Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [65]
At their first meeting in Riyadh years ago, Carlton had given Fajer a Hotmail address for contacting him. “Only use it once,” Carlton had cautioned. “When we meet next, I’ll have a more secure system for communication worked out,” certain that Fajer was impressed with his caution and expertise.
They’d met for the second time in New York City four months later. Fajer was attending various business meetings on behalf of the Saudi government, as Carlton understood it, and requested that they meet, bringing along his first contribution of information. Carlton had stayed at a cheap hotel on Broadway where they’d allowed him just to flash his driver’s license so he could register under a false name and pay in cash for two nights. He’d told Emily he was away on business, and though such trips for him were rare, she’d not so much as lifted her nose from her Sidney Sheldon novel.
In the end, Carlton had left it to Fajer to come to his small room. Better to risk that then to travel about the city, have the bad luck of someone spotting him, then have to answer questions.
Fajer had arrived on time, dressed in a Western suit and unaccompanied, as Carlton had requested. They’d shaken hands, and as they sat facing one another, Carlton said, “Forgive the hotel. I was able to use cash and a false name.”
“A wise precaution.” Then came a round of courtesies that Carlton bore patiently. Finally Fajer asked, “Do you have something for me?”
“Yes,” Carlton said, patting his jacket pocket, “but I want to go over some of the terms again.”
“Of course. You’ve had some months to reconsider my proposal. It is only natural that you would have questions.” Fajer smiled, a man accustomed to being in complete command of every situation.
“The use of this material is entirely commercial, as you said?”
“Absolutely. And you control what it is you give me. If you are concerned the information could have any other use, withhold it. I will never know.”
“I ask because I am not a traitor.”
“Of course not,” Fajer assured him. “We are both honorable men. There is no question of that.” Fajer pulled a cigarette from a packet and held it up in question. Carlton nodded agreement, though he was in a nonsmoking room.
After returning from his junket, Carlton had scoured the Internet for everything he could find about the Franco-Arab Chemical Company—Franco-Arabe Chimique Compagnie, or FACC, as it was better known. Fajer was all but impossible to find, identified only as the company’s Saudi owner. The name of the company, Carlton discovered, was a bit of a misnomer. While at one time it had apparently been the primary importer of various chemicals into the Saudi kingdom, it was now primarily an importer of oil-production equipment, computer-related electronics, and electronics in general.
Carlton had applied himself in determining just what kind of information would be of use to such a company, while being the most profitable for him. At home, he’d conducted extensive Internet research on Saudi Arabia and oil to learn what was in the public domain, then at the office he’d accessed databases available to him and compared the two. He’d found several strategic reports prepared by the CIA he thought Fajer would want and downloaded them. Using a laptop he bought just for this purpose, he vetted the material at home, reducing it to bullet points with short generic summaries, which he printed on standard stock paper he was careful never to touch. That way, should the information get beyond Fajer, its original source could not be identified. Between reports to the Saudi, Carlton planned to keep the laptop in his bank deposit box.
That winter Carlton had surprised Emily with a week’s vacation in Aruba. They’d never taken a holiday in the winter before, and she’d been thrilled.