Orville’s mother, Yasmina, was born and had lived in Beirut for many years before marrying a handsome engineer from Sausalito, California, whom she met while he was working on a project in Lebanon. The couple soon moved to the United Status, where the lovely Yasmina educated her only son in both Arabic and English.
Adopting different identities on the web, the young man found out that the Internet was a paradise for extremists. It didn’t matter physically how far apart ten radicals might be; online, the distance was measured in milliseconds. Their identity might be secret and their ideas insane, but on the Net they could find people who thought just like them. In a matter of weeks, Orville had accomplished something that nobody in Western intelligence could have achieved by conventional means: he had infiltrated one of the most radical networks in Islamic terrorism.
One morning towards the beginning of 2002, Orville drove south to Washington with four boxes of files in the boot of his van. Arriving at CIA headquarters, he asked for the person in charge of Islamic terrorism, stating that he had important information to divulge. In his hand was a ten-page summary of his findings. The lowly official who met with him made him wait two hours before even bothering to read his report. When he had finished reading, the official was so disturbed that he called in his supervisor. Minutes later four men showed up, threw Orville to the floor, stripped him, and dragged him into an interrogation room. Orville smiled inwardly throughout the humiliating procedure; he knew he’d hit the nail on the head.
When the big shots at the CIA grasped the magnitude of Orville’s talent, they offered him a job. Orville told them that what was in the four boxes (which eventually produced twenty-three arrests in the United States and Europe) was just a free sample. If they wanted more, they should contract the services of his new company, Netcatch.
‘Our prices are very reasonable, I should add,’ he said. ‘Now, may I please have my underwear back?’
Four and a half years later, Orville had put on another twelve pounds. His bank account had also gained some weight. Netcatch now employed seventeen full-time workers who produced detailed reports and information searches for the main governments of the Western world, mostly on security-related issues. Orville Watson, now a millionaire, was once again beginning to grow bored.
Until this new assignment came up.
Netcatch had its own way of doing things. All requests for its services had to be made in the form of a question. And this latest question came with the words ‘budget unlimited’ attached. The fact that it came from a private company, and not a government, also aroused Orville’s curiosity.
Who is Father Anthony Fowler?
Orville got up from the plush waiting-room sofa in an attempt to ease the numbness in his muscles. He put his hands together and stretched his arms behind his head as far as he could. A request for information from a private company, especially one such as Kayn Industries, which was ranked among the top five of the
Orville was in the middle of stretching his upper limbs when a dark-haired, well- built executive dressed in an expensive suit entered the waiting room. He was barely thirty years old, and was regarding Orville seriously from behind his rimless glasses. From the orange tint of his skin, it was clear that he was no stranger to using a sunbed. He spoke with a clipped British accent.
‘Mr Watson. I’m Jacob Russell, executive assistant to Raymond Kayn. We spoke on the telephone.’
Orville tried to regain his composure, with little success, and extended his hand.
‘Mr Russell, I’m very happy to meet you. Sorry, I…’
‘Don’t worry. Please follow me and I’ll take you to your meeting.’
They crossed the carpeted waiting room and reached a set of mahogany doors at the far end.
‘Meeting? I thought that I was supposed to explain my findings to you.’
‘Well, not exactly, Mr Watson. Today Raymond Kayn will hear what you have to say.’
Orville was unable to respond.
‘Is there a problem, Mr Watson? Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘Yes. No. I mean, there’s no problem, Mr Russell. You simply took me by surprise. Mr Kayn…’
Russell pulled a small knob on the frame of the mahogany door and a panel slid open to reveal a simple square of dark glass. The executive placed his right hand on the glass and an orange light appeared, followed by the brief sound of a buzzer and then the door opened.
‘I can understand your surprise, given what the media has said about Mr Kayn. As you probably know, my employer is a person who values his privacy…’
‘… but you needn’t worry. Ordinarily, he doesn’t want to meet strangers, but if you follow certain procedures…’
They walked down a narrow hall, at the end of which loomed the bright metallic doors of a lift.
‘What do you mean, “ordinarily”, Mr Russell?’
The executive cleared his throat.
‘I should inform you that you will be only the fourth person, aside from the top executives of this firm, to have met Mr Kayn in the five years I’ve worked for him.’
Orville let out a long whistle.
‘That’s something.’
They reached the lift. There was no up or down button, only a small numerical pad on the wall.
‘Would you kindly look the other way, Mr Watson?’ Russell said.
The young Californian did as he was told. There was a series of beeps as the executive punched in a code.
‘You can turn around now. Thank you.’
Orville turned back to face him again. The doors of the lift opened and two men stepped in. Again there were no buttons, only a magnetic card reader. Russell took out his plastic card and slid it briefly into the slot. The doors closed and the lift moved smoothly upward.
‘Your boss certainly takes his security seriously,’ Orville said.
‘Mr Kayn has received quite a few death threats. In fact, some years back he suffered a rather serious attempt on his life and was lucky to emerge unharmed. Please don’t be alarmed by the mist. It’s absolutely safe.’
Orville was wondering what on earth Russell was talking about, when a fine mist began to fall from the ceiling. Looking up, Orville observed several devices that were spewing out a fresh cloud of spray.
‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s a light antibiotic compound, absolutely safe. Do you like the smell?’
‘Mmmm, yes, not bad. Mint, right?’
