THIRTY-THREE

CAMERON WILLIAMS SAT in the academic dean’s office at Princeton, feeling sheepish and telling himself it would be the last time in his life. He had felt sheepish when he had been rejected by the girl he hoped to fall in love with. And he had felt sheepish when scolded for arriving just in time for his own mother’s funeral.

But Dirk Burton had been working on him, bucking him up, reminding him who he was and what he had to offer. “Hold your head high, man. You’re somebody already. You need confidence to do what you do and do it so well. Believe me, when I’m on the Exchange, I’ll be hanged if I care what the Brits think of Welshmen. I know as much as they do and I’m going to compete at their level. You can show deference to the veterans at the Globe, but go in there with confidence.”

That wasn’t Cameron’s problem now. He had brought this crisis on himself by letting his schoolwork slide. He could graduate if he did nothing more, but his GPA would roll off the table, and he would not be able—as Dirk had urged him—to hold his head high.

“I will not be recommending you for all the awards and prizes due you at graduation, Mr. Williams,” the dean said, “if you rest on your laurels and your outside activities. All your professors are concerned that you are behind in your final self-study projects. No, it won’t cost you your hotshot new job—congratulations, by the way—and it may not amount to a hill of beans once you’re a celebrated journalist. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll be back here as Alumnus of the Year, speaking at graduation, winning an honorary doctorate. How will you feel if you have to admit you coasted through your last lap here?”

“Not well.”

“Of course not. Not to belabor this, I say as I belabor it a bit more, but imagine yourself at the Globe in a few years and your prodigious talent wins you some plum job somewhere else. Do you just drop everything at the Globe? Do you give them notice and mail in your assignments until you move on? Of course you don’t. Have some pride, Mr. Williams. Make me proud. Make this institution proud. Do yourself proud. Will you do that?”

Fortunately for Rayford, Abdullah had been kidding about aerial acrobatics so soon after the noon meal.

Rayford enjoyed watching the younger man in and around the multimillion-dollar flying machines. Abdullah opened and closed hatches and flipped switches and checked settings as if he had manufactured the craft himself. Here was a man who seemed born to fly these machines.

There were no loops, dives, or rolls, but Abdullah did seem to enjoy making a two-seater F-16 scream as he showed Rayford his country from the air. For a quiet man he carried on a surprisingly constant stream of chatter as he pointed out the eastern plains by the Jordan River, the Great Rift Valley to the west, and Lake Tiberius, “which you know as the Sea of Galilee.” He pointed out an area he said was seven hundred feet below sea level, and “of course, the Dead Sea, thirteen hundred feet below sea level and the lowest point on Earth.”

Abdullah also overflew the King Hussein Air College in Mafraq and the Muwaffaq Salti Air Base, “so you don’t have to say you came all this way and didn’t at least see them from above.”

After they landed and spent time in the pilots’ lounge talking about anything and everything other than what Rayford had been sent to talk about, the tinny clarion call again blared from the loudspeakers, calling the faithful to prayer.

Abdullah pointedly ignored it. “What do you suppose Jordan is known for?” he said.

“Sand, heat, olive oil, and petroleum products,” Rayford said. “But I’m just guessing.”

“You guess what everyone from the West guesses. They assume we are all Bedouins, wearing sandals and living in tents. Would it surprise you to know that we also export soap, cigarettes, cement, phosphate, food, paper, glass, drugs, and even textiles?”

“Yes, it would.”

“I knew it would. I love America, but I am jealous for the reputation of my own country.”

“Admirable. But talk to me about the Muslim thing, Smitty. You are Muslim, but you are not, what did you call it? Devout?”

“Pious.”

“Does that mean you don’t believe? Or don’t accept the requirements?”

“I suppose,” Abdullah said. “I know myself too well. I do too many things that disqualify me from being known as a true Muslim. There is too high a cost to come out and renounce, so I let people believe what they want to believe about me. If I am around during prayers, I bow to Mecca. I don’t make an issue of it.”

“But when you can get out of it . . . ?”

“I get out of it.”

“You sound like me.” Rayford didn’t know why he felt so free to talk about such personal matters with a perfect stranger, but here he was, thousands of miles from home, spilling his guts.

