Nano by Sam Fisher Read Free Book Online

shouted at you, the noise was unfathomable and he found the only way he could survive was to close his mind off to everything but the essentials. Without doing that, he believed, he would have gone crazy.
    In the elevator, he caught his reflection. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit that belonged to his uncle. The pants itched and the sleeves were too short. He hated it and yearned for his robe and shemagh to cover his head. But Father had insisted on the suit. It would make him look like a serious businessman, the Elder had said. He had also been forced to trim his beard and, in the hotel room, he had followed another of his father’s instructions and brushed his hair into a side parting.
    Mohammed stepped out of the elevator and there all around him was marble, steel, neon, flashing lights and more noise! People everywhere, women with their legs on display, arms exposed, men in shorts. Everywhere he went, people were holding mobile phones to their ears and talking endless talk.
    He had heard of mobiles. The village had one telephone, an old thing from the 1980s, but he had not realised how many there were of the things, nor how people were so preoccupied with talking and walking and tapping on their bits of plastic. Everyone around him seemed to be in their own world, cut off from everyone around them. But at the same time the shops drew them in, gelled them with commercial glue. It was all very, very strange.
    He remembered the directions and where he was to meet the businessman, Saeed Khalid. He had the documents with him and he knew the lawyer would also be there to settle everything legally. He walked along the thoroughfare, blocking out the clashing sounds of music spilling from jeans shops and computer stores. Ahead, he could see a sign – Café 199 – and there at a table outside close to the walkway, he saw two men, Saeed Khalid and the lawyer Fouad Bitar.
    The two men stood up as he approached. Saeed was tall, perhaps 1.8 metres, well-built, broad shoulders. He looked immaculate in his white thoub robe and pristine headdress, white shemagh and black ogal wrapped just above his brows. He was wearing expensive looking sandals. His beard was trimmed professionally and he carried the faint odour of cologne. On his wrist was a large, vulgar watch.
    Mohammed had expected a playboy, a spoilt rich kid and his expectations were immediately confirmed. He knew that Saeed had been educated at Oxford and was being groomed to take over his father’s vast business empire. Fouad Bitar was a smaller man in a western suit and tie. He was entirely bald, short, coming only to Saeed Khalid’s shoulder, and he had a smile that Mohammed disliked.
    ‘Good day, my friend,’ Saeed said in Arabic, taking a pace towards Mohammed. He embraced the new arrival then held him at arm’s length. ‘Your father spoke well of you to my father,’ he added. ‘He said you were the pride of his family.’
    Mohammed took a small step back and gave a slight bow.
    ‘This,’ Saeed said and waved a hand towards the lawyer, ‘is Fouad Bitar, the man our fathers have agreed upon to do the paperwork.’
    Mohammed shook the small man’s hand and found it limp.
    ‘Saeed’s father suggested we meet up informally first, to make sure we’re all in agreement,’ the lawyer said. He had a slight American accent.
    ‘I am honoured,’ Mohammed said seriously and the three men sat down. Coffee was ordered for Saeed and Bitar, and Mohammed asked for a glass of tap water.
    ‘Now as you know, Mohammed, the documents relating to the sale of your father’s land have been checked by your father and I understand he has a friend who is a legal expert.’
    Mohammed noticed Bitar flick Saeed an almost imperceptible glance that would have revealed nothing to most people, but Mohammed had a gift for reading what westerners called ‘body language’. It came naturally to him, a talent he had nurtured since childhood. And in that brief glance, Mohammed could detect