Ignoring the sage advice of his longtime friend Essam Afzal, Shayhidi contemplated his meticulous planning thus far. His new executive assistant, Gamaa al-Harith, had booked the suite under a fictitious name and paid cash. At this level of opulence, no one asked questions about cash or required a credit card on file.
Al-Harith had also leased a small out-of-the-way villa near Elounda Beach under an assumed name, again paying cash for the thirty-day rental. Gamaa al-Harith had no idea about Shayhidis background or his real identity. But the important-sounding tide, along with the generous salary and benefits Shayhidi offered, were better than anything he had ever dreamed of.
Shayhidi had instructed al-Harith to invite two business associates to an early morning breakfast meeting. When the guests arrived, al-Harith was to explain that for privacy and security reasons the venue had been changed to a villa near the hotel complex.
Shayhidi left his suite and took a limousine to the remote villa while al-Harith waited for the businessmen. When the men arrived at the lavish suite, they were disappointed that the prosperous shipping mogul was not waiting for them. Al-Harith apologized effusively for the inconvenience and explained that Mr. Oscar Palante was anxious to introduce them to his other important guests at the villa.
They went to the villa in transportation supplied by the hotel. When they arrived at the restored home, the well-dressed men stepped out of the van and approached the villa. As he was instructed to do, Gamaa al-Harith ushered the businessmen inside. Then, as ordered, he returned to the hotel suite and waited for further instructions.
Saeed Shayhidi was sitting in a large leather wingback chair in the corner of the living room. He smiled to himself when he heard the front door open and then gently close.
After the men walked down the short hallway, they found their host sitting alone. They were surprised and slightly uncomfortable, but they tried to conceal their feelings. A large divan sat in the middle of the room, facing the host.
The strange man made no effort to get to his feet or even offer a handshake to his guests. He was not anything like they had expected. Inexpensive rumpled suit, scuffed black work shoes, a strange-looking straw hat, and a large pillow on his lap. The shipping tycoon was certainly eccentric.
"Have a seat," Shayhidi said, in a deep, scratchy voice. "We have a lot to discuss and not much time to kill"
Both men eyed him curiously.
The shorter one spoke first. "Aren't we supposed to be having breakfast? Where's everyone else?"
Shayhidi spoke again in the deep voice. "I don't think you're going to have much of an appetite. Sit down."
There was some concern in their eyes, but they sat down on the wide divan. Both men felt a growing sense of uneasiness.
"How's my business doing?" Shayhidi asked, in his normal voice.
There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by an eye-bugging, mind-numbing panic.
"Speak up. How's my business coming along?"
Their shocked looks turned to raw fear as Ahmed Musashi and Hafiz al-Yamani tried to come to grips with reality. This funny-looking man was, in fact, Saeed Shayhidi, completely transformed.
Smelling the visceral fear, Musashi started to get up and flee.
Shayhidi pulled his 9mm handgun from under the pillow and fired at Musashi s feet, hoping to scare him. Shayhidi's aim was off slightly, and Musashi howled in pain as he collapsed on the divan. The round had gone through the center of his left foot. He took off his shoe awkwardly and held his bleeding foot.
"Excellent idea," Shayhidi said, with a smile of pleasure. "Take off your shoes, both of you."
Musashi quickly removed his other shoe while al-Yamani, trembling with fear, did the same.
Al-Yamani twitched and squirmed when Shayhidi waved the weapon toward him. Then he closed his eyes and balled his fists.
"Getting jumpy, weasel?"
Shaking uncontrollably, al-Yamani was afraid to say anything. Ahmed Musashi had categorically told him that Saeed Shayhidi was finished. The Americans had him under tight wraps and he would not be seen again. He would be in prison or, more likely, he would be put to death. Saeed Shayhidi would never rise again. He would never have any power again.
Al-Yamani gritted his teeth and mumbled.
"Speak up, weasel!"
"He — Ahmed — told me you were dead."
Writhing in searing pain, Musashi snapped his head around. "I never told you that, you lying little—"
Boom! Shayhidi shot al-Yamani in the right foot. He fell on the floor and began holding his foot and rocking back and forth, groaning the entire time. "I didn't do anything wrong," he said, in a small, whimpering voice. "I just did what I was told."
Shayhidi gave al-Yamani a cold, hard stare. "Look at me, you two-faced weasel. Look at me or I'll shoot you again!"
Almost in tears, his lips trembling, al-Yamani looked up.
Shayhidi flashed a menacing grin. "One more lie from either one of you and you'll die a slow, agonizing death."
Recalling the anger, the absolute rage he had felt when he left Phnom Penh, Shayhidi lowered his voice and looked at Hafiz al-Yamani. "Why didn't you return my calls and answer my e-mail?"
There was a long silence.
"Answer me or 111 blow your other foot off!"
"Musashi told me he was taking control of the company and he would make me an executive. I had to be faithful to him."
Shayhidi turned to Musashi. "The two of you have really been faithful to me after everything IVe done for you, haven't you?"
Neither man said a word.
Musashi was reeling in pain when Shayhidi fired a shot into the divan between his thighs. He leaped straight back and then fell sideways.
"So, let me understand this. I was a liability to my company— your company, that is — and you had to terminate me."
Musashi was bathed in salty sweat. It trickled down his forehead and into his eyes, stinging them and causing tears to well.
Shayhidi continued in a relaxed voice. "As I recall, you said I was an international fugitive — with no money, no access to money, and no access to power — and no lawyer would associate with the likes of me. My life was over and you were going to make sure it stayed that way." He pointed the 9mm at Musashi s face. "Is that about right? Speak up, or 111 finish you off right now!"
"I was only trying to help you and save your business for you after things calmed down. I swear that's the truth—"
Boom! Shayhidi shot Musashi's other foot, prompting a spasm of howling and cursing.
Shayhidi smiled and then chuckled. "You lying piece of trash, trying to play in the big time. But the game is over — finished, done, the end — and so are you."
Hafiz al-Yamani began sobbing. "I was going to keep you informed about everything — I didn't trust what was going—"
Boom! The other foot was useless. Al-Yamani screamed at the top of his lungs, but it made no difference. No one outside the villa could hear anything.
Shayhidi leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and smiled with pleasure. "Do you want to be buried alive or the alternative?"
"Don't do this," Musashi begged. "I'll do anything you ask, anything you want. Just give me a chance to prove myself."
"I don t want you to do anything. I have lots of things to do today. Which will it be? Dead or alive?"
Shayhidi waited a few seconds and smiled. "Time's up. I've made the decision for you. Buried alive is a better way for two real weasels to leave this planet. Next question: Who goes first?"
A few more seconds passed. "Time's up. Al-Yamani goes first so the person who tried to steal my company can watch."
"Please don't do this," Musashi said, bathed in sweat and blood. "You've taught me a real lesson."
"What about you, weasel?"