Contract With God Page 4

  ‘Mr Fallon, I never imagined that someone born in the country of Starbucks could perform the Bedouin ritual of gahwa so well,’ said Tahir. He was by now feeling quite comfortable and wanted them to know, so that he could find out what the devil these Americans wanted.

  The younger of the hosts extended a gold cigarette case to him for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Tahir, my friend, please stop calling us by our surnames. I’m Peter and this is Frank,’ he said as he lit yet another Dunhill.

  ‘Thank you, Peter.’

  ‘Good. Now that we’ve relaxed, Tahir, would you consider it bad manners if we discussed business?’

  The ageing civil servant was again pleasantly surprised. Two hours had gone by. An Arab doesn’t like to discuss business before half an hour or so has passed, but this American was even asking his permission. At that moment Tahir felt ready to reclassify any building they were after, even King Abdullah’s palace.

  ‘Absolutely, my friend.’

  ‘Good, this is what we need: a licence for Kayn Mining Company to dig for phosphates for one year, starting from today.’

  ‘That is not going to be so easy, my friend. Almost the entire Dead Sea coast is already occupied by local industries. As you know, phosphates and tourism are practically our only national resources.’

  ‘No problem there, Tahir. We’re not interested in the Dead Sea, only in a small area of roughly ten square miles centred on these coordinates.’

  He handed Tahir a piece of paper.

  ‘29° 34’ 44” north, 36° 21’ 24” east? You can’t be serious, my friends. This is just north-east of Al Mudawwara.’

  ‘Yes, not far from the border with Saudi Arabia. We know, Tahir.’

  The Jordanian looked at them in confusion.

  ‘There are no phosphates there. It’s desert. The minerals there are useless.’

  ‘Well, Tahir, we have great confidence in our engineers, and they feel they can extract a significant amount of phosphates in that area. Of course, as a gesture of our good will, there will be a small commission for you.’

  Tahir’s eyes grew wide as his new friend opened his briefcase.

  ‘But that must be . . .’

  ‘Enough for the wedding of little Myesha, right?’

  And a small beach house with a double garage, Tahir thought. These damned Americans probably think they’re sharper than anyone else and can find oil in that area. As if we haven’t searched there countless times. Anyway, I’m not going to be the one to ruin their dreams.

  ‘My friends, there is no doubt that you are both men of great worth and knowledge. I’m sure your business will be welcomed in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.’

  Despite Peter and Frank’s sugary smiles, Tahir kept racking his brain as to what it all meant. What the hell were these Americans looking for in the desert?

  As much as he wrestled with the issue, he never came close to guessing that in a few days this meeting was going to cost him his life.

  6

  HEADQUARTERS OF KAYN INDUSTRIES

  NEW YORK

  Wednesday, 5 July 2006. 11:29 a.m.

  Orville found himself in a darkened room. The only light came from a small lamp shining at a lectern ten feet away on which his report sat along with a remote control, just as the executive had told him. He walked over and picked up the remote. As he examined it, wondering how to begin the presentation, he was suddenly startled by a bright glow. Not six feet from where he was standing was a large screen twenty feet wide. On it was displayed the first page of his presentation, with the red Netcatch logo.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Kayn, and good morning. Let me begin by saying that it’s an honour—’

  There was a small buzz and the image on the screen changed, revealing the title of his presentation and the first of the two questions:

  WHO IS FATHER ANTHONY FOWLER?

  Clearly, Mr Kayn valued brevity and control, and had a second remote to hand in order to speed up the process.

  OK, old man. I get the message. Let’s get down to business.

  Orville pressed the remote to bring up the next page. It showed a priest with a thin, craggy face. He was balding and whatever hair he had left had been cut very short. Orville began speaking to the darkness before him.

  ‘John Anthony Fowler, alias Father Anthony Fowler, alias Tony Brent. Born 16 December 1951 in Boston, Massachusetts. Green eyes, roughly 175 pounds. Freelance agent for the CIA and a total mystery. Solving this mystery took two months of research carried out by ten of my best investigators, who worked exclusively on this job, as well as a considerable amount of cash in order to grease the palms of some well-placed sources. That explains in large part the three million dollars it cost to produce this report, Mr Kayn.’

