The Secret of Fatima by Peter J; Tanous

else.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œI think I told you about this major new client of mine. The one I went to Brussels for.
    His name is Greg Maggio. I had dinner with him last night—”
    Dinner? Kevin thought. Do you often have tête-à-tête dinners with your male clients?
    â€œâ€”and he asked me about some large money transfers, like how could I help him quietly transfer a large sum of money without getting the authorities suspicious.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œThere are rules, and this comes close to the edge. He’s my biggest client and if he’s legit I don’t want him to just go poof! Some other law firm will grab him.”
    â€œHow can I help?”
    â€œI know you still have connections within the intelligence community. If I give you the name of his company, can you get someone to discreetly check it out?”
    Kevin hesitated. “Katie, my best source is Toby Beck, but I’ve been leaning on him a lot lately.”
    After a brief moment of silence, Katie said, “I understand. Forget I asked.”
    â€œNo, leave it with me. I’ll work something out. What’s the company name?”
    â€œConsolidated Investors United. A pure bullshit name he dreamt up for an LLC we registered for him. Thanks, Kevin.”
    Seeing another call coming in, Kevin interrupted her. Area code 703. Northern Virginia. “I’m sorry, Katie. I’ve got to take this call.”
    â€œOK. Talk soon.”
    Without small talk, Toby got to the point right away. “I got to tell you, buddy, I don’t know exactly what you’re doing over there, but you might be in over your head.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    Toby continued, “We intercepted a couple of calls. The numbers you gave me are registered to a cleric named ‘Carlos Alameda’, goes by the name ‘Columbo.’ NSA approved my request to listen in. Man, this stuff gets messy. I’m looking at the transcripts now.”
    â€œSend them to me?” Kevin asked.
    â€œI can’t. My sweet ass is in enough trouble as it is. I don’t want to push the boundaries here.” Toby went silent for a spell. Kevin wondered if the connection had been lost. Then Toby went on. “Are you alone in your unit?”
    â€œYes, of course. Why?”
    â€œGo to your laptop and dial in this URL.” Kevin did as his friend asked and powered up the Dell. As Toby read off the address, Kevin typed it in.
    When he’d finished typing, a blue screen appeared. A series of numbers dotted the screen at a rapid pace, then abruptly stopped. A white box formed.
    â€œType this code in the box,” Toby continued. “Once you do that, I’ll be able to control your screen.” Toby read off the code.
    â€œWhat?” Kevin responded, typing it in as he spoke.
    What was on the screen faded, replaced by an overhead image of an outdoor café in filtered sunlight, tables with patrons sipping drinks, palm trees, white jacketed waiters, and a nearby pool with frolicking bathers. Kevin gazed at the image, puzzled. “Am I supposed to know what this is?”
    â€œSince you already gave us some useful intelligence, and you might be able to tell us more, I got permission to share it with you. It’s the pool area of the St. Georges Hotel in Beirut. It’s a satellite shot.”
    Kevin continued to study the screen, not connecting the dots in his head. What is this? Then the screen’s image zoomed in on two men at one of the café tables.
    Toby went on. “The hunky fellow on the left with a cigarette in his mouth is Dov Leibotski, Israel’s deputy intelligence director. We can’t ID the other guy; his face is blocked by a fedora, probably on purpose. Take a closer look.”
    The image zoomed in to reveal a grainy picture of a dark-skinned face, partially obscured by the brim of his hat. “Who’s that?” Toby asked.
    Kevin kept looking and shook his