When Quinn finished with Frank, he called the number Scott had given him for Eudon Oil. After being passed around a few times, he reached the voicemail for Nazar Eudon’s assistant and left a message. “Mr. Eudon, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Steven Quinnborne of London’s Metropolitan Police Service. I need to speak with you about an urgent matter involving Abdul Ahmed, who I believe is known to you.” Quinn left his room number; Frank wouldn’t issue him an international cell phone — another power trip.
In the lobby, he showed Adiba’s photo to the concierge. The guy had never seen her. He turned over the picture to where Adiba’s father had written the name of his other daughter. That drew a blank as well. When he returned to the room he had a message from Eudon’s assistant, Keisha.”
Quinn called her back.
“Mr. Eudon’s office.”
“This is Detective Quinnborne, I called earlier.”
“Hello, Detective, I am Keisha. I told Mr. Eudon of your call. He instructed me to help if I can.”
“I was hoping to meet him.”
“Mr. Eudon’s schedule is packed this week. Perhaps if you explain what you want?”
“I believe Mr. Abdul Ahmed and Ms. Adiba Qasim have been abducted. I understand they recently met with Mr. Eudon. He may be able to help.”
“Please allow me to relay this information to him. I will call you back.”
“Time is of the essence, Ms. Keisha.”
Quinn hung up, frustrated. He hated waiting, but what else could he do? In London, he’d be in control. Operating in a foreign country was like wearing an itchy suit; no matter what he did, he was uncomfortable. He sat on the bed and flicked through a week-old copy of the Jerusalem Post. At least it was in English. Suspicions and speculation about the London attack were still front page news: Who was Allah’s Revenge? How did they fit with al-Qaeda? Threat levels were elevated across the Western world.
The business section led with Nazar Eudon’s shift into alternative energy. Apparently, Eudon Oil’s shares had dropped more than fifty percent. No wonder Nazar Eudon was busy. The article speculated on a possible takeover. Bonds were coming due, and the company might not get the loans refinanced because of the stock price. Quinn didn’t understand the details, but he got the idea: Nazar Eudon and his company were in the shitter.
Then Superintendent Porter, the division chief, called.
“Quinnborne, Frank briefed me about you losing Abdul. I want you back in Jerusalem tonight. Fareed Marker from Special Branch arrives late this evening. Update him, then get out of Israel before you cause an international incident! You’re on the 11:00 a.m. flight tomorrow.”
“Sir, I can’t bail on the kid. It’s my fault he got taken.”
“Frank told me you weren’t listening. Quinn, you’re not the right man for the job. Fareed speaks Arabic and Hebrew. He’s got connections with the Israelis. You’re a liability. You’re off the case. I want to see you in my office on your return.”
“Yes, sir.” Quinn hung up. He stared blankly at the cheap prints hanging on the wall, then he kicked the bed.
“Fuck.”
The phone rang again — Keisha calling back. “Detective, Mr. Eudon is most upset to hear that Abdul and Adiba may be in danger. He’s willing to meet you this afternoon. Do you have a vehicle?”
Quinn had his Fiat. “I rented one in Jerusalem.”
“Ah, no, you can’t cross the border in a rental. I will send a car for you. Can you be ready in an hour? You’ll need your passport to cross into Jordan.”
“No problem.” Quinn didn’t understand how meeting Eudon could help either, but at least he was doing something.
He called Scott. “Scott. I need your help.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ve got a meeting with Nazar Eudon in fifty minutes.”
“Okay.”
The line went quiet, just a low static hiss. Quinn searched for a way to avoid telling Scott everything. There wasn’t one. “I’ve been recalled. They’re flying in a replacement from Special Branch.”
“Oh?”
“Scott, damn it, I’m not going to leave Abdul here. I’m going rogue. I need a cell phone. I might need money.”
Scott responded immediately. “Take the meeting with Eudon. I’ll arrange the phone. I can’t believe they sent you without one. Morons… and Quinn?”
“What?”
“You’re a good cop.”
Quinn’s throat tightened. “Thanks, Scott.”
“Bring the kid home, safe.”
“I will.”
He waited thirty minutes in the lobby before a sleek black Mercedes pulled up. The driver held the rear door open for him.
“Mind if I ride up front?”
“As you wish, sir.”
They pulled away and headed for Jordan.
“I’m Quinn, by the way.” He offered his hand to the driver, who shook it warily.
“Mufeed,” he volunteered.
“So we’re crossing the border?”
“Mr. Eudon lives in Aqaba, in Jordan.”
“You from there?”
“I was born and raised in the capital city, Amman.”
“How long have you worked for Eudon?”
“Twelve years.”
“What’s he like?”
Mufeed focused on the road for a few seconds before replying. “He’s a very powerful man.”
Quinn noted the pause. “D’you enjoy working for him?”
“Yes, he pays me well.” Mufeed slowed as they approached two lines of cars waiting to pass into Jordan. “Here’s the border. You’ll need your passport.” They stopped once on the Israeli side, drove a hundred yards across no-man’s land and had their documents checked again by the Jordanians. Both the Israeli and the Jordanian crossing-guards were friendly with the driver. They cleared the border in five minutes.
“You cross the border often?”
“Enough.”
Quinn tried again to shift Mufeed out of monosyllabic land. “So, let me ask you, Mufeed. You’re an Arab. Do you hate the Israelis?”
“No. I don’t hate anyone. But it’s complicated.”
“Sure seems complicated to me,” Quinn said. “I see Arabs and Israelis walking around together like nothing’s wrong with the world, just doesn’t fit with what we read in the newspapers back home.”
Mufeed changed the subject and gave Quinn an Aqaba travelog, pointing out interesting features of the city as they drove through.
Quinn didn’t give a damn about Aqaba. He wanted to know about Nazar Eudon. Reading between the lines, he understood that Mufeed’s boss was a frightening son-of-a-bitch. Judging by their reception at the border, he guessed the border guards got ‘back-handers’ from Eudon’s chauffeur. Mufeed probably had a piece of that action as well.
Quinn doubted he could get more information, and he didn’t want to piss off his ride more than he had, so he stopped talking.
They pulled up at a pair of high wrought-iron gates. A guard came out of a sentry box. He checked Quinn’s passport, and he made Mufeed show a pass.
Thorough, Eudon liked his privacy.
As the car stopped in front of the house, a small Asian woman waited at the bottom of the entrance steps.
“Detective Quinnborne?” she said.
“Please, call me Quinn.”
“And you must call me Keisha.”
“Okay.”
They were both smiling.
“Please, follow me. Your meeting will be brief, I’m afraid. Mr. Eudon leaves for the US in an hour.” She walked ahead of him up the steps in a skirt short enough to show the beginnings of her butt cheeks. Through a tiled hallway, they entered a side room with book-lined walls. A small conference table stood at one end, and a fancy-looking desk at the other. “If you’ll wait in the library, Mr. Eudon will join you.”
Quinn browsed the books, most in English, but also French and Spanish titles, and many languages he had no idea about. Did Eudon read them or were they for show?