Seth researched his friend and read on the alumni website of the LSE of Omar’s illness and how he rarely traveled out of his country. The prince had dedicated his life to funding Multiple sclerosis research. The contrast of how Omar had fared and the life they’d shared in London reminded Seth of the Knightsbridge home of debauchery. That thought jolted him out of bed to book a flight to London the next morning.
For years Seth had agonized over how he could bring the devil to him without getting burned in the process. In that moment of late-night inspiration, the plan to ensnare Mark Price was hatched. It involved a decaying prince and his London pad, and nine digits Seth had never forgotten.
He flew to London and caught a taxi from Heathrow’s Terminal Five straight to a traditional Gulf Arabian garments store on Cromwell Road, where he bought with cash what he needed. Seth then walked to a nearby private hospital, used a public washroom to change into his new outfit to transform himself from a civilian into a wealthy Arab of royal blood.
Outside the penthouse on Belgrave Square, a gush of memories flooded his mind. With feigned confidence, he walked up to the front door and punched in the numbers 327021991 in the key pad, then waited with bated breath.
A green light flashed twice and with a clicking sound the door unlocked.
Inside the penthouse, floor-level pilot lights switched on to welcome him, indicating the alarm system had been deactivated. He crept into his old friend’s temple of excess and shut the door behind him, relieved his far-fetched gamble had paid off so far.
Remarkably, his old friend hadn’t bothered to change the entry code in fifteen years. What are the odds of that?
Not much had changed since the old days. A cleaning company still serviced the apartment weekly. A chauffeured limousine was one speed dial away, as was a concierge company, a business support office, a travel agency, a masseuse and an escort service. It was a plug-and-play lifestyle on pause waiting for the prince if he ever returned to indulge in it.
Back when they were students, the prince had invited Seth and two young Scottish undergraduates they had picked up at a nightclub for after-hours drinks at the penthouse. Omar had been too intoxicated to conceal his hand as he usually did when he punched in the entry code. Seth had caught himself memorizing the digits but felt guilty for doing it. The hacker in him couldn’t resist prying, and later became fixated with the relevance of the numbers, rather than the access they enabled. Their significance to Omar was the intellectual challenge gnawing at him, waiting to be cracked. And he did it.
After breaching the penthouse and taking control of it, assuming the identity of the prince in London proved as simple as punching in those digits. All the expenses to enable the prince to function in London were debited from a bottomless account at the nearby Barclays bank.
Seth didn’t need to interact with anybody or sign anything. The service providers were all anonymous, ever-changing faces. Polish maids, Brazilian delivery boys and South Asian or African chauffeurs. No one ever glanced at his face let alone questioned his identity. All he had to do to avoid raising suspicion was keep tipping lavishly. Nobody ever outed an above-average tipper. Unless the real prince came back one day or Seth ran into someone who knew him, a long time would have to pass before anyone challenged him.
Living a duplicitous luxury life on another person’s tab was a risky but necessary part of his plan. One upon which the entire mission rested.
His task in London was elementary. The US Defense Attaché Office was holding a reception a few weeks after Seth first arrived in town. He needed an invitation to this event to allow him to meet Jennifer Willis, the London representative of Exertify, who he knew would be attending the reception.
With access to the prince’s concierge service designed to get its wealthy clients on the guest list of the hottest events in town, Seth could attend a Prada opening or the premiere of a Harry Potter film by placing one call. But squeezing his way into a high-level defense reception under a fake identity required more mental calories.
The inspiration for his way into the reception had come to him at the same time he hatched the plan to take over the prince’s identity. Michael Emery, a former professor of his at LSE, was now also the head of a security think tank in London, and well-connected to the international defense community. Back when they were students at LSE, the real prince rarely attended classes. Seth was certain Emery would have no recollection of what the real Omar looked like. Seth had attended Emery’s class and was certain his own face would be familiar enough to allay any minor suspicions his former professor may develop when they met.
Seth called Emery’s office and left a brief, tantalizing message with his former professor’s secretary. Less than twenty-four hours later, he was sitting across from Emery, having lunch in a private room of the Alain Ducasse at The Dorchester.
Emery had preserved well despite some wrinkles spider-webbing across his face. He was as sharp as Seth remembered him, and well-trained in meeting wealthy former students and pretending to recognize them.
“I remember how inquisitive you were,” Emery said with generic affection. No doubt a line he had perfected to appeal to the vanity of his former students, especially the rich and powerful ones who never were remarkable but desperately craved to be remembered as so.
“Thank you, Professor Emery.”
“Call me Michael, please.”
When they had finished strutting back and forth the short and fictitious memory lane they shared, Seth stopped and toiled with his fig and almond tart before he peered up at the beady-eyed professor waiting for the punch line.
“Michael, I need your kind assistance with two separate matters, the first being the simpler of the two.”
“Let’s start with that.”
