Whitewash (11 page)

William Sidel waved a hand at Glenn Owens, motioning for him to make himself comfortable in one of the two black leather chairs reserved for guests. Sidel’s corner office was a triangle, two of the three walls floor-to-ceiling glass, triple-paned to block out the sounds of trucks below and positioned to look out over the Apalachicola River. However, guests faced only one of the walls of glass and instead had the best view of what Sidel liked to privately call his wall of honor. There, framed photos and magazine covers defined his life and reinforced to visitors just how important he was.

Sidel knew Glenn Owens wouldn’t be impressed by the political photos. Okay, cancel out the ones with both Presidents Bush and Clinton along with the current president. Although he caught Owens’s eyes lingering on the one of Sidel with Reagan. Likewise, he was pretty sure Owens wouldn’t care much about any of the framed magazine covers with Sidel’s face next to headlines like The Environmental Wizard.

No, he knew exactly what would move Owens to respect him, to open up his checkbook. And Sidel refrained from grinning when he saw Owens’s eyes slide down and stop at the photo of Sidel with General Schwarzkopf and another next to it with him in the middle of a group of National Guardsmen. Never mind that the latter was shot outside a training camp in Florida. Sidel had purposely had the photo cropped tight so the background remained indecipherable in the hopes it would be perceived as some mess-hall barracks in Iraq.

“Senator Allen seems to think this process of yours is our ticket away from OPEC and all those Middle Eastern bloodsuckers.” Owens didn’t waste time or words.

Sidel was pleased. Rather than answer immediately, he went to the mahogany cabinet behind his desk and slid open the top, revealing an assortment of bottles and glasses. Without asking, he broke the seal on a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, poured two fingers and handed it over the desk to his guest.

Owens didn’t bother to hide his surprise. It was just one of the unpublicized facts Sidel had been able to dig up on the man who thrived on privacy. Well, Sidel hadn’t actually dug it up himself. That’s what he had staff for.

“You saw for yourself. The poor guy can’t stomach to be around this stuff and yet that’s how much he believes in it.” Sidel poured himself some of the Scotch to be polite though he didn’t much like it. He’d rather have a couple of beers. He held up his glass in a salute and watched Owens take a long sip. He wanted to tell the silver-haired tightwad that he’d end up filthy rich without Owens’s measly ten-million-dollar investment. But then it wasn’t necessarily the money that mattered to Sidel. He could already buy whatever he wanted, whomever he wanted.

The phone interrupted. Sidel looked at Owens and he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “This must be terribly important for my staff to interrupt us.”

He grabbed the phone and instead of a greeting said, “What is it?”

“We have a problem.”

Sidel caught himself from jerking forward and blinked in surprise, glancing down to see, indeed, that the call had come in on his direct line.

“That’s why I pay you the big bucks,” Sidel said, shooting Owens a smile. “If there’s a problem, take care of it.” And he hung up the phone.

William Sidel waved a hand at Glenn Owens, motioning for him to make himself comfortable in one of the two black leather chairs reserved for guests. Sidel’s corner office was a triangle, two of the three walls floor-to-ceiling glass, triple-paned to block out the sounds of trucks below and positioned to look out over the Apalachicola River. However, guests faced only one of the walls of glass and instead had the best view of what Sidel liked to privately call his wall of honor. There, framed photos and magazine covers defined his life and reinforced to visitors just how important he was.

Sidel knew Glenn Owens wouldn’t be impressed by the political photos. Okay, cancel out the ones with both Presidents Bush and Clinton along with the current president. Although he caught Owens’s eyes lingering on the one of Sidel with Reagan. Likewise, he was pretty sure Owens wouldn’t care much about any of the framed magazine covers with Sidel’s face next to headlines like The Environmental Wizard.

No, he knew exactly what would move Owens to respect him, to open up his checkbook. And Sidel refrained from grinning when he saw Owens’s eyes slide down and stop at the photo of Sidel with General Schwarzkopf and another next to it with him in the middle of a group of National Guardsmen. Never mind that the latter was shot outside a training camp in Florida. Sidel had purposely had the photo cropped tight so the background remained indecipherable in the hopes it would be perceived as some mess-hall barracks in Iraq.

