Al-Rahman moved forward on his seat and nodded.
“He has twenty pounds of plastic explosive strapped up and down his legs,” the old man explained.
Al-Rahman grunted. He didn’t believe it. The old man stared at him, reading the dull expression on his face. “You have a question?” he asked.
Al-Rahman grunted again. “Your guy does not have any explosives on him,” he said.
The old man looked hurt. “Why do you say that?” he asked.
Al-Rahman pointed to two guards with German shepherds standing at the barricade. “Sniff dogs. If your guy had explosives, they would be going crazy right now.”
“Hmmm, of course you’re right. But you see, Prince al-Rahman, earlier this evening the dogs were exposed to a 50 parts per million whiff of hydrogen sulfide, a strong enough dose to destroy their olfactory abilities for the next ten days or so. Truth is, you could throw those dogs a stick of dynamite and they would happily retrieve it and drop it at your feet. Those dogs couldn’t smell a skunk if it climbed on their faces and rolled on their noses.”
The old man took another drag then continued, “In five minutes, at exactly 9:15 p.m., the young sergeant, our man in the black hat, is going to walk toward the embassy and talk to the canine guards at the door. He will be cleared to enter the embassy to use the restroom, but he will have to use the service entrance on the south side of the building. It will take him just more than three minutes to get inside. Once inside the building, he will make his way through the kitchen, toward the service elevator. The reception for the OPEC delegation is being held on the second floor, just above the main reception hall. He can get to the main hallway from the service elevator. Once he is in the main reception hall, he will detonate the plastic explosives that are strapped to his legs. Most of the east side of the building will come down in a grand fireball.” The old man spoke as calmly as if he were announcing the future demise of rats. “We estimate forty or fifty casualties,” he concluded. “Most of them will be Americans, but there will be many Saudis as well.”
Al-Rahman turned toward him, his face stretched in surprise. “You’re going to kill them!” he cried.
“No, al-Rahman. You’re going to kill them. The decision is yours,” The old man answered calmly.
Al-Rahman shifted, his eyes wide with sickness and fear. “But why? What is the purpose? What do you hope to do?”
“Our only purpose, Prince al-Rahman, is to test you. We want to know who you are. We want to know what you value and how far you will go. That is the only reason we’re here. Now we have chosen to strike the Americans, but that hardly matters to us right now or at least in this case. Our only purpose in this exercise is to see if you will go along with us and find out who you really are.”
“But,” al-Rahman stammered, “if you kill the U.S. secretary of state . . . .”
“Relax,” the old man answered as he pulled another drag on his smoke. “The secretary of state isn’t scheduled to appear for another hour or so. He’s not a target. This is just our little test.”
Al-Rahman gasped, his heart slamming in his chest. “I don’t understand,” he sputtered.
“Oh come on, al-Rahman, it’s not that difficult. Say the word, say one simple word, and the entire operation is called off. One word from you and poof, not a thing happens here. Say the word and that’s it, we call the entire thing off. You and I say goodbye. You’ll never see me again. I drop you off at a private airport where one of our executive jets is waiting to fly you back to the beach. You forget me. I forget you. This whole things becomes a strange dream, nothing more. Just say the word and you save the lives of your countrymen and some American civilians as well.
“But if you decide you want to join us, if you decide you want us to show you how to hold onto power, then don’t say anything and at 9:21 p.m., fifty people will die, many of them Saudis, your countrymen, even friends. Many more will be injured, but I can’t say how many for sure.”
Al-Rahman remained silent, his heart slamming his chest in shock and fear. “I don’t believe it,” he stammered.
The old man studied him by the glow of the street lights. “Have you ever seen the result of a suicide bomber?” he asked.
Al-Rahman shook his head.
