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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

But after all this time, she still didn’t know why.  Or what.  What was the man seeking in the children’s pictures?  What was he searching for?

And what was he hiding in that underground bunker of his?

45

45

“I need to speak with you at once.”

It was the voice of Khoury again, Saad’s head of security and a man who rarely sounded ruffled or excited, prompting Saad to immediately walk to the intercom speaker in the bunker’s main room.

Pressing the large button, he responded.  “What is it?”

“Your instruction was not to allow any interference, but one problem is growing uncomfortably more serious.”

Saad stared at the device on the wall, thinking for a moment before finally nodding.  “I’ll be right up.”

Saad’s residence, or compound, was nothing short of palatial, evident from the giant study Khoury was waiting in when the old man appeared from a side hall.

Like the living room, a wall of glass filled one entire length of the study, but the shades were drawn to reduce the sun’s thermal heat.

He came to a stop on the moondust-colored carpet and placed both hands behind his back.  “What is it?”

“The woman,” replied Khoury.  “The reporter.”

“Yes?”

“She just showed up at the UNICEF office in Cairo, asking questions.”

“About?”

“About you.  And the Rainbow houses.”

Saad still didn’t sense alarm.  “That’s hardly a first.”

“Someone at the Ministry of Labor is also digging—a woman related to the journalist.”

“Related?”

“The woman’s sister-in-law.”

Saad finally frowned.  “Is that so?”

“I doubt they are looking up your birthday.”

Saad blinked at the sarcasm and continued reasoning.  The alarm was not in the digging.  It was the unpredictability of it.  It would take the woman months, probably years, to glean anything truly useful.  Over the years, dozens of others had tried, many with far greater resources.

What was unpredictable, however, was in what the woman may know.  A piece of information, no matter how remote or minor, had a way of morphing into something much more significant—possibly attracting attention from someone who may have resources or clout enough to hamper Saad’s plans.

“She wasted no time going to UNICEF.”

Khoury shook his head.

Saad turned to the giant window, pondering.  “What could they know?”

Khoury didn’t answer.

“What could they know,” he repeated, this time to himself.

Why would the Labor department be involved?  What could they be looking at?  And why now?  What could they know?

No, he decided.  It was impossible.  He’d spent the better half of seventy years making sure no one could unravel it.

It had to be something else.  Something small and inconsequential.

But sometimes, even the inconsequential was still worth eliminating.

What Saad failed to consider at that moment was that some revelations–some history-changing events–happened simply by accident.

46

46