This could be something, she thought. Maybe, just maybe, if she’d done her job right, she’d be invited back. Rich, exclusive clients were the best kind.
She was adequate?” Tariq said after returning from dropping Melinda off.
“Quite,” the Emir said, reclining on the sofa. More than adequate, in fact, he thought. “A vast improvement over the first.”
“My apologies for that mistake.”
“No apology necessary, my friend. Ours is a unique situation. You were being cautious—as I expect you to be.” The other woman—Trixie—had been ill-mannered and too practiced in bed, but those were traits the Emir could forgive. Had she not asked so many questions, not been so curious, she would have been safely returned to her street corner to continue her pathetic life—her only punishment not being asked for a return engagement. Unfortunate but necessary, the Emir thought. And a necessary lesson. Bringing Trixie directly to the house had been a mistake, one that he’d had Tariq correct by leasing the condominium; it would serve as a buffer, should they need to dispose of another harlot.
“Anything before I go to bed?” he asked. They would spend the night here before returning to the house. Cars coming and going in the night tended to attract the attention of nosy neighbors.
“Yes, four items,” Tariq replied, sitting down in the opposite chair. “One, Hadi is on his way back to Paris. He and Ibrahim will be meeting tomorrow.”
“You reviewed Hadi’s packet?”
“Yes. Four facilities in particular look promising. Our agent has worked at each of them within the last two years, and it appears security has changed dramatically at only one of them.”
“Paulinia?”
“Correct.”
This made sense, the Emir thought. Petrobras’s facility there had been tasked with accommodating the new influx, which in turn required new construction—and this, he knew, was where the vulnerability lay. They’d seen it happen outside Riyadh in the ’70s and ’80s, a deficit of trained, competent security personnel to keep pace with expansion. Such was the price of greed.
“It’ll be a year before their security has caught up.”
“You’re probably right, but we are not going to wait to find out. Recruitment?”
“Ibrahim is almost done,” Tariq concluded. “He reports he’ll be ready within two weeks. He’s proposed that Hadi be recruited for the team.”
The Emir considered this. “Your thoughts?”
“Hadi is reliable, that much we know, and there’s no question about his loyalty. He’s had some training in fieldwork, but little real-world experience beyond what he’s done in Brazil, which has been solid. If Ibrahim thinks he is ready, I tend to agree.”
“Very well. Give Ibrahim my blessing. What else?”
“An update from the woman. Their relationship is well established and she’s making progress, but she doesn’t think he’s quite ready to be reeled in yet.”
“Did she offer a timeline?”
“Three to four weeks.”
The Emir mentally projected that on the calendar. Her information was the cornerstone. Without it, he would have to consider postponing for another year. Another year for the Americans to whittle away at their networks and for tongues to wag. And for someone somewhere to get lucky and stumble onto that one thread that would unravel the entire spool.
No, he decided, it had to be this year.
“Tell her we’ll expect it no later than three weeks. Next.”
“A message from Nayoan in San Francisco. His men are in place and awaiting orders.”
Of all of Lotus’s myriad parts and pieces, Nayoan’s had proven the easiest, at least the infiltration and preparatory phases. Student visas were relatively easy enough to come by, and easier still to acquire by someone in Nayoan’s position. Besides, as ignorant as Americans were about the world outside their own borders, Indonesians were for the most part seen simply as Asians or “Orientals” rather than as members of the single greatest concentration of Muslims on the face of the earth. Bigotry and narrowmindedness, the Emir thought, were weapons the URC was only too happy to employ.
“Good,” the Emir said. “Tomorrow let’s review the targets again. If there are changes to be made, we should make them sooner rather than later. Next?”
“Last item: You saw the news about the Tripoli embassy?”
The Emir nodded. “Idiotic business. A waste.”
“The planner was one of ours.”
The Emir sat up, his eyes hard. “Pardon me?” Eight months earlier, word had been sent to all URC affiliates that cell-level missions were forbidden until further notice. Their current operation was too delicate, too intricate. Smaller operations—mostly near misses and low-casualty events—had their place in creating the illusion of disorganization and business as usual, but something