by David Lender
“Yes, go on,” Sasha said. She was feeling the unnatural calmness she experienced before a riding competition. She knew her rising excitement would be next. Even a thrill. She was impatient for Tom to continue.
“This is a different type of window, it slides down while the ones in the palace push open.”
“I know,” she said, thinking about how Ibrahim had opened the window for her to warm the room until she had adjusted to the air-conditioned palace. A sharp sensation. Remorse?
“The cyanoacrylate will dry in less than 30 seconds, after which you crack the window open so the team can enter. The glue will hold the microswitch for the alarm in place, but the plastic backing to the glue strip will keep the window from sticking to the frame.” He reached up, switched off the electromagnet and placed it on the floor, then slid the window down, showing her that the plastic strip had been bound to only one side of the window frame. “The microswitch is pressure sensitive, so it should hold indefinitely.” He sat back down. “That’s it for your part. Leave the gloves in the bag next to the electromagnet. After that you go back to the room and wait. The lead man on the team is the shooter. A Beretta with a silencer. He goes to Ibrahim’s room, does it quietly and cleanly. My advice is you pretend you’re asleep after they do it. Then wake up comfortably after the team is gone—the entire job won’t take more than three to five minutes—and then react as you normally would waking up to find…” His voice trailed off.
“A dead man in bed next to me.”
“Exactly.”
Sasha now saw the coldness in Tom’s recitation. This was a job for him, something he needed to do. It would be over soon, and for all she knew, she might never see him again.
“The team leaves,” Tom continued, “going out the same way. That’s it.”
“And what if it doesn’t work?”
Tom inhaled. “Depends on when it goes awry. If they’re even partway through, the plan is to blow the wall and get out. There’ll be three escape cars stationed outside. Black BMW 535s. You’ll have to make your own decisions. Your cover—this is what you wanted—is you were an innocent bystander to an assassination team coming in. Unless you’re detected as you’re disengaging the alarm, there’s no reason for you to run.”
The word “run” hit her like an electrical charge. She hadn’t thought of that: if it went sour and she had to run, too. Then it might all be for nothing, because she’d be forced to leave and Ibrahim might still be alive, free to…She stopped herself thinking about it.
“If for some reason you need to get out, get down the ropes and through the wall with the team. Run into one of the escape cars. They’ll leave you at a drop point and I’ll pick you up and get you out.”
“And then what?” she asked. Not to Tom, but off over his shoulder. Tom must have seen the nature of the question because he didn’t answer. She focused back on his face. “Who are these men? Yours?”
“They’re professionals. Untraceable. Trust me, they know what they’re doing. And if any of them are caught, they can’t be linked to us. Or to you. We’ve even taken steps to make it look like it was planned from factions within the al-Mujari.”
They sat not speaking for a few moments. Sasha’s mind was whirling now, asking what happened next. Where would she go, what would she do if she had to run? And if it didn’t work, and Ibrahim survived? Again she forced herself not to think about it. “What’s the backup plan?” she asked.
He looked her in the eye. “That’s up to you.”
She knew what he meant. “I figured that’s why you didn’t ask me for the Beretta back.”
“It’s up to you,” he repeated. “Whether the plan works or not, unquestionably they’ll find it. It will be impossible to explain. You can still get rid of it if you want to.”
Sasha shook her head. “No. I already decided. I’ll work it out myself—afterward. Remember what you said when we first discussed this?”
“What?”
“This needs doing.” She heard the firmness in her voice, knew it was from the purity of her motive. Her previous uncertainty was gone, replaced by the words she’d just spoken.
Sasha stayed at Ibrahim’s side at the party that night, the night. It was where she had been all day, except when Ibrahim was at the ministry, and when he had an afternoon date with Rachel Prinea, the new concubine. That was all right with Sasha. It was Friday, and after all she was his for the evening. And he was hers.
