was talking to a favoured child.
‘Likewise,’ he mumbled, clasping his hand round the glass so his fingers had something to do.
Again they were both silent. The only thing that broke the vast, warm silence of the palace was a dog barking in thedistance. The water in the pool was like a mirror. The gentle breeze at sunset that had made the air so pleasant earlier had now died down. Certainly in here behind the high old walls that surrounded the garden.
When Tom O’Reilly had accepted Abdallah’s generous offer in 1978, he had done so without any great reservations. He had swiftly managed to suppress the faint twinge of something that might be bad conscience. It was just stupid to question things that you didn’t quite know the answer to. The remainder of his studies would be paid for in return for no more than a small favour. The money would not only cover his school fees, but would also afford him a generous lifestyle. He could stop taking on extra jobs and concentrate on his studies. And as he was no longer training four hours a day, his academic work improved immensely. He qualified with a good grade, a valuable network of contacts from Stanford and the will to succeed that so often drives those who have found themselves on the edge.
But as he got older, doubts crept in.
Not overwhelming, but enough for him, in his thirties, to try to find out more about the foundation that had made it possible for a poor and not particularly promising student to finish his studies at one of the world’s most prestigious universities. As a student, the only thing that had concerned him was that a sizeable sum was paid into his account every summer and every Christmas, from the anonymous ‘Student Achievement Foundation’.
The foundation did not exist.
That worried him and gave him a couple of sleepless nights. However, he quelled his doubts after a while and assumed that it might well have been disbanded. Nothing strange about that, really, when he thought about it. No point in wasting valuable time investigating any closer.
Tom O’Reilly was an intelligent man. When Abdallahal-Rahman started to contact him in Europe, he of course realised that it could be misconstrued by others. By those who couldn’t understand that they were, in fact, good friends from university. By those who didn’t realise that the conversations they had were completely innocent.
‘Has life turned out the way you hoped it would?’ Abdallah asked him now in a calm voice, almost uninterested.
‘Yes.’
Tom had everything. He was faithful to his wife, though there had been temptations along the way. Even as a student, he had sworn that his father’s legacy would not cast any shadows in his own life. He was blessed with four children and an income that meant he could afford to house his family in a twelve-bedroom villa in one of Chicago’s best suburbs. He worked hard, and long hours, but had worked his way high up enough in the system to safeguard his weekends and holidays. Tom O’Reilly was a respected man. In quiet moments, when the children were younger and he tucked them in before he went to bed, he felt that he epitomised the American dream. He was content.
‘Yes,’ he repeated and coughed. ‘I am extremely grateful.’
‘You have only yourself to thank. I just helped when the system turned its back on you. You did the rest yourself. You’ve done well, Tom.’
‘Thank you. But I am . . . grateful. Thank you.’
Abdallah’s choice of words made him feel uncomfortable.
The system
.
He had used a concept that Tom did not like. Not in the way that Abdallah had used it; to refer to the system in that way seemed . . .
Abdallah is not like them. He understands us. He operates within our system, our economy, and has never, not once, said anything that would indicate that he is like them. Quite the opposite. He respects me. He respects American values. He is practically . . . American.
‘The system is harsh.’ Tom nodded. ‘But
‘Likewise,’ he mumbled, clasping his hand round the glass so his fingers had something to do.
Again they were both silent. The only thing that broke the vast, warm silence of the palace was a dog barking in thedistance. The water in the pool was like a mirror. The gentle breeze at sunset that had made the air so pleasant earlier had now died down. Certainly in here behind the high old walls that surrounded the garden.
When Tom O’Reilly had accepted Abdallah’s generous offer in 1978, he had done so without any great reservations. He had swiftly managed to suppress the faint twinge of something that might be bad conscience. It was just stupid to question things that you didn’t quite know the answer to. The remainder of his studies would be paid for in return for no more than a small favour. The money would not only cover his school fees, but would also afford him a generous lifestyle. He could stop taking on extra jobs and concentrate on his studies. And as he was no longer training four hours a day, his academic work improved immensely. He qualified with a good grade, a valuable network of contacts from Stanford and the will to succeed that so often drives those who have found themselves on the edge.
But as he got older, doubts crept in.
Not overwhelming, but enough for him, in his thirties, to try to find out more about the foundation that had made it possible for a poor and not particularly promising student to finish his studies at one of the world’s most prestigious universities. As a student, the only thing that had concerned him was that a sizeable sum was paid into his account every summer and every Christmas, from the anonymous ‘Student Achievement Foundation’.
The foundation did not exist.
That worried him and gave him a couple of sleepless nights. However, he quelled his doubts after a while and assumed that it might well have been disbanded. Nothing strange about that, really, when he thought about it. No point in wasting valuable time investigating any closer.
Tom O’Reilly was an intelligent man. When Abdallahal-Rahman started to contact him in Europe, he of course realised that it could be misconstrued by others. By those who couldn’t understand that they were, in fact, good friends from university. By those who didn’t realise that the conversations they had were completely innocent.
‘Has life turned out the way you hoped it would?’ Abdallah asked him now in a calm voice, almost uninterested.
‘Yes.’
Tom had everything. He was faithful to his wife, though there had been temptations along the way. Even as a student, he had sworn that his father’s legacy would not cast any shadows in his own life. He was blessed with four children and an income that meant he could afford to house his family in a twelve-bedroom villa in one of Chicago’s best suburbs. He worked hard, and long hours, but had worked his way high up enough in the system to safeguard his weekends and holidays. Tom O’Reilly was a respected man. In quiet moments, when the children were younger and he tucked them in before he went to bed, he felt that he epitomised the American dream. He was content.
‘Yes,’ he repeated and coughed. ‘I am extremely grateful.’
‘You have only yourself to thank. I just helped when the system turned its back on you. You did the rest yourself. You’ve done well, Tom.’
‘Thank you. But I am . . . grateful. Thank you.’
Abdallah’s choice of words made him feel uncomfortable.
The system
.
He had used a concept that Tom did not like. Not in the way that Abdallah had used it; to refer to the system in that way seemed . . .
Abdallah is not like them. He understands us. He operates within our system, our economy, and has never, not once, said anything that would indicate that he is like them. Quite the opposite. He respects me. He respects American values. He is practically . . . American.
‘The system is harsh.’ Tom nodded. ‘But
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