NanoStrike (9 page)

Ghazi’s chair scraped the ground and he stood. The sudden change startled Abdul. Was this the end of the interview?

“Thank you for coming. I am glad to have met you, and I wish you a safe journey back to England.
Ma’a salama.
”

“Wait.” The brevity of the audience shocked Abdul. He sprang to his feet. “When and where will you strike?”

“The infidels will be given one opportunity to retreat. If they refuse, they will know the pain my Palestinian brothers suffer every day. Tell your people to heed our warning or face terrible consequences.” Ghazi turned and left the room.

Abdul shut off his recorder. By the time he’d packed away his unused laptop, the driver had appeared at the door. They returned to the hotel at speed and in silence.

When he got back to his hotel room, the message light on the phone was blinking. He’d received two calls: one from Rafiq, checking on him; the second was more interesting.

“Hello, Abdul. This is Adiba. I hope you don’t take offense, but my uncle has offered me his car tomorrow. If you like, I can drive you to the airport in the morning.” She left her number. The sound of her voice made him smile.

He called Rafiq.

“I’m happy to hear from you, Abdul. Are you okay?”

“Sure, I’m fine, but the meeting was strange, he—”

“Not over the phone. Let’s wait till you’re back at the office. And Scott wants you to call him right away.” Rafiq gave him Scott Shearer’s home number.

Abdul hung up from Rafiq and dialed the editor-in-chief. “Mr. Shearer, it’s Abdul.”

“I’m glad Rafiq reached you in time. Did Ghazi show?”

“Yes, I met him.”

“Okay, save it. Nazar Eudon has a press conference tomorrow afternoon in Israel. I want you to represent us.”

“Are you sure? I mean, that’s a business section piece.”

“Well, you’re there. You and Eudon have similar backgrounds. His parents were from Palestine. Try to get a more personal angle on his resignation.”

“His what?”

“Check the Internet.”

“But what if Nazar won’t spend time with me?”

“Bring home the press pack, and we’ll be no worse off. The meeting’s at the Dan Hotel in Eilat. Hire a car. It can’t be far.”

Abdul didn’t tell his dynamic boss he’d never driven a car—he didn’t need one in London.

Next he called Adiba.

A gruff male voice answered. “Alo.”

“May I speak to Adiba, please? This is Abdul-Haqq.”

“Who?”

Abdul was flustered. He’d expected Adiba to answer. He realized, too late, that was unlikely in an Arab household, and it may have been an insult for him to ask for her. He heard voices in the background, and she came on the line.

“Alo, who is this?”

“Hi, Adiba, it’s Abdul-Haqq. I hope I haven’t caused a problem by calling.”

“No, of course not. My father handles a telephone like a sheep with a saucepan.”

Abdul grinned. He pictured her wagging a finger at her father as she spoke. He said, “I picked up your message. A ride to the airport would be great, but I just talked to my boss, and I’m not returning till later in the week.”

“Oh . . . okay, I understand.” She sounded disappointed.

“Unless, that is, you happen to be driving to Eilat.”

The line went quiet.
Shit
, Abdul thought. “Sorry, Adiba, that’s my strange English sense of humor.”

“You are going to Eilat?”

“Yes, I’m due there tomorrow afternoon and—”

“Hold on.” Abdul heard a muffled conversation. Adiba had her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Okay, my uncle says I can take you.”

“No, I couldn’t ask that. I was joking.”

“You don’t want me to take you?”

“Ah . . . yes, of course I do, but it’s too much to ask.” Again the line went silent. Abdul realized he was making a horse’s ass of himself. He sucked in a breath and tried again. “Adiba, if you are sure, and your uncle says you can use the car, I would love a ride to Eilat. I’m supposed to be there by lunch.”

“I’ll pick you up outside the hotel at 7:00 a.m. The drive is about four hours.”

“Great, I’ll book you a room at The Dan Hotel. Bring an overnight bag. Oh, and bring your passport.” If they had time, Abdul wanted to cross into Jordan.

Chapter 11

The next morning, Abdul waited in front of the King David Hotel. After the idiotic way he’d behaved on the phone, he worried she might not show. At 6:55 a.m., a rusty two-door Datsun pulled up, and Adiba leaned over and opened the passenger door.

“Abdul, please put your luggage in back. The trunk lid is broken.”

