Amin gagged as the short, stubby blade went in and was immediately jerked free again. His eyes flew wide in shock and he grabbed at the iron fingers holding his hair, then the knife flashed in again. This time, Juba buried it up to the handle, dug for the larynx before pulling it free, then stabbed in hard for a final time, digging in the soft internal tissue and feeling the blade grind against the spinal column. He left the makeshift weapon sticking from Amir’s neck. A final push sent the dying man toppling backward from his chair and onto the floor, choking with a cackling sound and flailing helplessly as blood gushed from the multiple ragged wounds, panic and fear written on his face.
AN HOUR LATER, GERMAN financier Dieter Nesch stepped into his modern villa and the confident smile fell from the face when he saw that his aide, Amir, was sprawled dead on the floor of the dining room. His housekeeper and the chef were trussed up and gagged and scrunched into a corner. The pale blue eyes moved over to where Juba sat at a window overlooking the harbor. Nesch shrugged. “I see you still have your skill at this sort of thing.”
“Good to see you again, Dieter. The boy was disrespectful,” said Juba, rising to shake the hand of the money man handling the entire operation. They had worked together on numerous occasions in Europe and Juba considered Nesch to be one of the few men who could be trusted in the dark world of terrorism.
“And I am happy to see you, Juba. Thank you for not killing the other two. They are good people and will not say anything.” Nesch moved over to the maid and untied her, then freed the chef and had a quiet moment with them. They vigorously pledged that they understood that any loose talk about what happened to Amir would result in their own deaths, too, for the special visitor was obviously unpredictable and violent. The financier threw a rug over the corpse. “Too bad about Amir. He was a promising young fellow with a real knack for numbers. I warned him many times about that arrogance. Now I have to find a new assistant.”
Nesch opened a rosewood cabinet, found a bottle of dark cognac and poured two glasses, giving one to Juba. “Cheers, old friend. Thank you for coming. I am delighted that you have recovered so well from your terrible wounds.”
Juba accepted the stiff drink and raised a silent toast. “Thank you. I did not expect to see you again until this was all over. Tell me about the nuclear missiles.”
Nesch took Juba gently by the elbow and guided him to the window. Tall and skinny palm trees and broad manicured grounds spread toward the nearby beach. Small pleasure boats dashed about on the water. “I really do not know very much and frankly advised that it was unwise to start changing plans at this late date. Your arrangements were doing very well, but this fellow Ebara got excited when he learned that nuclear missiles were in the country. I tried to convince him that it was just a pleasant coincidence: The assassination of the general and the murder of his family had been the point of that particular mission and it was successful. But Ebara sees it as the hand of Allah at work and ordered me to call you to supervise the targeting and the launch.”
“And the Russian agreed?”
“Ah. Another young man in a hurry, with more money than brains. This started out just as an oil grab, but now he also sees a nuclear destiny in the Middle East. Ivanov decided to let Ebara reach for a new, higher star.”
Juba nibbled on his lower lip. “Dieter, just what is it that Ebara has?”
“Well, I can only tell you what I have-a package in a safe deposit box at my local banking facility. Within the envelope are the launch codes for one missile, the key to work it and a booklet about the overall program which discusses the locations of the other missiles. The key and codes are for a missile that is parked within that huge military base at al-Kharj, outside of Riyadh.”
Juba slowly put his empty glass on a table. “That’s all? Ebara’s people do not actually control the weapons? Goddamn it! Those codes for that nuke will have already been changed! Useless, like a trinket sold in the souk! Perhaps I can find something useful in the book. Maybe the key is a master key for them all. Maybe not.”
His anger was climbing and his mouth twitched in exasperation. “We have momentum building in this uprising. Pulling me away from the control point risks wrecking everything. I thought I was coming here to oversee the firing of a missile, only to find that the rebel priest does not even really have one, much less five.”
Nesch spread his hands wide. “Ebara is not a sophisticated man, Juba. A bright student from the slums, the first boy in his class to memorize the Koran some twenty-five years ago. That got on him on the fast track with the imams and his ambition carried him to the leadership of the Religious Police. You know how everything around Saudi Arabia is wrapped in religion. He is a charismatic and harsh leader, which makes him the perfect front man for the coup. He enjoys being on television.”
“With an uneducated zealot in control of the government, the Russian could loot the place,” Juba responded. “We anticipated that. By then we will have been paid in full and gone from this dreadful place. Let them do with it as they will. I don’t care.”
Dieter smiled at that last thought. “Yes, we are professionals. Ebara is an amateur. When you provided initial successes and brought down the king, Ebara began believing that it was almost over and that the people were going to rise up and follow him. You will see for yourself. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. I have to tread lightly because these people have incredible amounts of money to spend.”
“When do we meet him?”
Nesch laughed quietly, his shoulders shaking with his own humor. “Since you just killed my chauffeur, I’ll have to personally drive you over to the mosque. Amir’s body will be gone by the time we return.”
“Can we have Ebara come here instead? I don’t like walking into his nest of snakes.” Juba was thinking tactically. Handling a kid like Amir was not the same as taking on the bunch of jihad bodyguards who would be protecting the leader of the Religious Police.
“I am afraid that would be impossible. Don’t you understand it yet, Juba? Mohammed Abu Ebara no longer considers himself just the leader of the Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. He craves recognition and has, in his opinion, graciously granted us an audience to instruct you about how to conduct your business to best expand his horizons. Somewhat of an imperialistic drama for a man who detests a monarchy, in my opinion. Ebara already envisions himself as a glorious warrior-prophet riding a white camel adorned with golden trappings in from the desert to lead a revolution that stands on the edge of triumph. The fool believes he has already won!”
35
RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
KYLE SWANSON WAS UNCOMFORTABLE wearing a suit, but the occasion demanded decorum. Last year in London, Lady Pat had hauled him to a tailor who made one that would be appropriate for almost everything, from a wedding to a business meeting. The fabric was of lightweight dark blue wool, with quieter threads woven in to offset the single shade. He wore a cream-hued shirt, a solid powder-blue tie, and shined shoes of soft Italian leather. He would rather have been in jeans, but a royal court expects better. Worst of all, he was not allowed to carry a weapon, which left him feeling somewhat naked in a nation that was in the middle of a coup.
The well-fitted suit provided the needed cover, for Swanson wanted to be as far as possible from the image of some common tough-guy American mercenary with pointy sunglasses, a bald head, and a drooping mustache. This visit demanded dignity and diplomacy.