by Slaton Smith
“It means, trust and verify,” the kid said proudly.
The old man laughed and pulled $50 out of his wallet and handed it to the valet.
“Very good! You earned it. Keep studying,” he said.
The valet helped him with the door, closed it and watched the car pull out of the hotel and onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
The Russian tossed the cane in the back seat. He didn’t need it and probably never would. If jumping out of airplanes didn’t damage his legs, nothing would. Not even Father Time.
Waters might have escaped Price, but he now had someone much worse, one step behind him.
BOOK V
‘Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
- Lady Macbeth
I
And the Devil Appears
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Abdulaziz’s Palace
With the unexpected death of Prince Abdulaziz Al Saud, his oldest son, Saeed, had assumed the role of Prince and proved to be every bit as despicable as his father - just in a younger more irrational package. Where age had made his father wise or at least wise enough not to flaunt his passions, his son was very open about where he went and what he did, which did not please many in the Kingdom.
Ahmed and Faisal now worked for the new Prince and though Saeed was extremely volatile, Ahmed actually preferred working for the son. He was finding it easy to manipulate the new Prince’s wild emotional swings. Ahmed saw the Prince’s instability as an opportunity for personal gain.
Faisal did not share Ahmed’s outlook and believed the behavior that he already experienced around the Prince would end badly for all involved. Faisal now led the Prince’s security detail and had inherited his personal security team. They were weak, lazy and poorly trained and he advised Ahmed to bring in new men but his request was ignored.
In the days after his father’s death, the new Prince had been consumed with revenge and he badgered Ahmed and Faisal at every turn. Involvement from Israel had quickly been ruled out and the trail had gone ice cold. Ahmed knew he needed to produce something. The break came from an unexpected source, an old email account that had gone dormant for more than two years. Suddenly there was activity.
Robert Waters did not want to contact the Saudis directly, and believed Pasco was the lesser of two evils. Waters sent a message to Oscar Pasco’s personal email account with the promise of a big payday. Waters’ analysts had told him that Pasco was still using the account, but was doing a fine job of masking his location.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
RE: AN OPPORTUNITY:
There is money to be made. The associates of the man your counterpart murdered will pay for his capture or death.
Respond and more details will follow.
It took less than one hour for Oscar Pasco to respond to Waters. Oscar was not stupid and knew immediately where the email was coming from and that Waters thought Garrison was the easier target. It was clear to him that once Garrison was out of the picture, he would be next.
After reading the message, Oscar devised a plan that would get him paid and also eliminate Garrison and Waters.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
RE: AN OPPORTUNITY:
Hello Robert. Yes, I know it is you. What do you have for me?
Pacing in his hotel room, Waters cursed Seamus McFarland. Pasco’s intelligence and broken mind made him dangerous and Waters knew he should have cut this man from the program when he had the chance or had Pasco executed. In Waters’ mind, he was still running things and there was no way he was going to acknowledge Pasco’s identification of him.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
RE: AN OPPORTUNITY:
Here is the address of the man who can pay you. I would expect $1 million each is a fair price.
[email protected]
(Attached were photos of Sean Garrison and Ana Molotov or Sandy, as Robert Waters liked to call her.)
Oscar created a new email account and reached out to the contact.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
RE: REVENGE
I can give you the heads of the three people who took the Prince’s life.
Contact me through this address, if there is interest.
Ahmed was more than skeptical but, of course, he needed to produce results and his fear outweighed his need for caution. The sender knew what had transpired, claimed to have the names of the perpetrators, the man that sent the assassin to Cannes and he knew the old address. It almost seemed too good to be true, but despite his doubts, he decided to share the details with the Prince.
The Prince was watching a soccer game on an enormous television in what he considered to be his office, which had been his father’s office before him. However, little work was ever done there.
“Your highness, I have a lead,” Ahmed said, bowing as he spoke. The sounds of the game filled the room and the Prince was screaming at the screen.
Faisal stood nearby.
Pulling himself away from the game, the Prince shouted, “Finally! I was beginning to believe my father had employed an incompetent dolt all of these years.”
“I have made contact with a man that can give us the names of the two responsible and their boss.”
“GOOD!”
Ahmed was startled as the volatility was something he was still getting used to.
The Prince continued yelling at Ahmed, “Where is he? Bring him here!”
Ahmed’s answer was rehearsed and quick, as he had played this conversation in his head prior to entering, “I would not risk bringing him to the Kingdom. It is safe to assume this man is a security risk. Faisal, do you agree?”
