Terminal Rage (34 page)

When he tried to trace Adly Sarhan back to 200 Park Avenue in New York, where he had first met him, there was no record of the name or the man. It was as if he had never existed.

And to make matters worse, even Nabulsi and Madi, the trigger-men, were not going to see the gallows for decades, Sam
’
s lawyers had explained to him.

After six months of internal conflict, Sam finally reached a decision. His path seemed perfectly illuminated, and he admonished himself for having wasted time considering other possibilities. Sam had decided that his life
’
s mission would be to seek justice and retribution for the death of his wife and children. And everyone else who died senselessly that day. On his own terms, and regardless of how long it would take.

“Who’d you lose in the attack and why aren’t you out there ‘celebrating their life’?”

He turned his head toward the voice coming from behind.

She sounded sarcastic, almost bitter. It was the woman he had been standing next to during the speech. The one he had come for.

“My wife Angela, my daughter Maya, and my son Ryan.”

“And
how’d
you survive?”

“I was at a pharmacy getting Tylenol for my son when it happened.” He moved to one side of the bench to make room for her. She took his cue and sat down next to him and looked out
to
the water. “And there
’
s not a day that passes by without you wishing you had died with them, right?”

“I used to—until I found a purpose in life.” He turned to her. “Now you go. Who
’
d you lose?” Sam already knew the answer to that question.

“The only man I ever loved. An Italian man. I was supposed to meet him in Cyprus. We were eloping. But I abandoned him. So he moved to Sharm El Sheikh and got a job at the Spring Roy. And the rest is my tragic, pathetic history.”

“Why didn
’
t you follow him to Cyprus?”

“My wonderful dad thought he was unworthy of me. He lacked the right surname or Ivy League degree. He just made beautiful music and sang like an angel.” She sniffled, trying hard to cut back her tears.

“That explains your dad. But I asked why
you
didn
’
t follow him to Cyprus.”

She hesitated for a beat and stared at him, as if his features would reveal exactly how much she cared to share.

“Because I am a coward. I was terrorized by my father. He threatened to cut me off. To disown me.” Her voice quivered a little. “The worst decision of my life. My father
’
s affection over the man I loved. But my father never deserved it. He never loved me—at least not in the way I needed to be loved.” She couldn
’
t keep back the tears any longer.

“So why aren
’
t you out there celebrating his life?”

They both turned their faces away from the water to look at each other
’
s eyes for the first time.

“
‘
Celebrate his life?
’
Now how
’
s that going to bring him back to me or make me feel any less dead inside? I owe him much
more than that touchy-feely puke. He saved me, over and over again. And
how’d
I repay him? I abandoned him. Fucked him over.”

Sam thought a beat before speaking. He had wanted to lay a firmer foundation before making his proposal. But she was ripe for the plucking. It was now or never.

“You didn
’
t kill him. And there
’
s no point pretending you did. I tried that trick, but it doesn
’
t get you anywhere quick.”

She wiped back the lone tear that managed to escape her eyes, and composed herself.

“What if you had a chance to punish those who killed him?”

“The Jordanians?”

“Not just the Jordanians. They
’
re just the henchmen men who took the fall for it.”

He studied the movement of every muscle of her face. While preparing for this, Sam had accounted for all possible reactions from her and had thought of an appropriate response for each. And the trick was to read her correctly.

“The people who planned the attacks and paid for it. What if you could avenge his death and bring him the justice he deserved?” Sam
’
s rhetorical tone was intentional. It was part of a contingency plan to protect himself, just in case she didn
’
t bite the bait.

A smirk on her face evolved into a snigger. “You think I haven
’
t thought about this every single day since he died?”

“You tell me.”

“I have. But these thoughts are fucking dangerous. They offer temporary relief, no different from drugs. And I
’
m already taking enough of those.”

Sam pushed on. He was getting closer to his pitch.

“Humor me. If you had a real opportunity to do something, would you do it? Not just talk about it or fantasize—but
actually
do it.”

She looked away then turned to face him. There was a dark intensity in her eyes that hadn
’
t been there before. “Yes. Happy now? I would shoot every fucking one of them in the brains even if I had to die for it. Wouldn
’
t you?”

Sam nodded. “But what if we didn
’
t have to die?”

“Like go to prison?”

