“You took care of me as a young boy. When the others were bullies, you stopped them.”
“I did, didn’t I? Even then, I told Mutaib I would order his head off if he picked on you.” The king chuckled until he started gasping for air. “Even at twelve, I was ready to lead.”
“Indeed.”
“You are aware of Yousef’s plans?”
The secretary didn’t say anything. The king always knew more.
“The dynamics of the Council could become unpredictable.”
“Yes, sire.”
“I do not wish to be the last leader of my nation.” The king paused. “And I understand that your friend is meeting with a journalist from London?”
The secretary winced at your friend.
“A particularly troublesome journalist — one bent on fanning the fire.”
“And what will he tell the journalist? That Saudi Arabia is run by a corrupt king? That the Muslim world needs a new leader? That his followers need to empower a new kingdom?” The old man started to cough, a deep hacking cough, gasping for air between breaths. “We do not need a confrontation,” the king said. “You do not need a confrontation. Not now.”
The secretary understood what was being said. The fragile illusion that he had maintained was at risk. Those who believed that the secretary, as the new king, would keep the country on the same course were placated by the current king’s support of him. Likewise, those who pushed for a new course, away from America, away from the path of the last several decades, were placated by the secretary’s known support of Yousef.
“I understand.”
“And to think…” The king gasped for air. “He funds his acts with oil from here!”
The secretary remained silent.
“El-Haba…” The king referred to the oil field that fed money to Yousef and his family.
The secretary nodded.
“Perhaps it needs to go dry.”
CHAPTER 48
“Scott.”
James Scott turned around to see Moncrief standing in the hallway. Moncrief had stayed behind after the others on the team headed out in the raging snowstorm to board the white, ice-covered Air Force cargo van that would take them to the waiting C-17 transport jet.
“You don’t need to say it.” Scott knew what was on Gunny Moncrief’s mind. Both men stood just inside the entranceway to the building looking out at the waiting van. Scott also knew that Moncrief would say it anyway.
“Listen.”
“One second.” Scott stepped outside into the frigid air. The building’s cover provided some small protection, but the wind was pushing the snow at an angle into their faces. Scott had stepped outside, away from the two guards who stood just inside. Moncrief followed him.
“You understand about Hernandez.” The gunny’s back was to the wind, but his face was close to Scott’s.
“Yes, I understand. If he is alive, I will find him. Now get going, old boy,” Scott said.
Moncrief’s mouth came even closer to Scott’s ear. “Don’t fuck with us.”
“They’re spraying down the bird,” Furlong yelled from the van with the open door. “We need to roll.” The transport jet was visible just beyond the corner of the building. Several large cranes were hosing down the aircraft with a green liquid as plumes of condensation were billowing up from the engines.
“Just find him.”
“I will,” Scott yelled as Moncrief ran for the van.
Scott looked at his watch. The forces were all in play now. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“I need to see you for a moment.”
“I haven’t heard from you in over a year.” The voice had a slight accent. It sounded as if the person were more comfortable speaking in another language.
“I need a favor.”
“My friend, when don’t you need a favor?”
Scott smiled. He didn’t like asking Reuven Zaslani for any favors. In fact, Scott didn’t even know Reuven’s real name. It mattered little. They both had known each other for years. Scott had no children but had known each of Reuven’s three sons since birth.
“How are your boys?”
“Fine. Two are pilots. They fly helicopters. And the youngest is a sergeant with the Sayeret Tzanhanim.”
“Ah… like his father.” Scott knew that Reuven had served with the elite Sayeret Tzanhanim commando unit of the Israel Defense Forces. Many believed that they were the best-trained commandos Israel had.
“I hope not. I hope he is smarter. What do you need?”
“I can be in London in an hour.”
“Then I will see you at the Rotti in two.”
Rotti was a small restaurant on Shepherd’s Street several blocks behind the Park Lane, and Zaslani was known for keeping a room at the nearby Park Lane Hotel. The restaurant was an Italian café with only three tables and was barely larger than a closet, but at this time of day, in the winter, it would be empty. The owner was a friend of Israel, which was why Zaslani trusted it.
Scott’s black Range Rover pulled up and parked in an open space just across from the Rotti. It had been a rush. The Air Force Pave Hawk had to fly below the storm in nearly zero visibility, but it had gotten him closer into the city of London. The helicopter landed at RAF Northolt just to the northwest of London, and from there he spun his Range Rover at full speed along the A40 in order to get into the center of the city.
Shepherd Street was more of an alleyway that opened up into a small square. Only one street intersected into the square at a straight line. Shepherd Street was straight for several blocks. The other two streets twisted around several buildings as they entered the square. Scott parked his new Range Rover in a spot just across from the pizzeria. He liked to hear the solid thud when he closed the door to the jet-black SUV. It was a special-order vehicle, one he was very proud of.
Despite working for the Americans, Scott still maintained a flat in London’s Earl’s Court. After his mother’s death, Scott sold the cottage in east Milton Keynes. And as in many London suburbs, her eighty-two acres became more valuable as urban sprawl spread out into the country. When the modern self-contained town of Milton Keynes was built several decades ago, her property suddenly was worth more than anything the little woman could have imagined.
There was another benefit to Scott’s chosen field. The tax service gave him a bye. It was in the security interests of the United Kingdom to not know everything about Scott’s finances, and MI6 had the power to ensure such. The list, as Scott’s compatriots at MI6 liked to call it, was a fairly short, highly classified list of names that was carried to Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs service every year. The fact that Scott didn’t have to worry about the annual April 5 deadline meant that he had his millions.
Scott had met Zaslani before at the small cubbyhole of a restaurant. It was unmistakable and in the same physical state as when Scott had seen it several years earlier. The exterior walls were whitewashed and the door was framed with two planters that still had some withered flowers from the fall. The front doors were long plates of glass, and on each side of the doors large windows opened up the view of the several tables inside. Everyone on the small cobbled side street could see who was meeting at Rotti on any particular day. More important, those in the restaurant could see everyone on the street.
Scott would not have preferred Rotti. It was not his style. It was too open and too visible. But time was running out and he had to see Zaslani before catching his own military flight to Afghanistan. A Gulfstream crew was fueling the aircraft right now. The flight plan had been filed and it would be waiting for its last passenger, its only passenger, at RAF Northolt.