Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [58]
“I’m president of the Franco-Arab Chemical Company.”
The men visited for perhaps five minutes before Fajer moved on. Part of Carlton stirred. He felt instinctively that this was the sort of man he’d hoped to meet, someone in a position to make all his dreams come true. Carlton wanted desperately to talk to him longer, but there was no way to manage it in such a setting and Fajer certainly hadn’t seemed interested. So later that night, after Carlton had gone to his room at the hotel, he was surprised to see an envelope slipped under his door. Opening it he read:
Mr. Carlton,
Please join me tomorrow evening for a private dinner at my home. I will send my driver for you at eight. Tell no one.
FAD
Carlton was stunned. It was as if the man had read his mind. He breathed a sigh of satisfaction. His first impression had been correct. He considered going to the business room and searching the Internet for Fajer’s name and that of his company, but decided better. Saudi Arabia was a virtual police state, and he couldn’t expect that even a harmless Internet search would go undetected. Better not to take the risk.
The next day he could scarcely keep his focus on the tour. More than once Houser commented on how distant Carlton seemed. They were taken to the Masmak Fortress, the citadel in Old Riyadh, and the National Museum that afternoon, which, as far as Carlton was concerned, was more than enough.
That night Carlton dressed in his best suit and exited the main entrance shortly before 8:00. Standing immediately outside was too obvious, so he moved to his right and stood near a pillar perhaps fifty feet away. His first year with the Bureau, he’d been assigned to surveillance. He’d been one of a two-man team following members of foreign delegations. It had been boring in the extreme, but his partner had taught him every shadowing technique, every camouflage method known to man.
“We look at motion, mostly,” he’d told Carlton through cheap cigarette smoke. “We’re conditioned to be hunters and react to moving prey. The best way to hide is to not move.”
There were no shadows. Carlton didn’t want to appear obvious, so he stood motionless in demi-shadows between the pillar and the wall. Six minutes later a heavy, black Mercedes pulled up and stopped in front of him. The uniformed driver came to his side and said quietly, “Mr. Carlton?”
“I am.”
“Please?” The driver gestured to the now open rear door. Carlton entered to find himself alone. Unconcerned, he was carried across the largely darkened streets of Riyadh, but his curiosity was at fever pitch. Forty-five minutes later the car entered the gates of a vast compound on the outskirts of Riyadh. Carlton stepped from the car and found Fajer, dressed in a Western suit, waiting to greet him at what was the entrance to his home. “I’m so glad you could come. It will be just the two of us, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. I must say I was very surprised to receive your kind invitation.”
“You told no one?” Fajer asked with mild concern.
“I did not.”
“Excellent. I knew I could count on your discretion. Please. This way.”
The house reminded Carlton of the movie Casablanca. He sensed it was vast, but there was no one to see but his host. The architecture was Moorish, the rooms oversize with arched ceilings. The dining room into which he was led was large enough for a banquet, but the vast table had just two place settings, at an end. Fajer gestured to pillows and the men sat.
“Red or white?” Fajer asked as dinner was served. A waiter hovered with a wine bottle wrapped in a brilliant white napkin.
“White. Thank you.”
“The rules against intoxicants are relaxed in my home.” Fajer held up his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Carlton was a bit overwhelmed and willed himself to be cautious. This could turn out to be the most important meeting of his life, or not. He mustn’t let his expectations form his interpretation of what was about to take place. He must ground himself in reality.
A succession of servants