by Seeley James
“These people already killed Samira Suliman.” Pia tapped Prince Taimur. “My people can only protect you if we know what’s going on.”
“Suliman was nothing to me.” He slapped his knees. “I met her when Daryl Koven introduced us a few weeks ago at the al Arab. I disliked her intensely. She was a radical, the kind who’re ruining Islam and the world.”
“Did Koven promise American politicians would push legislation for you?”
“Do you even know what you’re talking about?” He faced her and threw up his hands. “Do you know what I want?”
“It doesn’t matter. As a foreign national, you’re not allowed to put money in American elections.”
“More than half of General Electric’s revenue comes from outside the USA.” His voice rose. “They can donate as much as they want. Chevron, Teamsters, Apple, Ford, do you question where their money comes from? All large American companies and unions are international. They can pour money into elections—why do you refuse?”
Pia looked out the window. Below them, flashing lights on police cruisers sped through traffic, racing them to the airport. She pulled her phone and texted her pilot to be ready for wheels-up the moment she came aboard.
“OK,” Pia said. “I’ll consider it. Tell me what I’m considering.”
“The politicians have already agreed, there is nothing for you to consider. You are simply the delivery girl.”
“If you want me to be your ‘girl’, I have to know why.”
Prince Taimur clenched his fists and zipped his mouth. After a long time without blinking, he shook his head. “We had a deal. We worked on this for months. Long before Koven took over and recommended Sabel. He said your father would do what we asked. I do not have to tell you anything.”
He faced forward and shut down the conversation.
The helicopter turned slightly and began its descent. On the other side of the terminal, a fleet of police cars slammed to a stop and disgorged a small army. Pia found the landing zone and gauged the distance. If she ran, she might be airborne before the cops got through the airport buildings and onto the tarmac.
“If you’re not going to tell me,” Pia said, “I will cancel the contract.”
Prince Taimur pulled off his headset, unbuckled his harness, and glared at her. “The original plan called for Velox Deployment. I should never have listened to Koven. Fine. Have your people out by morning.” He tensed every fiber in his body. “You’re an impudent girl. I simply cannot abide by fools.”
Pia glared back at him. “Apparently your mother could.”
She jumped to the tarmac before he could throttle her.
Tania and Pia ran for the jet. The copilot was standing by with the airstair ready to close. They bounded up the steps and felt the jet rolling before the door locked.
Pia marched into the cockpit. “We might be a little tight on this one.”
The pilot looked over his shoulder as he pushed the throttle forward. “Like Minsk?”
“Yeah, like Minsk—only worse.”
The copilot chuckled. “Are they going to shoot us down this time?”
“If they do,” Pia sighed, “it would be the better alternative.”
The pilot held a hand up. “They’re telling me to get off the runaway.”
“You can understand these guys with their thick accents?”
“Copy that, tower,” the pilot said. “Taking off now.”
The pilot pushed the throttle and powered into takeoff position at the same time a jet with an Omani flag on the tail tried to get in front of him. He swerved to the front as both gained speed, the jet next to them slightly behind but keeping pace.
They were wingtip-to-wingtip, inches from each other as they reached seventy knots. A combined hundred thousand pounds of explosive aviation fuel roared down the asphalt in a game of runway chicken.
Three police cars sped across the taxiway, heading for them, their lights flashing bright colors into the dark sky.
“What was that, tower? Repeat.” The pilot, pale and sweating, checked his right window.
Pia leaned over his shoulder and saw the Omani pilot flip them off while refusing to give in.
They gained speed. The copilot checked numbers and ran through checklists, paging through screen after screen with his cursor. He closed his eyes and crossed himself.
Both jets rolled side-by-side as they reached ninety knots.
“His jet is the next size down,” the pilot said. “And he’s probably carrying less fuel, which means he’ll gain a little more speed before takeoff. If he doesn’t back off, we could end up—”
The police were on the runway ahead, coming straight at them with no sign of letting up.