“My family seeks to establish an endowment for five annual postgraduate scholarships at LSE. They would benefit brilliant young Arabs from countries with recent violent revolts. Places like Tunisia, Egypt and Yemen.” The words rolled off his tongue as if the millions of pounds this benevolence entailed could be stacked in a few suitcases back at the penthouse.
“I’m lost for words. What a delightful idea, Omar!” Emery tried but failed to contain his excitement. The ultimate wet dream of any professor is to attract scholarship funding, and Seth was dangling not one, but five, wrapped in an endowment.
“The second matter is of a sensitive nature.” Seth leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What I am about to reveal to you is for your ears only, Michael.”
“Absolutely, Omar.”
“Our friends in Egypt have been caught with their pants down since the Mubarak regime imploded. The army is in control, but they are faltering on their responsibilities to their international allies and business partners.”
Emery nodded and puffed as if he had reached the same damning assessment.
“In 2005, the Gulf Gold Consortium was granted a one-hundred-sixty-square-kilometer exploitation lease over the Sukari Gold Project in the eastern desert of Egypt. My family owns a majority stake in this Consortium. Our mines have been attacked four times since the revolution by unknown assailants. We can’t afford a fifth, Michael.”
Emery struggled to keep his eyes from popping out of his head. The lies Seth was spinning were sweet, complex and seductive, tailored for Emery’s sensibilities.
“The Egyptians have agreed to allow us to position our private security at the mines so long as it’s confidential.” Seth glanced at his former professor and decided he was ready for the climax.
“We need to identify a trustworthy security contractor. Our ownership of the mines is not publicly known so we can’t go through the regular channels.”
“What would the regular channels normally be?”
“Long. Convoluted. Frustrating and untrustworthy.” Seth grinned with a few drops of exaggerated cynicism for good measure.
“Like?”
It wasn’t clear if Emery was curious or testing him. Seth had done his homework.
“We’d reach out to our Minister of Defense, who would delegate the matter to our military attachés in London, Washington and Paris to start. In turn, they would liaise with the ministries of defense in those countries. By the time we were in direct contact with viable suppliers, there would be no secrets left to hide.”
“Confidentiality was a right once upon a time, not a luxury.”
“Exactly. What I really need is for you to introduce us to a reliable security contractor who worships discretion as much as we do. In return for their services and confidentiality, the vendor in question will have the benefit of early access to Egypt and introduction to its new rulers through us.”
Even though they were in a private room, Seth scanned around with cautious eyes, to show Emery he was about to reveal the sweetest part of his proposition.
“There is a storm of change coming to our part of the world, and only those who are ready and have paid their dues can reap its benefits. The Muslim Brotherhood will ascend to power in Egypt, mark my word, regardless of what the prognosticators say.
“Through our Qatari cousins, the Brotherhood will be no cause for concern. When the dust settles, everybody will be vying for a piece of Egypt. The Iranians, the Russians, the Brazilians and the Chinese are already lining up, but we can serve up the fast track.”
He stopped and studied Emery’s face to estimate how much of the bait he had swallowed and then continued. “For your trouble, our Consortium will make a charitable donation to your Institute instead of a personal finder’s fee, which could be a thorny matter for you to justify on your tax return, I would imagine.”
“A generous gesture on your part, Omar, but really not at all necessary. What excites me is the scholarship endowment affair.”
Seth leaned forward. “Do you think you can put me in contact with a reliable security firm, Michael?”
It was Emery’s turn to track the room with moderated suspicion, before whispering, “The hottest ticket in town is the US Defense Attaché’s annual reception in a few weeks. I will have my office arrange to get you a formal invite from the Americans. Once you are there, you can go shopping to your heart’s content, my friend.”
“Thank you.”
Seth was glowing inside. Emery had tumbled and he hadn’t even put up much of a fight.
While he waited for Emery’s office to procure his invitation to the reception, Seth was certain the Americans would run checks on him, at the very least to ensure there really was a Prince Omar Al Seraj with a residence in London. If the security clearance had happened, he hadn’t noticed it. His invitation arrived in the mail a week after his lunch with Emery.
On the day of the event, Seth stood by a tulip arrangement nibbling beluga caviar blinis and gazing around.
His face was covered with aviator sunglasses, revealing only a fine-sculpted goatee. He wore a gray cloak, embroidered in golden silk. Underneath it his body was draped from neck to ankle in a lavish pearl-colored gown. A white-and-red checkered kufiya wrapped around his head, held in place by a thick black band. His brown Italian shoes made from the finest slink, the soft skin of unborn calves.
Seth kept an eye on Jennifer Willis, waiting for the right moment to lay himself at her feet like roadkill. Willis was in her early sixties and a native of Arkansas. Her snake eyes and Botox-polished face matched her spa-toned body. Styled in an elaborate crown braid, her silver hair must have taken a team and a forklift to assemble.
A Polish general Seth had spotted earlier speaking to Jennifer wound up being his perfect conversation prop to draw the snake in.
Seth meandered to the Pole, who was sipping on a glass of Scotch and standing within earshot of Willis.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, General,” Seth said, deducing his rank from his shoulders. “Modern corporations can no longer rely on the protection and rule of law of the state. We must take matters into our own hands.”