Faisal did not respond, but nodded.
“WHERE THEN! WHEN! I WANT THEM SLAUGHTERED!” The Prince could not control his emotions and in many ways was no better than a child, a cruel child at that, with millions of dollars at his disposal and a team of violent men surrounding him waiting to act on his whims.
“I suggest the Scimitar. We can secure it,” Ahmed answered.
A sick smile came across the Prince’s face when he replied, “Like you did before?”
Faisal hated Ahmed, but wanted this conversation to end.
“You Highness. If I may?” he said respectfully.
The Prince nodded.
Faisal took a couple of steps forward and began to speak in a low tone of voice in a simple, logical manner that would resonate with the Prince. “Ahmed is right. The boat makes sense. However, you should not be there. Ahmed and a security team should go. We can use the boat’s teleconference capabilities for you to take part.”
The Prince clapped his hands. “Now I see why my father trusted you.” He looked at Ahmed and issued the orders. “Make it so. Now! I want these people dead before the end of the week!”
Ahmed bowed and left the room. He entered the small office he was granted in the palace, logged onto his computer and reached out to Oscar Pasco.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
RE: RE: ANSWER
Meet me in Cannes at 11 A.M. tomorrow. The Marina. We will meet you on the dock at a boat named the Crescent.
Oscar smiled and looked around the casino. He blurted out, without caring who heard it, “How fortuitous!” He was enjoying himself in Monaco. He was not far from Cannes. Not far at all. He was looking forward to milking the Arabs for all he could. He already had put together a stellar plan that would make him rich overnight and as a bonus, he would get to kill the man he believed was his only threat, Sean Garrison.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
RE: ANSWER
See you there.
Ahmed assembled a security team to accompany him and departed for the airport. It was a six-hour
flight and Ahmed wanted to be there in plenty of time to prepare for their guest.
Faisal was slightly surprised that the Prince had taken his advice to stay in the Kingdom. However, he secretly wished whoever this man was would dispatch both the Prince and Ahmed. He desperately wanted out of the nasty rut his life had fallen into.
The next day, Oscar Pasco drove up the coast to Cannes. He arrived at exactly 11 A.M. After all, he was going to ask for nearly $5 million. He appreciated Waters pricing advice, but Waters did not realize he was on the menu now.
He parked his car in front of the marina and strutted through the lobby holding an envelope. He did not care for the place and was more focused on the money he was going to make. Exiting on the water side of the building, he put on a pair of Oakley sunglasses. For Oscar, he was dressed up. He was wearing black dress pants and a black shirt without a jacket and had also taken a shower. He smoked a cigarette as he made his way down the dock towards two Middle Eastern men standing behind a boat. Oscar stopped when he was a couple of feet in front of them. They did not speak, but were ready for trouble. He glanced over at the name on the back of the boat. Crescent. He looked at the two men.
“I have something for your boss,” he said in English. He spoke Arabic as well as they did, but he saw an advantage to not letting them know it.
“Hands up,” one of the men said in broken English, gesturing with his gun. He snatched the envelope from Oscar’s hand.
Oscar put his arms up. He was smiling. The guard started to pat him down, while the second man trained a gun on Oscar. They did not find any weapons. Just a phone, a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches.
“Go!” the man with the gun shouted at Oscar and pointed to the boat.
Oscar complied and stepped aboard. When he stepped on the ship, a third man waved a wand over Oscar’s body. He found nothing. Oscar looked around the deck and decided to get some sun and have a smoke. He sat down on an expensive-looking lounge chair, lit his cigarette and looked over at the Arabs.
“So, what’s next?” Oscar shouted, clapping his hands together, causing the men on the deck to jump. He took a long drag and then blew the smoke out, smiling to himself.
The guards already hated Oscar. In Arabic, one of them told the captain to leave the marina. The guards watched him, but discounted his abilities. They were all bigger than Oscar, and besides, he seemed to be more interested in getting some sun and smoking.
It took nearly twenty minutes to reach the Scimitar. More guards appeared on the deck of the larger yacht, as it approached. The smaller boat pulled alongside and Pasco and the three guards boarded the Scimitar. Pasco was immediately met by another set of guards that repeated the same security process. In Arabic, the guards made a nasty comment about his hands, which were stained by the tobacco.
The guards escorted Oscar to a conference room on the upper deck of the ship. It was magnificently furnished with an antique table and chairs. A large screen was mounted on the wall at one end of the room. There was only one man sitting at the table. It was Ahmed, who refused to stand. One of the guards handed Ahmed the envelope and the phone. Oscar took a seat at the head of the table to the left of Ahmed and facing the screen.
