over the dining room table, Weingrass studied two specific pages, going back and forth from one to the other. 'Tell me about this Zareeba Limited.'
'The name comes from the Sudanese language,' replied the robed official who had refused to be introduced to anyone. 'Roughly, it translates as a protected encampment surrounded by rock or dense foliage.'
'The Sudan…?'
'It's a nation in Africa—’
'I know what it is. Khartoum.'
That's the capital—’
'Heavens, I thought it was Buffalo!' interrupted Weingrass curtly. 'How come they list so many subsidiaries?'
'It's a holding company; their interests are extensive. If a company needs government licences for multiple export and import, they're more easily expedited under the corporate umbrella of a very solid firm.'
'Horseshit.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'It's Bronx for “Oh, good gracious.” Who runs it?'
'There's a board of directors—’
'There's always a board of directors. I asked you who runs it.'
'No one really knows, frankly. The chief executive is an amiable fellow—I've had coffee with him—but he doesn't appear to be a particularly aggressive man, if you know what I mean.'
'So there's someone else.'
'I wouldn't know—’
'Where's the list of directors?'
'Right in front of you. It's beneath the page on your right.'
Weingrass lifted the page and picked up the one underneath. For the first time in two hours he sat down in a chair, his eyes roaming the list of names over and over again. 'Zareeba… Khartoum,' he kept saying quietly, every now and then shutting his eyes tightly, his lined face wrinkled by repeated grimaces as if he was trying desperately to recall something he had forgotten. Finally, he picked up a pencil and circled a name; then pushed the page across the table to the still standing, rigid Bahrainian official.
'He's a black man,' said the high-placed courier.
'Who's white and who's black over here?'
'One tells by the features usually. Of course, centuries of Afro-Arab intermingling often obscure the issue.'
'Is it an issue?'
'To some, not most.'
'Where did he come from?'
'If he's an immigrant, his country of origin is listed there. '
'It says “concealed”.'
'That generally means the person has fled from an authoritarian regime, usually Fascist or Communist. We protect such people if they contribute to our society. Obviously, he does.'
'Sahibe al Farrahkhaliffe,' said Weingrass, emphasizing each part of the name. 'What nationality is that?'
'I've no idea. Part African, obviously; part Arab, more obviously. It's consistent.'
'Wrongo, Buster!' exclaimed Manny, startling everyone in both rooms. 'It's pure American alias-fraud! If this is who I think he is, he's a black son of a bitch from Chicago who was heaved out by his own people! They got crapped on because he'd banked their money—some twenty million, incidentally—in accommodating banks on this side of the Atlantic. Some eighteen, twenty years ago he was a steamrolling, fire and brimstone fanatic called Al Farrah—his fucking ego wouldn't let him drop that part of his past, the hallelujah chorus part. We knew the big gloxinia was on the board of directors of some fat corporation but we didn't know which one. Besides, we were looking in the wrong direction. Khartoum? Hell!