“Hard to explain what it looks like. Bloody . . . really bloody . . . a horrible mess. Pieces of bodies, bowels, heads, and ears. I’ve seen the face of a child lying on the street. No head, no bone, just the face, as if it had been surgically removed from the skull. I’ve seen dead hands reaching for something that was no longer there. Teeth and burned toes scattered on the sidewalk. And the smell, oh the smell! Burning flesh and charred hair! Smoldering bones is a smell that you will never forget!”
Silence for a moment.
“Everyone who dies here will be innocent,” the old man then observed in a suddenly sympathetic voice.
Al-Rahman stared at his hands.
The old man looked at his watch, then looked harshly at al-Rahman. “You’ve got to decide,” he commanded. “What are you going to do? Join us, and we help you. I can guarantee you power. Join us and I promise you will be the next king. Or say no and we forget it. We call off the mission and just drive away.”
“I need time to think!” al-Rahman hissed.
“No, al-Rahman. You are young! I am old! I’m the only one who needs time!”
The prince frowned and cursed violently.
“I know it may seem a little awkward,” the old man continued, “but you’ve got to decide now. This is how we do it. This is how we find out what’s in your gut. If we give you time, you will think, you will rationalize and consider. You will weigh the pros and cons and come to a decision in your head. And that’s not what we want. We want to know what’s inside of here!” The old man reached over and tapped the prince on his chest. “We have learned this is the best way to know what’s inside a man’s heart. Will he kill? Will he flounder? Will he hesitate to act? Or will he move with the commitment we hope that he will? Trust me, Prince al-Rahman, this is a very effective test.
“If you really want to join us, you’ve got to have blood on your hands. If you don’t want to get bloody, then we’re not interested in talking to you. If you’re not willing to go the extra mile, if you’re not willing to sacrifice innocent lives, then you’re not ready to work with us and we will say goodbye.
“But if you think I can help you, then you have to be willing to take a chance. You have to be willing to get bloody. And that’s why we’re here. So what’s it going to be? You’ve got to decide, my new friend.”
Al-Rahman was silent as his eyes darted widely in doubt.
The old man glanced at his watch. “Thirty seconds,” he said. “Tell me what to do. It’s up to you. Say you will do it or we say goodbye.”
“No! Not right now! Give me a little time!”
“No, Prince al-Rahman,” the old man sneered his name now, “you must decide now. Join us and we can show you a way to be king, King of the House of Saud, one of the most wealthy and powerful men in the world. Join us, and we stop King Faysal’s foolish plan. Join us, and we save you, but understand this as well. You will be joining a battle that goes far beyond what you see. You will be joining a battle that goes far beyond the simple struggle for power inside the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. We have a much larger battle, a much greater war, a much longer vision and a much longer plan. And you will have to fight those battles with us if we fight this battle for you. Now that is all I will tell you. What are you going to do?”
Prince al-Rahman sat speechless, his mouth hanging wide, his cigarette burning to a long, gray ash in his hand.
The old man’s voice rose, a snarl in his chest. “Fifteen seconds,” he cried as he stared at his watch. “Commit now to join us! Tell me to kill your countrymen! Prove to me we can trust you! Now what are you going to do!?”
Al-Rahman leaned suddenly toward him, his eyes burning with fire. “You swear to me, old man, that I will be king!”
&nbs
p; “I swear it,” the old man cried shrilly.
“Swear you won’t fail me!”
“I swear it, al-Rahman!”
Al-Rahman swallowed, then smiled and the old man stared at him. “Swear to me you will join us!” the old man hissed to the prince.
Al-Rahman didn’t hesitate. “I swear it,” he said.
“You will bring down this building?”
“Kill them all!” the prince sneered.
The old man looked at him a long moment, then smiled and relaxed. “So be it, al-Rahman. And welcome, my new friend.”
The old man leaned forward to tap on the glass and the driver started the SUV and turned it around.
*******
As the black SUV drove away, the gendarme in the black hat stood and stared at its red taillights. He knew it was a go and he sighed wearily, the massive dose of Valium the only thing that kept him calm. He was a dead man anyway, he might as well go in a sudden explosion instead of being tortured to death. If he tried to hide they would find him, they had already proven that. He had a debt. They wanted payment. It was simple as that. So he had agreed he would do this so he could go without feeling pain. In return, they would take care of his daughter and the debt would be satisfied.
