The lunch at the executive dining room was a buffet. Tranthan didn’t like the dining room because of its nonsmoking rule. As a consequence, he would always eat quickly and leave. A man of habit, he took tuna on whole wheat toast, lettuce, and no mayonnaise. He had a Diet Coke without ice. And he always ate alone at a table against the wall in the back of the room.
Tranthan could be social if he had to be. For years, he had played the social game. Now he didn’t want to be bothered. There was no one in the room who he cared about. Besides, he could tell from their looks that many knew what was going on with Maggie.
Hell, it’s an intelligence agency. Surely they would know when their executives were having affairs.
But his wife wasn’t just anyone. Her father, the senator, could bring Tranthan down with a phone call.
For her part, Maggie had kept their secret. She was smart — brilliant, in fact — and knew the likely consequences. Now, though, she was out of control — her own control. And there wasn’t a hole deep enough to put her in.
An orderly changing her bedpan could hear something. One misspoken word.
Suddenly, he didn’t feel hungry anymore.
He reached for a cigarette as he walked down the hallway to his office.
“Hey, Mr. Tranthan.”
“Laura?”
“Mr. George is waiting to see you.”
“George?”
“Yes, sir, the IT fellow on Ms. O’Donald’s computer.”
Robert turned and stepped into his inner office.
“Sir, I’m Todd George.” The man wore a tie that looked more like an afterthought. His plaid shirt and plaid tie were a perfect mismatch.
“You’ve got the computer from our agent in Doha?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s on it?”
“Nothing. At least nothing retrievable.”
“That’s not much help, Mr. George.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were the one who pulled the photo off our security officer’s cell?’
“Yes, sir, what was left of it.”
“Bad?”
“Yes, sir, very bad.”
“I need you to do the same on her computer. It is important.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, if you find out anything let me know. Let me know directly. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The startled look on George’s face told Tranthan that the young man had never had been ordered to deliver information to only one person.
Tranthan repeated his order. “You understand?”
“Absolutely, yes, sir.”
“Thanks.” Tranthan absentmindedly pointed toward the door. It was rude for even him, but this had been a particularly bad week.
“Oh, Mr. Tranthan, I can say one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“The computer downloaded the contents of a flash drive just before it was destroyed. It was one of the new ones from EMC2.”
EMC2 didn’t mean anything to Tranthan. He assumed it was some sort of cutting-edge IT company.
“Was the flash drive found?”
“No, sir, I checked the inventory. No flash drives. But even if we find it, we will also need the password. This equipment is made to be pretty much bulletproof if someone wants to flush something.”
“I imagine it would be.” Again, Tranthan looked to the door, putting the cigarette to his mouth. “Thanks again, Mr. George.”
CHAPTER 31
“You’re going to the BBC?” The editor of Al-Quds
Al-Arabi was standing at Sadik Zabara’s door.
William Parker looked up from his computer in the cubbyhole that was his office. It was an old building, and its windows tended to let the wintery London air seep in. On mornings like this, Parker typed his stories while wearing a sweater and a coat.
“Yes.”
“What’s the meeting about?” Atwan was more than just the editor of Arab Jerusalem, the English translation of the newspaper’s name. He was the soul of the newspaper. Born in a refugee camp in Gaza, Atwan had survived the worst of Deir al-Balah. He and his little paper were unknown until a man named bin Laden granted the newspaper and its editor one of the first interviews.
“A tomato factory.” Parker was tossing a jab at his boss. He knew that Atwan spent much of his youth working slave labor in a tomato factory. It was Zabara’s way of saying leave me alone and read it when it’s done.
“Well, who are you meeting with?”
“BBC’s chief producer for Five Live,” Parker said, not wishing to make an enemy for no reason. Five Live broadcasted the news live for the BBC around the world. “I want to discuss with him the House of Saud’s influence on the media.”
“Oh. Excellent!”
Atwan’s paper only had a circulation of around fifty thousand, but it thrived on cutting-edge stories from the Arab world. Online, it was read by more than two million unique users every day. Some questioned the stories’ accuracies, but the stories certainly attracted attention. It had been a rub with Al-Arabi and many in the Arab world that the West never told a story that criticized the royal family and the House of Saud. If the king of Saudi Arabia didn’t like what was being said, he would affect advertising. And if the king were truly angered, he would affect the price of oil sold to Great Britain.
“Your article on America’s support of the upper class in its idea of democracy in the Arab world was excellent. Washington didn’t like it.” Atwan paused. “Which is always a definition of a good article for our paper.”
Parker nodded pleasantly, then checked his watch. “Oh, I must go. The meeting is at White City. As sala’amu alaikum, brother.” William Parker smiled and clasped Atwan’s hand.
“Yes, walaikum as sala’am!”
Atwan and Al-Arabi were not far from White City. A short ride on the Hammersmith & City line would take Parker to the BBC’s Broadcast Centre, a complex of buildings from which the BBC broadcast its television, radio, and Internet shows. But it was a long walk to the Hammersmith station.
Parker flew through the walkers strolling down King Street. He looked at the time on his PDA as he grabbed the next tube on the pink Hammersmith & City line. The commute was only twenty minutes as the train passed by Goldhawk Road and Shepherd’s Bush Market. At Wood Lane, he switched to another subway that took him the short distance to White City.
The BBC’s headquarters were a complex of buildings directly across from the train station. The glass, steel, and gray brick structures covered several blocks. In the center, a doughnut-shaped modern structure reflected the glint off its glass of the early winter’s bright sun.
The security guard gave Parker a glance of doubt. His beard was now several days old, his sweater worn, and his gray cotton pants well used. He looked suspect.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I have an appointment with Daniel Suthby.”
“Do you have some identification?”
Parker thought for a second.
“No, I don’t.” Parker hadn’t really thought about it, but any identification may not have been much help. He had his Serbian passport back at the flat, which would have probably caused more trouble than not having any identification.
“But please call Mr. Suthby and tell him Sadik Zabara is here.”
The guard’s face showed doubt, but he went to the telephone on the far side of the desk. As he passed the other guard, he whispered to him. Both guards kept a watchful eye on Zabara while he called. But the guard’s face changed again when he spoke to the person on the other end of the line.