Sasha wore her hair up, showing off her neck in an ivory silk Chloe gown. Her solitaire diamond drew the eyes to her breasts. She’d reflected as she put it on that it wasn’t her style, but she figured it would appeal to his lust, and she was taking no chances on keeping Ibrahim’s attention tonight. She wanted him in bed, shown a good time and passed out as soon as she could manage it, by midnight if possible.
He’s not drinking enough. She found a bellgirl and pointed at Ibrahim’s scotch.
“Let’s go soon,” she said later. “It’s almost bedtime, and I don’t want to be too tired.”
He smiled. “I’m not concerned. You’ve never disappointed me.” The bellgirl handed him another scotch. “The band’s just getting ready to start up again. A few songs, then we’ll go.” He held his hand out to one of the girls, and they began to dance.
Sasha realized she was staring at him, looked away, made certain she kept her poise. She turned the plan over in her head. The bag was in the closet. Put on her abaya in case she was detected in the hallway, or needed to run. Don’t forget the latex gloves. To the window, unroll the electromagnet, plug it in, peel off the backing from the adhesive, slide it into the window frame, then put the electromagnet in place and switch it on. Count to thirty, switch it off, place it on the floor, turn the lever and push the window open. Just a crack. Ditch the gloves. Then back to the bedroom.
Now she felt a flutter of nerves, impatient as she saw Ibrahim continue dancing with the girl. She’d had enough, and walked directly over.
“Mind if I cut in?” The girl looked at her with malevolent eyes. Sasha saw the mild amusement on Ibrahim’s face as she gave the girl a glare as if to say “I’m still the favorite.” Ibrahim swung Sasha in a circle away from the girl, leaving her behind like discarded lingerie.
“Ever Sasha.” He was looking at her through gloating eyes. “Why don’t we go away again?”
She felt a jolt of emotion, unable even to identify it.
“I’m busier now,” he said, “but I could get away for a few weeks. How about Venice?”
“Okay,” she managed. Her soul, she realized, was fighting to be heard. Moaning at what she must do. She forced herself to remember: Yassar. Ibrahim’s words on the tape. Tom’s simple statement: This needs doing. She rested her head on his shoulder again, unable now to look him in the eye.
Sasha lay awake in bed, staring out at the blackness across the room, the green light of the display of the digital clock the only illumination. Ibrahim lay next to her, sleeping. She’d treated Ibrahim to some particularly extended pleasures. She glanced at the clock: 1:02 a.m. That was the part she hadn’t needed to figure out: how she would awaken at the appointed hour. She couldn’t, wouldn’t sleep. And now her mind continued to work on how her life would change. No matter which way it turned out, if it succeeded or failed, or the team didn’t arrive at all. And if it worked, would she be able to stay? Could she actually live on here, in essence as Yassar’s daughter—and his son’s killer? She now saw that as absurd, felt her emotions crumbling.
She checked the clock again. Waiting.
Footsteps in the hall: the Royal Guard on his rounds. She felt a renewed sense of the commitment that spurred her to what she would do. It’s time, she told herself, and she slid, inches at a time, from the sheets to the cool marble floor.
Yassar will never forgive me. She breathed deeply, then felt exhilaration at the cool detachment her purpose gave her. She stood, naked, shoulders erect and head back, observing Prince Ibrahim, the man she had served as concubin
e for three years. But you don’t deserve to see it coming.
She inched toward the closet…
CHAPTER 29
JULY, TWENTY YEARS AGO. RIYADH, Saudi Arabia. Sasha was pressed facedown on the floor of the escape car, her ears still ringing from the sharp bursts of the machine guns and that C-4 blast. Her head was throbbing and she had to force her stomach muscles tight to keep each bounce of the road from causing over 200 pounds of mercenary from knocking the wind out of her. She was sickened by what she’d done: stood and fired a round into Ibrahim’s chest from not five feet away, then put another one in the back of his lifeless skull for good measure. She could hardly believe it. She knew it was only her belief in her love for Yassar, and his for her, that gave her the courage to do it. Then she felt a crushing wave of anguish. She’d lose Yassar. She’d never see him again; there was no chance that she could return to him with her improvisation after the plan had gone wrong. She shut her eyes against tears. And now rage welled up in her, first at Tom for getting her involved, then at Ibrahim for being so weak, and finally at herself for not going directly to Yassar with what she knew.