“I did not tell you to sit!” Ahmed said, outraged.
“I did not ask,” Oscar replied, pulling out another cigarette.
“There is no smoking in here!” Ahmed shouted, jumping from his seat.
Oscar lit his cigarette and ignored the outburst.
“I thought you asked me here to take care of a problem for you,” Oscar replied in English.
“Who are you?” Ahmed asked.
“A man who can help you. My name is not important.”
Ahmed sat back down and opened the envelope and looked inside. What Oscar did not know was that the Prince was watching from his palace in Saudi Arabia via a camera located in the front of the room.
“There’s nothing in here but a web address and a series of numbers! What is this?” Ahmed asked, tossing the papers on the table with obvious frustration.
“The address is a link to a site where you can see the faces of the people that assassinated your late Prince,” Oscar answered, taking a drag on his cigarette.
With that, the screen to life and the Prince appeared.
In Arabic, he ordered, “Ahmed, get the information and kill him.”
Oscar understood every bit of what the Prince had said and quickly produced a weapon the sloppy search had missed, a ceramic knife that was fastened to his right arm. With the reflexes McFarland’s serum had provided, he yanked Ahmed out of his seat, placed the knife at his throat and used him as a shield. The guards did not have time to react.
In Arabic, Oscar said, “You will have a hard time killing me and, by the way, you need a code to access the site. Only I have that.”
He paused.
“Oh, I speak Arabic.”
The guards were trying to get an angle to shoot, but could not. Oscar pressed the knife into Ahmed’s neck, drawing blood that trickled down and stained his shirt.
The Prince jumped when he saw Pasco move. Faisal didn’t. He saw at once the danger this man posed. He studied the image on the screen of the man with the knife to Ahmed’s throat, secretly hoping these were Ahmed’s last moments on Earth.
Continuing in Arabic, Oscar calmly commanded, “Ahmed, please ask your men to place their weapons on the table and exit the room. Non-compliance will result in their deaths and yours.”
“Put your weapons down as he requests. Leave.”
The men placed their weapons on the table and one by one left the room. When the door closed behind them, he released Ahmed. Ahmed touched his hand to his neck.
“I am sorry that had to get ugly,” Oscar said.
Oscar lined up the weapons to his left and sat down. He placed the knife in front of him. Ahmed took his seat, warily looking at Oscar, who he was certain could kill everyone on the ship if it suited him.
“Who are these people? The people that killed my father?” the Prince asked.
“Ahmed, go to this site and pull it up.”
Ahmed entered the address on a laptop and the site appeared in the corner of the screen.
“I assume you can see this?” Oscar asked the Prince.
“Yes.”
“What’s the code?” Ahmed asked, looking at the prompt on the screen, requesting a passcode.
“Not until I am compensated for this information,” Oscar said, leaning back in the chair.
“No. I will not pay you,” the Prince answered.
“Then you will not get what you want and I will take a boat ride back to Cannes and enjoy the day.”
The Prince was obviously frustrated.
“What do you want?” he asked, barely containing the irritation. He was unaccustomed to being spoken to in this manner.
“$150,000. $50,000 a person,” Oscar replied and slid the second piece of paper over to Ahmed.
“Ahmed, please wire the funds to the account listed here.”
Ahmed looked at the screen. The Prince nodded. Ahmed went to a new screen and followed the banking instructions.
“My phone please, Ahmed.”
Ahmed slid the phone over and Oscar pressed a couple of keys on his phone, looked at the screen and found that the money was there.
“Thank you gentlemen.”
“Now the code!” the Prince said, raising his voice.
“There’s not one. I thought it would add a little spice to our meeting if you believed there was one. Just hit enter please, Ahmed.”
Ahmed frowned. He did not like this man. There was a look in his eye that made him think Oscar was not all there.
“Please click on the first file.”
Ahmed did and Ana Molotov’s picture popped up.
“That is Anastasia Molotov. She is CIA. Currently AWOL. She supervised the murder. She is also an assassin, working with the next person.
The Prince stared at the image. Even though it was
a grainy shot, he knew he wanted Ana Molotov in his bed.
“Next,” Oscar requested, gesturing with the knife.
Sean’s picture appeared. It was a picture of him on the street, laughing with a large black man in front of a hotel.
“This is Sean Garrison. He is the assassin who killed your father.”
Faisal leaned forward. Sean was not what he was expecting. The Prince also stared at the image.