roughly four inches wide, eight long, and about as thick as a good-sized paperback book.
“What is it?” Chet asked.
Arlie wasn’t sure, but he’d seen enough movies and television shows to have a hunch. “Black box,” he muttered.
“Huh?”
“Flight data recorder.”
“Whoa . . . You mean like from a plane?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
The facility’s security was decent enough, Cassiano knew, but three things were working in his favor: One, he’d been working for Petrobras for eleven years, long before the discovery of Tupi. Two, the industry was unique above all others, so hired security personnel could competently check only so much of the facility’s inner workings. The rest had to be done by workers who knew what they were looking at and how things worked, and so while such double-duty provided a good paycheck and ensured the smooth running of the facility, it also gave Cassiano unfettered access to high-security areas. And three, the demo-graphics of Brazil itself.
Of Brazil’s estimated population of 170 million, less than one percent is Muslim, and of that number only one percent are made up of Brazilian-born Islamic converts. The rising tide of Islamic radicals so feared in other Western hemisphere countries was in Brazil a virtual nonissue. No one cared what mosque you went to or whether you hated the war in Iraq; those subjects rarely came up and certainly had no bearing on your job fitness, whether it be at a restaurant or at Petrobras.
Cassiano kept his thoughts to himself, prayed in private, was never late for work, and rarely took sick days. Muslim or not, he was the ideal worker, for both Petrobras and for his new employer, which certainly paid much better.
The details they’d asked him to provide made their intentions fairly transparent, and while Cassiano didn’t particularly like the idea of playing the role of industrial spy, he took comfort in their assurances that the only damage his actions and information would cause would be monetary. Besides, he told himself, with the extent of the Santos Basin find growing by leaps and bounds, the government of Brazil, which was a majority share-holder in Petrobras, would have money to burn for decades to come.
There was no reason he shouldn’t share in that boon, was there?
25
CARPENTER IS INBOUND,” the radio chirped next to where Andrea was sitting.
“Want me to get him, boss?” she asked.
“No, I’ll get it.” Ryan got up from his computer and walked to the front door. “He’ll be staying for dinner, by the way.”
“Sure, boss.”
Arnie van Damm had never been one to stand on ceremony. He’d rented a car at BWI Airport and driven himself down. Still wore those L.L.Bean shirts and khaki pants, too, Jack saw, as he got out of his Hertz Chevy.
“Hey, Jack,” the former Chief of Staff called in greeting.
“Arnie, it’s been a while. How was the flight?”
“Slept for most of it.” They headed inside. “How’s the book coming?”
“It’s kinda hard on the ego to write about yourself, but I’m trying to tell the truth.”
“Whoa, boy, that ought to confuse the reviewers at the Times.”
“Well, hell, they never did like me much. I wouldn’t expect them to change now.”
“Hell, Jack, you just fought off an attempt on your life—”
“Bullshit, Arnie.”
“Perception, my friend. The public hears about that kind of thing, all they absorb is that somebody tried to kill you and paid the price.”
“So what, omnipotence by proxy?”
“You got it.”
By this time they were in the kitchen and Jack was pouring the coffee. It’d be an hour before Cathy got home, and Jack still had time for a little unauthorized afternoon caffeine. “So give me the gossip. I heard the Supreme Court’s giving Kealty fits.”
“You mean not being able to make appointments? Yeah, he’s going quietly nuts about it. During the campaign he promised a seat to Professor Mayflower at Harvard Law.”
“That guy? Christ, he wants to rewrite the Gospel of Saint Matthew.”
“God didn’t go to Harvard. Otherwise He would have been better informed,” van Damm offered.
Ryan chuckled at this. “So: Why this visit?”
“I think you know, Jack. Moreover, I think you’ve been thinking about it yourself. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Another thing I always loved about you, Jack: You never could tell a lie worth a damn.”
Ryan grumbled.
“Being a bad liar ain’t a bad thing,” Arnie said. “Kealty is already heading off the rails, Jack. Just my opinion, but—”
“He’s a crook. Everybody knows that, but the papers won’t say it.”
“He’s a crook, but he’s their crook. They think they can control him. They understand him and how he thinks.”