Enemy In the Room (2 page)

He sighed and looked around his desk, then
back at Elizabeth. ”So even more reason why I have to finish this
stuff tonight. We’ve got a big meeting with Trevor on Tuesday. Lots
riding on it. Kristen’s been in New York all week. I have to report
on six site acquisitions. Paul needs my input for the real estate
part of the budget, and I want to focus Trevor on Capital Tower
before someone else buys it. The money we’ll save there should earn
a nice bonus for the Sawyers this year, which we certainly need. So
I see a long night. How about you? Do you have to go in
tomorrow?”

“It’s tax season. Gotta be in the office to
help the walk-ins.”

“Good luck to them, and to you!” He smiled.
The clock chimed.

“Hey, let’s call Callie. Isn’t it still
early in California?”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” He
picked up the phone and pushed a preset number. Elizabeth came
close and put her book on his stack of papers. He held out the
handset.

Elizabeth listened to the rings, then
frowned. After the beep, she said, “Callie, hey. It’s Mom and Dad.
How are you? We wanted to say hello. How are your courses going?
When will you know if you got the part in that play? Call us
tomorrow. Don’t forget to call and wish your aunts and uncles a
Happy New Year. We love you very much.”

She shrugged and returned the handset to the
cradle. “She almost never answers.”

“Maybe she sees it’s us.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s her
new boyfriend. I’m glad you have a lot of family in L.A. to keep an
eye on her.”

“At the university? But at least they’re
there if she needs them.”

She shook her head. “I can’t believe she’ll
graduate in just over two years.”

“Are we getting old?”

Elizabeth came around behind him and began
to rub his shoulders. “No way. Not us. We just started early. And
Rob will keep us young. He’s been playing that virtual game in his
room for hours.”

“He’s fifteen and a boy. He’ll be a human
being again in about six years, if we’re lucky.”

She smiled. “Were you like that?”

“No, I was perfect.”

While she kneaded, he looked at the pile of
papers.
I need to hand off more. But who’s ready
?

After five minutes she bent down and kissed
a gray spot on the side of his head. “Come to bed when you
can.”

He swiveled in the chair, stood up and
hugged her. “Thanks. As soon as I can.”

“I love you, too, even if you are
Iranian.”

“American,” he smiled. “Born and bred
here—as American as you. Just with Iranian parents. You inherited
all those wonderful folks when you married me.”

She put her head on his chest and wrapped
her arms around him. “I know. A Southern girl marrying a Persian
from California. What were we thinking?”

“I think it’s been pretty wonderful.”

She paused, her head on his shoulder. “Yes.
But I worry about your family over there. Have you heard from
Omid?”

“No. It’s gotten crazier and crazier. Omid
sent a text two weeks ago that he and Goli were OK, but nothing
since. I’m waiting to hear whether the phones that we sent through
his Turkish friend arrived safely.”

“And with no one arrested. What does your
cousin say?”

“I’m sure she wishes that her son and new
daughter-in-law would stay away from politics, but Omid seems to be
intent on trying to help fix what’s wrong. Anyway, I can’t help us
or any of them if I’m unemployed, and that may happen if I don’t
finish this stuff.” He gently pushed her away and motioned to the
desk.

She smiled. “Trevor Knox will never fire
you. Where else would he get someone to work so hard for so little
pay?”

“There are plenty of people who would gladly
run real estate for USNet.”

“But none would be as tall, handsome or
smart as you.”

“OK. You better go to bed now before I
follow you and really don’t finish this stuff.”

She smiled. “All right. But just remember it
was your choice.”

“I know. I know. Not fun. We could always
skip the Hafezis’ tomorrow.”

She picked up her book. “No way. We have to
do that. It’s the Persian New Year, and you are your mother’s son.
Good-night. Don’t stay up late. I love you.”

“Good-night. I love you, too.” As she walked
down the hall to their bedroom, he sat, looked at the stack, and
picked up the top paper.