“Senator Allen seems to think this process of yours is our ticket away from OPEC and all those Middle Eastern bloodsuckers.” Owens didn’t waste time or words.

Sidel was pleased. Rather than answer immediately, he went to the mahogany cabinet behind his desk and slid open the top, revealing an assortment of bottles and glasses. Without asking, he broke the seal on a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, poured two fingers and handed it over the desk to his guest.

Owens didn’t bother to hide his surprise. It was just one of the unpublicized facts Sidel had been able to dig up on the man who thrived on privacy. Well, Sidel hadn’t actually dug it up himself. That’s what he had staff for.

“You saw for yourself. The poor guy can’t stomach to be around this stuff and yet that’s how much he believes in it.” Sidel poured himself some of the Scotch to be polite though he didn’t much like it. He’d rather have a couple of beers. He held up his glass in a salute and watched Owens take a long sip. He wanted to tell the silver-haired tightwad that he’d end up filthy rich without Owens’s measly ten-million-dollar investment. But then it wasn’t necessarily the money that mattered to Sidel. He could already buy whatever he wanted, whomever he wanted.

The phone interrupted. Sidel looked at Owens and he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “This must be terribly important for my staff to interrupt us.”

He grabbed the phone and instead of a greeting said, “What is it?”

“We have a problem.”

Sidel caught himself from jerking forward and blinked in surprise, glancing down to see, indeed, that the call had come in on his direct line.

“That’s why I pay you the big bucks,” Sidel said, shooting Owens a smile. “If there’s a problem, take care of it.” And he hung up the phone.

Washington, D.C.

Abda Hassar pulled his taxicab to the curb and waited. Delivery trucks and vans were required to go around to the back. Two Capitol police officers patrolled the front, one with a whistle constantly in his mouth, the other waving through limos and scolding vans attempting to double-park. But at this time of day Abda was allowed to park without reprimand or notice.

He opened a new bag of sunflower seeds and popped several into his mouth. This was his second bag. He hadn’t had anything to eat all day. His tongue shoved the seeds into his cheek, and he began sucking the salt from the roasted shells. He pushed his Ray-Ban sunglasses up to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. Three hours of sleep a night used to be enough. Not anymore. By day he drove his cab. It allowed him a communications system without drawing suspicion. By night he handed out assignments and strategized their plan.

He pulled down the bill of his Red Sox baseball cap and sat back, his head leaning against the headrest. He wanted to close his eyes just for fifteen minutes, even ten. But of course he couldn’t risk it. He avoided looking at those who passed the cab trying to determine whether it was available. Sometimes he got an idiot or two who tapped the window and slapped the hood to get his attention.
Couldn’t they read the Off Duty sign lit up on top?
Americans were simpleminded and rude.

Abda glanced at his laminated license on the sun visor. The silly smile bothered him, a flagrant disguise that he worried more than anything else would trip him up. The photo, taken only a year ago, looked like a boy, clean-shaven, close-cropped hair and that smile. His friend and associate, Khaled, had suggested he smile, not just for the photo but often.

“Americans expect us Arabs to scowl and look sullen,” Khaled explained. “Be friendly and polite. Greet them. Wish them a good day and always, always smile. They will not know what you are up to.”

Abda had been in America almost ten years now. After 9/11 he practiced his English until his Middle Eastern accent was all but gone. He wanted no association with the mongrels who flew planes into buildings with innocent people. There were much better ways to accomplish a goal, to make a powerful statement. And if anyone needed to pay with a life it should be a company or a country’s leaders, not its people. This was what Abda Hassar believed. This was what brought him to this mission.

When fares asked him where he was from—and they always did despite his near-flawless English—he told them his mother was French and his father an Arab, leaving out that his father was also one of the richest oil sultans in the United Arab Emirates. Why then was he driving a lowly cab would no doubt be the next question and, of course, suspicions would be raised. But Abda had discovered early on that Americans would much rather talk about themselves.