Abdul tossed his bag on the back seat, next to hers. A worn spring poked up through a six-inch rip in the grimy fabric, and candy wrappers littered the rear floor. He climbed in, and Adiba pulled away with a kangaroo jerk. The speedometer didn’t work. The car had no air-conditioning, so all windows were open, and a sickening grinding sound accompanied each gear shift.

Adiba drove in silence through the city, hands gripped tightly to the wheel, concentrating on traffic. Once they reached the freeway, she turned to him. “I apologize for the car. My uncle is a pig. If I’d known it was this ugly, I would never have offered to take you.” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment; Abdul thought she looked lovely.

“I’d ride in a donkey cart with you to avoid the vicious old cabbie who brought me from the airport.” She laughed. He loved the sound.

Abdul had to shout over the loud thrumming of the wind through the open windows. “Did I embarrass you in front of your family when I called last night?”

“No. Not at all. I am fortunate. My father is the most liberal man I know. He believes many problems of the Arab stem from backward-looking conservative customs. He trusts me, and I would never betray his trust.”

“Have you been to Eilat often?” Abdul knew it was a popular vacation spot.

“Once, for my thirteenth birthday with uncle Hassan and two of my cousins. We swam in the ocean. It is a wonderful memory.”

“You haven’t—” Abdul stopped because Adiba spoke at the same time. “What did you say?”

“No, after you.”

They laughed.

“Why did you never go back to Eilat?”

“I have a sister and two brothers, all younger than me. Father works hard, but Arab laborer pay is poor.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize.” Heat rose in his cheeks. He wished he’d engaged brain before inserting foot in mouth—typical insensitive Westerner.

“Do not be embarrassed. I don’t care to lay on a beach in Eilat. I have a wonderful family. My father encourages my writing. My mother makes a beautiful home. We lack for nothing, but our lives must seem very bland to you.”

“Not at all. In many ways I envy you. London is so fast-paced that it can be easy to forget what is important in life.”

The four-hour drive passed too quickly. The more time Abdul spent with Adiba, the more powerful the attraction. He hoped the feeling was mutual.

While he checked them in at the Dan Hotel, Adiba stood silently by his side, no longer his chatty fellow traveler. The opulence of the hotel appeared to intimidate her.

They ate lunch at the poolside bar. “Are you okay?” Abdul asked once they had ordered.

“Yes.” She stared at her plate.

“Sure?”

Adiba pulled in a deep breath and put down her silverware. She faced him for the first time since they’d started eating. “Abdul, for you this grandeur is familiar. I don’t belong here. It’s nothing you can change.”

They ate their meal in uncomfortable silence. Abdul wanted to regain the feeling from the road trip, but he didn’t know how. When their plates were cleared and he’d paid the check, he said, “I have to go to the meeting now.”

“I understand. I’ll wait in my room.” She stood and headed for the lobby.

He walked after her, placed a hand on her arm. “Why not take a walk to the beach, see whether you can remember where you swam on your birthday?”

Abdul searched her face, but she looked away. “I prefer not. We could go together, later?”

Abdul released her arm. “Sure,” he said, “I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

Abdul found his way to the conference room and joined eight other journalists seated at a large oval table.

Nazar arrived a few minutes later and sat at the head of the table. “Welcome to Eilat. I thank you for taking the time and trouble to meet me. I am yours for an hour, please ask whatever you wish and I will do my best to provide answers.” Nazar’s striking green eyes sparkled. His voice sounded resonant, powerful, yet Abdul thought his smile conveyed genuine warmth.

Most questions centered on the steep fall in Eudon Oil’s stock price, and speculation about his successor as CEO. Nazar repeatedly steered the conversation toward his new venture, Eudon Alternative Energy. When the business discussion tapered off, Abdul asked the one thing that puzzled him the most.

“Mr. Eudon, from a humble beginning you have become one of the richest people in the world. Why risk your wealth and reputation now?”

“Abdul-Haqq, correct?” Abdul was impressed, Nazar had known each of the journalists’ names. “A most perceptive question.”

Abdul smiled, pleased with himself.

“I have never taken a wife. I birthed no children. Not by chance but by choice. I am a driven individual. I could sit back and relax, but that is not living. To live, one must take risks. To truly live, one must risk everything. I regret that this old fool took so long to understand that the world is on a wrong path, and I bear more responsibility than most. I wish to leave a legacy, not to greed and wealth, but to hope and freedom. And I believe I can.”

