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conference room to the pressroom. The two men walked together until they got to the door.

Al Tabaq, Syria
    Ben Schweitzer stepped off of the Gulfstream jet and into the oppressive Syrian heat. The tarmac was Nazari’s private airstrip, located to the south of his enormous desert retreat. The estate boasted horse stables, an Olympic pool, a full eighteen hole golf course, an aircraft hangar and an impressive mansion the size of an American mini-mall; the fruits of foreign aid.
    They boarded two golf-carts and headed toward the expansive home. Emily Stansborough made it a point to wait until Ben sat down to pick her seat; she sat down next to the spy.
    “So why do you think we were picked to be a part of this ‘Special Press Summit?’” She asked as the cart eased past the hangar onto a smooth black asphalt path.
    “I have been wondering the same question,” he said quietly. Since he had responded and the ice was broken, he was going to be locked into conversation with the nosy reporter. Of course, from time to time, Ben’s job required him to develop contacts and assets. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to communicate with people, he just preferred not to make a lasting impact. He liked to leave them without a solid description of himself and with no significant details.
    “I don’t know either.” Ms. Stansborough said. The roof of the golf cart baked under the Arab sun and wafted an odor of hot molded plastic down to them.
    The cart came to a stop at the entrance to Nazari’s estate home. Two enormous cedar doors dressed the end of a long overhang that obscured decorative carvings on the doors.
    The inside of Nazari’s home was even more grandiose. Just beyond the foyer, a white marble staircase reached up two stories to the main bedrooms and an incredible stone balcony. Paintings hung on every square inch of the walls.
    There was a huge ballroom with windows that reached from floor to ceiling and overlooked the pale blue waters of the pool. The garage housed two red Ferraris and a black Lamborghini. The house was cooled to seventy-two degrees, amazing- considering the outside ambient temperature.
    The reporters were shown to a smaller house that was attached to the main via a large breezeway paved with terra cotta tiles. They were each given a separate room in the house, though they were small and sparse compared to what they had just walked through.
    “You will find everything you will need in your rooms. If there is anything you require in addition, you may ring the butler at extension four. The telephones are on your nightstands.”
    No one said anything to their guide, though they each had a million questions.
    “Dinner is served at ten o’clock here, are there any questions?” The man asked anticipating none.
    Ben raised his hand, which somehow seemed both odd and appropriate.
    “Yes Mr. Schweitzer,” the man asked.
    “When will we be meeting with Sha…Uh…Imam Nazari,” he said catching himself. Though no one made a sound, the group of journalists all seemed to cringe with Ben. Arab men were big on respect. To everyone’s surprise the guide laughed; not a hardy laugh out loud kind of laugh, but a slight chuckle.
    “Imam Nazari will have you all for dinner. Again, that will be at ten o’clock.” The man turned his head slightly away from Ben but kept his eyes trained on him.
    “Will that be all?”
    Everyone nodded their head in agreement and Nazari’s servant disappeared into the mammoth house.
    Once in the privacy of his room, Ben unpacked his bag. From within a shaving kit he removed a small rectangular device. He punched a detent button on its side and began sweeping the room for hidden wires and electronic listening systems; there were none. He then pulled out an electric shaver. With a strong pull on one half of the device, the unit came apart in his hand. The bottom half unfolded to reveal a satellite phone.
    Unlike cellular phones that used a series of towers to run their