“Are you visiting our magnificent capital for business or pleasure?” was all Abda needed to ask. He had decided that taxicab drivers were like bartenders, cheap therapists. And so he heard tales of despairing divorces and cocky career successes.

Abda saw him coming down the front steps and he snapped to attention, sitting up in the seat. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, his eyes reprimanding him.

“Settle down,” he told himself. He was a lowly errand boy, who was already being used as a simple messenger. He would never be taken seriously. And yet here Abda was waiting for him almost like a slave, anxious and attentive for the scraps his messenger would leave behind.

Abda tried not to allow his power to be siphoned away. He could not be crippled by a dependence on those who would much rather be his enemies than his comrades. Yes, a common goal brought them together, but ideologies kept them adversaries. Was it wrong to let your enemies use you if you were using them back?

“Fifteen and Constitution,” the young man said as he opened the door and slid in without glancing at him, pretending he had never gotten into Abda’s cab many times before.

Abda smiled, playing the game as he greeted him, “Good afternoon on this beautiful day.”

The young man ignored Abda, wasting no time and pulling out files, riffling through them with one hand while he punched away a text message on the small handheld machine. It was machines like this one that Abda had decided would be the ultimate downfall of human communication. No terrorist act, no massive-scale war, but a simple machine that had civilized men and women tapping out messages to each other rather than sitting down face-to-face.

Abda stole a glance in the rearview mirror, pretending to check traffic as he pulled the taxi away from the curb and eased his way onto the street. The man was not much younger than Abda and yet already their lives were so very different. He wondered where this young man would be ten years from now, or twenty years. It wouldn’t take long before his constant frown would leave wrinkles around his mouth and an indent in his brow. The blond hair would show bits of gray. The tanned skin would leather. The expensive gold bracelet that dangled from his wrist would no longer hold the significance he believed it projected. And the eyes he hid behind fake eyeglasses—designer glasses that he hoped made him look older and more serious—those eyes would fade and lose their spark and see even less than they pretended not to see now. But more than anything else Abda wondered if in ten to twenty years the young man’s soul would be content. At least Abda knew that his own would be content whether today or twenty years in the future.

Within minutes they reached his passenger’s destination. Before Abda pulled the taxi to a full stop the man was handing him a ten for the fare and opening the door.

Abda knew he wouldn’t want a receipt or change, but he asked anyway and then thanked him when the man shook his head.

He pulled the taxi back into traffic before he could attract attention or be waved down by another fare. Only now did he realize his palms were sweaty and his head throbbed to the beat of his heart. He was almost afraid to check the rearview mirror, the dread and the anticipation just as strong as that first day the tall, blond man had climbed into his taxi.

Finally he willed his eyes to look and immediately relief washed over him when he saw the small envelope with the familiar wax seal, left in the middle of the backseat, waiting for him.

Washington, D.C.

Abda Hassar pulled his taxicab to the curb and waited. Delivery trucks and vans were required to go around to the back. Two Capitol police officers patrolled the front, one with a whistle constantly in his mouth, the other waving through limos and scolding vans attempting to double-park. But at this time of day Abda was allowed to park without reprimand or notice.

He opened a new bag of sunflower seeds and popped several into his mouth. This was his second bag. He hadn’t had anything to eat all day. His tongue shoved the seeds into his cheek, and he began sucking the salt from the roasted shells. He pushed his Ray-Ban sunglasses up to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. Three hours of sleep a night used to be enough. Not anymore. By day he drove his cab. It allowed him a communications system without drawing suspicion. By night he handed out assignments and strategized their plan.

He pulled down the bill of his Red Sox baseball cap and sat back, his head leaning against the headrest. He wanted to close his eyes just for fifteen minutes, even ten. But of course he couldn’t risk it. He avoided looking at those who passed the cab trying to determine whether it was available. Sometimes he got an idiot or two who tapped the window and slapped the hood to get his attention.
Couldn’t they read the Off Duty sign lit up on top?
Americans were simpleminded and rude.

