She hung the towels and the washcloths and unwrapped the soaps, putting one in the dish next to the sink and one in the dish in the shower. "Dinner is at eight, Mr. Sadat," she said. "Is there anything else you need?"
"Nothing, I thank you."
Her eyes went past him to his open suitcase. "But-I thought my mother said you were a software engineer." I am.
"You have no computer?"
He did not. He would never be so imprudent. He carried a flash drive in his left-hand pocket at all times. It was an indulgence, to carry that much information around with him, but it was necessary, and it was small enough to be easily disposed of at need. The information on it, mostly names and contact information, was encrypted and he backed it up to an online server in a name he never used for anything else.
But she was still wondering about his lack of computer, so he said, "I left it at work."
"Oh." She was doubtful but accepting. "Most engineers bring their work home with them." She met his eyes and a delicate flush stained her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sadat. It's none of my business."
He smiled to show no offense taken, and changed the subject. "You and your mother don't wear the hijab."
A wary expression crossed her face. "The hijab is traditional, not religious."
"You and your mother are reform, then?"
This time her answer had teeth in it. "There is nothing in the Koran that advocates the hijab."
He surprised them both by laughing.
"What's so funny?" she said, still hostile, and a little bewildered.
The laughter had felt good. It had been a long time since he had laughed out loud. He sighed. "You sounded like my sister," he said simply.
"Oh," she said. She sensed his sorrow, and her hostility drained away. "My father-"
"Yes, I know, your mother told me," he said.
Again she was surprised. "She did?"
"That he wished for you to go to school. It is easy from that to understand the rest. Thank you for the towels and the soap. I will see you at dinner."
"Oh," she repeated. "Of course. Until dinner, then."
The door closed softly behind her and he stood where he was, listening to her footsteps go down the hall.
13
ISTANBUL, DECEMBER 2007
The messages were waiting for her when she got back to the hotel. She called the instant she got to her room and was greeted with, "Where the hell have you been?"
"Touring the topless towers of Ilium for Smithsonian magazine," she said.
"What? Are you all right?" Hugh Rincon did not consider poetry necessary, and Elizabethan poetry even less so.
"Girl's gotta earn a living," Arlene Harte said.
"Whatever. Call me back from a pay phone?"
"All right."
She found a coffee shop whose owner was willing to accept an exorbitant amount of money for the privilege of loaning out his telephone, a massive black instrument that looked as if it had been used by George Raft to call in a hit on Humphrey Bogart. It even had a dial, and its cord was straight.
It was at least in the owner's office, and the owner's office had a door that closed. She negotiated her way through the intricacies of Turkish long-distance and a short time later had a surprisingly clear connection to London. "What's up?"
"I need you to go to the Renaissance Polat Hotel and find someone with a good memory who remembers an International Maritime Organization conference held there a couple of weeks ago."
The desk had a tattered phone book on it and she was already puzzling her way through the Turkish Yellow Pages. "Okay, got it. What do you need?"
"Someone masquerading as an officer in the U.S. Coast Guard attended the conference, I think to contact someone else who was attending legitimately."
" 'Someone'?"
"The someone is what I want you to find out. The guy masquerading as the Coastie was Isa."
She drew in a breath and blew it out again. She knew who Isa was. She'd been doing a story on Petra in Jordan when the Baghdad bomb had gone off. "Are we sure he's gone? I've always enjoyed being in one piece."
"Oh yeah, we're sure," Hugh said grimly, "because we're pretty sure he's in the U.S. "
Arlene felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. "Holy crap."
"Yeah. Anyway, I FedExed a package with photos to your hotel this morning."
"What exactly do you want to know?"
"If anyone remembers Isa, who was traveling under the name of Adam Bayzani. Commander Adam Bayzani. Find out if he was seen with anyone else. If he was, find out if anyone overheard any part of that conversation."
"You know you're dreaming, of course," she said. "This is Isa we're talking about, the practically invisible terrorist."
"I know," Hugh said gloomily. "Realistically, best-case scenario is you find his maid, who says he was such a nice young man, every morning he left a generous tip on his pillow. This guy won't even pick up a phone, he does everything anonymously via email with multiple addresses he never uses more than once. After we took out his boss, I'm guessing he won't even use satellite phones anymore. But he was at that conference, I'm sure of it. It lasted three days. Someone has to have seen him doing something." In spite of himself his voice rose. "Somewhere!"
She said nothing and Hugh got himself back under control. "Anything, Arlene, any scrap of information you can dig up is more than we've got now."
"Who am I working for, Hugh?" she said slowly. "This is starting to sound personal."
"It is personal," he said. "Sara was at the conference. He rode down in the elevator with her the first morning."
"Jesus Christ."
"She was in uniform, Arlene, and they introduced themselves. And as I'm sure you recall, Isa doesn't suffer a witness to live."
"I remember," Arlene said soberly.
"But for the record, you're working for us, or at least it'll be our name on the check."
"But?"
"But our friends across the pond are footing the bill."
"So, you're saying I can pile on the expenses."
"Anything, any scrap of information, Arlene," he said again, not responding to the joke. "Solid gold."
ARLENE HARTE, MIDFIFTIES, COMFORTABLY PLUMP, DETERMINEDLY blond, and relentlessly single though far from celibate, had reported from the various fronts of global wars for the Associated Press for long enough to earn a recognizable byline, a syndicated column, and an occasional spot on Washington Week in Review. Gunfire, however, had palled after thirty years, though travel had not, and there followed a comfortable retirement, the most part of which she spent freelancing articles for the Smithsonian, National Geographic Traveler, and Travel + Leisure.
The rest of her time was spent working freelance as a spy for her country, ferreting out information that opposition organizations and nations would much rather not be unearthed. Hugh Rincon had recruited her when he'd been on the Asian desk at the CIA. When he had resigned, she followed him to the Knightsbridge Institute, where the governmental oversight of company activities was significantly less, the pay was pleasurably more, and the job was, to say the least, eclectic. Arlene was invaluable to them. Her cover as a freelance writer, especially with her CV, got her in many a door that would be closed to anyone else, and her unthreatening appearance coupled with a ferocious intellect, an almost preternatural capacity for assimilating the details of global current affairs, and a gift for sniffing out people who liked to talk did the rest. It didn't hurt that she could write, her reports a model of clarity and a gold mine of intelligence. As soon as the intel in them cooled off they were commandeered by the instructors to show the new guys how to get the job done.