Arabian Storm
Wallace and Keith
ARABIAN STORM
Copyright © 2020 by George Wallace and Don Keith.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Severn River Publishing
www.SevernRiverPublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-64875-903-1 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64875-906-2 (Hardback)
Contents
Also by Wallace and Keith
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Next in Series
Join the Reader List
You Might Also Enjoy…
Thanks for Reading
Read Warshot
About the Authors
Also by Wallace and Keith
The Hunter Killer Series
Final Bearing
Dangerous Grounds
Cuban Deep
Fast Attack
Arabian Storm
Warshot
Hunter Killer
By George Wallace
Operation Golden Dawn
By Don Keith
In the Course of Duty
Final Patrol
War Beneath the Waves
Undersea Warrior
The Ship that Wouldn't Die
Never miss a new release! Sign up to receive exclusive updates from authors Wallace and Keith.
Wallace-Keith.com/Newsletter
Our world is a dangerous place. It always has been, but with today’s technology, the potential for killing people and blowing up stuff is greater than ever before. As we have seen, a limited number of madmen or an alliance of nations with ill intent can indelibly and in a deadly manner change the course of history while claiming innocent lives. That is why we should be so very thankful for the men and women within freedom-maintaining intelligence agencies around the world who work so hard to keep track of those rogue groups and countries. And especially for members of the military that remain strong, well-trained, and vigilant, determined to do what is necessary on our behalf to preserve peace.
We would like to dedicate this book and the others in the series to those people, most of whom get no medals or parades, but whose work is by far the strongest deterrent against bad actors around the planet.
Don would also like to dedicate this book to his wife, Charlene, their three children, and a growing brood of grandkids, all of whose future is far safer and more secure, thanks to the Tom Donnegans, Joe Glasses, Jim Wards, TJ Dillons, and Bill Beamans who are really out there.
And George would like to also dedicate this book to his wife, Penny, their two daughters, sons-in-law, and grandson.
Prologue
Norman Rothbert held his arms against his chest and blew into his closed hands. God, it was cold! Even in the middle of summer, the temperature at this altitude was bitterly, bitingly frigid. His fashionable camel hair topcoat, perfect for a Manhattan winter stroll, seemed tissue-paper thin in the brittle wind that hurled shards of ice and snow against his cheeks.
The banker consciously labored to suck air into his lungs. At just over fourteen thousand feet up, this godforsaken village would be more than twice as high above sea level as Rothbert’s chalet in Aspen. And, of course, far more elevated than his Upper West Side townhouse in New York City, even if it was the penthouse of a sixty-five-floor luxury high-rise. The high peaks of the Hindu Kush range towered over them, soaring up into the clouds, overshadowing the cluster of mud and stone hovels that made up the rude village and the helicopter that had delivered him.
Rothbert’s first thought was to climb back into the aircraft and instruct the pilot to go right on back to Islamabad or wherever the closest international airport might be. But before he could, the local guide roughly pulled him away from the chopper toward an ancient, rusty, dented Toyota pickup truck.
The helicopter immediately lifted off, laboring to find enough air, then disappeared back into the mist down the mountain valley.
With the helicopter gone, there was no choice. Far more accustomed to stepping around the flotsam on New York City sidewalks than avoiding piles of yak manure, Rothbert carefully followed the guide to the truck, once again questioning his decision to respond to the request that had brought him to the very end of the Earth. To a spot his research staff confirmed showed as a black, empty hole at night from space, even if the place was not all that far from some of the planet’s most densely populated territory. To an area that included many of the world’s highest mountain peaks and a most inhospitable climate. To an area ravaged for centuries by war, and much too near for comfort to places where modern warfare raged at that very moment.
But Norman Rothbert already knew why he had not followed his instincts. Declining the invitation was never an option.
The summons had come secretly but directly from Shaikh Babar Khalid, better known in the press as Nabiin, the Prophet, a figure who hid very far in the background but wielded immense power. The Prophet’s reach extended as easily to the very highest levels of finance as it did into the depths of Islamic terrorism. But no one had ever seen the Prophet. His picture had never appeared on the nightly news. The man was an enigma, largely relegated to myth status. No one knew for sure that he truly existed, much less where he might be hiding.
