NanoStrike (19 page)

Martin waved a large green-and-gold flag, and, with a roar of engines, eight trucks rolled from the waiting line. Each backed up to a feed station. The rear of the trucks lifted, and garbage slid out. The trucks pulled away, almost in unison, their bodies tilting back to horizontal as they drove off. The next trucks in line took their place.

After three truckloads, eight huge bulldozers roared into life and used their front blades to push the trash into the feed station, and it crashed into the conversion vessel below. The noise and dust and stench were impressive. The guests were quick to respond when Martin suggested they returned to the air-conditioned buses.

After their guests had departed, Nazar, Martin and the professor sat drinking cold beer in the marquee. Nazar raised his can. “Well done, Martin. And you, Professor, your nanobots performed splendidly.” A few remaining Eudon staff bustled about, packing equipment. “Professor, I expected to see David. Where is he?”

“He has t . . . t . . . taken a short break to visit his family. But not to worry, the nanobot technology is fully automated. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am tired and s . . . still have a few things I must attend to.” Without waiting for a reply, the professor left his beer and hurried away. Nazar stared after him. His abrupt departure seemed odd, even for him.

Martin tipped his drink toward the departing academic. “I swear, he gets more eccentric every time I meet him.”

Nazar nodded.

“I’m tired too,” Martin said. “For a people person, you know, sometimes I hate people.” They both laughed. Nazar understood. “The woman from the
LA Times,
” Martin rolled his eyes. “I still don’t think she gets it.”

“Do you know anyone else there?” Nazar asked. “It’s a key publication.”

“Oh, they have good people. She’s just not one of them. Don’t worry, I’ll follow up tomorrow. They’ll be focused on us like a laser beam after tonight’s TV buzz. Get this! Next Sunday, CBS is planning a one-hour
Sixty Minutes
special entitled
Gas from Garbage.”

“Excellent,” Nazar said. He was exhausted. The senator had been very needy, bitching about the heat at every opportunity. He’d loved the ribbon cutting, though, great ego-salve. “I’m flying back to town, want a lift?”

“Thanks, but I have to finish with my people here. I’ll talk with you tomorrow. Have a good night. You deserve it.” Martin stood and shook his boss’s hand. “Nazar, I take my hat off to you, sir. You’ve got the biggest
cojones
in the world to pull this off.”

Nazar accepted the compliment. He’d gone all in, everyone had called, and he’d shown top hand and taken the pot.

At the airport, before he climbed from the helicopter, the pilot shook his hand. “Sir, if you don’t mind me talkin’ out of turn, you’ve done wonders for this area. You’ve brought a lot of jobs, and man, we needed them.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Nazar reveled in the power. Once the conversion chambers started delivering ethanol, he planned to become as influential in America as he was in Jordan.

Keisha awaited him at the top of the airplane’s steps. “Welcome back, Mr. Eudon. We’re cleared for takeoff whenever you are ready. It’s a six-hour flight to New York.”

“Thank you, Keisha; let’s get going, shall we? I’ll freshen up once we’re at cruising altitude.”

“Yes, sir. A cocktail?” Nazar nodded and walked back to his air-conditioned private quarters. Keisha brought his drink. He sipped the martini and stared through the window as the plane rose through clear skies. He was about to become the wealthiest man in history. From rags to riches: the income from the ethanol produced in the three completed conversion tanks would be his first unallocated cash flow for two years.

But the stock offering was where the real money was. Nazar had self-funded the project. He who took the risk, reaped the rewards.

As Phoenix dwindled behind him, he finished his drink and moved to the bathroom. He allowed the shower’s water jets to envelop him. With the flat of his hand, he stroked droplets from the head of the tiled snake. He had seen one in the wild once, in Australia—a sea serpent less than two feet long. One drop of its venom was sufficient to kill a thousand people. Certain death in fewer than two minutes, not even time for an antidote. Yet, despite its deadly weapon, the snake rarely used its poison, mostly choosing to hold back the fatal dose. He felt strong affinity with the small reptile and its selective attack regime. The snake could kill at will, but only did so at its whim.