“Tower, could you please repeat that?” the copilot said. “I’m having trouble understanding your accent.”
The line of vehicles coming at them were going flat-out, closing the distance at a combined 200 mph. Pia could see the faces of the officers, shocked and scared, but unrelenting, coming straight at her. The car on the left couldn’t take the drama and slammed on his brakes. He slid sideways.
The pilot prayed and pulled back on the controls. The front wheel lifted off. The angle felt right to Pia, but the lift didn’t follow the way it should. He was attempting to take off in too short a distance.
The fuselage shuddered, and groaned, and finally climbed into the air.
Flashing police lights disappeared underneath them with only inches to spare.
“Oman Seven, where are you?” Both pilots looked out their windows. “I’m rolling left; you roll right in five… four…”
Pia relaxed and walked back to her seat.
Tania pointed out the window. “There was another jet—”
The pilot called back to her. “They’re scrambling an F16 to escort us back.”
“Are we over international waters yet?” Pia asked.
“We might make it before they get to us, but then we need permission to cross other countries. So far, Iran, Iraq, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia have denied us airspace. We have to go back.”
“There has to be another country we can fly through.”
“Oman. But we just outran their prince and his pilot is still cursing me over the airwaves. You’ll need to smooth it over with him.”
Pia shuddered and closed her eyes.
Tania waved a hand. “Hey, do you want to know what’s on FNC or Hummingbird right now?”
“Give me the short version.”
“They’re calling it ‘Pia’s War on the Emirates’. They’re putting up clips of the gunfight at the Burj al Arab and in between, they’re streaming videos of legislators lining up to endorse the MRA.”
“Perfect.”
“It gets worse,” Tania said. “I kept my earbud on inside my headset, so my recording was crystal clear. I sent it to Emily and she said we need something to back it up. A transcript, sworn testimony, an email, anything to verify what he said from Koven’s side. We need to keep the conversation going. So suck it up, girlfriend. Call your Prince Charming.”
Pia inhaled the panic that accompanies every human on the cusp of eating crow. Her mind raced through a hundred scenarios in the hopes of finding an alternate way to both confirm the story and find safe passage. Nothing workable came to mind.
Tania handed her a phone.
Pia dialed. “Prince Taimur, I’m calling to apologize. My father tells me I’m far too hot-headed for business negotiations. Guess he’s right. I hope you will forgive me for my disrespectful language.” She waited but he said nothing. “I had no right to ask about the terms of the deal. If you’re willing, I’d like to apologize face-to-face.”
“That would be acceptable,” he said. “Meet me in Khasab. There is only one road in, one landing strip, and a narrow harbor. Our Emirati friends would not think to interrupt us there.”
Pia clicked off and relayed the destination to the pilot. He showed her where it was: an isolated cove at the end of a rocky peninsula jutting i
nto the Strait of Hormuz. The lone road from the United Arab Emirates followed the coast around 130 miles of craggy inlets and desolate mountains resembling the desert version of Norway’s fjords.
Jacob texted his theories on the source of the SMG-PKs and ammo. He believed Shane Diabulus either supplied LOCI as an arms dealer or had some connection to them. But how that fit with Jago, DHK, and the MRA legislation was unclear.
Bianca supplied Shane’s financial profile, complete with details of his personal bankruptcy and new address. The boss at Velox was staying at Kasey Earl’s house. Leaving Pia with the question, who’s funding Velox and LOCI?
When they landed, an official leaning on a cane, wearing a white thobe and silver-beaded masarh, a Bedouin turban, greeted them. In broken English, he offered them a tour of the town while they waited for the prince, who was halfway to Muscat and would have to turn around.
Pia turned to her pilots. “Stay close to the jet and plot a course to India or somewhere else, anywhere else.”
“Faiz my name.” The graying official introduced himself and bowed deeply. “Great honor to host friend of prince. You ride with me.”
