The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,143

that had been detached from its original owner and converted to this man’s personal use? “Provenance” was the word art dealers used to describe the ticklish problems presented by such a collection. How did you know where anything came from, and what of its putative history was real and what imagined? That was in fact Kamal Atwan’s business—blurring those lines of provenance so that people weren’t sure whether what they had was true or false.

Atwan was standing at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a new double-breasted smoking jacket, with rich black velvet lapels and a fine paisley print in the body of the garment. His long silver-gray hair was meticulously combed. He looked like an Edwardian dandy, a man out of time.

“How good of you to call, my dear,” he said, taking Harry’s hand as he reached the top step. “Did you hear the prime minister’s speech? Very bold, don’t you think? Preempts any other sort of action, I would say.”

“Good speech,” said Harry. “War with Iran is a bad idea.”

“Your American friends will be angry, I think.”

“They’ll get over it,” said Harry.

Atwan led Harry by the hand into the library and sat him down by a gas fire. On a table between two comfortable chairs was another fat novel by Anthony Trollope, this one titled He Knew He Was Right.

“I have been waiting for your visit, my dear Harry. I have been worrying about you.”

“I’m sure you have, Kamal Bey, worried to death, and for good reason, too. Do you know that someone has been spreading nasty stories about me to the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Can you imagine that? That someone was suggesting I had been doing secret work for the British government. Treasonous work, some people could say, under a false name.”

“How dreadful,” said Atwan, throwing up his hands in apparent horror. He was a good actor, you had to give him that.

“Yes, but that’s all taken care of. I went to see my boss yesterday in Washington. My real boss, the CIA director. He’d been fully informed of what I was doing, obviously, but we talked it through anyway. Not a problem, all over. My lawyer will work out the details with the FBI. But thanks for your concern.”

“Oh good. I am so glad.”

There was a hint of actual mirth in Atwan’s voice. He was a sporting man; he knew that he couldn’t win every rubber.

“I actually came to give you a bit of advice, Kamal. A warning, really.”

“Oh, how thoughtful. And what might that be, my dear?”

“Well, sir, I’ll be frank, even though we’re not in a secure location, and you never know who might be listening. I believe there is an acquaintance of yours who is in a bit of difficulty in Iran. A Lebanese fellow originally, like yourself. His name, or at least the one he was born with, is Kamal Hussein Sadr. He travels under various labels these days, but the one people seem to use most frequently is Al-Majnoun. Does that ring any bells?”

Atwan tried to laugh. It came out dry, more like a croak.

“But my dear Mr. Pappas, this gentleman Sadr, or Majnoun if you like, he died more than twenty years ago. The Israelis killed him, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yeah, right. Well, somehow he’s come back to life. And the problem is that the Iranians are onto him. They suspect he had a hand in our little caper in Mashad. They don’t know all the details yet, so they’re going to arrest and interrogate him, and find out. Unless someone moves pretty damn quick.”

Atwan coughed. He was trying to conceal something, but the tension was evident. “Why should this possibly concern me?”

“Well, the problem is, the Iranians are going to find a little device that was smuggled into a nuclear laboratory. A sophisticated device that could melt parts of computer chips and change code. Supplied by a certain Lebanese businessman who resides in London. We’ve picked up a lot of chatter through our technical collection, as you can imagine, and they seem to know more about you than I would have suspected.”

“So what are you saying?”

“What I am saying, sir, is that unless you do something pretty goddamn fast, a big pile of shit is going to land on your head.”

“What a vulgar expression. That is unworthy of you, my dear Mr. Pappas.”

“Perhaps, but an accurate one. But hey, what do I know? I’m just an American. I don’t understand how really sophisticated people like you