He sighed again sadly, then turned away from the receding taillights of the car.
At exactly 9:15 p.m., the guard turned and walked toward the embassy door.
*******
The SUV was two miles away and driving down L’Infante Boulevard when al-Rahman saw the flash of orange light behind him. He didn’t hear the explosion or feel its expanding concussion, but the flash and rising fireball was strong enough to light up the night.
TWO
Two days later, the old man and Prince al-Rahman sat together at a small café on a narrow and crowded sidewalk in the Place du Casino. The golden square of Monte Carlo sparkled around them, a sensory overload of beautiful sights, smells, and sounds. Both men had checked into the Hotel Hermitage the night before and were rested and comfortable in the morning air. They wore summer suits and dark shirts and they smoked as they talked. Native peace lilies, roses, and daisies created a natural bouquet around them and the air was heavy and warm with the smell blooming flowers. It was a lovely spring day and the flower shops, boutiques, art galleries and small cafés bustled with tourists, most of them overweight working stiffs from the continent and United States who had come to bask vicariously in the reflected glory of the young and beautiful. A few locals hurried through the crowd on their way to their minimum wage jobs that couldn’t buy them a closet in the city, let alone an apartment or small home. Because it was Monte Carlo there was constant wealth on display, and the prince and the old man mingled comfortably with the ostentatious crowd.
More than a dozen security men subtly worked the sidewalks and streets, some of them Prince al-Rahman’s, some of them belonging to the old man. The two sat at a small table on the sidewalk near a flowing fountain. For almost three hours they sipped French coffee and nibbled tiny pastries, deep in conversation. The old man did most of the talking. Prince al-Rahman sat straight, his eyes intense, sometimes incredulous, sometimes unbelieving. Yet, despite his eyes, he smirked constantly.
Al-Rahman had made a good decision. The old man had a plan. Just hearing his ideas was worth the “small” price of the blood on al-Rahman’s hands.
“You will be responsible to liaison with our Pakistani agent,” the old man gave his final instructions. “We have planted the seed, but it will be your responsibility to nourish it and bring it along. It will take several years of your undivided attention. We will take care of the security, but the rest will be up to you.”
“And the objective?” al-Rahman asked. The old man had been talking around it for hours now and the prince was growing impatient.
The old man smiled smugly. They had finally arrived. It was time that the prince knew. The old man leaned across the table and whispered the objective, his breath dry and foul.
The Saudi prince listened, then pushed away from the table, his mouth hanging open, his eyes smoldering. “Impossible!” he sneered. “Do you think you are the first ones to try this? It has been tried many times before. All of them failed. And you will fail, too.”
The old man snapped angrily back in his chair. “Are you stupid?” he asked, like irritated father scolding his child. “Haven’t you been listening? Haven’t you heard anything?!”
Al-Rahman slowly nodded. “I have heard every word.”
“Then how can you doubt us?”
“I don’t doubt you, my friend.”
“Of course you doubt me. Isn’t that what you just said? Have I completely misjudged you? Haven’t you heard anything!?”
“Friend, I only wonder have you thought this thing through? Many of the best men have tried, and all of them failed. There are too many countermeasures, too much security. Everyone who has tried it has ultimately failed. And I’m sorry to say this, but it is my objective judgment that you will fail, too.”
The old man thought a moment, then softened. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“But why not?” al-Rahman prodded eagerly. He wanted to believe him. He really did.
“Because we are patient,” the old man explained. “Because we invest in the future. We don’t demand results right now. Because we know it will take time, maybe ten or twelve years. Maybe more. But trust me al-Rahman, we will succeed. By then I will be old, I will be a dying old man, but I will live to see it. I will live to see our success.” The old man sipped at his coffee, then took a deep breath and leaned forward again. “I will live to see the burning glory,” he smirked sarcastically.