The very day he received the cryptic summons, Rothbert ordered his team to learn all they could about the man, his home, his business interests. Dealings with Starling-Rothbert as well as with others. Within minutes, a cryptic text from a telephone number in Switzerland ordered, “Do not delve any further into my affairs. I will tell you what you need to know when we meet in my home. Continuing to investigate me will result in immediate termination of our relationship.”
There was also the fact that Khalid was Starling-Rothbert’s biggest customer. By far.
The guide shoved Rothbert toward the dilapidated pickup, impatiently signaling that he should climb into the ripped and patched passenger seat.
“There is always the possibility of poor weather,” the guide growled, his English perfect. “And not even the power of nature is tolerated by my boss.”
Rothbert was no more than seated before the vehicle lurched forward, barreling wildly up a narrow, winding goat path
of a road, spouting blue smoke and water vapor. The village fell away rapidly in the side mirror and was soon lost from sight. The banker clutched desperately to an overhead strap, averting his eyes from the drop-off just beyond his side window. The guide nonchalantly lit a foul-smelling cigarette as he drove deeper into the mountains, one gnarled hand loosely holding the jerking steering wheel, oblivious to the instant death inches beyond the right side of the truck. The man’s expression never changed as they alternated speeding through brilliant sunshine and impenetrable fog.
Rothbert had long since lost track of time when what passed for a rutted road abruptly ended at the edge of a sheer drop directly ahead and rock walls nearby on either side of the vehicle. The guide slid the Toyota to a skewing stop and signaled the banker that he should get out. Rothbert strained to look up the solid rock, vainly searching for anything approaching a path. Nothing but smooth, vertical granite. No visible way out of this cul-de-sac except the barely visible roadway that they had just climbed. Or the endless drop dead ahead.
Without a word, the guide gunned the truck’s engine, spun the vehicle around, and disappeared in a cloud of oil smoke back down the trail. Norman Rothbert stood there, shivering, alone at the edge of the world.
Just then, a rope plopped at Rothbert’s feet, immediately followed by a small, wiry man rappelling down to where he stood. The man said nothing as he quickly wrapped the banker in a web harness attached to a pair of ropes that had dropped from somewhere up the rock face. In a horrifying second, Rothbert felt himself being lifted and swung out over the chasm. There was nothing beneath him except thousands of feet of thin air, nothing above but a couple of spindly ropes that seemed to vanish into the clouds and mist.
Then he was being hoisted upward until he was pulled onto a ledge that extended from a relatively level plateau. Several other men, identical to the one who had dropped down next to him, quickly untangled him from the harness. And there, smiling broadly, was a bearded bear of a man, of indeterminate age but well north of sixty, dressed in the Pashtun traditional partug, kamiz, and waskat, his hand extended in a friendly-enough gesture.
“Welcome to my little mountain home, Mr. Rothbert.” The clipped Oxford English was a little disconcerting. Almost as much as suddenly being hauled up the mountain face. Still off balance, Rothbert shook the extended hand, and the man bowed with a flourish. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Shaikh Babar Khalid. But while you are here in this place, I will be known to you as Nabiin, the Prophet.”
Nabiin waved Rothbert toward a small door inset in the solid granite mountainside, one that might not be noticed at all if not the object of a search. It was certainly invisible from above or from the end of the road below.
“I don’t exactly…” Rothbert started.
Nabiin interrupted with an upraised hand. “I will tell you what you need to know in due time. Come in and sit. There is much we must discuss, and time is of some importance. Wheels are turning, my friend. Wheels are turning.”
The door opened into a large anteroom carved out of virgin rock. Passageways headed off in several directions toward more cave rooms further back. Music wafted out quietly from somewhere back there. So did the aroma of food.
“Please step into my office,” the man said, indicating that Rothbert should settle onto a pile of cushions arrayed on the tiled floor in the first room to the right. The Prophet fell back onto another pile.
Rothbert looked about. The walls were rock with no windows. There were elaborate textiles hanging about but no furniture. Just the piles of cushions. A silver samovar sat steaming on a silver tray between them.
“Allow me to pour you a cup of tea,” Nabiin commented as he fussed with the samovar. He waved toward a tray of sweets. “You must be hungry. Try the kahk, or the ma’amoul mad, or the qatayef. I have the pastries brought in from my favorite bakery in Jeddah every week. Freshness is so important to the taste of such treats, don’t you think?”
Rothbert hesitated, then took one of each of the baked sweets and the offered cup of tea. They were delicious. He had simply forgotten how hungry he was.