“Not even. What if we could avenge their deaths and then start a new life? Have the resources to reinvent yourself on your own terms—a new name, a new identity, and a new nationality. A clean slate. With enough money to disappear forever. Do whatever you want. Buy whatever you want. And be whoever you want. You can escape the poisonous grip your father has had on you ever since you were born. And maybe one day meet someone else you can fall in love with. How
’
s that for a different narrative?”

“Move to the Hamptons. Have babies. Get a dog. Write a book about it all, and then go on Oprah and bare my soul? Yeah, sure.” She stood up, ready to leave. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I
’
m the one who
’
s acting upon the thoughts every single person here has had, but is too weak or too scared to pursue. I am the one who intends to settle the score and ensure justice is served.” He motioned her to sit down, but she ignored him.

“I know who killed them.”

Her eyes swelled but she didn
’
t blink once.

“And I have a plan to bring them down and take their money in the process. I know how to clean them out.” Sam stopped to allow her to absorb everything he
’
d said. There was no way of
telling if he sounded convincing or if his words came across as the ramblings of a tortured man.

She didn
’
t say anything, but she didn
’
t leave either.

“I can
’
t do this on my own. I would if I could, but I just can
’
t. I need a team of five men and a woman. I
’
ve recruited the guys. They
’
re
all here today.”

“Where?”

Sam pointed with his head in the direction of five men who were hovering nearby, trying to appear inconspicuous. He nodded to them with a faint smile. Fritz was a tall German who had lost his girlfriend. Albert from Greece had lost his parents, his children and his wife. Farahat and Ibrahim, two Omani brothers living in the UK had lost their wives and kids. And Kenji from Japan. He was supposed to have been in Sharm El Sheikh on his honeymoon when the attack happened, but a business meeting in Beijing forced him to arrive a day later than his bride, who perished in the attack.

“Every single one of them lost the people they love. Just like you and I did. These five guys cannot conceive of moving forward until they reach real closure. They seek justice. Retribution. But we can only do it with your help. We need you. And I think you need us.”

She pointed to the thinning crowd of people on the Ocean Lawn. Most of the attendants were trickling back to the Island House to take their seats for dinner.

“Well good luck with your plan. I
’
m sure you
’
ll find hundreds of desperate, grieving women here today who you can manipulate for your little criminal racket.”

“It cannot be any woman. It has to be you.”

“Why me?”

“I can explain later, but not here.” Sam scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper and placed it gently inside her palm. “Think about it, and call me if you change your mind. That
’
s all I ask.”

She looked at it as if she was about to throw it back in his face. But she didn
’
t. She stuffed it in her bag and turned and dashed away. Sam glanced at his crew of five men staring back at him anxiously. He held his thumb up discreetly, to reassure them that even though she had stormed away, he had succeeded.

And his gut instinct was right on the money. Later that night she called him and left a message.

“Hi there. We met today in Rhode Island. I never got your name, by the way. I am not saying I am interested in your plan, but I am intrigued to hear how stupid it really is. I am also curious to know why it has to be me, and no one else. Curiosity could kill the cat, I suppose, but I have nothing to lose. I am willing to meet you and your friends in Boston this week. Give me a call if you are up for it. I am guessing you probably know it already, but just in case, my name is Julia. Julia Price.”

TWENTY-NINE

Friday, June 24, 2005—11:00 a.m.
Manhattan, NY

H
e was sucked into the email he was typing feverishly on his BlackBerry and barely heard Suzie Greiss speaking in the background.

“Sam? Sam, dear.”

When he noticed she was trying to get his attention, he raised his head.

“Huh?”

“He
’
ll see you in five minutes, dear.”

“Did I just totally ignore you?”

Suzie giggled and waved a hand dismissively. “You boys and your fancy phones.”

He got up and held her hand affectionately. They
’
d grown fond of each other in the last year, since he
’
d started coming to the office. Something about her eyes reminded him of his mother. And Suzie had conferred upon him the title of “honorary Egyptian”, based purely on his dark features and warm character. She
’
d even started teaching him a few Arabic phrases.

“Angela and I are locking horns on where to vacation this summer, and we
’
re having an email war about it. It
’
ll be our first time away as a family since Ryan was born.”

“Where does she want to go?”

“Somewhere safe and boring. She
’
s paranoid Ryan and Maya will get sick just by breathing third-world air.”

“How about you?”

“I
’
m dying
to go someplace warm, pulsating with life and culture. Thailand, Bali, or Goa. Our kids live in LA. They need to experience something real for a change.”

“How about a compromise, like Sardinia? You get the pretty beaches and vibrant culture, and Angela gets the safety and convenience of southern Europe. My daughters took me there for my sixtieth two years ago. It was absolute heaven, Sam.”

