least…’
‘Adrian Stubburt,’ Bastesen read out slowly and gave a slight shake of the head. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name. But I-’
‘Adam Stubo,’ came from the door.
Both men turned round. The policeman blushed.
‘I’m sure he means Adam Stubo,’ he stuttered. ‘He’s in the NCIS. He lectured us in-’
‘Adam Stubo,’ Bastesen repeated, waving the first piece of paper that Scifford had given him. ‘He’s in fact married to this lady here! Do you know them?’
Warren Scifford straightened his collar. Finally he put his jacket on.
‘I’ve met Stubburt on two occasions,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know him. Johanne Vik, on the other hand… I knew Johanne well once upon a time. Can I use Stubburt?’
‘Stubo,’ Bastesen corrected him. ‘Stubooooo. I’ll see what I can do.’
They walked towards the door together. Bastesen stopped abruptly, his face full of curiosity as he put a hand on the American’s arm and exclaimed: ‘That’s right! Johanne Vik has a connection with the FBI. Something that I’ve never really worked out. Is that how you know each other?’
Warren Scifford didn’t answer. Instead he tightened his tie, straightened his jacket and went to meet his ambassador.
XII
Abdallah al-Rahman was still a good swimmer. He cut through the water with long, steady strokes. His rhythm was slow, but the efficiency of his long arms and unusually large hands meant he kept his speed. The water was not chlorinated. Chemicals made him feel nauseous, and as no else had permission to use the large pool, it was filled with salt water. The water was changed frequently, so it never made him ill. The man sitting by the edge of the pool in a comfortable chair full of cushions, smiled at the beauty of the mosaics in and around the pool: tiny pieces of tile in myriad shades of blue that glittered in the light from the flares along the stone wall to the east. The evening air was gentle compared with the harsh heat that had harassed him all day. He would never get used to the heat. But he loved what was left behind, the stored warmth of the sun that made the evenings balmy and eased the pain in his damaged knee.
The Arab’s body ploughed through the water. The man by the pool was drinking tea as he followed his friend’s progress.
His name was Tom Patrick O’Reilly and he had been born into appalling poverty in a small town in Virginia in 1959. And things had got worse. His father had disappeared when the boy was barely two. He went out to fill up the car one day and his family had seen neither hide nor hair of him or the twelve-year-old pick-up, the family’s only car, since. His mother literally killed herself trying to feed the four children. She died when Tom was sixteen, in 1975, and already at her modest funeral, Tom had decided to invest everything in the only good card he’d ever been dealt. From being a talented player in the local football team in his last two years at high school, he managed to become the most promising quarterback that Virginia had produced in decades. He was given a scholarship to Stanford and left his home town with only a rucksack for his clothes, three one- hundred-dollar bills in his back pocket and the absolute certainty that he would never set foot in the town again.
He injured his knee in the first year. Lateral and cruciate ligaments, and meniscus. Tom O’Reilly was twenty years old and saw no future for himself. His academic performance was at best mediocre, so the only way he could continue his education was to pay with his spectacular passes.
He had been sitting in his room crying when Abdallah came in without knocking. The young man, whom Tom had only spoken to a couple of times, sat down on a stool and looked out the window. He said nothing.
Tom O’Reilly remembered drying his eyes. He gave a forced smile and pulled at the arms of his sweater, which was too small for him. Tom’s training meant that he was getting bigger. His scholarship only covered absolute necessities, fees and a modest living. Clothes were a luxury. The young man who had come uninvited into his room and started to finger the few belongings that Tom had stuffed into his rucksack was dressed in expensive jeans and a silk shirt. His shoes alone would cost more than Tom’s annual clothes budget.
Now, sitting in this palace outside Riyadh, drinking sweet tea and managing a fortune that he could never have even dreamt of at the time when he stood on the threshold of a promising career as a sportsman, it struck Tom that what had happened that warm spring day in 1978 was absurd.
He didn’t know Abdallah. No one at Stanford knew him. Not really, even though he was invited to the most popular parties and occasionally turned up, sauntering in with an enigmatic smile. The young man was filthy rich. Oil, everyone thought when they saw his black hair and sharp profile. No doubt it was oil, but no one asked. Abdallah al-Rahman did not invite questions about his private life. He was friendly enough, though, and a very good swimmer in the university team. He didn’t seek the company of his peers in the way that others did, but he was not a loner either. Girls always turned their heads. He was broad-shouldered and tall, and his eyes were unusually large. But nothing ever happened; after all, he was a foreigner.
And it seemed he was happy to keep it that way.
And then suddenly there he was, sitting in the messy student room that smelt of boys’ socks. When he threw Tom O’Reilly a lifeline, the penniless young man grabbed it with both hands.
And he had never let go since.
The tea was so sweet that his tongue felt furry. Tom O’Reilly put the glass down. He ran his fingers through his strawberry-blond hair and smiled at the Arab, who, with one graceful movement, emerged from the water.
‘Good to see you,’ Abdallah said, and shook his hand. ‘Sorry to make you wait.’
Always a handshake, Tom O’Reilly thought to himself. Never a traditional embrace or kiss. Nothing more, nothing less, a simple handshake. It was cold and wet and Tom O’Reilly shivered slightly.
‘You’ve had too much sun,’ Abdallah told him and picked up a towel to dry his hair. ‘As usual. I hope you haven’t been bored. I’ve had quite a bit to do.’
Tom just smiled.
‘How is Judith? And the kids?’
‘Well,’ Tom replied. ‘Very well, thank you. Garry is starting to get good now. Will never be much of a quarterback. Too big and heavy. But he might have a future as a defence player. I’m trying to pull some strings.’
‘Don’t pull too hard,’ Abdallah advised him, and tugged a white tunic over his head before sitting down on one of the empty chairs. ‘Children should learn to look after themselves. More tea?’
‘No thanks.’
Abdallah poured himself some from a silver pot.
They sat in silence. Tom caught himself studying Abdallah when he thought he wasn’t looking. The Arab had an unusual calm that never ceased to fascinate him. They had known each other for nearly thirty years now. Abdallah knew everything there was to know about Tom. The American had shared his sad story with his friend on that first night, and since then he had kept Abdallah informed of everything, big and small, that happened in his life: girls and stories, work, love and political preferences. Sometimes, when Tom was lying awake in bed and couldn’t sleep, he would look at his wife in the dark and think that Abdallah knew more about him than she did. Even after nearly twenty years of marriage.
That was the deal.
Even way back then, on that warm afternoon when spring had finally arrived and Tom had received the letter saying that his scholarship would be withdrawn from the following school year,
Abdallah would know everything about him.
But both then and now, Tom felt it was a small price to pay. It was always a pleasure to be with Abdallah. At school they hung out every now and then, but were never seen to be good friends. At least not by others. And when they had finished school, they never met in the US. Their paths sometimes crossed in Europe. Tom often had meetings in metropolises where Abdallah happened to be on business. Then they would meet for dinner at some local Arabic cafe in London, or for a walk in the Champ de Mars by the Eiffel Tower, or along the Tiber, after a
