Warlord, page 24
"Yes, sir. I understand all that. But I promised His Royal Highness that--"
"Alex. If you don't mind. I think we should save this discussion for a private meeting, don't you?"
"Sorry, sir."
"You've met Mr. Dakkon, Alex?"
"I have. We chatted briefly while we were all waiting for you. Sir."
C shot him a look for that one, but continued, "Mr. Dakkon is a veteran CIA Arabic linguist and field agent on loan to us from Washington. He has served for the last ten years, operating undercover both in Pakistan and the Hindu Kush mountains of Afghanistan. He will be your assist on this assignment. If you have any questions about Mr. Dakkon's intel qualifications, you are free to call your friend Director Kelly at Langley."
"Thank you. I will."
"You are probably wondering about the loss of his right arm. He will not tell you what happened but I will. He was captured by al Qaeda fighters in Kabul. He was subjected to severe torture. The enemy demanded to know the location of an American forward operating base in Helmand Province. He refused to give it up and some bloody butcher took his arm off at the shoulder with a sword. They left him for dead in the desert. They've come to regret it."
"I admire your courage, sir," Hawke said, looking the man in the eye.
"Alex, Mr. Dakkon has spent the last five years of his life infiltrating the army under control of the most powerful Taliban commander in northern Pakistan. Sheik Abu al-Rashad. Al-Rashad, a longtime enemy of al Qaeda, is widely believed to be the mastermind behind the Sword of Allah's terror operations worldwide. Abdul here has risen very high in Sheik al-Rashad's estimation and has gained his complete confidence. Isn't that correct, Abdul?"
"He looks upon me as the son he never had, sir," Dakkon said, proudly, but with modesty.
"That relationship has recently produced a good deal of very critical intelligence, all of which is included in your briefing books. It concerns Sheik al-Rashad's ultimate plan to overwhelm the security forces surrounding the nuclear facilities at Islamabad airport and secure Pakistan's weapons of mass destruction for his own use. Thus, taking over the country. That's the bad news."
"And the good news?" Hawke asked, suddenly energized by the prospects of this new mission. He'd been simmering. Now he was on full boil.
Dakkon said, "The Sheik has many rivals in this race to acquire Pakistan's nuclear arsenal. Both within opposing factions of the Taliban, al Qaeda, and ISI, Pakistan's intelligence service. There have been numerous attempts on his life by the opposition. He is somewhat constrained by this array of enemies."
"America's new president, Tom McCloskey, and the Pentagon are very anxious to ensure that Sheik al-Rashad not win this race, Alex," C said.
"Why is that?" Hawke asked.
"Because we know the Sheik is a very smart man, with enormous economic resources," Trulove said. "He is for sale, as are many of those government officials responsible for the security of the arsenal. Dakkon has just informed me that rumor has it, many of the guards who control access to the warheads and trigger devices may be receiving massive sums from al-Rashad. Or he may be holding the guards' family members hostage. Presumably under threat of death unless they comply with his wishes.
"We cannot rule out the possibility that he has, or will have, access to nuclear devices. These weapons would simply disappear as guards on the Sheik's payroll look the other way. We can't control what happens politically in that country. But we can put a lot of heat on Sheik al-Rashad."
"Is this hard evidence, Mr. Dakkon?" Hawke asked.
"Only rumor, but rumor is the political currency of Pakistan. We are not aware that any weapons have fallen into his hands. Nor are we sure that they haven't. We need to find out."
Thorne added, "If you and your team discover the Sheik is secretly looting the nuclear arsenal, both the British and American governments are prepared to step in and take control away from the corrupt Pakistani government."
"Hence a slightly safer planet, Alex," C added, taking a leisurely puff.
Montague Thorne said, "Which is where Miss Karim's expertise with nuclear weapons comes in, Alex. She will be joining you and Mr. Dakkon on your visit to Islamabad to inspect the storage facilities for Pakistan's nukes. And she will be with you on your trek up into the Hindu Kush to confront Sheik al-Rashad. It will fall to her to ensure that any stolen weapons end up safely in our hands. Once we've decided what to do with them, she will oversee that process."
"Question, Mr. Dakkon," Hawke said.
"Abdul, please."
"Abdul, where is the Sheik located?"