“You
’
re sixty-two? Get outta here…”

She smiled and stroked his cheek to accept his compliment.

“That
’
s actually not a bad idea, Suzie. I haven
’
t been back to Italy in donkey
’
s years. You do know my mom was Sicilian, right?”

“I didn
’
t. But that would explain the charming little Mafioso I see in you!”

Suzie put her hand on her mouth as if she had just remembered something pivotal. “Oh, forget I even mentioned Sardinia.” She pointed to the master office and whispered, “I think he has something special in store for you.”

“Well, I better go in then. Today
’
s the big day. We
’
re done, and I need to get back to LA tonight.”

Adly Sarhan was leaning back in his chair and puffing on a huge Cuban cigar when Sam walked into his office. It was just like him to be breaking both New York law and the strict tenancy regulations of 200 Park Avenue at the same time, and still make it seem innocent. He was always smoking something in that room. Even a hookah once.

Probably in his late fifties, Adly Sarhan was a colorful character who spent most of his time flying around the world managing his employers
’
business empire. He always wore a cream or tan-colored suit, a lilac-blue shirt, and a burgundy bow tie, and held malachite prayer beads in his hand. When he was outdoors, he wore John Lennon sunglasses and a Panama hat that made him stick out like a sore thumb.

Eighteen months ago, Sarhan had ambushed Sam while he was having a solitary lunch one day at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica. He walked up to his table, sat down and started conversing with him like they were uncle and nephew. Sarhan spoke in colloquial English, like a native speaker but with traces of an exotic accent.

“Mr. Morgan. Word on the street is that Entertainment Sciences produces software magic under your leadership. Is there any truth to that rumor?” As if he wasn
’
t expecting an answer from Sam, Sarhan turned to the waiter and signaled him to come.

“Put this gentleman
’
s bill on my tab. And bring us a nice bottle of—” Adly paused as if he was recalling from memory the drinks menu, and skimming through it in search of either the most exquisite or expensive choice. “A bottle of your finest Blanc de Blancs with two glasses, if you will.”

The cinematic antics of this man and his James Bond introduction amused Sam enough to want to play along.

“That
’
s very kind of you, sir. And to whom do I owe my gratitude?”

“Adly Sarhan, from Egypt.” He slipped him a thick, gold-embossed card. When he leaned closer, Sam noticed the man was wearing
kohl
around his eyes. His thick eyebrows were neatly plucked. Sarhan
’
s full head of liquorish-black hair, slicked back with powerful product, glistened under the Southern California sun. He was fair-skinned for an Egyptian, so Sam guessed he must have had Turkish or Greek blood.

“I represent the Aswan Group, an international real estate conglomerate. We
’
re interested in your services. We are interested in you.”

“Well, thank you.” Sam smiled politely.

“What would it take to fly you out to New York tomorrow to discuss a project of the utmost confidentiality? I can have you back in Los Angeles immediately after.”

“I am flattered, Mr. Sarhan—”

“Please, call me Adly.”

“In order to fly out to New York tomorrow, I
’
d have to cancel two important business meetings. Not to mention my daughter
’
s school recital and date night with my wife.”

“The meetings can be rescheduled. Your daughter
’
s recital and the dinner with Mrs. Morgan, on the other hand, are the real obstacles.”

“I see you too are familiar with the unforgiving ways of wives when it comes to missing family functions.”

Sarhan chuckled a lot louder than Sam
’
s witty remark deserved. “I am a family man myself and never missed an important event in my five children
’
s lives. How about the day after tomorrow?”

Adly paused as their waiter placed a chilled silver bucket near the table and popped open a Champagne bottle. A younger waitress placed two long-stemmed flutes in front of them. Holding the bottle at a forty-five-degree angle to calm the initial rush of foam, the waiter then poured small amounts into each flute. When the froth had subsided, he topped up each glass and walked away.

Sam lifted his glass and toasted his host, thanking him for the drink.

“You are a persistent man, I see. I admire that. But there is another problem.”

“And what might that be?”

“Clearly, you
’
ve done some research on our company. We specialize in show business and have no experience whatsoever in real estate. Entertainment Sciences isn
’
t exactly your most suitable match, is what I
’
m trying to say.”

The Egyptian looked out to sea, his head bobbing gently, and his fingers stroking his chin.

“I can make some excellent recommendations of fine software houses on the East Coast. People we know and trust who can take good care of you.”

