The reason for his bold announcement in London lay far from the idyllic presentation of a sudden personal epiphany. Forbes magazine ranked him 276th in their list of the world’s richest people. They based his net worth of $4.6 billion on his seven-percent stake in Eudon Oil. But Nazar had leveraged his stock, risked everything on Dawud Ferran’s nanobots. On paper, he was a billionaire. In reality, he was closer to broke.
Since the Professor’s demonstration in Ohio, a Chinese investment house had accumulated a large short position in Eudon Oil shares on his behalf. Today’s announcement, made after the close of London’s stock exchange, would trigger a huge sell-off in Eudon Oil. As chief executive, he was legally bound to declare any trading in company stock, but China was a long way off, and the Chinese were discreet. He expected to clear five hundred million dollars by covering his positions, betting against his company.
Eudon Alternative Energy was a private company. Its progress and potential were not public record. Nazar owned it one hundred percent, and to date he’d invested two billion dollars to move his nanobot team from Ohio and build the refinery complex in the desert.
With the Chinese funds he could complete the plant. Once the ethanol began flowing and the news media realized he had a solution to the energy crisis, then shares of Eudon Alternative Energy would be offered to the public, and he would take his rightful place at the top of the Forbes Billionaires list.
Nazar Eudon was destined be the most powerful Arab in history, and the richest man in the world.
Chapter 10
When Abdul landed at Israel’s Ben Gurion International Airport a week after getting the Allah’s Revenge letter, nervous energy tingled through him. On his last visit to Israel at age fourteen, a grim-faced Israeli immigration official in a Plexiglas booth had stamped an entry-visa into his passport and glared at Abdul as if he were dirt on his shoe. Now he was returning, a junior correspondent for the Times of London, here to become Ghazi’s “messenger to the world.”
As Abdul strode past the baggage-claim carousels, he took journalistic note of the eclectic crowd. Stressed tourists and costumed nuns mingled with groups of black-suited, dreadlocked Hasidic Jews. Only in Israel.
Abdul walked through the neon-bright, modern airport and out the main exit into the long, broad, concrete arrivals tunnel. Ahead, hundreds of people crowded either side of the entrance, narrowing the corridor as they craned to catch the first glimpse of a son or daughter, aunt or mother. Fifty feet in front, apparently unable to restrain their joy, a half-dozen black-draped women ran forward and clustered around a frail old man, like iron filings latching to a magnet.
Outside, the sticky heat of an Israeli day replaced the air-conditioning of the terminal, and an unstructured crowd invaded Abdul’s Western ideal of personal space.
A short, stocky man grabbed his arm. “Taxi. Taxi to Jerusalem. Very cheap.” He spoke in Hebrew. When Abdul kept walking, the man switched to Arabic, and then tried English. On all sides, people clamored and shouted. Abdul heard German, French and American accents. Blaring car horns and the roar of jet engines added to the confusion. Abdul yanked his sleeve away from the hawker and muscled through the crowd to the front of the taxi rank.
“King David Hotel, Jerusalem, please.”
“Shalom.” The driver was an elderly man in his seventies.
The ride along the freeway to Jerusalem was fast and smooth through green, cultivated farmland.
The driver reached back, tapped Abdul on the knee, and spoke. “When I came to Israel with my family in 1947, this was desert; sand and rock and dust. There was nothing. Nothing as far as the eye could see.” To illustrate his point, the driver waved a hand out of the car window at a field of cotton. Long black irrigation pipes stretched over olive-green bushes peppered with white buds.
“Nobody wanted the land then. Hah! Now look. Israelis turned the desert green. Israelis built roads, and cities, and the airport. Now the Arabs call it their home. We should leave. Yes, now they want Israel back.”
Abdul remained silent. Argument was futile. The driver could accept no other point of view.
“If we give it back, you know what will happen?”
“No,” Abdul said, his voice flat with disgust at the driver’s racist rant.
“I’ll tell you. In twenty years… no, in ten…” Rheumy eyes stared at Abdul in the driver’s mirror. “Yes, in ten years this will be desert again! That’s the Arab for you.” The driver spat out of his window.
As they approached Jerusalem, Abdul strained for a glimpse of the Old City. The transformation from open, arable land to crammed, congested concrete and steel happened suddenly. The cab slowed to a crawl. Traffic was heavy. Vehicles moved in packs, ignoring lane markings. Drivers dived into impossible gaps, gesticulating wildly and leaning on their horns. Teenagers in olive-green Israeli military uniforms with Uzis slung casually across their shoulders dawdled among the crowds.
In contrast, the atrium of the King David Hotel was quiet, calm, and cool. Ceramic floors, high ornate ceilings, and crisply uniformed staff placed him firmly back in the Western world. By 5:00 p.m., he was in his room. He called Rafiq and left a message that he’d arrived.
That evening, his uncles and aunts threw a family party in his honor. More than sixty guests crammed into his uncle’s small, whitewashed tenement home and spilled outside into the dusty yard. The kitchen counters were laden with a colorful mezze of olives, warm pita and humus, baba ghanoush, and crisp, fresh salad. Everyone wanted to speak to Abdul, to shake his hand, to impress him with their plans and dreams. His family was big, and loud, and, he thought, wonderful.
Several young women, blatantly brought as potential mates for their English cousin, stood in a group, shyly sneaking glances at him and giggling behind their hands. His father had warned him this might happen. He successfully avoided them until a second uncle on his father’s side cornered him.
“Abdul-Haqq, allow me to introduce my daughter, Adiba.” The man enunciated his words slowly and carefully. All night, Abdul had struggled with how fast his family spoke their Arabic. Word of his handicap must have spread.
In contrast to her father, a squat dark-skinned man with a stubbly chin, Adiba reminded him of a perfect little doll. She wore form-fitting blue jeans and a simple embroidered cotton top. Her head was covered by a hijab—an elegant scarf that framed her face and wrapped around her neck. The fringes of the hijab matched her blouse. Head slightly bowed, she turned large brown eyes up to meet Abdul’s. The effect befuddled him. She held out her hand. Abdul resisted a strong urge to bend and kiss it, something he had never considered doing in his life. Instead, he gave her a formal handshake and felt color rise in his cheeks.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Adiba.”
“Adiba is a writer, like you, Abdul-Haqq.” The uncle grinned and showed a row of crooked teeth.
Adiba gave the man a gentle punch on the arm. “Father, please, don’t.”
“Well, a young woman should learn a trade in these modern times.”
Now it was Adiba’s turn to blush. This had been a common theme. His relatives desperately wanted to show they were forward-thinking people.
Adiba shook her head. “As usual, my father is confused.” She produced a mock frown and wagged a finger in her father’s face as if scolding him. “Abdul-Haqq, I assure you rumors of my writing are greatly exaggerated.”