THIRTY-TWO
AT 16H51 ON FRIDAY Afternoon, The Prince’s phone rang. Again.
The other people around the table—investors from a bank in Sweden—had become noticeably irate at The Prince’s incessant use of his phone during their session that afternoon. Now, again, the president from the Middle East division shot him a glare as the phone buzzed on the table.
The name on the caller ID was Abdullah’s. Finally! The Prince’s nerves had been in tethers the whole day. He’d even tried to distract himself by requiring that this meeting take place at this time, ostensibly so the Swedes could go home for their weekend and catch the last flight out, but really to distract him from what was going on downtown. It didn’t help at all.
He had to take the call. He pasted on his practiced I-have-to-take-this-b
