Pavel Kazakov was virtually shaking with anticipation. This was exactly what he was hoping for when he first struck this deal with Jadallah Zuwayy: a way to take control of Salimah without appearing to take control of anything. John D. Rockefeller once said that the key to wealth was “own nothing, control everything”—that’s exactly what Kazakov wanted.
“I’ll try to stop Zuwayy, my dear Susan Bailey Salaam,” Kazakov said. “But even if that ridiculous pig gets off a few shots, you will agree to this deal with me. You will ensure that a majority of shares in the partnership is transferred to me, and I’ll see to it that Zuwayy moves to that ranch in Vietnam he’s always wanted.”
“You keep Zuwayy from attacking Salimah, or the deal’s off.”
“Madame, I’m not in Libya—I’m not Zuwayy’s wet nurse,” Kazakov said. “You’re the one with the American white knights coming to your rescue—why not call on them to save you again?”
“If bombs fall on Salimah, Kazakov, the deal’s off.”
“If you try to cancel this deal, Salaam, I’ll send a transcript of this conversation to every media outlet in the world—see how long your popularity in the Arab world lasts then,” Kazakov said. “On the other hand, you give me what I want, and I’ll make Zuwayy and his goons heel. Count on it.”
There was silence on the line for several long moments; then: “I guess I have no choice. But I want Zuwayy out of the picture. No more threats from him.”
“I’ll make you a side deal, Mrs. Salaam—you give me the white knights, and I’ll serve you up Jadallah Zuwayy.”
“What?”
“You give me the Americans, the ones in the electronic battle armor, the ones with the fancy electromagnetic guns and the jump boots, and you can take control of the entire Muslim Brotherhood. Zuwayy will be a traitor to all loyal Arabs, and you slide right in as the leader of the Muslim world.”
“I can’t do that if Salimah gets wiped out.”
“I can’t help that,” Kazakov said. “But if he does attack Salimah, he’ll be slamming the lid shut on his own coffin. You, on the other hand, will have every bit of the power you want. You just have to give me the Tin Man.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re a very beautiful, beguiling woman—you figure it out,” Kazakov said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re on their way to save you right this minute. If they come back to rescue you, all you have to do is tell me.”
There was more silence on the phone—but it was shorter this time: “All right,” Susan said. “Do everything you can to stop Zuwayy, and I’ll do everything I can to bring you McLanahan.”
“McLanahan, you say?” Kazakov asked incredulously. “That’s his name? McLanahan?”
“General Patrick McLanahan.”
Kazakov searched his memory. He had heard of that name before . . . where was it?
My God... he remembered where he had heard that name. The prisoners ... the prisoners that he had ordered Zuwayy to segregate from the others before they were taken to their deaths in Mersa Matruh. One of the American prisoners still being held by Jadallah Zuwayy in Libya was a woman by the name of McLanahan. That was too much of a coincidence. It had to be the same ... a relative? Certainly not a sister or wife? This seemed too good to be true!
“Why is that name important to you, Kazakov?” Susan asked. “Why do you sound so.. . ?” And then she stopped—she knew exactly why. “You have her,” Salaam said breathlessly. “No, not you ... Zuwayy. Zuwayy has the woman named McLanahan.”
“Who is she?”
“She is your death sentence if Patrick McLanahan finds out she’s alive,” Salaam said. “She’s the reason he’s fighting this battle—just to get her back. You’re a captive in a fancy Icelandic jail—you’re easy to get to. I guarantee, Patrick will move heaven and earth to get to her—and he’ll destroy an entire nation if she’s harmed.”
“Call this General McLanahan off,” Kazakov said, his voice fairly shaking with anger. “I don’t care how you do it, but call him off. Threaten him, entice him, screw him— I don’t care.”
“So he’s worth something to you, then?”
“Don’t try to dicker with me, woman. I can get McLanahan on my own time.”
“You don’t sound so sure to me—if you could get him, I think you would have done it by now,” Susan said. “Perhaps I should tell him that you ordered her execution, and you’ll find yourself ripped into pieces by him. I assume you’ve seen his powered exoskeleton and electronic shock weapons in action? Don’t think your lawyers will stop him.”
