Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [35]
Rihnai stepped inside and the door was closed behind him, the bolt slid into the locked position. The room was small and square, with little furniture. A table and two rail-back chairs stood in the middle. The only light was a faux Tiffany lamp hanging over the table. A digital tape recorder the size of a pack of cigarettes was in the center of the table; a tiny microphone with cables leading to the recorder sat in front of each chair.
“Sit down,” M.T. said, indicating one of the seats. “Wine? Whiskey?”
“Whiskey. Scotch if you have it
“I always have Scotch,” M.T. said, his British accent now evident. He poured from a bottle into two tumblers, placed the glasses and bottle on the table, and took the second seat. “So, you finally have something of value, Ghaleb,” he said, his elbows resting on the tabletop, his hands folded beneath his chin.
“Yes,” Rihnai responded, tasting his drink. He pulled a package of four Hoyo de Monterrey cigars from his pocket and offered one to the Brit.
“Thank you, no,” M.T. said. “Nasty habit. You should give it up for your health, Ghaleb
“Cuban,” Rihnai said, lighting the cigar. “The best. I get them in the Canadian shipments
M.T. laughed. “I’ve always enjoyed the story about President Kennedy, who enjoyed Cuban cigars. When he knew he’d be signing into law a ban on importing all things Cuban, including cigars, he dispatched his press secretary—Salinger, I think it was—to buy every Cuban cigar he could find. Delivered five hundred or so to the president
If Rihnai found humor in the anecdote, he didn’t display it. He drew on his cigar, sending a plume of blue smoke in his handler’s direction, and drank more Scotch.
“I always find it interesting,” M.T. said, “that even the most devout Muslims enjoy whiskey under the right circumstances
Rihnai ignored the comment and finished what was in his glass. He slid the empty glass in front of the Brit, who refilled it.
“So, tell me what you’ve heard, Ghaleb. I assume it comes from your newfound Iraqi chum
“Yes
“Glad to hear it. It’s costing us a bloody fortune providing you with cover. The pencil-pushers have been complaining. Frankly, Ghaleb, they’re close to shutting down your operation
“That would be a mistake,” Rihnai said.
“I’m afraid that’s not for you, or me, to decide. So, tell me why we meet here at this ungodly hour.” He pushed a button on the recorder.
Rihnai spent the next half hour telling the Englishman what he’d learned from the Iraqi. M.T. said nothing during the monologue. When Rihnai was finished, he was asked, “You have faith in your friend’s account of things?”
“Of course. He met with his brother only days ago in Baghdad. His brother has worked himself up in the organization there. He now holds an important position in the insurgency. He is close to the top
“Hmmm,” M.T. said, pushing his chair back on the planked floor and crossing his legs. He smiled. “If what you tell me bears fruit, Ghaleb, I’d bloody well say the money has been well spent. Anything else?”
“I need to leave Jordan
“Oh?”
“I believe I have exhausted my effectiveness here
“I’d say your effectiveness, as you call it, is just beginning. Having this link to your informant’s brother in Baghdad can be of continuing importance
Rihnai shook his head. “It is over,” he said. “I want to go back to the States
M.T. sighed deeply and extended his hands in a gesture of futility. “It’s not my call, Ghaleb
“Then speak with someone who can arrange it
“I’ll see what I can do
“I’ll need extra money
M.T. nodded.
After a final refill, Rihnai announced that he was leaving.
“Stay in touch, Ghaleb,” M.T. said, walking him to the door. “Here.” He handed Rihnai an envelope. “A small bonus for you. Good work
Rihnai exited the building, got on his bike, and headed for home on the dark, lonely road. It had started to drizzle; he cursed getting wet, his shirt beginning to stick to his back. Had