by David Lender
#
Seated in a chair behind the false back to the closet in his dressing room, Prince Faisal heard a group of men, presumably Secret Police, leave his bedroom and then close the outer door to his quarters in the Royal Palace. He’d been hiding since he received the message that Prince Yassar had authorized the Secret Police to assemble all the princes in the Grand Ballroom. He assumed that meant they weren’t looking specifically for him, although he allowed that he might be on a short list of suspects. The fact that they’d asked all the princes to assemble, and had visited Faisal’s quarters looking for him could only mean one thing: they’d broken the man left behind from the team to abduct Sasha and he’d told them about the assassin buried inside the Royal Palace. Thank Allah that no one but Nibmar knew for certain it was him.
He opened the false back of the closet, stepped out and began to outfit himself for his mission. Ten minutes later he walked into his bedroom wearing a Kevlar vest, heavy boots and khaki fatigues. He carried a grenade launcher over one shoulder, an AK-47 over the other, extra magazines and grenades hanging from his belt, and his Smith & Wesson semiautomatic .45 holstered on his hip. He put two cyanide pills in his front pocket; even though he intended to die instead of allowing himself to be captured, he wasn’t taking any chances.
He opened the window to his bedroom, then the lattice on the outside, stepped up on an end table and climbed into the darkness of the courtyard. He closed the lattice and window and started toward the doorway in the wall to the courtyard to the women’s quarters, where Royal Guards or Secret Police would be less likely to patrol. As he did so he heard footsteps behind him, coming in his direction. He picked up his pace.
#
It was already dark when Sasha got the phone call from Assad. Seven princes were absent, five believed to be traveling and two unaccounted for. He gave her the five names.
“It’s Faisal,” Sasha said, shuddering.
Faisal was at least 6’3” and about 220 pounds of largely solid muscle. He had massive hands and seemed to enjoy inflicting pain with his crushing handshake when he met other men. Sasha knew he regularly worked out in the gym.
She once accompanied Ibrahim inside the men’s gym to watch Faisal in a three-round sparring match with one of the trainers. Faisal was an awkward fighter, a southpaw, but with a thunderous left hook. The trainer was about Faisal’s size and an athletic stick-and-move boxer, but within 30 seconds of the first round, Faisal cut down the ring on him. Faisal got inside and punished the trainer with body blows. Sasha could see Faisal smiling as he walked back to his corner at the end of the first round, the trainer hanging on the ropes. Faisal tormented the trainer for the entire second round, even holding him up and moving back at one point so the man could dance away, letting the fight go on so Faisal could prolong the agony. Halfway through the third round the trainer collapsed to the canvas holding his side. Sasha learned later that Faisal had broken two of the man’s ribs and ruptured one of his kidneys.
“Why do you say Faisal?” Assad said.
“Two years ago his mother was turned out of the Royal Palace because she had Shiite lineage. It makes sense he’d be vulnerable to the al-Mujari’s message. He spent time with Abdul and Waleed when they were working on Ibrahim. I can’t be certain, but I know him and he frequently challenges the royal family’s positions.”
“We aren’t ruling any of the others out,” Assad said. “And we’re keeping all the other princes assembled in the ballroom at least for the rest of the night. Ghazi said the assassin would move soon.”
“Where is Yassar?”
“Minister Yassar refuses to leave his quarters. We have a dozen Secret Police inside his room and in the corridor outside it. Another dozen are stationed outside it in the courtyard.”
“How do you think Faisal will make his move?” Sasha asked.
“If it was me, I’d go in from the courtyard with a shoulder-fired missile or rocket propelled grenades, but we don’t know what kind of hardware he possesses. We’ve already sent teams to each of the seven prince’s rooms, including to the courtyard outside of them.
Sasha figured Faisal would anticipate the Royal Guards and Secret Police inside and surrounding Yassar’s quarters, and agreed an assault from the courtyard was more likely. She said, “I’m going out into the courtyard,” and hung up.