"He moves around. He's constantly fighting skirmishes both with Pakistan's anti-Taliban militia and with rival factions both within the Taliban and al Qaeda. But he has a heavily fortified central base of operations deep inside an anonymous mountain high in the Hindu Kush. That's where we're headed, after Islamabad."
"How do we get up into the mountains?" Hawke asked.
"I know what you're thinking, Alex," Sahira said. "Camels, right?"
"How did you guess?"
"No one likes camels. Especially you. It was written all over your face."
"I like camels," Abdul Dakkon said, a big white smile suddenly appearing.
"Why?" Hawke asked, unable to comprehend how anyone could stand the foul-tempered, noisy beasts.
"I like the way they smell," Abdul said.
Hawke laughed.
"Well, I suppose I'll have to give them another go, Mr. Dakkon."
Dakkon said, "The trails we'll be taking in the mountains are about two feet wide in places. One misstep and you're looking at a few thousand feet of air before you hit the ground. Camels and horses don't make missteps. That's why I like them. And we'll be using a great many mules to transport food, water, and weapons."
C stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. "Thank you all for coming. We'll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days. Alex? Let's have a nice cup of tea and talk about Ireland, shall we?"
"Lovely," Hawke said, his mind already somewhere else.
"Have a look at this first," C said, handing him a folded piece of paper. "Delivered anonymously to the Ambassador to the Court of St. James at Winfield House last evening. The American ambassador personally brought it over to me this morning. It's why I was a bit late."
Hawke opened it, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the familiar scrawled signature beneath the single sentence:
THE CHILDREN WILL DIE FIRST.
THE PAWN
"Good Lord. Wills and Harry. Has the Prince of Wales been informed?"
"Of course. Look here, Alex, I appreciate your feelings in this matter of threats to Prince Charles. But I have spoken to him at length about the necessity of your leaving as soon as possible for Pakistan. Your mission is to counter a very real threat to our entire nation. He understands completely. I assured him Ambrose Congreve would remain on the 'Pawn' case until your safe return. At which point you could, if necessary, resume your involvement. Do I make myself crystal clear?"
"Indeed."
"Very good. Now tell me about Northern Ireland. I understand there's progress."
"We found human remains. Possibly from the girls who went missing that summer, presumably victims of Smith. Ambrose is still there with his former partner on the Mountbatten case, a man named Drummond. The two of them are quite determined to put this case to rest. Should they succeed, we will have taken the first step toward identifying the killer. We also have startling new information about a third suspect in Lord Mountbatten's murder, a man named 'Smith,' which may or may not prove out. Either way, we've got the scent. The bone in our teeth. And, possibly, the Pawn himself."
"Well done," C said thoughtfully.
"Thank you, sir," Hawke said, stunned at perhaps the first and only time the man had ever paid him a compliment.
THIRTY-FIVE
PARIS, AUGUST 1997
SMITH SAT STOCK-STILL IN THE SEMI-GLOOM, transfixed by the flickering black-and-white image of the famous woman on the monitor. It had been years since his triumph at Windsor Castle. Oh, he'd had some minor opportunities to plunge yet another stake into the Royal heart of Britain, and he had even taken advantage of a few.
But tonight?
Tonight would be the result of patience and incredibly meticulous planning. And it would be cataclysmic, a world-shaking event that would rock the Royal Family back on its heels like nothing he'd done since Mountbatten's murder. It would shake them, and their bloody nation, to the very foundation.
And, best of all, it would be the perfect opening act leading to his grand finale. His final day of reckoning with his implacable enemy. The epic culmination of his life's work, the realization of his childhood dreams of total vengeance. The penultimate penalty to be paid.
An eye for an eye.
He saw that she was just finished dressing, suitably chic for a late-night Paris rendezvous. Now, leaning into the gilt mirror above the bureau, applying her lipstick, she smacked her lips together a few times and essayed a smile. Happy with the result, she picked up a crystal flute of champagne.
Eyes shining, she raised the glass to herself.
She had not looked better than at this moment, he thought, not in years. But that pained, haunted look he'd seen in her eyes during the bad times remained. She looked like what she was, a woman on the run, in search of peace.