Al-Rahman shook his head. He couldn’t help smile. “The burning glory,” he repeated, almost laughing. “Yes, that’s good!”
The old man laughed with him and then turned serious again. “Take care of our man in Pakistan,” he commanded. “That is your only job. And you must learn to be patient. This will take many years. But the payoff will be worth it, I assure you of that.”
A little more than three weeks later, Prince al-Rahman made his way to Karachi, Pakistan. For five days he explored the city, traveling anonymously, moving through the slums and markets, staying in a classic yet modest hotel. He was an oil supply businessman from Riyadh hoping to land a $500,000 dollar deal. He camped out at the Hotel Karachi, an old brick-and-marble structure that dated back to the colonial era, one of the very few centers of international commerce in Pakistan. He brought with him only four bodyguards, and he never talked to them or acknowledged them in any way, though he noticed them around him from time to time as he walked.
It was the first time he had ever been in Karachi and he found it nearly as despicable as he had been told. It was noisy. It was hot. It was the murder capital of the world. The men and women relieved themselves in the open, right out in the street, squatting over rusted holes drilled into the sidewalks before moving on. The children looked hungry and thin, and everything smelled; the food, his hotel room, the taxis and streets, there was a permanent odor of humans, animal feces, garlic and sweat in the air. Standing beside his bed, he sniffed at his suit. He would have it burned the second he got back to Saudi Arabia. He looked out on the street at the poverty below. How in the world did these people develop the technology to build a nuclear weapon? It was an incredible irony he could not understand!
But they had. And he hadn’t. And so he was here.
For five days, he moved around Karachi, feigning low-level business meetings, looking and watching, wondering when it would come. He knew the other party was watching him, testing his patience while making certain he wasn’t being trailed. So he waited, passing the time as convincingly as he could. By the third day he was growing impatient. By the fifth day he was furious. Who did this old man think that he was? Didn’t he know with whom he was dealing? Didn’t he have any sense?
He had been told they would make contact and until that time, there wasn’t a thing he could do. He w
as completely at their mercy. But the whole thing made him furious and he raged like a chained bull inside.
Then, on the evening of the fifth night, Prince al-Rahman was sitting alone in a small bar in the back of the hotel. It was quiet and growing late when a small, mustached gentleman approached his table and nodded to him. “Come with me,” he commanded without introduction.
Al-Rahman glanced around. Two of his security people sat and talked at the bar. He caught one by the eye and the bodyguard turned away, though al-Rahman could see he was still watching him through the smoky mirror behind the bar.
Al-Rahman didn’t move. “Excuse me,” he said.
“My master would like to speak with you,” the stranger answered curtly.
“And who is your master?” al-Rahman replied, his heart skipping suddenly as he drew a quick breath.
The stranger lowered his voice. “Dr. Abu Nidal Atta, deputy director, Pakistan Special Weapons Section, principal advisor on national security to the Pakistani president.”
Al-Rahman nodded slowly. This was why he was here.
He glanced toward his bodyguards, then stood and followed the man.
The meeting took place in a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel. It was a short discussion, direct and all business, and both men left satisfied.
It would be a very long time before Prince al-Rahman would see the Pakistani scientist again. Although they would work closely together, they agreed they would never meet face-to-face, always communicating through intermediaries, a very few men they could trust.
At the end of the process, both men would get what they wanted most. Prince al-Rahman would have his nuclear warheads. And the Pakistani scientist would become one of the richest men in the world.
THREE
The two men were not alone in the Pakistani hotel suite.
Lucifer had always been and he would always be among the mortals, standing close enough to whisper his lies in their ears. He walked and talked beside them, interacting with mortals through his temptations of violence, lust, betrayal, and a ravenous hunger for the dark things of the world. Those he didn’t have, he tempted. Those who fought against him, he sought to destroy. Those he had already won, he directed, turning them into his servants in his quest to devastate the world.
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