Assad had outfitted Sasha with a black spandex outfit that allowed unrestricted movement for close combat, and a knife in addition to the Beretta Cheetah. Sasha had pulled her hair up and secured it firmly on top of her head and she wore leather gloves, prepared for hand-to-hand combat. She racked the slide on the Beretta, then holstered the gun at her waist.
She opened the window and the outside lattice to Nafta’s room and nodded at Nafta, who whispered, “Allah be with you.” Sasha grimaced as she climbed on a chair beneath the window, her ribs and back sore from her ordeal in Buraida. She slipped out the window into the courtyard. She crouched in the shadows, then started moving toward the doorway in the wall to the north men’s wing, where Yassar’s quarters were, hoping to surprise Faisal as he approached.
#
The courtyard outside the women’s quarters stood between the courtyards outside the north and south wings of the men’s quarters. The courtyards were separated by 12-foot-high stone walls with doorways in the center of the walls. The doorways allowed passage from the south men’s courtyard through the women’s courtyard to the north men’s courtyard. Since men were prohibited in the women’s courtyard, no one ever used them except the maintenance staff during prescribed hours.
Faisal’s quarters were in the south men’s wing and Sasha knew he’d have to pass through the women’s courtyard to attempt an assault from the men’s courtyard outside Yassar’s quarters. She entered one of the labyrinthine passages of eight-foot-high boxwood mazes on either side of the women’s courtyard, replicas of the Hampton Court Maze. She knew them by heart. She’d learned to navigate them in her first months at the Royal Palace, getting stranded more than once in dead-ends as she memorized them. The boxwoods were so dense that logistical mistakes were unforgivable: she’d tried on numerous occasions to push through them into adjoining passages to no avail. They were like steel fences, impenetrable. She now moved easily through the first maze toward the gate in the middle of the north wall. The fountains were running and the sound of water cascading down into the reflecting pool in the center of the women’s courtyard shielded most of the sound of her feet on the gravel inside the labyrinth. When she reached the end of the maze she crouched and waited, the gate in the wall to the north men’s courtyard visible.
After 15 minutes she heard something from the other side of the boxwoods outside the maze. It sounded like someone walking on the gravel. She inched forward, careful to keep the sound of her feet on the gravel to a minimum. She peered around the boxwoods to her left, saw nothing. She emerged completely from the maze and looked to her right toward the gate to the men’s quarters.
Nothing.
In the next moment she felt something slam into her right calf and found herself on her back looking up at a man—Faisal—with a rifle in his hand. He raised it again for another swing at her head.
Roll right.
She rolled completely over to her right and was able to see him just as the rifle butt smashed down into the gravel where her head had been. She pushed herself up to rest her weight on her left foot, then did a foot sweep with her right to take his feet out from underneath him. Pain shot up her right leg as she hit him, but she was able to knock him down.
Why didn’t he just shoot me? she asked herself and then realized he wanted to kill or disable her without giving himself away for his assault on Yassar. He dropped the rifle and got to his feet, taking an awkward stance with his legs apart, his arms outstretched, as if he were going to rush and try to grab her.
He’s big and powerful, but awkward. She took her zenkutso karate stance, feet slightly apart, one forward of the other, resting on the balls of
her feet, arms forward at chest level and his hands balled into fists. She bounced on the balls of her feet, testing her right leg. Her calf was tingling, sore, but she had full use of it.
“Pig!” she said to him in Arabic.
“Die, whore,” he said and lunged for her. She spun in a circle and threw a roundhouse kick intended for his ribs. She missed, but landed on her feet and launched a side kick that connected with his right knee. It buckled and he fell to his knees. She snapped a front kick to his forehead that threw his head back, but he got to his feet and came at her again. He swung a huge left hook at her, which she dodged and toppled him again with a hooking ankle block. He righted himself and lunged for her once more. She threw another roundhouse kick.