  The screen changed again, this time displaying a family photo: a well-dressed couple in the garden of what looked like an expensive home. At their side, an attractive, dark-haired boy about eleven years old. The father’s hand seemed to be squeezing the boy’s shoulder and all three wore tense smiles.

  ‘The only son of Marcus Abernathy Fowler, business magnate and owner of Infinity Pharmaceuticals. Today it’s a multimillion-dollar biotechnology company. After his parents died in a suspicious automobile accident in 1984, Anthony Fowler sold the company, along with the rest of their assets, and donated everything to charity. He held on to his parents’ mansion in Beacon Hill, renting it out to a couple with children. But he kept the top floor for himself, and had it converted into an apartment containing some furniture and a whole bunch of philosophy books. He stays there every once in a while, whenever he’s in Boston.’

  The next image showed a younger version of the same woman, this time on a college campus and dressed in a graduation gown.

  ‘Daphne Brent was an expert chemist who worked at Infinity Pharmaceuticals until the owner took a liking to her and they got married. When she fell pregnant, Marcus turned her into a housewife overnight. That’s all we know about Fowler’s family, except that young Anthony went to Stanford instead of attending Boston College like his father.’

  Next slide: young Anthony, looking not much older than a teenager, with a serious expression on his face, standing beneath a banner that read ‘1971’.

  ‘He graduated magna cum laude at the age of twenty with a degree in Psychology. The youngest in his class. That photo was taken a month before classes ended. On the last day of the term, he collected his things and walked into the university recruitment offices. He wanted to go to Vietnam.’

  An image appeared on the screen of a worn yellowed form that had been filled out by hand.

  ‘This is a photograph of his AFQT, his Armed Forces Qualifying Test. Fowler scored ninety-eight out of one hundred. The sergeant was so impressed that he immediately sent him to Lackland Air Force Base in Texas where he went through basic training, followed by advanced parachute regiment instruction for a Special Ops unit that retrieved downed pilots behind enemy lines. While at Lackland, he learned guerrilla tactics and became a helicopter pilot. After a year and a half of combat, he returned home a lieutenant. Among his medals is a Purple Heart and an Air Force Cross. In the report you’ll find details of the actions that earned him those medals.’

  A snapshot of several men in uniform at an airfield. At the centre stood Fowler dressed as a priest.

  ‘After Vietnam, Fowler entered a Catholic seminary and was ordained in 1977. He was assigned as military chaplain to Spangdahlem Air Force Base in Germany, where he was recruited by the CIA. With his language skills it’s easy to see why they wanted him: Fowler speaks eleven languages fluently and can get along in fifteen others. But the Company is not the only outfit that recruited him.’

  Another photo of Fowler, in Rome, with two other young priests.

  ‘At the end of the seventies, Fowler became a full-time agent for the Company. He retains his status as military chaplain and travels to a number of Armed Forces bases all over the world. The information I’ve given you so far
could have been obtained from any number of agencies, but what I’m going to tell you next is top secret and was very difficult to come by.’

  The screen went blank. In the light from the projector Orville was just about able to make out an easy chair with someone sitting in it. He made an effort not to look directly at the figure.

  ‘Fowler is an agent for the Holy Alliance, the Vatican’s secret service. It’s a small outfit, generally unknown to the public, but active. One of its accomplishments is having saved the life of former Israeli president, Golda Meir, when Islamic terrorists came close to blowing up her plane during a visit to Rome. The medals were awarded to Mossad, but the Holy Alliance didn’t care. They take the phrase ‘secret service’ literally. Only the Pope and a handful of cardinals are officially informed of their work. Among the international intelligence community, the Alliance is respected and feared. Unfortunately, I have little to add about Fowler’s history with this institution. As for his work with the CIA, my professional ethics and my contract with the Company don’t allow me to reveal anything further, Mr Kayn.’