The “powered exoskeleton” was a new one for Pavel Kazakov—it made his already fearsome battle armor sound even more fearsome. “All right, all right” Kazakov shouted. He thought quickly. There was an opportunity here—but Salaam had to play along. What did she want? What was her overriding desire? Certainly not this general. . . “Here’s the deal, Madame,” Kazakov said. “You convince McLanahan not to attack us anymore. You keep the sixty percent majority ownership of Salimah, the Central African Petroleum Partners keep their thirty percent, and I’ll take the remaining ten percent for myself.”
“You cannot give me something that I already own, Kazakov,” Salaam said. “Zuwayy extorted Egypt for twenty percent of Salimah, yet he has done nothing but threaten his neighbors and waste your money—and now he’s put your very life in danger. He is a psychopathic killer with delusions of grandeur. He thinks he’s a Libyan king, yet his henchmen are stealing money from their treasury as if it’s free for the taking. Why do you support him?”
“Because he controls an organization that potentially controls forty-five percent of the world’s oil reserves,” Kazakov replied. “What is it you control? What doyou—?”
And then he stopped. He remembered the recent items in the news, the rallies, the editorials on this beautiful, opportunistic, charismatic woman—they were calling her the “next Cleopatra.” Could this work ... ?
“Are you still there, Kazakov? We’d better come to an agreement soon.”
“Of course,” Kazakov went on. “I know just what might change your mind.”
“Oh, really? It had better be good—for your sake.”
“Everyone calls you the reincarnation of Cleopatra, an empress of the new United Arab Republic ..He paused, and he noticed that she did not rebuff him—interesting reaction! “Why don’t we make you ... an emperor?”
“What are you blathering about, Kazakov?”
‘The next Muslim Brotherhood Unity Congress, to be held in Tripoli,” Kazakov said. “You will attend—and you will be elected president of the Muslim Brotherhood.” Again, Kazakov noticed, no rebuke, no derision—she was not only listening, but considering the thought as well! Finally—much too late—she asked, “What are you talking about, Kazakov? How can you do this?”
“Madame, do you really think the Muslim Brotherhood would even exist without my support?” Kazakov asked. “Zuwayy is president of the Brotherhood because I give him the money to bribe the other members into voting for him. With him, it is a meaningless title—he doesn’t care at all about Muslims or brotherhood, only money. But you ...”
“I am not Muslim, Kazakov.”
“But you were on the verge of becoming Muslim, Madame—the world knows this,” Kazakov said. “I know you have worshiped with your husband; I know you have taken the baths, read and studied the Quran, fasted during Ramadan, and given the zakah, the poor-due—I believe you even registered yourself as a Muslim so you could accompany your husband on the Hadj, the pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina. All you need to do, from what I know about converting to Islam, is publicly give the Shahada, the testament of faith. Besides, this whole Muslim Brotherhood thing is one of Zuwayy’s concoctions to make himself look good and increase his perceived power. You have a thousand times more charm, charisma, and leadership qualities than he does. You would captivate the world, Susan.”
“This .. . this would never work, Kazakov. You know nothing about it.”
&
nbsp; “I know I can turn the Muslim Brotherhood away from Zuwayy—I can expose him as an impostor, a pretender,” Kazakov said. “With a little cash and the right information dropped here and there, I can destroy him without hardly lifting a finger. This paves the way for you to take over the Muslim Brotherhood. But with you controlling Salimah, you would be more than just a figurehead—you would be a true leader, a true savior. An empress.”
Another long pause—she was actually considering it. Man, Kazakov thought, the one thing more powerful than money just had to be vanity.
“And all I have to do . .. ?”
“Tell McLanahan to stay out of Africa,” Kazakov said. “Tell your boyfriend and his bombers not to interfere with our operations again. You give me a taste of Salimah—just ten percent. Then you and I will talk about your future ... as the leader of the United Arab Republic.”
There was another pause, but much shorter this time. “Not one bomb falls on Egypt, Kazakov,” Susan Bailey Salaam said, “or the deal’s off. Destroy Zuwayy. Destroy him.”
