The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [66]
He frowned at the carpet for a moment and then looked up.
“How about this? The raw Saudi data and anything else you might receive from U.S. government sources constitute an exception to our agreement. You’re free to publish through whatever channel you see fit, provided it can’t be traced back to you or my operation.”
It was a clever concession, and eminently workable. There were any number of competent reporters I could use as a blind to get stuff into the public domain. I felt a sudden rush of professional elation, excited by the offer for reasons that had nothing to do with Walter’s disapprobation. Absent Alex, I didn’t feel any emotional tie to my current situation. I respected my hedge-fund clients, but I didn’t particularly like them. They were too self-absorbed, too focused on making money, and—perhaps—too much of an endangered species. A move now would be smart.
“Perfect. Assuming we go forward, where would you want me to locate?”
“Entirely your choice. I’ll want to meet face-to-face at least monthly in London or New York, at my discretion, but otherwise you’re free to set up shop wherever you’d like.”
Which would let me accommodate Claire, if she wanted me to move with her to San Francisco.
“Great. I still need to run it by my wife, but I think we might have a deal.”
“Excellent.” He took hold of the envelope nestled against his leg and offered it to me. “A good-faith gesture. The bits and pieces I’ve been able to collect on Saudi independently, as promised. I’d be interested in hearing your preliminary conclusions as soon as possible.”
I reached out and took the envelope eagerly. Unwinding the red thread sealing the flap, I saw that it contained three data CDs in purple-tinted jewel cases.
“Thanks,” I said, deciding it was the right moment to do a little trolling of my own. “Tell me, did your guy in Washington tell you whether he thought the Saudi data was good?”
“No. Only that it had the correct provenance—which, of course, is a powerful recommendation in and of itself.”
“True.” I got to my feet. “Assuming no problem at home, I’ll have my lawyer draft some terms and get back to you first thing next week.”
He smiled.
“Welcome aboard.”
22
I was standing outside Butterfield an hour later, waiting for the car that was supposed to pick me up, when my cell phone rang. I rested my right foot on top of a fire hydrant, balanced the heavy lasagna I was carrying precariously on my uplifted knee, and cautiously let go with one hand. The number on the phone display looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Hello?”
“As-Salāmu ‘Alaykum.”
Shoot. It was Rashid, calling through the switchboard at the Four Seasons. Not that I didn’t want to talk to him, but this was an awkward moment for an extended hello. The tin tray sagged in the middle like an overtaxed seesaw as we executed the compulsories.
“Can I ring you back in a few minutes?” I asked, at the first polite opportunity.
“No need. I’d appreciate it if you came to see me tomorrow morning. Is that convenient?”
“Sure,” I said, wondering if he had feedback on the Saudi data already. I’d sent it to him only the previous day. “Can I bring you anything?”
“Nothing, thank you. We’ll have coffee in the lobby. At eleven?”
“At eleven,” I confirmed.
I hung up just in time to save the tray from disaster. It was good that Rashid wanted to get together—it would give me a chance to ask him what he thought about my potentially working for Narimanov. I respected his opinion. A Town Car with livery plates cruised past, my name in the passenger window and the driver’s head turned the wrong way. I shouted, waving an elbow like a chicken, and watched him go around the block. The burst of optimism I’d felt after my meeting with Narimanov had left me. It was time to go see Claire.
Memorial Sloan-Kettering occupies an entire block on the Upper East Side, near the East River. The original building was a brick box, but they added a modern tower with updated facilities a few years back. The Pediatric Pavilion—a dual-storied atrium featuring a twenty-foot-high