Juan Gómez-Jurado: Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

‘We’d better make a start, sir,’ said the assistant, who had heard countless variations on this theme.

‘Is it absolutely necessary?’

‘You’re the one who requested it, sir. As a way of controlling any loose ends.’

‘I could just read the report.’

‘It’s not just that. We’re already at Phase Four. If you want to be a part of this expedition, you’ll have to get used to being around strangers. Dr Hocher was very clear on that point.’

The old man pressed a series of buttons on his remote control. The blinds in the room came down and the lights went out as he sat down once again.

‘There’s no other way?’

His assistant shook his head.

‘Very well, then.’

The assistant headed for the door, the only remaining source of light.

‘Jacob.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Before you leave… Would you mind letting me hold your hand for a moment? I’m frightened.’

The assistant did as he was asked. Kayn’s hand was still trembling.

NEW YORK

Wednesday, 5 July 2006. 11:10 a.m.

Orville Watson was nervously drumming his fingers on the bulging leather portfolio on his lap. He had been sitting on his well-padded rear end in the reception area of the 38th Floor of Kayn Tower for the last two hours. At 3,000 dollars an hour, anyone else would have been happy to wait until Judgement Day. But not Orville. The young Californian was growing bored. In point of fact, the fight against boredom was what had made his career.

His college studies had bored him. Against his family’s wishes he had dropped out during his second year. He had found a good job at CNET, one of the companies on the cutting edge of new technologies, but once again boredom had set in. Orville was constantly hungry for new challenges and his real passion was for answering questions. By the turn of the millennium, his entrepreneurial spirit had prompted him to leave his job at CNET and start up his own company.

His mother, who read in the newspapers each day about the failure of yet another dot-com, objected. Her worries didn’t deter Orville. He packed his 300-pound frame, blond ponytail, and a suitcase full of clothes into a dilapidated van and drove right across the country, ending up in a basement apartment in Manhattan. Thus Netcatch was born. His slogan was ‘You ask, we respond’. The whole project could have remained nothing more than the crazy dream of a young man with an eating disorder, too many worries, and a singular understanding of the Internet. But then 9/11 happened, and straight away Orville understood three things that it had taken the Washington bureaucrats much too long to figure out.

First, that their methods of handling information had been obsolete for thirty years. Second, that the political correctness brought on by eight years of the Clinton administration had made it even more difficult to search for information, since you could only count on ‘reliable sources’, which were useless when dealing with terrorists. And third, that the Arabs were turning out to be the new Russians when it came to espionage.

Orville’s mother, Yasmina, was born and had lived in Beirut for many years before marrying a handsome engineer from Sausalito, California, whom she met while he was working on a project in Lebanon. The couple soon moved to the United Status, where the lovely Yasmina educated her only son in both Arabic and English.

Adopting different identities on the web, the young man found out that the Internet was a paradise for extremists. It didn’t matter physically how far apart ten radicals might be; online, the distance was measured in milliseconds. Their identity might be secret and their ideas insane, but on the Net they could find people who thought just like them. In a matter of weeks, Orville had accomplished something that nobody in Western intelligence could have achieved by conventional means: he had infiltrated one of the most radical networks in Islamic terrorism.

One morning towards the beginning of 2002, Orville drove south to Washington with four boxes of files in the boot of his van. Arriving at CIA headquarters, he asked for the person in charge of Islamic terrorism, stating that he had important information to divulge. In his hand was a ten-page summary of his findings. The lowly official who met with him made him wait two hours before even bothering to read his report. When he had finished reading, the official was so disturbed that he called in his supervisor. Minutes later four men showed up, threw Orville to the floor, stripped him, and dragged him into an interrogation room. Orville smiled inwardly throughout the humiliating procedure; he knew he’d hit the nail on the head.

When the big shots at the CIA grasped the magnitude of Orville’s talent, they offered him a job. Orville told them that what was in the four boxes (which eventually produced twenty-three arrests in the United States and Europe) was just a free sample. If they wanted more, they should contract the services of his new company, Netcatch.

‘Our prices are very reasonable, I should add,’ he said. ‘Now, may I please have my underwear back?’

Four and a half years later, Orville had put on another twelve pounds. His bank account had also gained some weight. Netcatch now employed seventeen full-time workers who produced detailed reports and information searches for the main governments of the Western world, mostly on security-related issues. Orville Watson, now a millionaire, was once again beginning to grow bored.

Until this new assignment came up.

Netcatch had its own way of doing things. All requests for its services had to be made in the form of a question. And this latest question came with the words ‘budget unlimited’ attached. The fact that it came from a private company, and not a government, also aroused Orville’s curiosity.

Who is Father Anthony Fowler?

Orville got up from the plush waiting-room sofa in an attempt to ease the numbness in his muscles. He put his hands together and stretched his arms behind his head as far as he could. A request for information from a private company, especially one such as Kayn Industries, which was ranked among the top five of the Fortune 500 , was unusual. Especially such a strange and precise request about an ordinary priest from Boston.

… about a seemingly ordinary priest from Boston , Orville corrected himself.

Orville was in the middle of stretching his upper limbs when a dark-haired, well-built executive dressed in an expensive suit entered the waiting room. He was barely thirty years old, and was regarding Orville seriously from behind his rimless glasses. From the orange tint of his skin, it was clear that he was no stranger to using a sunbed. He spoke with a clipped British accent.

‘Mr Watson. I’m Jacob Russell, executive assistant to Raymond Kayn. We spoke on the telephone.’

Orville tried to regain his composure, with little success, and extended his hand.

‘Mr Russell, I’m very happy to meet you. Sorry, I…’

‘Don’t worry. Please follow me and I’ll take you to your meeting.’

They crossed the carpeted waiting room and reached a set of mahogany doors at the far end.

‘Meeting? I thought that I was supposed to explain my findings to you.’

‘Well, not exactly, Mr Watson. Today Raymond Kayn will hear what you have to say.’

Orville was unable to respond.

‘Is there a problem, Mr Watson? Aren’t you feeling well?’

‘Yes. No. I mean, there’s no problem, Mr Russell. You simply took me by surprise. Mr Kayn…’

Russell pulled a small knob on the frame of the mahogany door and a panel slid open to reveal a simple square of dark glass. The executive placed his right hand on the glass and an orange light appeared, followed by the brief sound of a buzzer and then the door opened.