“Yes . . . Empress,” Kazakov said. He hung up, stood up, and had to bite a knuckle to keep his excitement in check. Ivana Vasilyeva looked at him strangely as she entered the room. “For a moment there, Madame Salaam,” he said half aloud, “I thought you cared for this McLanahan. I guess everything—and everyone—has a price and a value.”
“What is it, Comrade?” Vasilyeva asked.
“You’ve got your orders now—you’re going to Libya,” he told her. “Get close to Zuwayy, report on his every move, find out where he’s keeping any American prisoners, and get ready to kill that pig.”
“Yes, sir,” Vasilyeva said. “He won’t be difficult to manipulate.”
“I have no doubt. Take control of the situation in that palace. But most importantly: Save those prisoners. I believe they’re in Tripoli—they may even be right in the palace.”
“I’ll find them, Comrade.”
“And if you find a woman named McLanahan being kept prisoner by Zuwayy, capture her and get her out of there. She could be the key to getting our hands on the bastards that put me in this dreary place. If you find her, I want her taken alive and brought back to me.”
“What is she to you, sir?”
“If I can use those captives to lure the Tin Man into a trap, then Salaam can go to hell,” Kazakov said acidly. “I’ll get around to eventually burying that little bitch too.” He looked at Vasilyeva. “But my real target is the husband, General Patrick McLanahan. If you encounter him, you are to kill him without fail. Do you hear me? Without fail!'
“Why don’t I just kill them all, Comrade?” Vasilyeva asked with an evil smile, “and we will let God sort them out?”
KING JADALLAH AS-SANUSI STADIUM,
TRIPOLI, UNITED KINGDOM OF LIBYA
SEVERAL DAYS LATER
No one in the entire Arab world had seen anything like it in more than forty years—and, some surmised, nothing like this had been seen in northern Africa in more than two thousand years.
King Jadallah as-Sanusi Stadium was packed: more than two thousand spectators in the stands, another fifty thousand on the field, plus another five thousand dignitaries from all over the world in a specially set-up seating section, celebrating the opening of the First Muslim Brotherhood World Unity Conference. News agencies from around the world were carrying the celebrations and speeches live. It had the atmosphere of the opening day of the Olympics. Security was tight, almost oppressively so, but it did not deter from the festival atmosphere of this unprecedented gathering.
One by one, the presidents or representatives of the member nations of the Muslim Brotherhood—Sudan, Palestine, Algeria, Syria, Jordan, Yemen, Somalia, Albania, Iraq, and Afghanistan—filed into the top VIP section of the stadium, to the delighted cheers of the crowd. Once these ministers were welcomed and seated, the provisional member nations of the Muslim Brotherhood, representing most of the rest of the Muslim world, entered. It was an incredible sight to see longtime enemies and adversaries greeting and embracing each other, and each time it happened it delighted the crowd even more.
The last representatives to enter were the most important: the host nation and the leader of the Muslim Brotherhood, King Jadallah as-Sanusi of the United Kingdom of Libya; and two of its most important provisional members—Crown Prince Abdallah bin Abd al-Aziz al-Sa’ad, the deputy foreign minister, commander of the Saudi National Guard, and heir to the throne of Saudi Arabia; and President Susan Bailey Salaam, the newly elected president of Egypt. The presence of the Crown Prince was significant in two ways: It signaled a more favorable change in attitude of the Saudi royal family toward the Muslim Brotherhood and, secondarily, to Jadallah Zuwayy; yet, because King Fa’ad himself did not attend, it was apparent that the Saudi royal family wasn’t ready to commit to joining the Brotherhood quite yet.
The stir caused by the appearance of the Saudi Crown Prince was muted in comparison to the appearance of the president—some said the “queen”—of Egypt. Susan Bailey Salaam was greeted with thunderous applause, singing, cheering, and chanting—and when she lifted her arms, palms upward, to acknowledge the crowd, their roaring redoubled. The eventual appearance of the host and leader of the Muslim Brotherhood, Jadallah Zuwayy, was hardly noticed—Zuwayy tried to delay his appearance on the dais for as long as he could to allow time for the cheering for Bailey to subside, but he finally had to step up anyway because it was obvious he would be waiting an awful long time.