  Orville cleared his throat. Even though he didn’t expect an answer from the figure sitting at the end of the room, he paused.

  Not a word.

  ‘As to your second question, Mr Kayn . . .’

  Orville wondered for a moment if he should reveal that Netcatch was not responsible for finding this particular piece of information. That it had come to his office in a sealed envelope from an anonymous source. And that there were other interests involved who clearly wanted Kayn Industries to have it. But then he recalled the humiliating spray of mentholated mist and simply went on talking.

  On the screen a young woman appeared with blue eyes and copper-coloured hair.

  ‘This is a young journalist named . . .’

  7

  EDITORIAL OFFICES OF EL GLOBO

  MADRID, SPAIN

  Thursday, 6 July 2006. 8:29 p.m.

  ‘Andrea! Andrea Otero! Where the hell are you?’

  To say that the newsroom fell silent at the sound of the Editor-in-Chief’s shouts would not be entirely accurate, for the newsroom of a daily paper is never quiet one hour before going to press. But there were no voices, which made the background noise of telephones, radios, televisions, fax machines and printers seem like an uneasy kind of silence. The Chief was carrying a suitcase in each hand, and had a newspaper tucked under one arm. He dropped the suitcases at the entrance to the newsroom and walked straight over to the International section, to the only empty desk. He banged his fist on it angrily.

  ‘You can come out now. I saw you duck under there.’

  Slowly a mane of coppery-blonde hair and the face of a young blue-eyed woman emerged from beneath the desk. She tried to act nonchalantly, but her face was tense.

  ‘Hey there, Chief. I just dropped my pen.’

  The veteran newsman reached up and adjusted his wig. The issue of the Editor-in-Chief’s baldness was taboo, so it certainly wouldn’t help Andrea Otero that she had just witnessed this manoeuvre.

  ‘I’m not happy, Otero. Not happy at all. Can you tell me what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean, Chief?’

  ‘Do you have fourteen million euros in the bank, Otero?’

  ‘Not the last time I looked.’

  In fact, the last time she checked, her five credit cards were seriously overdrawn, thanks to her insane addiction to Hermes bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes. She was thinking of asking the accounts department for an advance on her Christmas bonus. For the next three years.

  ‘You’d better have a rich aunt who’s about to pop her clogs, because that’s how much you’re going to cost me, Otero.’

  ‘Don’t get angry with me, Chief. What happened in Holland won’t happen again.’

  ‘I’m not talking about your room service bills, Otero. I’m talking about François Dupré,’ said the editor, slamming the previous day’s newspaper on the desk.

  Holy shit, that’s what this is about, thought Andrea.

  ‘One day! I take off one lousy day in the last five months, and all of you screw up.’

  In an instant the entire newsroom, down to the last reporter, stopped gaping and turned back to their desks, suddenly able to concentrate on their work once more.

  ‘Come on, Chief. Embezzlement is embezzlement.’

  ‘Embezzlement? Is that what you call it?’

  ‘Of course! Transferring a huge amount of money from your clients’ accounts into your personal account is definitely embezzlement.’

  ‘And using the front page of the International section to trumpet a simple mistake made by the principal stockholder in one of our major advertisers is a royal fuck-up, Otero.’

  Andrea swallowed, feigning innocence.

  ‘Principal stockholder ?’

  ‘Interbank, Otero. Who, in case you didn’t know, spent twelve million euros last year on this newspaper and was thinking of spending another fourteen this coming year. Was thinking. Past tense.’

  ‘Chief . . . the truth doesn’t have a price.’

  ‘Yes, it does: fourteen million euros. And the heads of those responsible. You and Moreno are out of here. Gone.’

  The other guilty party walked in dragging his feet. Fernando Moreno was the night editor who had cancelled the harmless story about an oil company’s profits and replaced it with Andrea’s bombshell. It was a brief attack of courage that he now regretted. Andrea looked at her colleague, a middle-aged man, and thought about his wife and three children. She swallowed again.