Abda glanced at his laminated license on the sun visor. The silly smile bothered him, a flagrant disguise that he worried more than anything else would trip him up. The photo, taken only a year ago, looked like a boy, clean-shaven, close-cropped hair and that smile. His friend and associate, Khaled, had suggested he smile, not just for the photo but often.

“Americans expect us Arabs to scowl and look sullen,” Khaled explained. “Be friendly and polite. Greet them. Wish them a good day and always, always smile. They will not know what you are up to.”

Abda had been in America almost ten years now. After 9/11 he practiced his English until his Middle Eastern accent was all but gone. He wanted no association with the mongrels who flew planes into buildings with innocent people. There were much better ways to accomplish a goal, to make a powerful statement. And if anyone needed to pay with a life it should be a company or a country’s leaders, not its people. This was what Abda Hassar believed. This was what brought him to this mission.

When fares asked him where he was from—and they always did despite his near-flawless English—he told them his mother was French and his father an Arab, leaving out that his father was also one of the richest oil sultans in the United Arab Emirates. Why then was he driving a lowly cab would no doubt be the next question and, of course, suspicions would be raised. But Abda had discovered early on that Americans would much rather talk about themselves.

“Are you visiting our magnificent capital for business or pleasure?” was all Abda needed to ask. He had decided that taxicab drivers were like bartenders, cheap therapists. And so he heard tales of despairing divorces and cocky career successes.

Abda saw him coming down the front steps and he snapped to attention, sitting up in the seat. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, his eyes reprimanding him.

“Settle down,” he told himself. He was a lowly errand boy, who was already being used as a simple messenger. He would never be taken seriously. And yet here Abda was waiting for him almost like a slave, anxious and attentive for the scraps his messenger would leave behind.

Abda tried not to allow his power to be siphoned away. He could not be crippled by a dependence on those who would much rather be his enemies than his comrades. Yes, a common goal brought them together, but ideologies kept them adversaries. Was it wrong to let your enemies use you if you were using them back?

“Fifteen and Constitution,” the young man said as he opened the door and slid in without glancing at him, pretending he had never gotten into Abda’s cab many times before.

Abda smiled, playing the game as he greeted him, “Good afternoon on this beautiful day.”

The young man ignored Abda, wasting no time and pulling out files, riffling through them with one hand while he punched away a text message on the small handheld machine. It was machines like this one that Abda had decided would be the ultimate downfall of human communication. No terrorist act, no massive-scale war, but a simple machine that had civilized men and women tapping out messages to each other rather than sitting down face-to-face.

Abda stole a glance in the rearview mirror, pretending to check traffic as he pulled the taxi away from the curb and eased his way onto the street. The man was not much younger than Abda and yet already their lives were so very different. He wondered where this young man would be ten years from now, or twenty years. It wouldn’t take long before his constant frown would leave wrinkles around his mouth and an indent in his brow. The blond hair would show bits of gray. The tanned skin would leather. The expensive gold bracelet that dangled from his wrist would no longer hold the significance he believed it projected. And the eyes he hid behind fake eyeglasses—designer glasses that he hoped made him look older and more serious—those eyes would fade and lose their spark and see even less than they pretended not to see now. But more than anything else Abda wondered if in ten to twenty years the young man’s soul would be content. At least Abda knew that his own would be content whether today or twenty years in the future.

Within minutes they reached his passenger’s destination. Before Abda pulled the taxi to a full stop the man was handing him a ten for the fare and opening the door.

Abda knew he wouldn’t want a receipt or change, but he asked anyway and then thanked him when the man shook his head.

He pulled the taxi back into traffic before he could attract attention or be waved down by another fare. Only now did he realize his palms were sweaty and his head throbbed to the beat of his heart. He was almost afraid to check the rearview mirror, the dread and the anticipation just as strong as that first day the tall, blond man had climbed into his taxi.

Finally he willed his eyes to look and immediately relief washed over him when he saw the small envelope with the familiar wax seal, left in the middle of the backseat, waiting for him.