Nazar’s frankness impressed Abdul, and they exchanged an imperceptible nod, one Arab to another.

The meeting ended, and when Abdul’s time came to depart, he bowed deeply with hands joined respectfully in front as his mother had taught him.
“Ma’a salama.”

Nazar, smiling, returned the gesture. “Abdul-Haqq, you were the sole representative from the UK here today. It is imperative that my new direction is understood in the country where Eudon Oil’s stock is listed. As you will have gathered from today’s discussion, my announcement and resignation took a severe toll on the Company’s share price. If you have no previous engagement, why not join me at my home in Aqaba for supper tomorrow. I could provide depth for your story. Also, I would enjoy meeting you outside the constraints necessary for this formal press briefing.”

Scott Shearer would be delighted by this arrangement, but what about Adiba? “. . . That is most generous, Mr. Eudon. I’d be honored to accept your hospitality.”

“You hesitated. Why? Please speak freely. For if you cannot, you are perhaps not the man I hope to meet tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I expected to be free tomorrow, and I had planned to spend time with a friend, but the arrangement can be changed.”

“I suspect she is an attractive friend.” Nazar winked. “What is her name?”

“Her name is Adiba, and yes, she is beautiful.” Abdul grinned like a schoolboy.

“Well, perhaps you would agree to share her beauty with an old man for a few hours if she is willing to join us. What do you say?”

“I’m sure she’d be excited to meet you.”

“Excellent. That’s settled. My assistant will make the arrangements. I look forward to seeing you and your Adiba tomorrow.”

That evening, Abdul and Adiba sipped mint tea outside a small beachfront café. Their table looked across the Gulf of Aqaba. The light from an occasional hilltop house betrayed the height and scope of the dark mountains that loomed over the city and cradled it against the sea. Nazar’s driver was scheduled to collect them at noon the following day, and Abdul still hadn’t persuaded her to accompany him. She lacked the confidence to visit the home of such a rich and important Arab.

“I can’t, Abdul. I have nothing to wear.” Another in a long list of reasons she had paraded before him.

“Adiba, I must go. It’s why my boss sent me. But I want to spend time with you. I can only achieve both if you join me.” Abdul slid his hand across the small table and laid it on top of hers. She stared at his fingers. Her face screwed tight, as if she were swallowing a lemon. A refusal would break his heart.

“Okay, but you have to help me if I do something stupid and embarrass myself.”

A flutter of excitement sped his pulse, and he grinned. “Of course, and you won’t. Now. Can we order? I’m starving.”

After dinner, they walked for an hour, hand in hand, along the beachfront. He didn’t want the evening to end. He escorted Adiba to her room. They faced each other at the open door, and she reached up and kissed his cheek. He held her bare arms and kissed her lightly on the lips. She responded, but then pulled back and wished him goodnight.

At noon the next day, they sat in the lobby until Nazar’s sleek black Mercedes pulled up. The driver guided them into the rear seat. “I am Mufeed. Do you have your passports?”

“Yes,” Abdul answered for them both.

“The Jordanian border is only a few minutes. The guards know me well, so it will be smooth. Has either of you seen Aqaba before?”

“No,” Abdul said. Adiba failed to respond to the driver. She sat erect, hands locked together on her lap, not even leaning back into the seat. Abdul wondered if he’d made a mistake by insisting she come. She seemed so uncomfortable and nervous.

Twenty minutes after they crossed into Jordan, the car slowed as it approached two wrought-iron gates set in a high brick wall and spanning a broad driveway. At the center of each gate, a coat of arms portrayed a green-and-gold-striped snake with its fangs bared, ready to strike. An armed guard in a pale-green uniform, the snake logo stitched to his breast pocket, stepped from his sentry post and checked the vehicle before opening the gates with a remote.

Mufeed drove them up a long, curved driveway, bordered on either side by manicured palms. As they rounded the top of the drive, the house came into view, and Adiba, who had calmed somewhat on the ride, went rigid and grabbed Abdul’s hand. Nazar’s home was enormous. Abdul counted five stories. Each level featured semicircular balconies facing the harbor below. The white stucco of the walls contrasted with the roof’s red quarry tiles. The edge of each roofline finished with a pagoda-style flourish.