She missed, kept spinning and landed on her back. He went past her, then turned with surprising agility and dived for her leg. He got his left hand around her left ankle and held on. He got to his knees and yanked her toward him as she launched a heel kick at his chest. It landed, but her leg was extended too far to hit him with enough force knock him backward. He let fly a sweeping punch with his right fist and she ducked under it, pulled herself toward him and landed a double-fisted strike to his face. She heard the snap of his nose breaking and he grunted in pain.
He pulled her toward him by her leg again, his hand like a vise around her ankle. She saw him reaching across his body and groping with his right hand for a pistol holstered on his left side.
Now!
She snapped a front leg kick that landed on his right wrist and she heard the crack of breaking bone.
She rolled forward and grabbed his left hand in both of hers, tried forcing her thumbs beneath his to pry it off her leg, but he was just too strong. Then he took another wild swing at her with his right fist. She did a knife hand block and heard him yell in torment from his broken wrist as his fist connected with her arm. Now he pushed himself from his knees to his feet, still holding onto her leg, and as he did so she thrust herself to stand on her free right leg.
He spun her in a circle by her leg, lifting her off the ground, and threw her. She landed hard but leaped right back to her feet.
Now I’ve got him.
She took her zenkutso stance, waiting for him to come at her, ready. She saw him smirk, then move toward her in a boxer’s stance, bobbing his head. She stepped back, realizing she was against the boxwoods of the maze, moved to the side and felt herself against them again. She shot her head to the right, then left, saw she’d backed into a 90-degree corner forming part of the maze, trapped. Faisal cruised in, still bobbing, faking left and right. Sasha remembered that sparring match with the trainer, how Faisal had tortured the man against the ropes. She motioned with her hand for him to come, false bravado while her mind spun, trying to think of how to defend herself, and then he rushed in.
He threw a cavernous left that she tried to dodge, but found herself pinned against the boxwoods, and his fist landed just above her waist, plunging her back onto the shrubs as if against a stone wall. She saw him wind up with his left again, tensed her stomach and he landed it, sending her to the ground gasping in pain and seeing stars. He leered at her, lifted her to her feet and then threw her back into the boxwoods. She tried to lunge past him to his right, but he darted to the side, blocked her and pushed her back against the boxwoods, wound up and landed another left to her side that sent her down again. He lifted her up and hit her once more.
She coughed in pain. If I don’t get out of here I’m dead. She knew this was it; she couldn’t take much more.
He stood her up again, then stepped back, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and said, “There’s more, whore. I can do this all night.” As he moved in on her and threw another roundhouse left at her, Sasha summoned all her strength and dived at his right foot, hooking it with her arm. She upended him, the momentum of his punch carrying him forward and sending him flat on his face.
She saw him roll over and sit up, then unholster his pistol with his left hand. She leaped to her feet and hurled herself at him, launching a flying leg kick directly at his chest. She delivered it squarely, heard the gratifying crunch of his sternum breaking and he went over backward to the ground. He let out a roar, raised the pistol and aimed at her.
No!
She dived sideways into the entrance to the maze, faked left and rolled right just as he pulled off a round. She heard the bullet rip through the boxwoods. She reached for the Beretta; it was gone, must have gotten ripped out in the fight. She staggered straight down the passageway to the first turn, heard Faisal running on the gravel behind her. She went left, remembering the way, then took another right, heard him bypass it and knew he’d run up a dead end. She froze, heard his feet in the gravel on the other side of the boxwoods in the passageway beside her, not four feet away. He fired another round that cut through the hedges five feet behind her. Now she heard him reach the dead end and turn around. She stepped out of the passageway and crouched in the opening of a turn, fighting for breath, knowing she didn’t have much strength left. She pulled her knife from its sheath inside her ankle, waited for him.
As he ran past her, she did a leg sweep and tripped him, then dived on top of him, grabbing the barrel of the pistol in one hand and slicing at his gun hand with the knife.
