“You are an ambitious man,” said the secretary at last, showing no emotional reaction whatsoever.
“You have said that before.”
It was not meant to be a compliment.
“No one has ever doubted you, Yousef.” The secretary stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. He signaled for his servant with the wave of his hand. “Oh, by the way, Saudi Aramco informs me that it is best that we reduce our production.”
“Yes?”
“The production of El Haba will need to be tightened.”
Yousef frowned at the thought of his family’s income being reduced, especially as a childishly punitive measure.
“I’m afraid that we all must sacrifice some, my cousin.”
Yousef bit his tongue and nodded. The message had been sent and there was no point in quarreling about it now.
The secretary turned to face Yousef squarely. “Our stability here relies upon the stability of the American market.”
So that was it? Yousef had been summoned to receive a warning against reacting too severely to the attacks on the al Queda leadership — against carrying out any major, anti-American operation before the Council had finished its byzantine maneuvering and named a successor?
“I understand.” Yousef acknowledged the warning without agreeing in any way. “Are we finished?”
“While you are here, you must go by your father’s home.”
“There is nothing there for me.”
“My brother, Riyadh will always be your home. Do not turn your back on it.”
CHAPTER 19
The glare of the afternoon sun made the young receptionist’s computer screen nearly impossible to read. She sighed and rose to adjust the blinds. Her abayah and pashmina shawl met the traditional requirements of the Muslim newspaper but, in direct sunlight, felt almost unbearably hot. As she stepped to the second-floor window, she noticed a man standing across the street, looking up at the newspaper office. The unwavering attention struck the receptionist as unusual because the building was nondescript, especially for the shops and stores of King Street, and had no signage whatsoever. Most would not have even known that the Muslim newspaper was located there but for a speakerphone at the street entrance that had the tiny words Al-Arabi taped to it. But the man kept staring at the second-floor windows and, in turn, at the receptionist as she lowered the blind.
“What’s he up to?” She spoke to the other woman who shared the front office.
“Who?”
“There’s a man across the street.”
Together they peeked around the shades. The man continued to watch, standing there in his strange, black-and-white striped sweater hat pulled down over his ears, long black beard, and zipped, collared jacket. He paused only to look down at a map he was holding, and then resumed his watch over the newspaper’s building.
Both women were on edge, like all who worked at Al-Arabi, and with good reason. The newspaper itself was always on edge. It wasn’t under the threat of any radical Muslim or jihadist. On the contrary, many thought of the paper as the voice of the radical and fundamentalist Muslim community. But such popularity bred unhealthy obsessions, plus opposition from extremists from other camps. Not to mention the attention of numerous government agencies.
“He’s coming.” The first secretary spoke the words as the man folded the map, placed it in his coat pocket, and then started to cross the hectic street toward the building.
“Should we call the guard?”
The guard was the oversized, overweight man who always wore the same suit, one too small, and was kept by the newspaper to provide security around the clock. He had to turn his shoulders to walk down the narrow stairs of the second-floor flat. But at the moment he was in the back, taking one of his notorious naps. He was effective in providing an imposing wall between the workers and any unwanted visitor, but generally he had little to do. He was there more to appease the women who were constantly on edge.
“Hello.” A voice crackled over the speaker. The traffic noise often made it barely audible.
“Can I help you?” The first secretary spoke into the box with hesitation.
“Yes, I looking for Zabara.” The man seemed to struggle over the English words. “Sadik Zabara.”
“Come up.”
The other receptionist gave her a shocked glare of displeasure at the invitation. They both stood behind the first desk as they heard the door swing open and heavy steps coming up the stairway.
Close up, the visitor’s skin shone a milky white. His black beard and dark curly eyebrows gave the impression of a Rasputin. He had unforgettable eyes. One was brown and the other green.
“Yes.” The man worked hard to choose his words, then resorted to what he’d said before. “I looking for Zabara. Sadik Zabara.”
“May I ask why you would want to talk with Mr. Zabara?” In his very short time at the paper, Zabara had earned the respect of both women. In the international language of the sexes, he was tall and attractive. He also seemed very determined. So far he’d worked late, very late, and he always smiled at the receptionists as if he appreciated what they did to help produce the weekly paper.
“Zabara a friend of my friend.”
“And who are you?”
“We both from Sarajevo.”
“Oh, you are from Bosnia?”
“Bosnia, yes.”
“And your name?”
“Knez. Jovan Knez.”
“Knees?”
“I write for you.” Knez took a pad from the desk and wrote out Jovan Knez. He wrote down the telephone number to the small hotel where he was staying. “Please tell him it involves General Delić. I am a Crni Labudovi. A black swan.”
“A black swan?”
“Yes. He will know.” Knez pulled up his sleeve to show the tattoo of a small black swan with the words crni labudovi in script underneath.
“And that is labudovi?” The first secretary wrote down on the note laboodovey. It was wrong but close enough.
“Yes, yes.”
The man turned and headed down the stairs. Both women turned to the window, following the stranger as he crossed over and headed down King Street, toward the Hammersmith tube station.
He didn’t know it, but William Parker had only missed the stranger by an instant. As he walked out of the entrance from the tube station, the man passed him walking in. They exchanged glances, but neither recognized the other. For the time being, it kept one of them alive.
“Mr. Zabara.” The secretary waved at Parker as he came up the stairs to the newspaper. They knew his step, as he would always take two to three steps at a time.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Zabara, a man came to see you.”
William Parker gave the first girl a brief look, a look of confusion.
“Who?”
“He left this note.” The note was a yellow Post-it. In pen, it said Jovan Knez—Delić. And in a different handwriting, the word laboodovey. One word stood out: Delić.
“Thank you.” Parker put the note in the pocket of his Barbour jacket, turned around, and yelled over his shoulder. “I’m going to get some coffee. Can I get you two something?”
“No, thank you.” They both spoke over the other’s words.
He smiled and walked back out to the street, crossing over through the traffic to the small coffee shop near the other train station, Ravenscourt Park, which lay just across the street from the Hammersmith tube. He preferred the smaller station, as the coffee shop afforded him a wide view of the street and the much busier Hammersmith tube station across the street. Any pedestrian traffic using the London subway would more likely come from the Hammersmith station, and anyone heading to the newspaper’s office would most likely pass through the Hammersmith tube entrance. He paid for a cup of Colombian coffee, with low-fat cream, took a table in the back, near the window, pulling his chair up against the wall, and sat so that no one was behind him. He pulled out the PDA and entered the password.