Though it was common knowledge among the spoil-sport law enforcement officers who cared to look into the matter that Manelli was the real owner of the agency, there was no way to prove this. He didn’t even have a phone under his own name. The only way to reach him was by going through his front man in the agency, a blank-faced, truculent Arab named Atif Abdullah Aoud.
According to the agent-in-charge of the New York office, Malone had his choice of two separate methods of getting to Manelli. One, more direct, was to walk in, announce that he was an agent of the FBI, and insist on seeing Manelli. If he had a search warrant, the A-in-C told him, he might even get in. But, even if he did, he would probably not get anything out of Manelli.
The second and more diplomatic way was to call up Atif Abdullah Aoud and arrange for an appointment.
Malone made his decision in a flash. He flipped on the phone and punched for a PLaza exchange.
The face that appeared on the screen was that of a fairly pretty, if somewhat vapid, brunette. “Rodger, Willcoe, O’Vurr and Aoud, good afternoon,” she said.
Malone blinked.
“Who is calling, please?” the girl said. She snapped gum at the screen and Malone winced and drew away.
“This is Kenneth J. Malone,” he said from what he considered a safe distance. “I want to talk to Mr. Aoud.”
“Mr. Aoud?” she said in a high, unhelpful whine.
“That’s right,” Malone said patiently. “You can tell him that there may be some government business coming his way.”