The details would have to change, of course — the package had never been received by their Middle Eastern contacts, which precluded their original plan and meant they would have to quickly engineer somebody else to blame.
But U had not risen to such prominence without being able to think on his feet, and had called Ho into his office not long after his meeting with the minister.
U had come up with another mechanism of transporting the weapon, which had been developed in Camp 14, over the DMZ into South Korea. It was a lot more direct — and therefore much more likely that the North’s role would be discovered as a result — but it made sense given their current situation, and would just have to do.
Ho had been entrusted with making the arrangements, but — as he stood outside smoking, staring through the barbed wire at the separate facility fenced off in its own compound outside the main camp — he thought about the horrors within, and hung his head in shame.
It was one thing to make plans and issue orders from a plush office in Pyongyang; it was quite another to see the effects of this weapon up close and know that it was going to be used in earnest.
But, he sighed to himself as he dropped the butt of his cigarette to the floor and crushed it underneath his boot, he had been given his orders, and he would carry them out to the letter.
6
‘You play a good game, my friend,’ Abdullah al-Zayani said to Cole when they were finally seated, at a private table overlooking the marina.
Dusk was arriving, and the last rays of the dying sun cast a warm glow over the yachts and boats moored there. The place was as impressive as Cole would have expected; it was, after all, reserved only for the most senior of Saudi National Oil’s executives.
‘You too,’ Cole said. ‘On another day, the outcome might have been different.’
Al-Zayani nodded his head. ‘Yes, I think you are right.’
Cole waited for more, but there was nothing. The man was arrogant, and was probably not used to losing; Cole suspected that the people under him often let him win.
‘The club’s nice,’ Cole said to break the ice. ‘Beautiful view.’
‘You are right again,’ al-Zayani said. ‘This is a beautiful country, no?’
‘Oh, definitely,’ Cole agreed. ‘It’s very appealing.’
Al-Zayani smiled. ‘Even though you cannot drink here?’ He tutted and wagged his finger. ‘I know you Americans, you like a drink, yes? But that is something else which is ithm al-kabir here. I know of many of your countrymen who have simply not been able to cope. They come here for work, eager to have our money, but they do not respect our principles.’
Cole could see that the man was still smarting from his defeat, he was trying to ruffle Cole’s feathers. But in the man’s eyes Cole could see the feeling of hatred as he mentioned Americans, his cool façade slipping ever so slightly; and for the first time, Cole believe that al-Zayani really could be the man he was looking for.
‘Well, I like a drink as much as the next American,’ Cole said, ‘but when in Rome, right? The people who can’t follow rules probably aren’t welcome anywhere.’
Al-Zayani merely grunted and picked up his menu. He studied it for only a few moments before snapping his fingers at a waiter.
As his dining companion placed his order, Cole agreed to have the same; yet his mind was elsewhere, having just seen al-Zayani’s assistant Abu come through the front door with two other men.
It could have been a coincidence, but Cole was unsure what to think. The club was for level 11 executives only, and Abu was surely well below that. So what was he doing here? He didn’t seem to pay them any attention, which — given the fact that al-Zayani was his boss, and Cole was an honored guest — was strange in itself. He simply went to the bar with his colleagues, ordered black tea, and then led the group to a table in the corner.
Did al-Zayani suspect Cole was not who he said he was? Or was the man so upset over the loss of face he had suffered on the golf course that he was going to have Cole beaten up, and sacrifice a billion-dollar business deal? Or was Abu here just because he liked it, and had somehow bypassed the entry requirements?
It was going to make things more complicated, that much was certain; even if Abu wasn’t here at his boss’s request, he would probably still notice if the two men went missing suddenly.
Cole settled back into his wicker chair and sipped at his cardamom-scented coffee, trying to relax. After all, he had the whole of dinner in which to come up with something.
An hour later, Cole had managed to alleviate the mood and brought al-Zayani back onto his side; he had discussed the proposed oil deal over dinner, and had made certain concessions that had pleased the man immensely. It even seemed that his loss on the golf course had at last been forgotten, and al-Zayani was in a jovial mood by the time he’d finished his dessert of Baklava, freshly made on the premises by the resident pastry chef.
Abu had finally come over to their table to pay his respects as they were partway through their meal, and Cole reassessed his previous position; it was probably just a coincidence, and perhaps Abu was higher up the executive food chain than he’d first thought. But still Cole watched the group out of the corner of his eye, still not quite trusting the situation.
‘Ah,’ said al-Zayani as he pushed himself back into his chair with an air of deep satisfaction, ‘perhaps it is just as well that I lost today, eh? Otherwise we might never have enjoyed such a meal, or worked things out so agreeably.’
‘These things happen for a reason.’
‘Yes,’ al-Zayani agreed, ‘in sha’Allah.’
Okay, Cole thought, it’s time.
‘Do you have a boat in the marina?’ he asked, although of course he already knew the answer; he had found out earlier that al-Zayani owned a western forty-foot cruising yacht which was moored only a hundred feet down the dock.
Cole was glad when he saw the proud smile on the man’s face. ‘Yes I do,’ he said happily. ‘Do you like boats?’
‘Love ‘em,’ Cole replied honestly; he’d had his own yacht when he’d lived in the Caribbean. When he’d had a family.
No, he told himself firmly. Don’t think about them. Now wasn’t the time.
‘You have boats in Dallas?’ asked al-Zayani in surprise. ‘There is no sea.’
‘We have lakes,’ Cole answered. ‘The Dallas Yacht Club is on Lake Lewisville, I’ve got a small day sailing yacht there.’
Al-Zayani clapped his hands together. ‘Excellent! We will see my boat, yes?’
‘I’d love to,’ Cole said, already rising from his chair. He moved towards the bar to pay, and but al-Zayani waved his hand. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘They will add it to my account. Now come,’ he said, ushering Cole out of the sliding screen doors which led out towards the jetty.
Cole checked Abu and saw that he hadn’t moved at all, was still sat chatting animatedly to his friends, and decided that his plan might just work after all.
‘So what do you think?’ al-Zayani asked as they sat on the main deck of his yacht, staring back towards the marina at Half Moon Bay.
‘Very impressive,’ said Cole, meaning it; the yacht must have cost more than most people’s homes.
‘Some say that the Arab people are reluctant mariners,’ al-Zayani said, ‘but they forget about those who spread our faith to Africa, India and the Far East.’ He patted the teak woodwork which lined the entire deck. ‘I feel like that myself,’ he said. ‘A sailor blessed by Allah to spread His word.’