“I do not disagree, Your Highness. The explosion of powerful non-state actors has overstretched the nation state. Private security can, and should, fill the gap.”
“The problem is finding a security contractor with enough experience and accountability. My family has been walking that road now for many unfruitful months.” Seth glanced over and saw Jennifer Willis paying full attention now.
She extricated herself from an American naval officer she was chatting to and hovered toward them. Willis brushed her fingers against the General’s arm, revealing a boulder of a diamond ring as she curtseyed to Seth, acknowledging his royalty. Seth figured either she knew her etiquette well or Emery had briefed her about him. He hoped it was the latter.
“Jennifer Willis, Your Highness. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with General Prokop. I head the European regional office of Exertify.”
“Exertify?”
“We are only the leading private security contractor in the world.”
The Polish general nodded in approval.
With a twinkle in her eyes, Jennifer said, “General Prokop can attest to our work in his country. You could say we’re in the business of never disappointing our clients.” She sipped on her champagne flute with girlish innocence, her eyes fixed on Seth with terrifying determination.
The rest had been easy.
But none of it would have been possible if Seth hadn’t cracked and memorized the entry code, 327021991.
The number three at the beginning of the sequence was what kept throwing him off for a while. In the end he cracked that too. Without the three, the code was 27021991. A date. February 27, 1991, the day Kuwait was liberated from the Iraqi invasion. The three was simpler, and even more innately biological and tribal. The number of children the prince had at the time.
Seth observed Mark Price now cowering on the floor, replaying in his mind the road he had walked until he was able to penetrate Exertify earlier this morning.
After their initial meeting, Jennifer Willis had to coax him hard for many months to consider Exertify for the Egypt job. The harder she had tried, the coyer he played. In the larger scheme of things, this contract was insignificant for Exertify, like a spit in a waterfall. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow he was promising—the early access to the Egyptian market the deal would provide—proved ultimately irresistible for Mark Price and his gang of war meddlers.
The devil had come begging at Seth’s feet, allowed him with open arms inside the gates of hell.
If it wasn’t for the roomful of hostages he needed to keep intimidated, Seth would have cracked a huge, satisfied smile. The time to gloat was far from near. A long and harrowing journey was still ahead.
He picked up the phone and called Blackwell.
TEN
Saturday, November 5, 2011—8:58 p.m.
Manhattan, NY
Seth spoke with business-like indifference.
“My associates on the outside have confirmed your SWAT team was evacuated from my building. As a result of your compliance, I can reveal to you the location of one of the four child care centers we had wired with explosives. You will find it at 2700 Junction Street in Detroit.”
Behind him, Blackwell heard Monica instructing Nishimura to evacuate the Detroit facility and dispatch a bomb squad to search for and dismantle the alleged explosives.
A gush of temporary relief spread through Blackwell’s body.
“Are you ready to tell me what it is you want, Seth?”
“For now, I need supplies. Food and drink for the hostages and myself to last us for the next twenty-four hours.”
“We’ll send it right up.”
“That’s not going to happen. I rely on my own delivery service, and when I say supplies I also mean guns,” Seth said with no attempt to mask his intentions.
“You’re digging yourself deeper.”
>
Seth ignored him. “A silver Lexus is driving along Lexington as we speak. In about twelve minutes it’ll reach the intersection of Fifty-third and Lexington and will turn right. The FBI has blocked access to Park Avenue. I want the Lexus to clear the NYPD police checkpoint in place there and to proceed unhindered to the tower. Two of my associates will leave the vehicle at the entrance and come up to us with the supplies. The car will remain there and no one will tamper with it. It’s got sensors, so I’ll know.”
Before Blackwell had a chance to oppose the request, Seth deterred it.
“When they’re done sweeping the place, check with the Detroit police about the quality and power of our explosives. Just toy with the idea of double-crossing me, and the lives of everyone at the remaining child care centers will be smeared on your hands.
“Twenty minutes is all you’ve got. Don’t waste them debating what you should do because the only option you have is the one I am giving you.”
Seth hung up.
“There was a time when a perp would extend you some courtesy and lie about their intentions. Now they just tell you to your face they’re delivering guns.”
Slant jumped in. “It’s a moot point, Monica. Whatever arms or explosives they deliver to him, it’s just another location he controls.”
Blackwell was glad Slant was the one locking horns with Monica on this, not him.
“The guy’s got three facilities he’s already wired. I’d give him his falafel boys and see what comes next.”
Blackwell silently agreed with Slant’s pragmatism and judging by the frustration jumping out from Monica’s eyes, she probably did too.
Two FBI agents were dispatched to the Fifty-third Street barricade, one of them with a concealed high-definition camera embedded in his Oakley shades, to allow Blackwell and the other agents to watch in real time from command post. They met up with the NYPD officers manning the check point and pulled whatever rank was required to grant Seth his demand.
Terminal Rage Page 8