Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [99]
The clerk was elderly, with a thick thatch of white hair and pale blue eyes. He’d been a doorman here before his legs gave out. “I couldn’t say, sir. Would you like me to check if your Mr. Aiken is a guest?”
“Would you?” Manfield said with a warm smile. “That would be great.”
The clerk checked the computer. “Yes, he’s a guest.”
“Wonderful! What room and I’ll just pop up?”
“Oh, I can’t give you the room number, sir.”
“But I already told you,” Manfield protested. “We’re old friends and I just missed him for drinks. He’s expecting me.” It had worked in the past and there was no harm trying.
“I’ll be glad to call him if you like. You can speak and make whatever arrangements you want.”
Mansfield turned pensive. “Well, I’d hate to awaken him at this hour if I was wrong. He can be quite a bear.”
“Perhaps you’d like to leave a message then?”
“No, no. I’ll just give him a ring first thing. Perhaps he’ll have time for breakfast. You’ve been most helpful.”
As Manfield left, the clerk stared after him, wondering what that had been all about. Certainly not what the man with the English accent claimed. He considered calling the guest and informing him, but the man was right about one thing. People hated being awakened at this hour. Instead, he turned back to his racing form.
50
UNITED FLIGHT 914
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
12:47 A.M.
George Carlton stretched out in his first-class seat and stared at the back of the seat in front of him. It had been a hectic day since his disturbing meeting with Jeff Aiken and Daryl Haugen. First he’d attempted his emergency phone number to Fajer al Dawar. The Saudi had insisted on his accepting it, and Carlton had repeatedly refused before relenting. He’d distrusted having the number at all, feared any direct connection, but had finally settled on memorizing it. Until now, he’d never used the number.
That afternoon he’d paid cash for a prepaid cell phone, then bought long-distance minutes. He’d called Fajer and had after several attempts been forced to leave the cell phone’s number and a message that the man call him at once. Then he’d stayed away from his office, pacing in a shopping-mall parking lot, waiting on the return call.
Their conversation had taken place late that afternoon and had done nothing to resolve Carlton’s concerns—though candidly, he had to admit his reluctance to speak frankly over an open line probably made that impossible. But there just had to be a plausible explanation other than the one he’d concluded. Finally, he’d insisted on a face-to-face meeting, telling the Saudi it was most urgent.
Fajer had replied, “I’m only too glad to meet with you. But you must understand, I am in Paris now on business. I cannot possibly get to the United States for another month at the earliest. I assure you there is no need for concern.”
“Then I’ll come to you,” Carlton had answered. “I’ll call this number when I touch down tomorrow. Be certain you answer it.”
A hectic few hours followed as Carlton instructed his assistant to contact the travel office and arrange his priority departure. The young man had been surprised at the request since from what he could see his boss never did anything on impulse. “What do I say is the reason?” he’d asked.
Carlton had given this only cursory thought. “I must meet with my European counterpart at once. Set up a meeting first thing Monday morning, but I’m leaving tonight. I don’t want to meet suffering from jet lag.”
He’d then spent half an hour poring over reports, searching for some justification for this abrupt trip. He finally located one that might make the case. In any event, he didn’t abuse travel privileges. His boss might not like it, but Carlton figured he could sell it if it came to that.
On the airplane sleep wouldn’t come. He’d had two double Scotches since takeoff but they’d had no effect. Only now, as Carlton turned his head and stared