There was a brief prayer service, followed by performances by dancers and singers from each of the member nations, and then each representative was allowed to give some brief remarks. Some of the representatives were better speakers than others; some others ran longer than their allotted five minutes. The crowd became restless. Everyone knew why: They were waiting for her to speak. Jadallah Zuwayy had no choice but to speak last: As the host, he was obligated to let all of his guests precede him. There was nothing he could do.
Zuwayy knew it was going to be a long and wasted day the moment Salaam stepped up to the microphone and the crowd saw it was her—they cheered for five minutes straight even before she uttered a single word.
The erstwhile king of Libya waited patiently for the cheering for Salaam to die down; when it was obvious it was not going to do so right away, Zuwayy signaled his Director of Arab Unity, Juma Mahmud Hijazi, to call for order—and it made it doubly embarrassing for Zuwayy when the crowd virtually ignored Hijazi’s request. A sound technician finally had to inject some feedback into the sound system, and the loud squeal reverberating through the stadium finally helped to silence the crowd. Zuwayy read his welcoming remarks quickly, without any passion, and got off the dais as quickly as he could.
The members of the audience and those watching around the world who expected Susan Bailey Salaam to give one of her impassioned, fervent speeches on peace, freedom, prosperity, and unity among the Muslim nations might have been disappointed. Susan’s speech lasted only a few short seconds—but she could not have uttered any more important or rousing words than the ones she chose that afternoon.
Susan stepped up to the microphone, waited a few moments for the cheers and shouting to subside, then touched her forehead with the fingertips of both hands, took a deep breath, and sang, “Ash-Hadu anla elaha illa-allah wa ash- hadu anna Muhammadan rasul-Allah! I bear witness that there is none truly to be worshiped but Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.”
The crowd burst into insane cheering and applause. Susan raised her hands and repeated the words of the Sha-hada, the testimony of faith, but her words, even amplified, were easily drowned out by the cheering crowd.
Zuwayy was thunderstruck. She had done it: She had stolen this conference, this demonstration of his power, cleanly away from him. He might as well have closed the ceremonies and given her the mantle of presidency.
It was not until after the closing ceremonies that Zuwayy could finally see her alone in his palace office. He meant
to have her wait for him in his office to at least try to reassert some control in their discussions, but since the media had followed Salaam to this meeting, Zuwayy had to make a show of welcoming her to his palace and showing her some of its antiques, treasures, and artifacts of Libyan history.
He quickly dropped all pretext of friendship with her once they were alone in his office. “So, Mrs. Salaam, you’ve had quite a week here. You have the entire world eating out of your hand.” Minister of Arab Unity Hijazi and Chief of the General Staff Tahir Fazani were also on hand with Zuwayy; General Ahmad Baris, Salaam’s defense minister, and Captain Amina Shafik, Susan’s new chief of staff, accompanied her.
“I think it was a most successful conference, Your Highness,” Salaam said, “thanks to you and your staff.”
“No, no, no—I think the credit all goes to you, Madame President,” Zuwayy retorted irritably. “Everywhere I went I heard cries of ‘Republic! Republic!’ and ‘Queen Susan!’ You must be very pleased with your newfound popularity, Madame.”
“I am proud and happy that our people are starting to think and speak as one, Your Highness,” Salaam said, wearing her most diplomatic smile and tone of voice.
“I’m happy that you’re happy, ‘Queen’ Salaam,” Zuwayy said.
Susan’s smile never dimmed—but Ahmad Baris’s eyes narrowed in concern. “Have we done something to offend you, Highness?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Zuwayy replied curtly. He looked as if he was going to sit at his desk, but swung the chair out of his way and continued to pace around his desk. “But it seems I’m being forced to remind a lot of folks here this week that the Muslim Brotherhood doesn’t seek a republic. Our purpose is not to form one nation or even a federation of nations. Our purpose, Madame, is to assist Arab governments in forming and maintaining a Shura, a government based on Islamic law. We don’t want to go through the trouble of erasing centuries of history for our member nations—we only want to encourage and assist governments in embracing Muslim holy law in its activities. Do you understand, Madame?”
Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Page 41