Early the next afternoon David paused from
reading a report and glanced across his desk on the thirty-third
floor of Midtown Tower. The afternoon sun played off the impressive
assembly of office towers downtown, only a few miles to the south.
Beautiful. And most of them built while he’d been in the game—the
past twenty-five years or so. It certainly wasn’t Manhattan, but
pretty respectable for a city that had hardly been on the map when
he started.

Those were good people back then
. He
eyed the overflow of papers and reports that needed his attention.
He now led fifteen people in the real estate group at USNet.
Fifteen
. Several years ago—when they were still called Knox
Communications—there had been thirty-five, before downsizing and
outsourcing.

The team today is sharp, too. Kristen, Todd,
Cheryl, Chris. And they’re great with technology. But you still
have to write.

He reopened a document on his computer
and sighed.
I’ll have to finish the Capital Tower report for
tomorrow
. He bent forward and twisted his wedding band under the
desk.
Elizabeth won’t be pleased if I have to work after
tonight’s party
.

Two floors above Sawyer in the penthouse of
Midtown Tower, his boss, USNet’s CEO, Trevor Knox sat alone at the
large desk in his paneled office. After pushing a button with his
gold pen and hearing the lock click on the office door, Knox
swiveled to a single monitor embedded in the desk’s surface. He
typed a special code memorized as a nursery rhyme seventy years
earlier in his native Egypt.

The founder of one of the world’s largest
communications, television, movie and technology companies had long
since become bored with the view from the top of Midtown Tower,
even though there were windows on three sides. At least twice a
day, and usually more often, he took time to review his Real Time
Intercepts, or “RTI” as it was referred to by the few who knew of
its existence.

As he read the afternoon’s summary in
silence, he typed questions for further study by his two RTI
lieutenants concerning intercepts from a cabinet member in Syria
and a NATO commander in Germany.

Twenty minutes later he closed the RTI
program and, using a code name and encryption that made these
communications untraceable, he emailed one of several stock brokers
whom they used in Singapore, where the markets were just opening.
Knox placed two large buy orders, and one sell order through a
chain of dummy companies maintained for that purpose. Simon North,
a retired British Air Force general with his own consulting company
in London, received an email with only a previously authenticated
code for the sender, instructing him to contact a specific person
at NovySvet Aerospace in Moscow. Finally Trevor folded up three
reminders and placed them in his coat—two for tomorrow’s meeting
with Paul Burke, head of USNet’s U.S. operations, and one for David
Sawyer in real estate.

He rose and unlocked a small closet, then
took out his prayer rug, spread it on the inlaid parquet floor, and
removed his shoes and socks. He turned to the sink in the same
closet, washed his hands and feet three times, then his face. After
passing a hand over the whole of his head, wetting his still dark
hair, he knelt and prayed out loud in Arabic,
La ilaha illa
Allah. Muhammad rasul Allah
(“There is no god but Allah.
Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.”). He recited the first surah
of the Qur’an from memory and went through his ritual prayer. Then
he gave Allah thanks for the church bombing the day before, which
was being covered extensively by all the media, An obscure
RTI-funded foundation paid the salary of the campus imam who
befriended the student a year ago, and another even more secret
source would soon send a large payment to his family. Trevor ended
his prayers by giving thanks for the last few hours’ intercepts,
which would bring more opportunities.

When finished, he returned the rug,
straightened his shirt, and put on his shoes and socks. He unlocked
the office door and glanced around his desk to be sure that all the
devices were set on standby, the drawers locked, and the security
light on.

Phyllis Jordan, Knox’s personal assistant,
entered from the reception area in response to a small light on her
desk. They had been together for many years, starting when Knox had
arrived in America at age twenty and was little more than an
assistant at the radio station owned by his Egyptian immigrant
uncle, whose son Ellis had created a vision for telephones and
computers.

Gray haired and dwarfed by her tall boss,
Jordan was a totally loyal gatekeeper. “It’s time to leave—you’ve
got the Cinema Group meeting tomorrow morning in Los Angeles.”

