“That didn’t take long,” he said, referring to Bashir’s check-in. “Routine,” Bashir said, affecting a nonchalance he didn’t feel, responding to the man’s friendliness with a smile. He was nervous, dead tired from the long series of flights, but high enough on adrenalin to play the game. “Phillip Nelson,” the man said. “And of course you are Bashir Yassin. I watched your landing out there … very skillful, very skillful indeed,” gripping Bashir’s hand longer than was customary. Maybe that’s how people greeted each other here, regular people, not the kind he had dealt with in Rio, a frightening city he was glad he had not been sent to. Nevertheless, this effusive friendliness made him uncomfortable. “The Sheraton,” Nelson said to the cab driver as he settled into the seat next to Bashir. The scent of cologne drifted off him. His fingers looked manicured. The shirt cuffs on his wrists were the French kind, flashy links. His suit and tie looked new. It took only a few minutes to find the downtown hotel—a great white tower rising up like the prow of a ship.