“Ahhh,” he yelled out in pain as she severed his thumb. She tried to yank the gun from his hand, but somehow he was still able to hold on, so she plunged the knife into his chest, pulled it out and tried to swipe his throat but he rolled away. Instead she sliced the tendon inside his elbow joint and the gun broke free of his grasp. She pointed it at him just as he lurched toward her and she fired a round into his chest from 18 inches away. He flopped backward to the ground, then howled like a wounded animal and immediately tried to right himself to come at her again. She put another round in his forehead and his body slammed backward onto the ground. She heard the sound of shouts and men running and stood up.
“It’s Sasha,” she called out. “Don’t shoot. I’m inside the maze. It’s over.”
Then she dropped to her knees and gasped for air.
#
Two Secret Police officers walked Sasha through the door into the north men’s wing of the Royal Palace and up to Yassar’s quarters. When she entered the study, Assad sat with Yassar. She made fleeting eye contact with Assad, then walked over to Yassar and they hugged.
“That was foolish, my dear. And unnecessary. We had laid a trap for him and were waiting for him to make his move. You could have been killed.”
“I’m okay. Banged up, sore and exhausted, but okay.”
“Go get some sleep.” He kissed her forehead. “Until tomorrow.”
#
The next afternoon as Sasha was leaving Yassar’s quarters, one of the Secret Police officers stationed outside Yassar’s door said, “Director Assad would like to speak with you. May I escort you to him?”
The man walked her to the office that Assad used when he was in the Royal Palace.
“Please, sit,” Assad said. Sasha winced as she sat down.
“Are you alright?”
Sasha nodded. “Just sore. I’ll be healed up in a week or so.”
Assad paused for a moment, as if thinking of what he wanted to say.
“Once you get to know me better you’ll realize you don’t need to be delicate about anything. What’s on your mind?”
“As I said to you yesterday, I’m impressed.” He looked down at a file open in front of him on his desk. “Where did you learn martial arts?”
“I’ve been taking karate lessons since I was eight years old, and I’ve continued my studies with Hanshi Genji here in the Royal Palace since I arrived in Saudi Arabia.”
Assad nodded. “And where did you learn to shoot?”
“In Switzerland as a child. I used a 16-guage shotgun for pheasant and quail, and learned to shoot pistols on the range from one of my guardian’s friends. I also received small arms training in Riyadh from my handler at the CIA.”
“In
Riyadh?”
“They have a firing range in the basement of the American Embassy here in town.”
Assad smiled. He said, “Based on what I have observed, you are very accomplished, adapt quickly to situations and think intuitively when facing danger.” He shifted in his seat and said, “But let me get to the point. As a professional security man, you must understand that it’s my job to look for conspiracies and threats everywhere. I don’t believe for a moment that the events of the last three days have eliminated the threat to our kingdom and our way of life from these al-Mujari extremists. There will be more of this.”
Sasha said, “What we’ve seen may only be the beginning.” She thought about her ride back into Riyadh with Saif, seeing the opulence of the Royal Palace in contrast to the disheveled average Saudis waiting in line for busses, the wind whipping their clothing, sand blowing in their faces. Average Saudis who would listen to the divisive message of the al-Mujari Islamist extremists, who would use the disparity between the lives of the average Saudi and that of the royals to foment dissent and foster their plans to overthrow the government.
“I suspected that might be your perspective. And I’m hoping that your commitment to Yassar, and to his vision for maintaining our Saudi way of life, will make you willing to serve the kingdom.”
Sasha nodded for him to go on.
“I also assume that with the death of Ibrahim that your former occupation here in the Royal Palace will change, and that your status as one so close to Yassar will in effect make you a member of his extended family, with all the privileges and freedom of action accompanying it.” Then he leaned forward and said, “Just as our previous conversations regarding Prince Faisal must be kept confidential from Yassar, what we say here today must also be confidential.”
“I know. Yassar would never approve of me becoming an operative for the Secret Police.”
Assad raised his eyebrows as if in surprise.