“Thank you,” Nicole said primly, and walked to the front of the lobby, sitting down on one of the long, gleaming oak benches. She stared out the two-story windows at the beach. The sky was cloudless, pale blue, the ocean light gray. It was going to be a glorious day, as so many days were in San Diego.
She stared out at the ocean, thinking of absolutely nothing, until she heard the guard call out. “Uber’s here, ma’am.”
She turned her head and sure enough, a car was coming around the circular driveway. Nicole nodded to the guard and got into the car. She gave her address to the driver and stared blindly out the window as he took off.
This part of San Diego was beautiful, but she barely noticed the white sand beaches, lush vegetation, the light dancing on wavelets over the ocean, the runners on the beach.
All she could think about was Sam Reston on top of her, nose an inch from hers, staring at her fiercely as he moved in and out of her. And the fact that all last night, she hadn’t thought once about her father.
New York
“Paul Preston for Mr. Mold.I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
Ah. Finally. The last secretary in the gauntlet. She lifted her gaze and gave him a small smile, just a slight baring of beautiful white-capped teeth as large as Chiclets, then her gloss-covered mouth closed tightly. Muhammed had learned that the more powerful the man, the less friendly the secretary.
He’d cycled through three secretaries already, offering smiles in decreasing increments, as he neared the “Holy Presence.” This secretary was the one who held her boss’s schedule. She was powerful beyond measure and she knew it.
Muhammed had asked for this appointment, desperate to get to top financier Richard Mold as fast as possible, knowing that time was vital, yet trying not to press too hard, because Mold would see it as a sign of vulnerability.
These men could smell desperation at a hundred paces, like hyenas can smell blood from miles away. Muhammedwasdesperate, but not for money. Though he lived in a world that would do anything for money—live for it, die for it, even kill for it—he was indifferent to its lure.
Particularly now, when he—Muhammed Wahed, a child of the camps—was going to change the course of human history. Men would weave stories of his actions for a thousand years. More.
So it was hard for him to keep calm in front of the secretary’s cool gaze as she pressed a button and quietly said, “Mr. Paul Preston to see you, sir. Your ten-o’clock appointment.”
Did she notice the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead? See that he had to work to keep from wringing his hands?
Maybe she did. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe if he were too cool, it would be noted, commented on. Richard Mold commanded an empire and his methods were harsh. In his own world, he was a caliph, a sultan. Anyone asking a favor was meant to be a sweaty, trembling supplicant.
There was a low, calm, deep murmur from the intercom—the tone of command very clear—and the big mahogany and brass door to the right of the desk issued a faint click and slid smoothly into the wall.
The secretary looked at him coolly. “You have until ten fifteen, sir.”
The subtext was that at 10:15, security would be called in.
Well, by 10:15 he’d either have a name, or not. It was in Allah’s hands at this point.
He walked through the door.
Over the past years, Muhammed had been in countless offices of the rich and powerful. Some preferred the English Lord look. Paneled walls, deep leather armchairs, crystal decanters, as if an office on the fortieth floor of a Manhattan skyscraper had been in existence for three hundred years, bequeathed down through the generations, from earl to earl.
Some had offices that looked like they’d time-traveled back from the twenty-second century.
But all of them,allof them exuded a specific aura—look at me. Look at what I’ve accomplished. Look at how powerful I am. Do not mess with me because I will crush you.
Muhammed had been in this office once before, when Mold had just taken over the big hedge fund. It had looked like Versailles then. Now it was all sleek black marble and Lucite.
They said that Mold had spent three million dollars redecorating his office.
And there he was, behind a twelve-foot-long slab of ebony with transparent legs, the desk empty and bare and highly polished, as befitted a Master of the Universe.
Mold stood but didn’t offer his hand. “Preston,” he said. The deep voice wasn’t particularly warm or welcoming. “What can I do for you?”
That was a loaded question, if ever there was one. Muhammed was here only because Mold hoped Muhammed could do something for him. If it was only a favor being asked, Muhammed would be marched out by security the instant Mold pressed the red button that was undoubtedly on the underside of the desk.
All nervousness had gone, sucked away like the stale air into the invisible conditioners.
Muhammed had seen the future.