Her face was contorted and her breathing was shallow. She could feel something moist on her face, was able to reach up and wipe it off. It must be Ibrahim’s blood that had splattered up on her. She wanted to vomit. She felt every bounce in the road, smelled the cordite from the explosives and garlic on the hot breath of the man jammed in on top of her in the BMW.
Now what? Where would she run? Would Tom be able to get her out of Saudi Arabia? She’d have to rely on Tom. Tom and his flawless plan. No, that wasn’t fair. He’d advised her of the risk. Ibrahim was dead, Yassar was alive; that much had been accomplished. She felt an explosion of guilt: but the squad leader and at least two more of the men had been killed, and she was responsible for that. Oh my God. She’d shot two innocent men, the guards, and the other guards that were killed were on her head too. If she hadn’t insisted on the change of plans, none of that would have happened. Her heart wailed, desperate, damned. And now she’d never see Yassar again anyway.
Impossible. She’d have to figure out a way to come back later. But how could she go to Yassar? She couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing she’d been involved—or had done it. And they’d find her gun. There was no way she could go back. They’d probably kill her. Desperation clogged her thoughts.
The tape! She’d get it from Tom. He owed her that much. Owed? Did that matter in this business? Yes, she’d get the tape of Ibrahim swearing to kill his father, then go to Yassar. But would Tom do it?
She’d figure it out. Convince Tom. She had to. Otherwise she’d be on the run, estranged from Yassar forever. Or dead. Now the car slowed almost to a stop, then revved its engine and ran up a ramp. The engine cut. She felt the coarse fabric of her abaya chafing her thighs, the man on top of her press down on her to raise himself. She heard the car doors fly open, the jangle of equipment as the men climbed out. Her breath was coming in gasps. She felt despair and panic at the same time.
She climbed out of the car to see they were inside a dimly lit tractor trailer, the rear doors already closed, and then felt the lurch of the trailer moving. She fell to the floor as it accelerated. Four men in uniforms were collapsed around her, dusty and sweaty, one kneeling and rubbing his thigh, attended by another. One of the men helped her up.
“We carried you out of the crater,” he said.
She averted her eyes. “Thank you.”
“How many men down?”
“I saw three,” Sasha said. “Including the team leader.”
“Damn,” the man who’d been nursing his leg whispered.
“He never got to him, to the target,” another said.
“I did,” Sasha said.
Four pairs of eyes were locked on her. “You sure?” the man with the sore leg asked.
“I’m sure.” Sasha leveled her eyes at him. “Point-blank. Two shots. The team leader’s Beretta Cheetah. Just like mine.” She saw their gaze on her. She didn’t know if it was horror or admiration, or simply surprise. She wasn’t sure of her own reaction yet either, the absence of emotion, as if stunned to be saying it. Out in the open now, a murderess. They rode in silence for another ten minutes.
The tractor trailer stopped, then the back doors opened to the inside of a warehouse. Sasha saw Tom Goddard walk toward the trailer, his face tense, like a mask. A surge of horror at what she had done came over her again. Two other men she didn’t recognize walked behind Tom. The death squad team clomped in their boots out of the trailer.
Sasha walked toward the edge, feeling her bare feet against the coarse steel and grit on the floor inside the trailer. One of the men helped her down while the others stood and talked with Tom and the two men. Tom walked over to Sasha. She felt torment searing at her, as if she needed to confess to Tom what she’d done. Her breathing was labored.
“We need to get you out of here,” he said, his eyes scrutinizing her face. “Are you all right?”
