The Garden of Betrayal

27

Claire’s words thundered in my head as I staggered the three blocks crosstown to the Four Seasons. I couldn’t think of anyone who had reason to attack Kyle to get to me, or even of a reason that seemed plausible. Revenge? To send some kind of message? But I hadn’t been able to come up with a reason for anyone to spy on me, either. Claire was right-even if I’d never met him, Carlos Munoz was part of my world. It was only because the possibility of a connection between my work and Kyle’s disappearance was too terrible for me to imagine that I hadn’t realized it sooner. I did a sudden about-face on the corner of Madison, seized by a panicked urge to rush back to the Meridien and make sure that Kate and Claire were still okay. No one knew where they were, I reminded myself, and Claire had promised not to open the door to anyone other than me or Reggie. I turned again and resumed walking eastward. I had to go meet with Rashid. And what if he knew the truth of what had happened to my son, and withheld it for his own reasons? Over the years, the uncertainty had taken almost as brutal a toll on my family as the loss. I never would have believed Rashid was capable of anything so monstrous, except that so many things I never would have believed had already happened.

Lobby seating at the Four Seasons is on two low balconies flanking the somber central chamber. I climbed a flight of stairs and checked the western balcony first. I was retracing my steps when I glanced to my right. A man exiting the hotel through the revolving door looked back over his shoulder at me. I noticed a scar, or some other type of disfigurement, running from his mouth to his ear. I’d seen him somewhere else recently, but I couldn’t place him.

“Mr. Wallace.”

I shifted my gaze up, spotting the bodyguard who’d admitted me to Rashid’s suite the other day. He was standing in the middle of the eastern balcony, leaning over the rail and beckoning to me.

“This way, please,” he called.

I climbed the matching stairs on the opposite side of the lobby and saw Rashid at a table set for two in the far corner. The bodyguard took my coat and then escorted me toward him, whispering out of the side of his mouth.

“He was up all night on the phone. His doctors are very unhappy. Try to be as brief as possible, please.”

I hadn’t thought Rashid could look worse, but he did. His previous pallor had taken on a yellowish tinge, and his features seemed to have sunk, as if he were a balloon with a slow leak. I took his hand delicately, afraid of hurting him. The suspicions I’d had on the way over seemed absurd in his presence. Rashid was a friend.

“As-Salamu ‘Alaykum,” he said hoarsely. Peace be upon you.

“Wa ‘Alaykum As-Salam.” And on you be peace.

“You’ll have something to eat or drink?” he asked, gesturing toward the pastries and coffee on the table.

“Nothing, thank you.”

He scratched his neck with the backs of his nails and sighed.

“Courtesy obliges me to insist, but then I’d have to take a bite of something myself, to shame you. And I can’t bear the thought of eating just now. My sense of taste has entirely gone-a side effect of the drugs. Every meal is like working my way through a plate full of cardboard.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s my own fault, for being seduced by Western medicine. My people have a saying: There comes a time for every old man to ride his donkey into the desert.” He walked his hand across the table and let it fall off the edge. “It’s a different mentality.”

Even in my agitated state, it hurt to see him so low.

“Old people here ride the Amtrak to Florida. That’s kind of the same thing.”

He laughed, as I’d hoped he would.

“Imagine me in Miami Beach.” He lifted his water glass, pretending to make a toast. “Next year in Jerusalem.”

I forced a return smile.

“That’s always a popular line at OPEC meetings,” he confided. “Delivered with and without irony.”

“Listen, Rashid,” I said, leaning toward him. “I have something very important that I need to ask you about.”

“Excellent,” he said, setting the glass down and crossing his legs. “Tit for tat, as ever between us. But I believe the possession arrow is in my quiver.”

“Sorry?”

“Did I say it wrong?” he asked, sounding abashed. “I’ve been watching American basketball in the evenings, when I have difficulty sleeping.”

“It’s more of a pointer,” I said, catching his drift. “There aren’t any quivers involved.”

He stroked his beard, looking put out.

“As you prefer. I have some preliminary reactions to your Saudi information, but before we get to that, I’d like to discuss the luncheon you attended with Senator Simpson.”

I felt a sudden chill. I hadn’t mentioned my meeting with the senator to him.

“Who told you I had lunch with Simpson?”

He shrugged.

“We exchange information, Mark, not sources.”

“Not today,” I said, struggling to keep my voice light. I felt irrationally certain that the knowledge must have come from whoever had bugged me. “Today I need to know your source.”

“Business is business…” he began.

“To hell with business,” I snapped, my nerves overstretched. I held up a hand, simultaneously taking a deep breath to calm myself. “I’m sorry. There’s a lot more going on here than I’ve been able to tell you. I really need to know how you learned that I had lunch with Senator Simpson.”

I could hear the bodyguard approaching, drawn by my outburst. Rashid waved him off and gave me a wan smile.

“It’s I who should apologize. It’s easy to be self-absorbed when you’re ill. I heard about your falling-out with Walter Coleman. This must be a difficult time for you professionally.”