Keisha’s singsong voice outside the bathroom door interrupted his thoughts.

“I have laid out some comfortable clothes, Mr. Eudon, perhaps a massage?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

He stepped from the shower as she entered, dressed in a colorful kimono. He stood, naked, dripping on the tiled floor, eyes focused over her head, tracing the overlapping scales of the snake mural. After patting his face and neck and toweled his hair, Keisha traversed his shoulders and back, pressing and caressing with the soft towel. He spread his legs, and she patted between his cheeks. Dropping to her knees, she supported him against her shoulder and lifted each foot in turn to dry between his toes. Still kneeling, she turned him and repeated the process in reverse.

“Dry now,” she said and took his hand as she would a child’s and led him to the bed. He lay face down on the fresh towels she had spread. New Age music played as she kneaded the muscles of his neck and shoulders, drawing out the tension. She tapped his back, and he flipped over, admiring her features as she focused, with Zen-like intensity, on the massage.

Twenty minutes later, relaxed, Nazar said, “Thank you, Keisha. That was wonderful.”

She stood, placed her hands together in front of her breasts, and bowed deeply. The neck of her kimono gaped. Her nipples were hard, aroused by the contact. She left him, closing the door with a click.

He propped a pillow behind his head, picked up the remote, pointed, and gave life to the sixty-inch flat-screen on the wall at the foot of his bed. He scanned the five icons at the top of the display’s desktop: Omar, Marwan, Edward (ah, yes, Edward, the young American boy who had wandered from his parents while on holiday; he smiled an inner smile of remembrance), Lufti, and Lana.

Of course, he would choose Lana—the latest, the freshest. Even after multiple viewings, the experience held sufficient enchantment for him. Soon, he knew, it would fail to promote the same vigorous arousal and he would need to add another icon.

But, for now, Lana was perfect.

The screen flickered to life, and Nazar saw himself, disguised as a doctor. Let the games begin.

Chapter 21

After an hour of watching CNN in his Eilat hotel, the information started looping. Quinn washed up and headed for the hotel’s lounge. Two whiskies in, he felt less stressed. He was the only patron at the bar.

Quinn interrupted the bartender, polishing glasses at the far end. “You Israelis aren’t much for drinking, are you?”

“Not like Europeans. Suits me, though.” He waved his hand along the shiny, clean bar.

Quinn smiled. “What d’you make of this G20 stuff?” Quinn nodded toward the muted TV on the back wall, which showed the same footage he’d seen in his room.

The bartender glanced at the screen. “Hard to say; Israel isn’t invited to the meeting, so—”

“Think the Saudis did it?”

He shrugged. “Who knew they were that smart?”

Quinn laughed. “I’m Quinn.”

“Yacob.”

“Pleasure.” Quinn pushed his glass across the bar. “How about one more for the European?” Yacob poured the Black Label freehand this time, neglecting the metal measure he’d used on the previous two drinks.

Quinn checked his watch: 7:10 p.m. “Thanks. The hotel’s awfully quiet. Is this normal?”

“There’s a convention in this week, but they went on the sunset desert tour, won’t be back till late.” Yacob leaned on the bar, no longer feigning work.

“Desert tour, eh? Worth seeing?” Quinn asked.

“Beautiful, and at the same time strange, better in winter, though—too hot this time of year, even at night. Last week they found a young girl out there almost dead from the heat.”

“How’d she get into the desert?”

“No one knows, but she was fortunate. Never would have lasted until morning. She’d have died of thirst.”

Quinn made a face. “Who found her?”

“My friend, Tsvi. He’s a lead driver. The wind had buried most of her under the sand. He thinks that saved her. Strange thing, she had on school clothes. Badly burned, though, so he took her straight to Yoseftal hospital.”

Quinn downed his whisky and pulled a bill out of his pocket. “That’s for you, Yacob. Put the drinks on my room.”

“Sure . . . thanks.”

Quinn ran to the lobby and waved the concierge over. “I need a cab to the hospital.”

