34
Massina checked his watch. They were roughly five minutes from landing. Time for one more call, maybe two.
He had at least ten important ones to make.
He decided to go with the first one on the list. It was Jimmy Gorman.
Probably not all that important, he thought, punching the number to redial. But it was too late to hang up.
“Louis, is this you?” boomed Gorman’s voice.
“It’s me, Jimmy. What’s up?”
“The governor is hoping to have dinner with you.”
“Are you his social secretary now?”
“I should be so lucky. All that free food? No, he asked me to set it up. He loved your speech. Loves it. Raving about it. Wants to get you to run for office.”
“That is never going to happen,” said Massina.
“Gotta keep him happy. He’ll take away the tax credits on your building if you don’t keep him happy.”
“I received no tax credits for that building.” It was a point of honor for him, and even the hint touched a nerve. “We get no special treatment from the government and we want none.”
“Joking, joking. Relax. Check your schedule and get back to me. I guarantee he’ll be there.”
Massina hung up before Gorman could continue.
The screen in front of him showed the next call he should make, with a note from his assistant: Charlie Rose re. show. Loved what you said at event. Wants to talk personally.
That would be a long call, no? He looked at the next name on the list — a business associate from Colorado interested in a joint venture.
That would be an even longer call.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the steward. “We’re about to land. We lose the satellite on approach.”
“Thank you.” Massina flipped over to his message board, running through it quickly. His assistant had just sent a laundry list of things that he needed to do:
Good Morning America needs an answer.
GM contract ready.
Falco needs—
The screen blinked, and an icon appeared, indicating their communications link had just been jammed.
“Off the grid,” he said to himself, turning off the laptop. “Thank God.”
Massina was at the door before Telakus and Chevy Mangro stirred from their seats; they’d slept nearly the entire flight — a small down payment on nearly a month’s work of sleep deprivation.
A pair of Jeep Wrangler Unlimiteds drove up to the Gulfstream’s ladder. Johansen hopped out of the first one, moving with a spry energy that he’d never demonstrated in Boston or D.C. Shaded by a baseball cap, his tanned face looked twenty years younger. It was only when you stared that you saw the lines around his eyes.
“Welcome to Never-Never Land,” Johansen said. “How was your flight?”
“Fine.”
“Not as luxurious as you’re used to, I guess,” said Johansen.
“I fly commercial.”
“Is that wise from a security point of view?”
Massina shrugged. In truth it probably wasn’t, at least according to Bozzone, but he reasoned that there were security risks no matter what.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for your cell phones and any other electronic devices,” said Johansen.
“I left them in the plane,” said Massina. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Telakus and Chevy had complied. They nodded.
“Good. Let’s get to it.”
Johansen got back behind the wheel; Massina sat next to him, and they drove alone to the “Bunkhouse”—a low-slung building nearly ten miles away that functioned as the facility’s nerve center. Dirt furled up behind them as they drove, Johansen managing a good clip on the hardscrabble trail. An occasional building intruded on the view, which otherwise ran for miles to a row of white-capped mountains that looked to be holding up the sky. Neither man spoke until Massina asked Johansen how Johnny and Chelsea were.
“Very well,” said Johansen. “She’s tough. Stoic. I like that.”
“Chelsea,” said Massina.
“Yup. She’s a hell of a girl.”
“I wouldn’t call her a girl,” said Massina.
“They’re all girls and boys to me,” confessed Johansen.
“Johnny?” asked Massina.
“He’s a natural. But I expected that with his résumé. This was all about team building,” added Johansen. “I wanted them involved because I want them to work with the others smoothly. She won’t be in danger,” he added. “Chelsea will be behind the lines. We won’t take chances.”
“Of course not,” said Massina, though they both knew that was a lie.
35
The knife was crusted with dirt, its edge dull. Even so, Ghadab immediately realized its worth.
He picked up the one next to it on the table.
“How much?” he asked the man.
“Two hundred Syrian pounds.”
“You use the infidels’ money?”
“The government has decreed it lawful,” said the merchant quickly. “If you have our holy currency, of course I would prefer that.”
“And if I have euros?” asked Ghadab.
“I’m sorry, brother,” said the man, looking him over quickly. “I will not be able to help you.”
“Are there places where they can be exchanged?”
“I would not want to deal with anyone who is a barbarian,” said the man. “I’m sure it’s not your intention to sin, and I mean no insult, but the law must be followed.”
So perfect an answer he had surely rehearsed it, thought Ghadab. He picked up the knife he really wanted. “How much for this one?”
“A hundred thousand pounds.”
A hundred thousand pounds would be roughly a hundred euros. Given the quality and age of the blade, it was a bargain, but Ghadab sensed he could get it for far less.
“It’s very old and has to be sharpened,” he told the man.
“Let me tell you about this knife, brother,” said the merchant. “It is a khanjar. It is very special. Used for ceremonies. Oh, an ancient blade — imagine the great men who held this in their hand. Their honor flows to you. Should you buy it, of course.”
“Really? This knife?”
“Do you not know the style? It is distinctive.” The merchant continued, giving him some basic information about how the curved blade would cut, then embellishing this particular one with a story of how it was passed down from a former Iraqi prince.
“How did it make it across the border?” asked Ghadab. He suspected the story had been fabricated, but it was a good tale.
“Ah, how does anything cross a border?” said the man. “I’m told it came across with a tribesman in the last war with the infidels, sold for the price of three meals.”
“I’ll give you three meals for it, then,” said Ghadab.
“I am not as desperate as the tribesman.”
A bit more haggling, and they reached a good price — fifty thousand Syrian pounds. Ghadab took it across the bazaar and found a man to clean and sharpen it while he watched. Two small jewels were missing just above the hilt, and the gold at the top of the dog-bone-shaped handle was worn off, but the curved blade was pristine, strong, well-tempered, and now razor sharp. The weapon was weighted perfectly; it felt like a claw in his hand, one he’d been born with.
He carried it back to his temporary home above the restaurant. Shadaa was waiting for him when he arrived, standing near the door exactly as he had left her that morning, wearing an abaya and hijab, the black robe too long so that it folded on the ground, and her head fully covered, even though they were inside.