“I…” She needed to tell him, wanted the cool efficiency with which he told the men in the trailer to come back to her, but now was stunned and disbelieving that she’d done it at all. “Ibrahim…I…”
“I heard.” He took her by the arm and walked her toward a door into an office. Papers were strewn on a dilapidated desk and scattered around it on the floor. All the windows were painted black on the inside. He sat her down at a wooden chair by a dusty table, took a seat in front of her. He looked at his watch.
“We don’t have much time. First we get you to the embassy, then some clothes, cut and dye your hair. We’ve got your documents and a U.S. passport to get you out as the wife of an oil broker from Houston. The sooner we leave the better.”
Sasha felt her strength returning. “I’m not leaving.”
Tom looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “What?”
“I’m going back to Yassar.”
“No you’re not.”
“I have to.”
“Are you crazy? They’ll have you killed.”
“No,” she said, looking up at him with as much steel in her eyes as she could muster. “You’re going to help me.”
“How?”
“Make sure he understands, believes me.”
Tom just looked at her, speechless.
“I get proof. Then I go back.” Now she wasn’t just putting on a good front, keeping her poise. She had her mind in the right place again, knew what she was about.
“What kind of proof?”
“The tape.”
“Absolutely not. They’ll link it to us.”
“You owe me.”
“Why?” She saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. He was good at this, but she saw that he felt he did owe her something.
“You made me a pawn.”
“You went into this with your eyes open.” His eyes were hard again. She stared back at him, wondering if hers were as hard as his. Did he always have somebody else do his killing? She’d just done his. Her eyes must be harder.
There was a long pause. “What do you want?” he finally asked.
“I already told you. The tape. To prove to Yassar why I did it.”
“And I already told you that will never happen.”
“You can do it, make a copy.”
Tom looked at his watch, then ran his fingers through his hair. “I can get you out. Safe. On the run, but safe. We can even bury you. A fake death and a new ID.”
He sounded cold. She said, “No. I’m going back to Yassar.” She saw him sigh, then lean forward toward her, the way he always did.
“Okay,” he said, his eyes tender. He reached up and stroked her forehead, something he’d never done before. “Okay.”
Sasha felt emotion welling in her throat, all of the exhaustion, shock and agony of the last days flowing upward. She mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
“We’ll need to figure out how to get you back inside.” He checked his watch again. “We already have
a cover story—part of our contingency planning in case the whole plan got blown.” He was talking as much to himself as to her. “I was a loosening cannon, then finally came unhooked and led a renegade group within the agency, piggy-backing on the joint U.S./British/Israeli operation to take out the other al-Mujari heads, and I decided to take out Ibrahim as well.” He was looking off in the distance now, as if he were thinking through where he would go from here. “They’ll send me back to Langley. Probably would have gone back soon anyhow, become a Section Head running this whole region. But now, after this, who knows, after it plays out this way…” He stopped himself and turned back to her. “But there’s something we can’t help you with.”
“What’s that?”
“Even if he believes you, you still killed his son.”
Sasha swallowed hard. Yassar will never forgive me.
Yassar felt as soft and formless as the fat upholstered chair in which he sat in the living room of his suite. He’d wondered earlier if he were in shock, but knew the pain in his chest and the effort it took to hold his head erect meant the reality of Ibrahim’s murder was with him. He glanced over at Nibmar, still a crumpled form in the corner of the sofa, balled-up Kleenex surrounding her, hair disheveled, wearing a bathrobe over her nightdress. With some effort he lifted himself from the seat, sat down next to her, put his arm around her tiny form, and pulled her close. Always such energy and internal strength. Now look at her. She sagged against him, looking at him through reddened and swollen eyes. Now he felt his own sorrow overwhelm him, pushed the tears back from his own eyes, but Nibmar saw it and collapsed, face in hands, sobbing again.
Yassar reached into himself for his wrath. There it was. His newborn hatred. He remembered his vow of last night, his vow to avenge Ibrahim. And now he thought of Sasha, felt a tide of pain. How could she do such a thing? How could she hurt him like this?