Hitting a dead end, they decided to return to the Prince’s current known location. He was vacationing in the Mediterranean Sea, somewhere south of France. Carrie suggested they raid the Prince’s yacht while in international waters. Her suggestion raised more questions than answers, since Al-Farhan’s Arabia was practically, as Matthew had put it eloquently, “a floating fortress.”
They explored the possibility of hijacking the Prince’s Boeing 707. According to the information provided by Matthew, at the moment, the airplane was at one of the private hangers of London’s Heathrow Airport. Justin had to admit that taking over the Prince’s Boeing 707 was going to be very difficult, especially with no back up from Britain’s intelligence agencies, MI5 and MI6. Johnson had made it clear she wanted no further involvement of the CIS in this matter, now that the American President was no longer the target of the Islamic terrorists. Justin, Carrie, and Abdul were on their own, the odds stacked high against them. So far, every scenario ended up with them being killed, or tortured and then killed.
At some point during the afternoon, Matthew popped his head into the conference room to check on their progress. His interruption was met with frustration at the American refusal to provide any further support for the team. Then, Justin decided to go out for a short walk and some fresh air, promising to Matthew that, barring any shootout, he would stay within the embassy’s protective walls. Carrie went back to reviewing the files, in hopes of finding anything she may have overlooked. Abdul stepped out for a few personal phone calls.
Out in the backyard, Justin sat on a bench by a small water fountain. The shade from a cluster of small palm trees provided some relief from the scorching sun. A gentle breeze gave him a breath of fresh air. Justin’s mind unavoidably went to the task at hand: finding a way to get to Prince Al-Farhan. He began reconsidering all options, moving the pieces of the puzzle around in his head. While he was still wondering, the cooing of a pigeon startled him. He looked up, just as the grayish bird fluttered at the edge of the fountain. Its claws scratched the fiberglass for a firm footing. Oblivious to Justin’s gaze, the bird dipped its orange beak for a quick drink, sucking the water. Then, it slid into the fountain, flapping its wings and tail, and puffing out its plumage. A second later, the pigeon spotted Justin, meeting his observant eyes. The bird cocked its head to the left and Justin thought he saw the pigeon blink. Then, the bird spread its wings and took off, flying over the embassy walls.
Justin shook his head, but before he could start to feel bad about scaring the pigeon, he heard a woman’s laughter coming from above his head. The cigarette smoke reached his nose before he heard footsteps on the second-floor balcony. Someone was out on their cigarette break. As Justin stood up and began to walk, to avoid the killer smoke, he heard a quiet whisper, “Of course, he’ll accept, Jenny. Hey, Jenny, can you hear me? All I hear is static.”
She’s on the phone, Justin thought, with a sense of uneasiness about spying on the woman’s conversation.
“Oh, yeah, I can hear you now,” the woman spoke again, this time louder, “I was saying, I don’t have to ask for a transfer. Lee will have to come to me, ‘cause I have what he wants, if you know what I mean. Yes, yes, he’ll agree to come here.”
That’s it, Justin almost shouted, as he jumped to his feet. If we can’t go to the Prince, we’ll have the Prince come to us.
“That’s your great idea?” Abdul asked, “We just pick up the phone and say, ‘Hey, Prince Al-Farhan, why don’t you drop by?’ Just like that?”
“Actually, this may work, Abdul,” Carrie said, “after all, if we can’t go to the mountain, the mountain will come to us.”
“Yeah, you think so? But why, what do we have to make the Prince come to us?”
“I haven’t thought that far yet.” Justin reached for one of the photos of the Prince. He stared at the man in the headdress, tapping the photo with his hand. “What could you want, eh? What could you want?”
“Nothing. The man has everything,” Abdul replied.
“I wasn’t really looking for an answer. And I know everyone wants something. What does Prince Al-Farhan want?”
Abdul opened his mouth, but Justin stopped him with a swift headshake.
“Peace on earth?” Carrie said with a grin.
“No, something more concrete and doable.” Justin rolled his eyes.
“Well, I don’t know what he wants, but let’s see what he has.” Carrie sifted through the piles of documents. “I saw a few reports here listing his assets. We can start there and see what’s missing, although like Abdul said, if the Prince doesn’t have something, it’s not because he can’t afford it.”
“This is futile,” Abdul said, leaning back in his chair. “Say Prince Al-Farhan doesn’t have a solid gold diamond-encrusted Rolex. Do we have one to offer him?”
Justin sighed and scratched his chin. “No, but let’s worry about our offer after we find something he may want. We’ll start with what we have here. I’m also going to get some help from our analysts. Our desk in Dubai has a few dozen files on Saudi princes.”
“Fine,” Abdul said, “but I don’t have high hopes.”
“It’s worth a try, and we’re out of options,” Justin replied.
While Carrie and Abdul started to navigate through the paper maze, Justin requested the support of the CIS bureau in Dubai. Its task was to comb through the Prince’s activities, travels, finances, and purchases over the last three months. They were looking particularly for unusual purchases, any item that jumped out of the extraordinary life of a Saudi billionaire.
Thirty minutes later, as Justin’s patience was wearing thin at Abdul’s whining about the “useless, menial chore” assigned to him, the first results began to come in from the team in Dubai. Over secure Internet servers, encrypted files were downloaded into Carrie’s laptop. With a few clicks, she revealed the expected craze of the filthy rich. Prince Al-Farhan loved spending money. By the truckloads. He truly lived the lavish life of the billionaire. A jet, a yacht, vacations in luxurious mansions in the French Riviera, a palace he called “home” in Riyadh, diamond rings, paintings, and a huge collection of automobiles.
Prince Al-Farhan owned ninety-nine cars, mostly modern sport cars, but also the occasional restored gem of the sixties and the seventies. His collection included not only the latest models of Jaguar, Ferrari and Aston Martin, but also a 1965 Shelby Cobra Roadster and two 1959 Alfa Romeo Giulietta Spider coupes. Apart from the extravagance of the collection, Justin noted the absence of the latest thoroughbred of speed: the Bugatti Veyron. The Prince did not own any Bugattis. Justin began to wonder about the reason why one of the most powerful supercars in history did not make the cut for the Sheikh’s priceless collection. The reason could not be its price, since to Prince Al-Farhan a few million dollars was spare change.
“So, how come the Prince owns no Bugattis?” Justin asked, rubbing his tired eyes with the palms of his hands, before taking the last sip from his coffee cup. He got up and went for a refill from the coffee machine brewing a fresh pot on one of the side desks.
“The Prince hates Germans?” Carrie got up from her chair and stretched her arms and legs, pacing by the windows.
“No, he doesn’t,” Abdul said, after taking a sip of his now cold coffee. “He has five Mercedes and two BMWs in his garages. Can you bring me some coffee, too?”