July 8
Faud Asma took a table in the back of his uncle’s restaurant-slash-bodega in Adams Morgan and ordered a Turkish coffee and waited, fingering a string of worry beads. He gave an order in Arabic to a jumpy-looking waiter, who served him his coffee before the boy hurriedly disappeared behind lace curtains, returning a few minutes later with a plate of dolmas, dip, pita, and olives that he placed on the table.
Asma had a slight build with dark, close-cropped hair, the tips dyed silver, and a dense, scruffy beard. He wore his shirt collar open, exposing a thick patch of bristly chest hair and a roped gold chain.
He preferred to meet at his uncle’s restaurant. It was out of the way and didn’t draw attention. The boy placed a “Closed” sign in the window and drew the shades after the small lunch crowd had dispersed.
Since there were no other customers to complain, Asma lit a Marlboro, opened a sports app on his smartphone, and started skimming professional soccer news.
He was reading a story about Manchester United when Thomas Polk, co-chair of the National Security Commission on Artificial Intelligence, walked through the door, looking nervous and sweaty.
Asma stood and embraced Polk with a perfunctory hug and then stepped behind the small counter in the restaurant and turned up the volume on the Middle Eastern music streaming from speakers set around the room. The boy had reappeared when he heard the bell above the door ring. Asma told him to bolt the door and chased him away after Polk declined an offer of coffee.
“What is going on, Thomas?” Asma asked in a soft voice. “I get an urgent message from Allan Trumbo about a meeting, and when I show up, he’s not there, and then I get another urgent message from you.”
“Trumbo is dead,” Polk said.
“Allah maeah,” Asma offered his condolences. “God be with him.”
“Throat ripped open, head nearly severed. Fucking barbaric.”
“That’s unfortunate. America has become a very violent society.”
“Cut the bullshit, Faud. First Rupert and now Trumbo.”
Asma stubbed out his cigarette in a saucer on the table and thought, Spilled blood always focuses the mind. It’s the same the world over. “You think I did this?”
“Yes, who else?”
Asma finished the bitter coffee and set the cup back down. He tapped another Marlboro from the pack and offered one to Polk, who shook him off. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“We are not happy with our arrangement, Thomas, this is true, but I know nothing about this. Perhaps you’ve made one too many enemies,” Asma said flatly and blew smoke rings out into the empty dining room.
“We understand the prince is frustrated with the lack of progress of the program. It’s not what we expected, either. There’ve been some hiccups since Geoff Tate’s death, but we’re back on track and it’s going to get better, much better.”
“It is shit.”
“We’re dealing with some setbacks.”
“We think you are trying to fuck with us. We think you are keeping us in the dark purposely.”
“No, I swear, we’re not, and we’ll prove it, but you have to assure me no more killings. It’s bad for business.”
Faud shrugged. “I repeat, this is not my work.”
“Please tell His Highness we are working as hard as we can.”
“I will let him know. In the meantime, the prince asked me to convey a message to you, Thomas. Either begin delivering the AI military technology you promised or give us back our two hundred million. Makes no difference to the prince one way or the other. You have one month.”
“Jesus Christ, Faud, that’s an awful tight deadline. What if we can’t deliver in a month?”
“In that case,” Asma said and dug his hand into his coat pocket, “I have a gift for you.” He withdrew the worry beads and laid them in front of Polk. “Take these. You will need them.”