Abdullah said, “There is also the matter of how I—what is your word for it?—supplement my income.”

“And how is that?”

“First, we are not here to report on each other to our superiors, are we?”

“Not on this subject,” Rayford said. “Hardly.”

“I buy and sell, shall we say, outside normal trade routes.”

Rayford raised an eyebrow. “You’re a black marketer?”

Abdullah crossed his arms and smiled shyly. “That makes it sound romantic. It is actually quite labor intensive and dangerous.”

“Illegal.”

“Obviously,” Abdullah said. “But for a member of the air force, doubly so. Despite that many of my customers are colleagues. Is there anything you need or want, by the way?”

“Maybe. What do you have?”

“Did you wonder, Captain, why I was able to so quickly rattle off the many goods produced here?”

Rayford nodded. “As a matter of fact . . .”

“I have not seen you smoke since you arrived. Are you not a smoker?”

Rayford shook his head.

“Neither am I,” Abdullah said. “But I used to be, and I have tried cigarettes from all over the world. None compare with ours. They would make excellent gifts for your smoking friends.”

“How much?”

“About triple what you would pay in the States, but of course you can’t get ours there.”

“Will I have trouble getting them into my country?”

“They are contraband. Will you be searched upon boarding or deplaning?”

“I wasn’t on the way.”

“Then you are unlikely to be on the way back. If you are, you may tell them these were given to you as gifts, but you would protect me by not saying it was I who gave the gift.”

Rayford decided lying was no worse than buying contraband on the black market. And who knew what other exotic gifts he might find through this source? Once he started flying to Europe, Jordan wasn’t so awfully far away. Abdullah Smith could prove a valuable contact.

Meanwhile, they had better talk business and make this trip worthwhile.

Not only was Nicolae Carpathia never officially considered a suspect in the assassination of Emil Tismaneanu, but he also became the object of public sympathy over the loss of his dear friend. Small pockets of suspicion were obliterated when he made good on his pledge to withdraw from the race, going so far as paying the fees and filing the paperwork to make it legal.

Nicolae seeded the murder investigation with a huge infusion of funds, so that the force empowered to look into the matter became known as the Carpathia Commission. Despite the stony stare from Tismaneanu’s daughter and the look of apprehension on the face of her fiancé, Carpathia not only attended the funeral, but he also spoke briefly—“brilliantly,” according to the press—eulogizing his former opponent to the point that editorials all over Europe lauded him as a model for the politics of the future.

The day after the funeral Carpathia was elected to the lower house of the Romanian parliament, garnering more than 80 percent of the votes as a write-in candidate. His competition proved to be dozens of dilettantes and pretenders whose friends wrote them in on a lark.

Leon Fortunato took credit for the write-in idea, having employed dozens of lackeys to spread the notion to reporters, commentators, and columnists, many of whom claimed the idea as their own. Support for the idea had swept Bucharest, and the polls had reflected the change immediately.

With the death of Tismaneanu and Carpathia’s withdrawal, the polls had been hopelessly skewed, but by the time of the election they accurately predicted a landslide for Nicolae vastly beyond what had been forecast when both candidates were on the ballot.

An obsequious Carpathia, eyes cast down, stepped before press microphones when the actual polls closed and, with a quavery voice, announced, “I said I would not run. I did not say I would not serve. I am overwhelmed. I am humbled. And I hereby accede to the wishes of the people and pledge to give this my all in the memory of my friend.”

Several days later the new member of Parliament was an uninvited guest at Luciana Tismaneanu’s wedding. Leon choreographed a quiet, understated arrival. “No fanfare,” he said. “We are simply dropped off at a side entrance and slip into a back pew. No escorts, no sirens.”

“But a lot of press, no?” Nicolae said.

“Of course. What is the point otherwise?”

When Leon’s driver pulled into an alleyway beside the church, the way was besieged by reporters and photographers, each having thought they were scooping the others. Someone had confided in each that the faint third- or fourth-generation copy of Carpathia’s itinerary, outlining his arrival time and location, was something no one else was privy to.

