After the walk, he drove to the Festival City Mall and met his brother-in-law and a friend from his Lehman days for a drink on the top floor of the Intercontinental. One drink led to three, but he called his wife and she understood. Supper could wait. After the third drink he told both men everything he knew about the trades he made earlier in the day. Before he left the table, they were on their BlackBerrys, placing shorts of their own. He gets out of his Mercedes and takes three steps toward the elevator before clicking the key remote to lock the door. A hand grabs his and twists his arm behind his back. The keys drop to the concrete. He bends forward as his wrist is shoved up the ridge of his spine between his shoulder blades. He doesn’t resist. “Come,” the man says in Arabic. Saudi, Al Mar surmises. The man turns him back toward the cars, then stops to pick up Al Mar’s keys. As they walk, the man says, “Of course I have a gun, so . . .”
