said, “Maybe it was “Bahaar hates me, help. Or is that too many words?”
“Not too many words. It might have been that. The first part of each word was not quite distinct.”
Laura told Flint about Shana living with her. As she was finishing that, Christine and Zeta walked in to the restaurant. Flint said hello to each in turn with Laura’s phone passed to them. Flint thanked Laura for calling. He was asleep within a minute of hanging up.
Chapter 12
Abdu Koreim reentered the Grande Bretagne Hotel after his twenty-five minute walk. He again took a cross legged position on his meditation mat. That was where he still was when Flint and Ava got to Gina’s house in Naples a few minutes before 5:00 A.M. , Athens time. He stood up. Knowing the sun was still more than two hours from peeking over the horizon, he showered, dressed, zipped his small meditation rug into his carryon, called the front desk, stopped by the breakfast buffet, then entered a taxi.
On the way to the airport, 7:17 A.M. , Rome time, Koreim used his tablet computer to call the number left when Mo Bahaar had phoned him a few hours earlier. Bahaar himself answered.
“Mo, you can see from the caller ID on your phone who this is. I am headed to the airport to take a flight either back to India or to Rome. Which place I go, depends on you. If you permanently abandon your plans toward Ava Milan and anyone close to her, I will procure a ticket to Hyderabad. Otherwise I will proceed wherever I need to go to oppose you to the ultimate.”
“Oh my dear Abdu. I had not realized the extent of your interest in the little Italian whore now living in Texas. Please be assured that I will have no further interactions with her.”
“You lie. So it is inevitable that we see each other in Rome. Be advised that all aspects of your scheme, including your plan to infect with a deadly virus four men from different countries, will receive my full attention. I know the first of the four is arriving from Brazil earlier than you anticipated, and I know you are waiting for his flight. I know where you are in the airport. I know who the other three are and that they are in motion to arrive today.”
Bahaar switched to Urdu, began speaking in a loud voice. But the call was over. Koreim had hung up. Bahaar looked at the passengers emerging toward baggage claim. Abdu Koreim was among them. He looked straight at Bahaar. Suddenly a well-dressed, attractive man in his forties appeared, closed the distance with his hand extended.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Davi Thiago Ruiz Neto dos Santos. From Fortaleza on the northeast coast of Brazil.”
Bahaar was still staring at where he had seen Koreim. He snapped out of wondering if he was seeing things or if Koreim had really been where he saw him. He found himself shaking hands with a tall dark skinned man who was saying, “ everyone calls me Davi, accent on the final syllable.”
Davi Ruiz was seventh generation Brazilian on his father’s side, with more recent African and Portuguese roots on his mother’s. He had a bachelor’s degree in geology from Sul Ross University in Alpine, Texas, a graduate degree in petroleum engineering from the University of Oklahoma. He had started life with no money, worked in the Tupi oil field off the coast of Rio de Janeiro, invested there and made multiple fortunes in stock and had sold little of it, preferring to live on a good salary from Petrobras, the big Brazilian oil holding company.
As Davi and Mo shook hands, a phone sounded. Davi excused himself to answer. It was a colleague from Suriname—a small country, a former Dutch colony, between Guyana and French Guiana on the northeast coast of South America.
“Davi. Jonathan Temple here. I am in London at Heathrow. I plan to arrive in Rome about 5:00 P.M.
“Not too many words. It might have been that. The first part of each word was not quite distinct.”
Laura told Flint about Shana living with her. As she was finishing that, Christine and Zeta walked in to the restaurant. Flint said hello to each in turn with Laura’s phone passed to them. Flint thanked Laura for calling. He was asleep within a minute of hanging up.
Chapter 12
Abdu Koreim reentered the Grande Bretagne Hotel after his twenty-five minute walk. He again took a cross legged position on his meditation mat. That was where he still was when Flint and Ava got to Gina’s house in Naples a few minutes before 5:00 A.M. , Athens time. He stood up. Knowing the sun was still more than two hours from peeking over the horizon, he showered, dressed, zipped his small meditation rug into his carryon, called the front desk, stopped by the breakfast buffet, then entered a taxi.
On the way to the airport, 7:17 A.M. , Rome time, Koreim used his tablet computer to call the number left when Mo Bahaar had phoned him a few hours earlier. Bahaar himself answered.
“Mo, you can see from the caller ID on your phone who this is. I am headed to the airport to take a flight either back to India or to Rome. Which place I go, depends on you. If you permanently abandon your plans toward Ava Milan and anyone close to her, I will procure a ticket to Hyderabad. Otherwise I will proceed wherever I need to go to oppose you to the ultimate.”
“Oh my dear Abdu. I had not realized the extent of your interest in the little Italian whore now living in Texas. Please be assured that I will have no further interactions with her.”
“You lie. So it is inevitable that we see each other in Rome. Be advised that all aspects of your scheme, including your plan to infect with a deadly virus four men from different countries, will receive my full attention. I know the first of the four is arriving from Brazil earlier than you anticipated, and I know you are waiting for his flight. I know where you are in the airport. I know who the other three are and that they are in motion to arrive today.”
Bahaar switched to Urdu, began speaking in a loud voice. But the call was over. Koreim had hung up. Bahaar looked at the passengers emerging toward baggage claim. Abdu Koreim was among them. He looked straight at Bahaar. Suddenly a well-dressed, attractive man in his forties appeared, closed the distance with his hand extended.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Davi Thiago Ruiz Neto dos Santos. From Fortaleza on the northeast coast of Brazil.”
Bahaar was still staring at where he had seen Koreim. He snapped out of wondering if he was seeing things or if Koreim had really been where he saw him. He found himself shaking hands with a tall dark skinned man who was saying, “ everyone calls me Davi, accent on the final syllable.”
Davi Ruiz was seventh generation Brazilian on his father’s side, with more recent African and Portuguese roots on his mother’s. He had a bachelor’s degree in geology from Sul Ross University in Alpine, Texas, a graduate degree in petroleum engineering from the University of Oklahoma. He had started life with no money, worked in the Tupi oil field off the coast of Rio de Janeiro, invested there and made multiple fortunes in stock and had sold little of it, preferring to live on a good salary from Petrobras, the big Brazilian oil holding company.
As Davi and Mo shook hands, a phone sounded. Davi excused himself to answer. It was a colleague from Suriname—a small country, a former Dutch colony, between Guyana and French Guiana on the northeast coast of South America.
“Davi. Jonathan Temple here. I am in London at Heathrow. I plan to arrive in Rome about 5:00 P.M.
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