Nabiin leaned back and sighed as he chewed quietly for a moment, clearly content. Then he suddenly sat up, his lined face all business behind the unkempt beard.
“Now, to why I asked you to come visit me here. I have a mission for you, Mr. Rothbert. Some transactions of the highest order, but they require the utmost secrecy and must be completed quickly and precisely as ordered. I need for your bank to very quietly and discreetly move considerable assets between several of my hulafa’. Are you familiar with the term hulafa’? It is Arabic for allies or friends. Really, they are al mu’min, the leaders of the believers.”
Rothbert noticed a strange light shining in the Arab’s eyes. They seemed to glow with an inner fire. As Nabiin sat up even straighter, his words appeared to be emanating from some inner source.
Rothbert could not help it. A chill ran up his spine, even though the cave room was warm and comfortable.
“Al mu’min will soon be performing Allah’s bidding, and for that, they will need resources. You will distribute those resources precisely according to my instructions but in a way that will be undetectable by the usual observers. We know you are well acquainted with the methods to do such a thing. There will be some other inconvenient banking laws and borders that you will necessarily avoid, using the means with which you and your company are also well versed. You and your bank have proven your discretion and willingness to accomplish our goals in the past, even when they required, shall we say, unorthodox manipulations. And we have taken the liberty to inquire about you and your abilities from several other… how should I describe them?… off-the-books customers of yours. We have observed for some time your company’s willingness to bend or circumvent unnecessary regulations to protect your customers’ interests. We are convinced that Starling-Rothbert will fit our needs and continue to serve us during this next most important phase of our operation. Let me again stress the importance of these transactions remaining utterly discreet. For such service, you will be very well compensated and continue to benefit from our very lucrative association.”
The banker had already almost choked on his last bite of kahk. He slurped some tea to clear his throat.
“But Shaik Khalid, you must understand that our firm must always pledge to observe…”
“Nabiin, the Prophet.”
“What? Yes. Yes, of course. Nabiin, the Prophet, we certainly must follow all laws and regulations of any country in which we have financial dealings. I could never agree on the record to...”
Nabiin suddenly stood and waved a large hand in Norman Rothbert’s face.
“Mr. Rothbert, you have done just that, for us, for others, and we know about all of them. And you will continue to do so, at our behest. As of this moment, you are my khadim, my servant. A khadim does as he is told, without question or hesitation. That is Allah’s will.”
“Nabiin, so I am to gather that you brought me here to threaten me. Well, I must tell you…”
Nabiin suddenly dropped to his knees, his face inches from Rothbert’s, his eyes blazing.
“Your wife, Nadine, is at this very moment at Nail and Brush Spa on West 51st Street in Manhattan, enjoying her twice monthly massage from Lars, a muscular and quite queer person, in your country illegally from Sweden. Your daughter, Samantha, is five years old next month with a party already planned at a certain establishment named Chuck E. Cheese. She is now in mothers’-day-out at St. Luke’s, adjacent to Grant Park. On Thursdays, she studies her numbers and learns a song about Jesus which she will sing for you when you make your regular call home tonight at 7:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. I should also note that if your government’s Securities and Exchange Commission knew even an iota of the details of your company’s recent dealings with a certain Panamanian company named Petro-Plasm Industries, you would be under indictment within a week. We know far more than an iota of those details, Mr. Rothbert, and would be de
lighted to share them with the proper authorities. As well as myriad details about many other such dealings. Need I go on?”
Rothbert swallowed hard, his heart pounding, suddenly finding it even more difficult to breathe the thin, dry air in this place.
“No. That is not necessary.”
“Then I look forward to a long and prosperous relationship, my khadim, my servant. We will, together, do Allah’s will. Quietly and discreetly. Exactly as I direct. And now you know why I required you to meet with me face-to-face, Mr. Rothbert. I had to look you in the eye to adequately assure you of the importance of the nature and the requirements of our continued business relationship. Are you convinced, Mr. Rothbert?”
The banker nodded vigorously.
Nabiin glared at him a full fifteen seconds, his eyes still burning. Then the old man stood abruptly, amazingly agile for one so large and elderly. He dismissively waved Rothbert toward the door to the outside as it swung open. One of the men who had pulled him up the rock face stood there in the bright sunlight, waiting.
Rothbert glanced back toward Nabiin, but the man had vanished.
1
Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) Page 1