  ‘Chief . . . Moreno had nothing to do with it. I’m the one who put in the article just before going to press.’

  Moreno’s face brightened for a second then returned to its previous expression of remorse.

  ‘Don’t fuck around, Otero,’ said the Editor-in-Chief. ‘That’s impossible. You don’t have the authorisation to go into blue.’

  Hermes, the computer system at the paper, worked on a system of colours. The newspaper pages appeared in red while a reporter was working on them, in green when they went to the managing editor for approval, and then in blue when the night editor passed them to the press for printing.

  ‘I got into the blue system using Moreno’s password, Chief,’ Andrea lied. ‘He had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Oh yes? And where did you get the password? Can you explain that?’

  ‘He keeps it in the top drawer of his desk. It was easy.’

  ‘Is that right, Moreno?’

  ‘Well . . . yes, Chief,’ said the night editor, trying hard not to show his relief. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The Editor-in-Chief of El Globo was still not satisfied. He turned so quickly towards Andrea that his wig slid slightly on his bald head.

  ‘Shit, Otero. I was wrong about you. I thought you were just an idiot. Now I realise you’re an idiot and a troublemaker. I will personally make sure that no one ever hires a sneaky bitch like you again.’

  ‘But, Chief . . .’ said Andrea, starting to sound desperate.

  ‘Save your breath, Otero. You’re fired.’

  ‘I didn’t think—’

  ‘You’re so fired that I don’t see you any more. I don’t even hear you.’

  The Chief strode away from Andrea’s desk.

  Looking around the room, Andrea saw nothing but the backs of her fellow reporters’ heads. Moreno came and stood next to her.

  ‘Thanks, Andrea.’

  ‘It’s all right. It would be crazy for both of us to get fired.’

  Moreno shook his head. ‘I’m sorry you had to tell him that you broke into the system. Now he’s so mad he’ll make things really difficult for you out there. You know what happens when he gets on one of his crusades . . .’

  ‘Looks like he’s already started,’ Andrea said, gesturing to the newsroom. ‘Suddenly, I’m a leper. Well, it’s not as if I was anyone’s favourite before this.’

  ‘You’re not a bad person, Andrea. In fact, you’re quite a gutsy re
porter. But you’re a loner and you never worry about the consequences. Anyway, good luck.’

  Andrea swore to herself that she wouldn’t cry, that she was a strong and independent woman. She gritted her teeth while Security placed her things in a box, and with a great deal of effort was able to keep her promise.

  8

  ANDREA OTERO’S APARTMENT

  MADRID, SPAIN

  Thursday, 6 July 2006. 11:15 p.m.

  The thing that Andrea hated the most since Eva had gone for good was the sound of her own keys when she came home and deposited them on the little table next to the door. They made an empty echo in the hallway that, to Andrea, seemed to sum up her life.

  When Eva had been there, everything was different. She would run to the door like a little girl, kiss Andrea, and start babbling about the things she’d done or the people she’d met. Andrea, overwhelmed by this whirlwind that prevented her from reaching the sofa, would pray for some peace and quiet.

  Her prayers had been answered. Eva had left one morning, three months ago, the same way she had shown up: suddenly. There was no sobbing or tears, no regrets. Andrea had said practically nothing, was even somewhat relieved. She’d have plenty of time for regrets later, when the faint echo of keys broke the silence of her apartment.

  She had tried to deal with the emptiness in different ways: leaving the radio on when she left the house, putting the keys back in the pocket of her jeans as soon as she walked in, talking to herself. None of her ruses was able to mask the silence, for it came from within.

  Now as she entered the apartment her foot shoved aside her latest attempt at not being lonely: an orange tabby. At the pet shop the cat had seemed cute and loving. It took Andrea almost forty-eight hours to begin hating it. That was fine with her. You could deal with hatred. It was active: you simply hated someone or something. What she couldn’t deal with was frustration. You just had to put up with that.