Coming around his desk toward the one wall
in his office with no windows, covered instead with awards and
pictures of himself with important people from the past four
decades, he touched a button beneath the chair rail. A door opened
to a paneled hallway leading through an exercise area to his
apartment.

“Yes. My workout clothes are in the hamper.
Tell them to power up the helicopter. I’ll get my coat and head to
the roof. Do you have the university awards packed?”

“In your briefcase.”

“Good. I’ll call early from L.A. We’ll do
the Operations and Real Estate updates by video conference, right
after lunch here. Let Paul and David know in the morning.”

“Yes, sir. Have a safe trip.” She smiled and
turned.

“Thanks. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Omid, the son of David’s cousin in Iran, and
his wife, Golnaz, or Goli as he and the family called her, owned a
small translation business in Tehran. Omid had learned English at
home and studied engineering at university, while Goli had a gift
for languages in general; they enjoyed a steady business. With a
loan from his family, Omid had opened an office two years earlier
on Mirdamad Avenue in Tehran, above a woman’s boutique and a
jewelry store. At the moment they employed three other translators,
who, like them, were only a few years out of school. Married just a
year, they were contemplating whether to start a family in the
turbulence that surrounded them in Iran.

After closing their office early because of
New Year’s celebrations planned later with their family, Omid and
Goli walked three blocks to the Shalizar Coffee House; she wore the
traditional veil outdoors, both because of her nominal faith and to
avoid any hassles from the Basij, who patrolled the streets in
unmarked cars. There had been such hope only a few years earlier,
when the regime that had rigged the elections was replaced by the
ruling mullahs. But quickly that hope turned bitter, as the new
regime adopted all the policies and tactics of the previous ones.
It was as if the actors were wearing different masks, but it was
still the same tragedy.

Inside, the coffee house was packed and
noisy. As their eyes adjusted they caught sight of Morad and two
other friends, saving seats for them in the far back corner. They
smiled and waved.

The men shook hands while Golnaz watched,
and then they settled in and ordered. Omid had known Morad all his
life. He had a good job with an oil company, but like so many
others, wanted his country to change and to open up. Still single,
Morad had become the unofficial leader of their group, which had
stayed in touch since graduation. The other two men had been their
university classmates, seemingly also dedicated to changing the
course of their country. Ramin and Kamy had been close friends of
the others for six years, and although one never knew who might be
working for the Savama, or secret police, the five friends spoke
and planned freely together.

Before the coffee arrived, they caught up on
their families and the celebration of New Years. A few minutes
later, Morad, stirring more sugar into his cup, lowered his voice
and leaned forward. “The demonstration will be at Vali Asr Square
at four next Friday afternoon, in ten days. This will be the first
in almost a year, and we hope that a good crowd will assemble
before the Basij arrive.”

“When will the first tweets start?” Goli
asked.

“At three,” Ramin replied.

Shaking his head, Omid said, “The Basij will
be ruthless.”

They fell silent. Finally Morad said, “It
will be what it will be. We have to put pressure on the regime
again if there is ever going to be change. Now that the mullahs
have the bomb, they are unafraid. With the world watching, we must
not be silent.”

Omid nodded and squeezed Goli’s hand under
the table. He then brought his other hand to his face and rubbed
his mustache to cover his mouth, in case anyone was trying to read
lips. “As promised, we have New Years presents for each of
you.”

Goli opened her bag and passed three small
boxes to Morad under the table.

Omid continued. “Clean phones from the
outside, along with a list of our numbers. The Savama cannot have
tagged them or know who owns them. Please continue to use your
other phones for regular calls—and to show to Savama if
necessary—and use these only to call within our group. Also to text
and take videos on Friday.”

Ramin smiled. “How did you get these?”

“Let’s just say that Allah has provided. We
have five more.”

They paused, then put the new phones in
their pockets. The second university friend, Kamy, looked around
and spoke softly across the table to Omid, as he reached for
something in his bag on the floor. “Omid, I have a full list of all
the students who have been arrested over the past three years, and
what happened to them.” He leaned toward the center, offering the
package under the table.