He gestured to an open Toyota SUV and held the door for them, talking fast as he limped around the truck. He was a pocket-sized man, rail-thin and sun-darkened; the prince’s orders had made this the most important day of his long career as a forgotten official in an isolated corner of the world.
With great alacrity, Faiz explained how the Portuguese built a stone castle in the early 17th century to control trade in the region. He pushed his cane in and took the wheel. The city was nestled in a narrow valley, dramatic cliffs loomed over it, ready to pounce on it at any moment.
They passed white and beige plastered buildings while driving through the quiet town of mostly new construction. Faiz continued his monologue. Accessible only by sea for centuries, the town was now a weekend retreat for the people of Dubai. They passed a mosque with dual minarets and another with a tiled dome.
He explained how dozens of Iranian smugglers crossed the strait every day at dawn and left before sunset to avoid Oman’s visa requirements.
Toward the center of town, a cruise ship hummed with late night activity. They rounded a bend where the ancient crenelated walls of the Portuguese castle rose from the dusty street, thirty to forty feet high, its weathered stone illuminated for tourists. He stopped in front of an ornate wooden door, hopped out, and hobbled to the entrance, fumbling through a ring of keys until he found the right one.
“Come, come.” Faiz waved them over with a big smile. “I give special tour. Many tourists come see fortress, but none be friend of Prince. Much great honor. Come.”
“Friend of prince, mmm.” Tania elbowed Pia. “I did see that look in your eye. And he’s a hottie.”
Pia scowled.
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” Tania nudged her again. “A better option than Carlos.”
“Carlos is not an option.”
Pia picked up her pace and followed Faiz through the low door to the inner courtyard where several antique dhows were arrayed in the dark.
“One minute. Faiz find lights.” His cane tapped off into the dark. A few seconds later, floodlights lit up the courtyard. He returned and waved at the boats. “These, masterpiece of Oman! We make bigger today.”
“Thank you, Faiz,” Pia said. “I’m honored, but tired. Could we find a hotel for the night?”
“Yes, yes. First. One more thing.” He waved at the round tower. “You see rooms. Magical place for people those days many century ago.”
Tania shrugged and Pia shrugged back. They followed him through a stone arch into a dark hallway. Tapping like a blind man, Faiz disappeared down a curved stone staircase. They followed, one hand on the wall for reference and another in front for obstacles. They reached a flat floor where Faiz took Pia’s hand and guided her a few more feet.
“Oh. Oh.” He snapped his fingers. “Faiz forget lights. One minute.”
He tapped away in the dark.
An iron clang rang out and reverberated for a full second.
“Hey, wait a second,” Tania said.
The cane tapped away, followed by the sounds of a door slamming and a bolt engaging some distance up and away.
Pia and Tania hit the flashlights on their phones at exactly the same time. They faced a windowless stone wall. They turned toward each other. Tania had her phone in one hand and her Glock in the other. They turned again and found another stone wall, then a third. The fourth was an ancient iron grating with openings no larger than a hand. In the center was a massive iron door—locked.
CHAPTER 31
Koven watched Paul Benning closely as the CEO of Esson Oil looked over his proposal in the Grand Treaty Room. The silence between them had grown to the point where he could hear the light snow falling outside the castle’s thick walls. He dared not interrupt Benning’s train of thought at this delicate juncture. This was the moment of truth. Some people understood how the world worked, while others left their future to fate. Koven was betting that Benning knew how to work it.
“The British are OK with this?” Benning asked.
“They’re not fans of the Muslim Aid Foundation, which is why the directors are looking for a new home in the US. Since most of your oil comes from Muslim countries, I thought you’d be sympathetic to their cause.”
“It’s tempting as hell.” Benning scratched his chin. “And in exchange, they can deliver oil below market? I’m skeptical there.”
“Other oil companies are in this. That’s why their returns are beating Esson’s. Of course they can deliver.”
