Davis thought it was ridiculous to put a company rep in charge of a branch analysis, even if the guy was an expert. The conflict of interest couldn't be more obvious. He decided to let it go for now.
Bastien said, "A show of hands, please — those in favor of the course I suggest."
Three hands shot right up, including Bastien's. Two others followed slowly.
"And against?" Bastien said, now looking rather pleased with his little display of democracy.
Davis raised his hand. Behind a grave expression, however, he too was pleased — and not quite done with his own touch of showmanship. He got up brusquely and stormed from the room.
Jammer Davis careened out the front entrance of Building Sixty-two, a bowling ball just looking for a few pins. He found them idling by a news van. With no further briefings scheduled today, the press pool had thinned down — two bored camera crews. Davis only needed one.
He paused, made sure his board member ID was prominently displayed. He waited for the reporter to hold out his microphone, waited for the red light on the camera. Then Davis made his statement in clear French.
"We continue our investigation into the crash of World Express Flight 801. With respect to possible causes, we have identified a new theory to explore, a technical issue not related to the headlines of yesterday."
And he stopped right there. Left it at that.
"Can you give any further details of this new theory?" the reporter asked.
"No." Davis began to walk away.
The reporter held out his microphone like a fencing foil. "But, sir. Surely there must be more—"
"Go to hell!" Davis yelled in English.
The reporters hand dropped, the microphone dangling by his knee. "Idiot American!" he muttered under his breath.
Chapter TWENTY
Ibrahim Jaber stood near the window of his fourth-floor flat. His arms were crossed over his chest and a cigarette dangled loosely in two fingers. The ashes were long.
The world outside was subdued and gray, fading in the waning evening light. The steep roofs of the buildings along the place des Terreaux were uniformly topped with tiles inspired by the colors of the sun, those pink and orange hues that adorned virtually all architecture on this side of the Mediterranean. Today, however, it was a lie — there was no sun to be seen. Jaber did not like French weather, especially in the winter. The wet, the cold. He dreamed idly of an Egyptian sun, a hard heat that could be taken in and absorbed by the body.
He turned away from the window and drifted into the realm of his modest quarters. It was a one-bedroom suite, reasonably clean, on rue d'Algerie in central Lyon. The lease had been arranged hastily in another's name, and Jaber circulated the story that he was to endure the investigation as a houseguest of his maternal aunt. No one in the CargoAir delegation seemed to mind — Jaber had never strived to be social or well liked. He decided that the others would probably hold a secret celebration, cheer that their demanding boss had sequestered himself with an old spinster. A woman who existed only on paper.
Arms still crossed, Jaber paced in a tight two-step pattern. How had it come to this? he wondered. The lies, the deception. Until recently he had made his way with honest work, getting by on the strength of his intellect and diligence. Indeed, Jaber never doubted that he would have been an unqualified success, a leader 111 his field, had it not been for the curse of his nationality.
Deep down, he wanted to be proud of his Egyptian heritage, proud to have risen from the ancient cradle of civilization. Yet, in his line of work, the lineage gave nothing but misery and unwarranted shame. Engineers who specialized in aeronautical systems integration did not find work in Egypt. Jaber had fallen to become a gypsy, an overeducated whore selling his technical services across the world.
For years he had bounced from here to there, each employer using him for a time, then, when a particular project was complete, casting him aside. No longer needed, no longer useful. The Russians, the French, the Americans, the Japanese. All had taken his help, but in the end offered nothing more than cash, modest severances to help him find the door. His only other earnings were suspicion and doubt, a capital of mistrust borne from the simple fact that his passport had been issued by a predominantly Muslim country.
Many times, Jaber had tried to convince his supervisors that he did not even practice the religion, that his was a life steeped in science, not theology. To no avail. The Americans were the worst — most could not distinguish a Muslim from a Hindu. Anyone from "that part of the world" was simply trawled into the widest of nets and labeled as undesirable. So it was, when the executives of CargoAir had given him this opportunity, a chance to lead, he could not have said no. The effect on his psyche had been almost pharmaceutical in nature — an antidepressant for a depressed career. After toiling for so long, clawing his way up, Jaber had finally been recognized, finally reached the pinnacle. Only to face yet another curse.
Jaber winced as a sharp pain shot through his ribs. He went to his suitcase, fished out a bottle, and extracted two large pills. A glass of water was already there, half empty, and he used it to wash them down. The pain he could deal with. What troubled him more was the tiredness, the utter depletion he had begun to feel recently. Jaber had found out about the cancer just after taking the job with CargoAir. The specialists had given him hope at first, and he'd undergone the terrible treatments. They seemed to work for a time, and his emotions vacillated wildly, each new doctors visit a reason to either buy a case of champagne or jump from a bridge.
Then, just over a year ago, the inevitability of his condition finally settled in. It was at this same time that Jaber was approached with regard to a uniquely challenging project. Indeed, a uniquely dangerous project, one that would strain his technical skills to the limit. For a time, he had wondered why they'd chosen him. Had they known he was a man with nothing to lose? Today he no longer cared.
Gently, Jaber sat in his best chair, allowing his bones to settle. To one side, on an artfully crafted end table, was a framed picture of his family, his good wife and two young sons. The picture was three years old. He had seen them only twice in that time, yet another trial of his rueful existence. They might as well have been taken away and held hostage. In essence, they were. And for Ibrahim Jaber, the only ransom could be his life.
He pulled a phone from his pocket. It was a simple device he had purchased with cash some weeks ago at an anonymous store. Yesterday he had pried and sliced it from its hard plastic shell, run the activation procedure. Now Jaber would use the thing once, then toss it in the trash. Discarded before its time, like so much these days.
The number to dial was engraved firmly in his memory, yet a number he had never before called. Jaber idly touched the keypad on the bulky handset, felt the plastic numbers beneath his fingertips. It was the same keypad, the same ten digits that billions of people might feel under their fingers. But few others knew the combination, the code that would bring Caliph to bear. Jaber had been told that the number was for emergency use only, and his mind began to sift through data, functioning not unlike the operating systems he so diligently designed. Had things really gone that far?
The investigation was stuck at a crawl. But the American was impatient, asking the right questions, arguing the right points. Still, Jaber was confident in his work. In the traditional sense, he was not an artful man, no use with a paint brush or a piano. But he was creative, math and logic being his chosen medium. Jaber weighed it all, then decided the call was necessary. His fingers moved.