a wooden lectern in the Hilton London Metropolis Hotel. Dressed in a seven-thousand-dollar charcoal-gray suit, power tie, and white shirt, he presented a carefully crafted look.
Nazar’s face, surgically tightened to wrinkle-free perfection, stared from two huge screens mounted at each side of the stage. Colored contact lenses transformed his brown eyes to a striking green; dark hair, supplemented with implants at the crown, graduated in tone so it blended into his trimmed, silver-gray beard.
Most of the audience at the International Alternative Energy Symposium was pro-renewables. Nazar’s selection as keynote speaker had met with resistance from members of the organizing committee. But after his marketing VP e-mailed Nazar’s speech to the chairman, Nazar had prevailed.
As he reached the conclusion of his twenty-minute talk, Nazar was about to drop a bomb.
“I am honored that in this room, with my competitors and peers in the energy business, sit Nobel-prize winning scientists, leaders of the world’s finest academic institutions, and political representatives from more than thirty nations.” As he referred to them, Nazar made eye contact with a few of the five hundred seated luminaries.
“I wish to apologize to you all.”
People fidgeted in their seats as he scanned the crowd and allowed his words to hang for a silent three-count.
“I am sixty-four-years old. It has taken me until now to understand that my life’s work has contributed more than most to the tragic despoiling of our fragile planet… obviously, I am a slow learner.” His wry smile triggered a smattering of laughter and eased the tension. “I plan to make amends. Today, I formally and publicly reject the business model that has made me a rich man. Today, from this platform, I am announcing a new direction for Nazar Eudon.” Nazar bowed his head to emphasize contrition.