“This has nothing to do with Walter.”

He uncrossed his legs, seeming to gain strength as he sat up straighter.

“Then what?”

“Please,” I said, looking directly into his eyes. “If we’ve ever been friends. Just answer the question for me.”

He returned my gaze for a long moment and then sighed.

“This one time,” he said quietly. “As a token of respect for our long friendship. Everything I tell you to be held in strictest confidence.”

I nodded impatiently.

“The French minister of foreign affairs flew to Riyadh yesterday morning, where he met with his Saudi equivalent. The minister had with him a transcript of certain remarks made by Senator Simpson at a lunch at the Palace hotel. I was asked to learn whatever I could about this lunch. I have a relationship with the officer in your Secret Service who coordinates protection for visiting Arab dignitaries. I called that officer and asked if he could obtain a list of the attendees at the senator’s lunch, in exchange for certain considerations that don’t concern you. He tapped some of his former colleagues and was able to get the information. Your name was on the list.”

“The French minister of foreign affairs?” I said, bewildered. “Where on earth did he get a transcript of the lunch?”

“I don’t have immediate access to French state secrets. Would you like me to call Paris and ask for you?”

The sarcasm was deserved, but it didn’t lessen my interest in the transcript. My phone might well have been the source.

“Forgive me,” I said. “I didn’t mean to push so hard. I appreciate your candor.”

“It’s nothing,” he said wearily, slumping back into his seat. “Friends don’t hold grudges. Just tell me about your lunch with the senator.”

I made an effort to concentrate, still preoccupied by the existence of the transcript but feeling I owed him a proper response.

“In a nutshell? America first when it comes to Arab oil, regardless of Arab preferences. Disagreements to be resolved by the U.S. Marines.”

“Precisely what I heard from Riyadh,” Rashid said, shaking his head mournfully. “This is very bad for Arab-American relations.”

“Why? You said yourself that the Arab potentates all understand they’ve done a deal with the devil, and that America will eventually annex whatever it needs to annex. What difference does it make if Simpson says it out loud?”

“Every difference. You keep forgetting the importance of culture. Arabs are like Asians-face is more important than anything else. Tacit recognition of an inferior position is one thing. Having a bully rub your face in your inferiority publicly is quite another.”

I nodded, trying to think of a way to work the conversation back to the transcript.

“I’m missing the French interest here,” I said. “Are they just stirring up trouble?”

“I explained this to you the other day. The Saudis and the other moderate Arab leaders are allied with America only because they need protection-from the radical elements in their own societies, and from the rogue regimes in the region. If America isn’t best able to provide that protection, or if U.S. policy makes the relationship unpalatable, then they’ll form new alliances.”

“Nord Stream,” I said, the pieces clicking together despite my distraction. “The French are touting their success in the Ukraine and suggesting they take over America’s Middle Eastern security role.”

Rashid shrugged.

“We’re almost ten years past 9/11, and America still hasn’t found bin Laden. It’s not a difficult argument to make.”

“Nobody who’s read a lick of history would ever trust the French.”

“I agree. But it’s not only the French. They’ve proposed a coalition-France, Russia, and a handful of other countries to be named later. A coalition is an attractive concept to the Arab leadership. It’s much easier to treat with a superior force if you can potentially play the members of that force off against one another.”

“And the quid pro quo?”

“Overtly? What you’d expect. A switch of primary reserve currency to the euro, munitions deals, preferential allocation of infrastructure contracts, and so forth. Covertly-”

“Control of the oil when it runs short. Exactly what Simpson wants.”

“Precisely. But the French will be well mannered enough not to mention it.”

“And they think America is just going to let this happen?”

“Your people are still pinned down in Afghanistan and Iraq, and your regional popularity has never been lower. What’s your kinder, gentler Democratic president going to do when the Saudis and the Kuwaitis politely ask your forces to leave-declare war on the rest of the Arabian Peninsula? By the time America starts getting squeezed for energy, the French and their partners will be entrenched on the ground and have control of the oil fields locked up.”

It was a disaster in the making for the United States. Right at that moment, though, I had other concerns.

“I hate to keep pushing the same question, Rashid, but did the French minister give any indication at all of how he obtained the transcript?”

“I can ask Riyadh. Why are you so interested?”

“It’s a long, strange story, and before I tell it, I want to ask you something else. Were you acquainted with a man named Carlos Munoz?”

“The Venezuelan who was murdered a few years back,” he said, toying with his beard again. “We’d met.”

I heard a hushed conversation behind me and turned to see the bodyguard conferring with a uniformed hotel employee. The bodyguard took a cordless phone from the employee and approached our table.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, offering the phone to Rashid. “A call from your office in Vienna. They say it’s urgent.”

“Forgive me a moment,” Rashid said, accepting the phone and raising it to his ear. “Hello? Hello?”

I leaned toward the table to pour myself a cup of coffee. A hammer blow knocked me backward out of my chair. I was on the floor, lying beneath something heavy. The air was filled with smoke. I tried to get up, but the room began spinning, and I spiraled down into darkness.