“Are you sick, sir?”

“I’m fine. I’m going to visit someone.”

Fifteen minutes later, Quinn arrived at Yoseftal Hospital. He stood at reception and waited while the woman behind the desk finished a phone call.

“Do you speak English?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Great. The girl they found in the desert last week. Is she still here?”

“Are you a relative?” The receptionist turned her head and nodded. Quinn followed her gaze. She’d signaled a security guard, who walked toward them.

“Not related, but I might know who she is, and if I’m right, her parents are desperate to find her.”

“May I help you, sir?” The guard, a few inches shorter than Quinn, had a potbelly and a sidearm. His hand rested on his hip, near the gun.

Quinn pulled out the picture of Adiba. “I met this girl’s father two days ago. Both of his daughters have disappeared. She’s the older one.” He showed the image to the guard and the receptionist. “I don’t have a picture of the younger sister, but she went missing from school last week. Here’s her name.” He flipped the photo over.

“May I borrow this?” The guard held out his hand for the picture.

Quinn hesitated. It was all he had. “I’ll need it back.”

“And who are you?” the guard asked.

“A friend of the family.”

“And you came to Eilat looking for her?”

“Not exactly, I’m here on business.”

“What kind of business?”

Quinn glowered at the man.

The guard threw him a suspicious look, but at least the questioning stopped. “Wait here.” He made a call on the wall phone. Quinn heard Lana’s name. The guard went quiet and struck a waiting pose, holding the handset and staring at Quinn. A few minutes later he spoke again, then hung up, sauntered back to Quinn, and handed him the picture.

“The girl answered to Lana,” he said.

“Can I see her?” Quinn asked.

The receptionist spoke to the guard. Quinn couldn’t understand the language, but her tone indicated she was rooting for him, so he smiled at her.

The guard relented. “Follow me.” They took the elevator to the third floor.

The guard found the duty nurse. “This way,” she said to Quinn. She spoke English with an American accent, causing Quinn to reflect on the positive influence of American TV and movies.

He and the guard followed the nurse along a shiny hospital corridor that smelled of disinfectant—same the world over. She led them into a small ward with four beds, all occupied. They walked to the farthest one. The other patients, two old men and one middle-aged woman, wore headphones, watching CNN on a wall-mounted TV.

The fourth bed had screens pulled around. The nurse slid them back, and Quinn saw the girl, head swaddled in white dressings so only her eyes, nose and mouth were visible. The bedcovers were tented. Quinn had seen the setup before. A metal cage under the sheets kept the material from touching her burned skin.

When the nurse spoke to the girl, Quinn detected a different accent and guessed she must be speaking Arabic—English, Hebrew, and Arabic, impressive—the girl stared at Quinn for a few seconds before shaking her head.

The nurse straightened and her demeanor became less welcoming. “She doesn’t know you.”

“Please, show her this. Ask whether it’s her sister.” Quinn handed Adiba’s picture to the nurse, who held it in front of the girl’s face.

“Adiba . . . Adiba!” The girl became agitated and tried to sit up.

The nurse made calm-down motions with her hands.

“I think she’s the missing girl,” Quinn said. “Her father’s phone number is on the back. Call him. He’s frantic to find his daughter. Maybe she’ll tell her dad what happened.”

Quinn turned and nodded to the guard, who had relaxed his gun hand. The nurse punched the number into the bedside phone. After a long wait, she was connected and started speaking, using both girls’ names in the conversation. She listened for a few seconds, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Are you Quinnborne?” she asked. Quinn nodded.

The nurse held the phone to the girl’s ear.

“
Baba
!” Lana said. Tears trickled from her eyes.

The nurse glanced at the security guard, then at Quinn. “Her father says to thank you.” Quinn smiled. “This girl was dumped in the desert like a piece of garbage. We think she may have been abused, but she won’t talk to us.” Her voice was thick with anger. “We have to sedate her whenever the doctor comes. She goes crazy when she sees him. We thought because he is a man, but she didn’t react negatively to you.”