“Alan Sabel told me these guys were banned in the UK for ‘fueling hatred, division and violence’.”
“Fuck Alan Sabel.” Koven struggled to keep his voice at a polite volume. “Your company is ten times bigger than his. Do what’s best for your shareholders, not him. He doesn’t deliver the quarterly earnings report to your shareholders with recurring excuses about the falling price of oil.”
“True enough.” Benning nodded. “My last concern is where the MAF gets the oil they’ll deliver.”
Koven glanced around the room at the other deals in progress. Twenty other people talked in hushed tones.
“Eastern Syria and Western Iraq,” he said. “But don’t worry about that end. All you’re going to do is help a charity relocate.”
Kasey Earl approached and pulled his hand across his throat. “Need a word with you, Mr. Koven.”
Koven excused himself and pushed the young man back into the corner. “You better have something damned important, Kasey. Or you’re the next Velox employee I shoot.”
What was left of Kasey’s ears wiggled. He frowned and pushed past Koven, back to the table where Paul Benning checked his notes. Kasey grabbed the man’s suit coat, ripped it open, and pulled a thumb-sized Bluetooth microphone from inside the lapel.
Over Benning’s protests, he held it up for Koven to see. “Everything you done said’s been uploaded to the Sabel cloud.”
Koven shook with rage. He glanced around the room to see how many were watching them.
He pushed Benning and Kasey through the side door into the kitchen, where four Velox guards and three local police waited. “Put them in chains. Sabel and everyone with him.”
Kasey cuffed Benning.
Koven faced the CEO. “I brought you a deal that could pad your bottom line by billions and this is your answer? Blackmail?”
“It’s not blackmail.” Benning spat his words. “We know damn well MAF sells Daesh’s stolen oil to fund the terrorist state.”
Koven turned to his Velox men. “Take him out and shoot him. Chop up his pieces and throw them in the river. I’m done playing games with these bastards.”
Benning struggled but the guards beat and gagged him before he could start yelling. They tied his ankles and wrists, and carried him out.
Kasey stayed behind. “There’s an extra charge for termination services.”
“Fine! Fine. Just make him go away. And where’s his whore, Olga? Do the same for her.”
“She up and went to Paris. Shopping, I think.” Kasey tilted his head. “What cover story do you want?”
“What do you mean? He left this morning, right after Jenkins. You remember. Now leave me alone, I’m getting a headache.”
“One last thing: why not dispose of Sabel too?”
Koven pushed his face into Kasey’s ugly mug and spoke through his clenched teeth. “Because he has the cloud data, you idiot. We need to get that deleted first.”
Koven pushed Kasey into the wall and stormed out.
He took the stone steps two at a time. Throwing open the heavy door to his bedroom, he walked straight through, into the bathroom, barely glancing at his wife. He grabbed four aspirin and a bottle of water and went back to the room.
Marthe lay on the bed, her face buried in the pillow.
He stared at her. The tablets crunched under his molars and slushed down his throat riding on a gulp of water.
He shook her. “Marthe, get up. It’s afternoon for god’s sake.”
She pulled her tear-streaked face from the padding long enough to shake her head, then sobbed back into the tangled sheets and pillows.
He sat on the edge and stroked the back of her legs. “My dear Marthe, what’s the matter with you?”
She answered with muffled sobs.
“The guests, darling. You’ve conjured up this marvelous venue and threw an incomparable party. Now is the time to take your bow.”
Her head lifted momentarily and she craned over her shoulder. Her red, puffy eyes engaged him before more tears spilled from them. “We killed them, didn’t we?”
“You know what we did.”
She sat up and dug viciously at her fingernails with a file.
“But why Gottleib?” she asked. “That’s what started it all. You had to go and kill that poor, innocent boy.”
“I swear, I had nothing to do with killing David Gottleib.” Koven clasped his hands, rested his elbows on his knees, and drooped. “You never said anything about that when you wanted Duncan out of the way.”