Adly didn
’
t respond to him immediately, and kept gazing at the Pacific. The silence suggested he was either processing what Sam had said, or, more likely, quietly ignoring it.

“Oh, Mr. Morgan,” he finally said, but still his head turned away. “You are missing the point here.” When his eyes finally turned back to focus on Sam, they had a different look to them. A flash of insanity that faded fast. As if Adly could control it.

He smiled at the older man. “Please call me Sam. I am all ears and open to being directed to the point if there is one, and if I indeed missed it.”

Adly smiled back, the intensity Sam had seen in his eyes all but gone. “The product we want to build is pretty straightforward in terms of core functions. My fifteen-year-old grandson can probably build it.”

“Then why do you need us?”

“Because it requires certain—let
’
s say
‘
unique
’
—security features that only a gifted developer like you can design.” Adly stopped and sipped on some champagne before continuing.

“More importantly, we need to work with someone we can trust. And all the roads lead back to you, sir.”

Sam shook his head in mock defeat. He couldn
’
t help but enjoy this incorrigible man
’
s persistence. And he was secretly flattered. Adly had tickled his intellectual curiosity. Even though his gut instinct told him to be wary, something about the way Adly had approached him had stirred something in him. A nascent hunger to take on new adventures. Adly hadn
’
t created this desire, but he had somehow focused a strong light on it, so it was the only thing Sam could think of.

“So what is it?” Judging by their short interaction, Sam knew he was probably not going to get a straight answer.

Adly
’
s eyes glimmered. “We call it—Leviathan.”

“Leviathan?”

“Come to New York, hear me out, and then make up your mind. You have nothing to lose.”

“This week is terrible for me, Adly. Even if I could come out for a day, it wouldn
’
t be for at least two weeks.”

Adly looked out to the ocean again. Sam was beginning to sense this was one of his tells. Whenever he wanted to mask his frustration, or that mad look in his eyes, he looked away. When he turned back to face Sam, a huge smile of satisfaction was pasted on his lips as if he had solved a particularly vexing problem in his mind.

He took out a piece of paper and a pen and placed it on the table.

“Write a figure on this paper, Sam.”

“Sorry, what?”

“How much it would cost us to retain your services for a year.”

“Are you serious?”

“Come to New York for a little chat. If you are still not interested, I
’
ll cut you a check for that amount and we can part ways.”

“And if I am?”

“I
will give you another piece of paper and ask you once again to write a figure.”

“What figure?”

“Whatever amount of money you require to build Leviathan for us. Consider it an intellectual diversion from your usual work. One with hugely attractive rewards. So you better think big and don
’
t undersell yourself. Now tell me Sam, and don
’
t lie, how many of your existing clients would ever tell you that?”

For the first time since Adly had sat at the table, Sam no longer felt he was in charge of the narrative or how this would play out. What was being offered went beyond an obscene amount of money. This smelled like one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities you hear about in the lives of successful people. The stuff of lore or movies. That one contract that would forever change the game for him and turbo-boost his trajectory to everything he wanted to achieve in life.

“None of my clients would say that. You won
’
t budge until I say yes, right?”

“Now you are getting the point, young man.”

“Alright then. I
’
ll come to New York the day after tomorrow.” Sam handed Adly a business card. “Have your office call my assistant Cindy with all the details.”

“No need for Cindy.” Adly pulled out a thick envelope from the inside pocket of his linen jacket and gave it to Sam.

“What
’
s this?”

“First-class return tickets to New York, flying the day after tomorrow and returning two days later. Also details of your hotel reservations, a suite at the Four Seasons. And of course, five thousand dollars for your travel expenses. I like to get things done fast.”

Sam
’
s eyes widened, not only at the generous perks or the money.

“How did you know I was going to agree to fly out that day? What if I had said yes for tomorrow?”

Adly winked at him and got up to leave. “See you in New York, Sam. I
’
ll make it worth your while.”

Sam had never questioned why an international real estate company would want to build such a powerful shield to archive and cloak its assets. Not that he lacked the curiosity to wander there, but because a part of him didn’t want to know the answer.

It was only a matter of time before he figured out who Adly worked for. The clues weren
’
t all that subtle. Pictures of Egyptian President Mubarak hanging in the master office. Familiar names Adly would utter when he was on the phone speaking in Arabic or giving Suzie instructions. And the sheer power and influence Adly
’
s boss seemed to wield. Not to mention the insane money being thrown around.