Carpathia made a great show of trying to simply hurry into the biserică, only to pause at the door because of the press of media personnel. He sighed and sadly said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I respectfully aver that this is not the time or place for this. Please allow me to simply celebrate with the daughter of my late friend and not detract in any way from her day.”

Such a humble display was trumpeted in every newspaper and on every television station. It was garnished with another tidbit: “Private sources tell us that Mr. Carpathia’s wedding gift is a trust fund that will fully cover the education of the new couple’s offspring. While the bride stands to inherit vast business interests, there is some speculation that legal issues and falling profits may find these less than beneficial to her. No word as yet as to her response to Mr. Carpathia’s largesse.”

Meeting Abdullah’s delicate young wife, Yasmine, and their small boy and girl was a treat for Rayford, as was enjoying another delicious meal—though much lighter evening fare—in their home.

Rayford was intrigued by the formal interaction between Abdullah and his wife. She was quiet and servile, handling the household and meal preparation and serving details. She appeared to nearly panic when Rayford offered to help, but Abdullah rescued her with a raised hand and a shake of the head, which told Rayford he would be violating some cultural domestic code.

Yasmine also tended to the children, though Abdullah seemed smitten by them too. When the meal was over and the children were in bed, Yasmine disappeared as the men sat and talked.

“Your wife is lovely,” Rayford said.

“I worry about her,” Abdullah said. “When first I began to let it show that I was not as devout a Muslim as I had led her to believe—ignoring the calls to prayer and so forth—I saw sadness and bewilderment on her face. But what troubled me even more was that she soon followed my example.”

“Have you discussed it?”

Abdullah held his index finger and thumb a half inch apart. “Only a little. She is frightened by the whole prospect of whether Allah might be disappointed or angry with her, but she shares my feeling that our religion has become too impersonal and rigid. And while she is not what I would call a modern woman and hardly a feminist, neither does she feel honored or respected in the Islam system.”

__

Rayford returned home via Washington, D.C., where he was debriefed by his CIA and Defense Department contacts.

“We heard the two of you hit it off,” Jack Graham said.

“That’s fair. He’s an impressive young man.”

Abdullah’s ideas for defending against terrorist attacks were understandably military in nature: teaching pilots evasive maneuvers, equipping jetliners with defensive weapons, and increasing cockpit and cabin security measures—all of which would merely add to the already astronomical projected costs that attended this new threat. But Graham and his associates assured Rayford that they believed the connection with Jordan—and Abdullah Ababneh in particular—was worth the time and effort.

For Rayford personally it certainly had been. By the time he had assessed the black-market goods Abdullah offered, he had added several hundred dollars’ worth of treasures from Arabia to his luggage. To his knowledge neither Abdullah’s superiors nor his own were aware of any of this. Rayford would be careful not to resell any of the booty in the U.S., so that if he was questioned about it, he could rightly say they were all gifts.

Several of the items from the black market—though Rayford did not, of course, describe them that way—were met with enthusiasm by his own family. Irene seemed to love a supply of velvet material. Raymie enjoyed a collection of small animals carved from olive wood. And Rayford was stunned at Chloe’s response to an embroidered rug, which she immediately put to use in her room.

“I had no idea you’d like this,” he said, sitting on her bed.

Chloe sat at her computer desk. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “And it’s from you.”

“Your mother told me about the election,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “The kids want a dumb jock; they got one. At least it was close.”

“Don’t be defeated by one defeat.”

“That’s sorta like what the principal said in his letter to all the losers. Something about losing a battle doesn’t mean you’ve lost the war.”

“There’ll be more elections.”

Chloe shook her head. “I’ve had enough of politics. I couldn’t take another disappointment like this. The worst part is, Mom was right. It was a popularity contest, and I’m not popular.”

“C’mon,” Rayford said. “You said it was close.”

“Not close enough. And you know, Dad, there are more girls than boys in our class. Let’s face it: we live in a male-dominated society. Even the girls vote for the boys.”

Rayford was struck by the contrast between his smart, articulate daughter and Yasmine Ababneh. Was he raising an activist? a feminist? He had the feeling Chloe would do him proud one day.