Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [57]
Carlton had almost smiled. Instead, he’d eyed the man as he replied, “You never know.”
Two thousand feet above sea level, Riyadh was a sprawling traditional Arab city with a distinctly modern heart. The Kingdom Centre, the tallest structure in the city, was a massive building of modern art more suited for Brasília than the Saudi desert. The temperature was a balmy eighty-two when they stepped from the airplane at King Khalid International Airport.
Houser announced that this was his first trip to the “Arab world,” and his curiosity was untouched by the slightest hint of anticipation. “Sooner this part’s over, the better,” he said as he walked, his carry-on firmly clenched in his hand. His next stop, he’d told Carlton, was Cairo, where he was looking forward to seeing the Pyramids. “Can’t see one damn reason in the world to be here, of all places,” he said, using his free hand to gesture about him, then winking at Carlton, “unless I get a contract of course.”
The fourteen-strong delegation was met by a State Department public affairs officer and ushered through passport clearance before boarding three heavy-duty vans. Houser remarked that the glass seemed unusually thick as they pulled away from the curb. “No need for concern,” the young officer said, “but there have been some attacks and caution is always in order.”
Houser met Carlton’s eyes with an expression that said, What am I doing here?
The drive to the Al Faisaliah Hotel in the Olaya district consumed an hour of Carlton’s life he would never get back. During that time he formed the conviction that Riyadh should be placed high on the list of nuclear targets. If an exchange of such weapons ever occurred, it seemed to him the powers that be should take advantage of the opportunity to rid the world of this eyesore. Everywhere he looked he saw backwardness; never a smile on a single face. It was as if night had descended over the city even during the glare of daylight.
That afternoon he stretched out on his bed, took a nap, then dressed and wandered down to the hotel bar, only to discover the hardest drink being served was tea or something called a mocktail, fresh fruit juice served with Arabic coffee. The hotel itself was gorgeous; situated on the highest ground in the city, it offered a spectacular view of an uninspiring expanse of buildings, at least in Carlton’s opinion. At seven that evening the delegation was taken to the American embassy for a reception.
The embassy struck Carlton’s keen eye as a deceptively designed fortress. A modern structure designed to blend in with older buildings, it was elegant and state-of-the-art, for which he was grateful. Perhaps two hundred were in attendance. Traditional Arab dress was as common as Western-cut suits. With just a handful of exceptions, the only women were Western and their evening dress was far more demure than what he’d seen in Paris, Madrid, or Rome. It was like attending a cocktail party in Salt Lake City, he decided—except for the Arabs.
Most of the Arab men were wearing a thoub, the familiar flowing robes of the desert, with the red-and-white-checkered shumagg banded with a black ogal. Perhaps a third of them wore a formal, dark-colored, gold-edged bisht, a sort of cloak, over a dazzling white thoub. The few non-Western women were, he gathered, from India and Asia. He wondered which of the Arabs were in business.
Shortly after eight o’clock Carlton was approached by a middle-aged Saudi of average height, with startling fair skin and jet-black hair. He’d noticed the man earlier, as he was perhaps the most elegantly dressed of the Arabs and moved with an almost catlike grace.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I make it a practice to meet everyone I do not know at these affairs. I am Fajer al Dawar.” Carlton took his hand and gave him his name, briefly mentioned his cover story. “Computers? You don’t look like a computer type to me.”
Carlton smiled.