your phone’s metadata remotely,” said Jackson. “With that they can tell when you left your house, the license plate on the car you’re in, where you went, who you sat with.”
“Yes, I know all that,” said Awadi. “So is there one of those, uh . . .”
“IMSI catchers?”
“Did you find one?”
“No,” Jackson said, putting the phone away. “You’re clear.”
“You hear that, Salmha?” he called to his servant out of the room. “He said we’re clear.” He waited a minute, smiling. And then he called again, “You hear that, Salmha?” He started drumming his fingers on his knee impatiently. The whole situation was becoming awkward.
“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” said Jackson.
“Salmha!” yelled Awadi before launching into an angry tirade of Arabic. It was too fast and too hostile for translation.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, getting up. “I don’t know what’s happened to Salmha.” He started shuffling away while calling his servant’s name again for the twentieth time.
“Should we . . .” Jasper started to say. But Jackson just shook his head. Best to let them deal with whatever it was.
After a minute, Awadi returned with a grave look on his face, like he’d just stumbled upon a dead body. “Jackson, can you have your doctor come over here please?”
“His name is Rick,” said Jackson.
“Rick, can you please come?” He sounded very serious, quiet. Scared, almost.
Jasper joined him in the luxurious bathroom, where they found Salmha on the stone tile floor and hunched in the fetal position. He was breathing, conscious, but in great discomfort. Jasper immediately checked for any signs of blood or vomit, or even drool. But there was nothing.
Awadi said something to him. But there was hardly a response. He then turned to Jasper, saying, “He’s my food tester. Something must be wrong with the food.”
Most of these guys from Saudi come over with their own food testers, to make sure they weren’t about to be poisoned. Who would poison him was apparently beside the point. Awadi was traveling outside the safe confines of Riyadh, and therefore vulnerable.
It could be hoped that Salmha was just sensitive to a little American cooking, and nothing more.
“Salmha, can you hear me?” Jasper said in Arabic.
Yes, he could hear, he mumbled in reply.
“Do you know where you are?”
Yes, he knew that he was in the bathroom in a hotel suite on the twentieth floor. Raleigh, North Carolina. It was all good news, that he was at least conscious and coherent. But what the hell was wrong with him?
“Where does it hurt?” asked Jasper.
The man was clutching his stomach, so that as much was obvious.
“Where does it hurt, Salmha?” asked Awadi.
Jasper had already gotten him to sit up, his back pushed up against the wall. He was holding his chest right below his ribs, but Jasper moved his hands away so he could press onto his abdomen, examining his organs.
Jackson had left the room, returning within a few seconds. “Jasper, the food’s in the other room. Do you want to see it?”
“Yes, do you want to check out the food?” asked Awadi, sounding like he was already interviewing for another food tester.
“There’s no need to check it,” said Jasper, looking at the man’s eyes now. Looking at his tongue. And then looking at his hands. “The food’s fine.”
“Food’s fine?” asked Awadi.
“Probably too fine,” said Jasper as he finished up his exam got back to his feet. “He ate it too fast.”
“What?” Awadi looked confused, looked down at his man.
“Gas pain,” said Jasper, trying not to laugh.
“He’ll be okay,” said Jasper. “Let’s get him up and lay him in bed.”
Jasper and Jackson helped the man off the bathroom floor and walked him into the bedroom. He was apologizing in Arabic, saying that he felt okay, and sorry for all the bother.
“So,” said Jackson, helping the man into one of the suite’s many king-size beds. “Do
“Yes, I know all that,” said Awadi. “So is there one of those, uh . . .”
“IMSI catchers?”
“Did you find one?”
“No,” Jackson said, putting the phone away. “You’re clear.”
“You hear that, Salmha?” he called to his servant out of the room. “He said we’re clear.” He waited a minute, smiling. And then he called again, “You hear that, Salmha?” He started drumming his fingers on his knee impatiently. The whole situation was becoming awkward.
“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” said Jackson.
“Salmha!” yelled Awadi before launching into an angry tirade of Arabic. It was too fast and too hostile for translation.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, getting up. “I don’t know what’s happened to Salmha.” He started shuffling away while calling his servant’s name again for the twentieth time.
“Should we . . .” Jasper started to say. But Jackson just shook his head. Best to let them deal with whatever it was.
After a minute, Awadi returned with a grave look on his face, like he’d just stumbled upon a dead body. “Jackson, can you have your doctor come over here please?”
“His name is Rick,” said Jackson.
“Rick, can you please come?” He sounded very serious, quiet. Scared, almost.
Jasper joined him in the luxurious bathroom, where they found Salmha on the stone tile floor and hunched in the fetal position. He was breathing, conscious, but in great discomfort. Jasper immediately checked for any signs of blood or vomit, or even drool. But there was nothing.
Awadi said something to him. But there was hardly a response. He then turned to Jasper, saying, “He’s my food tester. Something must be wrong with the food.”
Most of these guys from Saudi come over with their own food testers, to make sure they weren’t about to be poisoned. Who would poison him was apparently beside the point. Awadi was traveling outside the safe confines of Riyadh, and therefore vulnerable.
It could be hoped that Salmha was just sensitive to a little American cooking, and nothing more.
“Salmha, can you hear me?” Jasper said in Arabic.
Yes, he could hear, he mumbled in reply.
“Do you know where you are?”
Yes, he knew that he was in the bathroom in a hotel suite on the twentieth floor. Raleigh, North Carolina. It was all good news, that he was at least conscious and coherent. But what the hell was wrong with him?
“Where does it hurt?” asked Jasper.
The man was clutching his stomach, so that as much was obvious.
“Where does it hurt, Salmha?” asked Awadi.
Jasper had already gotten him to sit up, his back pushed up against the wall. He was holding his chest right below his ribs, but Jasper moved his hands away so he could press onto his abdomen, examining his organs.
Jackson had left the room, returning within a few seconds. “Jasper, the food’s in the other room. Do you want to see it?”
“Yes, do you want to check out the food?” asked Awadi, sounding like he was already interviewing for another food tester.
“There’s no need to check it,” said Jasper, looking at the man’s eyes now. Looking at his tongue. And then looking at his hands. “The food’s fine.”
“Food’s fine?” asked Awadi.
“Probably too fine,” said Jasper as he finished up his exam got back to his feet. “He ate it too fast.”
“What?” Awadi looked confused, looked down at his man.
“Gas pain,” said Jasper, trying not to laugh.
“He’ll be okay,” said Jasper. “Let’s get him up and lay him in bed.”
Jasper and Jackson helped the man off the bathroom floor and walked him into the bedroom. He was apologizing in Arabic, saying that he felt okay, and sorry for all the bother.
“So,” said Jackson, helping the man into one of the suite’s many king-size beds. “Do
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