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in a routine investigation we did for the FBI. There are indications to suggest that Kayn Industries could be targeted by Islamic terrorists. It’s all in this report,’ said Orville, handing the assistant a DVD. Russell took it with a worried look. ‘Consider it a courtesy on our part.’
    ‘Thank you very much indeed, Mr Watson. And good luck.’

5
    HOTEL LE MERIDIEN
    AMMAN, JORDAN
     
    Wednesday, 5 July 2006. 6:11 p.m.
     
    On the other side of the world, Tahir Ibn Faris, a minor official in the Ministry of Industry, was leaving his office a bit later than usual. The reason was not his dedication to his job, which was in fact exemplary, but his desire to avoid being seen. It took him less than two minutes to reach his destination, which was not the customary bus stop but the luxurious Meridien, the finest five-star hotel in Jordan, which was currently lodging the two gentlemen who had requested this meeting through a well-known industrialist. Unfortunately, this particular intermediary had made his reputation through channels that were neither respectable nor clean. Tahir therefore suspected that the invitation for coffee might have shady undertones. And although he was proud of his twenty-three years of honest work at the Ministry, he was beginning to have less use for pride and more for hard cash; the reason being that his eldest daughter was about to get married, and that was going to cost him.
    On his way to one of the executive suites, Tahir examined his reflection in the mirror, wishing he had the look of a greedier man. He was barely five feet six inches tall, and his belly, greying beard, and increasing baldness made him look more like an affable drunk than a corrupt government employee. He wanted to erase the slightest trace of integrity from his features.
    What more than two decades of honesty couldn’t give him was the correct mind-set for what he was doing. As he knocked on the door, his knees made their own percussion. He managed to calm himself down an instant before entering the suite, where he was greeted by a well-dressed American who looked about fifty. Another much younger man was seated in the spacious living room and was smoking as he talked on his mobile phone. When he noticed Tahir, he ended the call and stood up to greet him.
    ‘ Ahlan wa sahlan ,’ he welcomed him in perfect Arabic.
    Tahir was taken aback. When, on various occasions, he had refused bribes to reclassify land for industrial and commercial use in Amman - a veritable gold mine for his less scrupulous colleagues - he had not done so out of a sense of duty, but because of the insulting arrogance of westerners who, within minutes of meeting him, would drop wads of dollar bills on the table.
    The conversation with these two Americans couldn’t have been more different. Before Tahir’s astonished eyes, the older one sat down in front of a low table, where he had prepared four dellas , Bedouin coffee pots, and a small coal fire. With a sure hand he roasted fresh coffee beans in an iron frying pan and let them cool. He then ground the roasted beans with more mature ones in the mahbash , a small mortar. The whole process was accompanied by a steady stream of conversation, except when the pestle was rhythmically striking the mahbash , since this sound is considered by the Arabs as a kind of music whose artistry should be appreciated by the guest.
    The American added cardamom seeds and a pinch of saffron, meticulously brewing the mixture according to a tradition that went back centuries. As was customary, the guest - Tahir - held the cup, which had no handle, while the American filled it halfway, for it was the host’s privilege to serve the most important person in the room first. Tahir drank the coffee, still slightly sceptical about the results. He thought he wouldn’t have more than one cup since it was already late, but after tasting the brew he was so delighted that he drank four more. He would have ended up having a sixth cup,