Four flatscreens stood atop his room's faux Louis XIV desk, bathing the tiny bedroom in cool, phosphorescent blue. An hour earlier, he had tapped into the hotel's CCTV security camera system: three of his monitors were broadcasting alternating live feeds directly from various areas inside the building. The hotel's front and rear entrances, the guest and service elevators, the employee entrance, and the foyer directly outside the white and gold double doors of the hotel owner's suite on the floor above.
It was not called the Imperial Suite for nothing. An exact replica of Louis XIV's rooms at Versailles, it was the single-most expensive hotel room in all of Paris.
This fourth screen had a real-time feed, but the feed emanated from inside the doors of the Imperial Suite. He could toggle views from either of two hidden cameras. His engineer had done well. One downward-view camera inside the ceiling-mounted living room fire sensor, the other a rotating lens, swiveling 360 degrees inside a lightbulb in the master bedroom's chandelier. Images from the opulent bedroom now captured his rapturous attention.
He wore a headset with a lip mike so he could communicate quietly and instantly with a colleague currently waiting in the Place Vendome outside the ridiculously expensive hotel.
"Any time now," Smith said softly into the mike. "She just finished dressing."
"That's too bad. How much longer?" the man on the motorcycle said. "The natives are getting restless out here."
"Ten, fifteen minutes maximum. I see Dodi's cars are already waiting outside the hotel's front entrance."
"Just arrived. His black Range Rover HSE and his father's black hotel Mercedes."
"That could change. Keep your eyes open."
"Say the word, sir."
"Stand by."
The voyeur returned his attention to matters at hand. He had to smile at his all too predictable reaction to the partially dressed woman on the screen: damp brow, pulsing heart, the hint of an erection announcing itself.
Highly trained in the key indicators of human behavior, he should have expected his own involuntary reactions to the subject, of course. She'd always had this effect on him. She had this effect on everyone; the whole damn world was at her feet, so why should he be exempt from her charms? Still, such feelings were a bit disconcerting at this moment in time, all things considered.
The woman, still a fresh-scrubbed, dewy-eyed beauty at thirty-six, was sporting a healthy tan from a week's yachting off Sardinia. She stood peering at her body in the gilt mirror over the bureau. Satisfied, she slipped her slim tanned arms inside a short black frock coat. Smoothing it down over hips hugged by tight white Versace jeans, she leaned again into the mirror inspecting her makeup, puckering her lips, a new string of pearls swinging from her neck--
Smith slid the zoom button forward, going in for a tight close-up of that famous face.
Her face aglow after two or three glasses of champagne in the beautiful Ritz Hotel suite with her new lover, the princess looked like a woman who had found a momentary escape from the wreckage of her life. She looked like a survivor, wearied by the fray but determined to find a way out of her well-publicized maze of constant sorrow. An exit from all that, a port in the storm, that's how she saw her newest lover.
This new man provided that and more. And, in a fortuitous twist of fate, she'd managed to insert a razor-sharp political dagger into the hearts of those who had caused her enormous suffering. She could only imagine their horror at the notion of a divorced Egyptian playboy as the stepfather of the future King of England. How utterly delicious, even though it would never happen.
Smith had seen her many moods, of course, both in the flesh and in the media. But tonight he thought she looked extraordinarily relaxed and beautiful. Was it real? he wondered, or just that highly developed art of seduction she'd practiced so assiduously, made manifest?
Enter the lover. Smith blinked and leaned forward. He found himself gazing curiously at the rather callow male who now entered the frame with an unattractive swagger. The arriviste had acquired the aura of worldwide fame now, but it was only the reflected glory of the shining princess that afforded him this paltry notoriety.
Her lover came up from behind her, placed his hands on her waist, and nuzzled her neck, kissing her ear, staring at the reflection of the two of them in the mirror.
"Happy, my darling?" he purred.
"I miss the boys. But yes."
"I got along with them quite well, didn't you think?"
She leaned in again to apply more lip gloss. "Wills will be King of England one day. Poor thing. All those dodgy relatives kissing his royal arse."
The divorced Egyptian playboy laughed at the exquisite irony of it all. Since he'd met this fabulous woman his life had suddenly, miraculously, taken a serious turn for the better. Imagine. Stepfather to the King of England. That would show the old man what kind of son he had.
His father owned this hotel. The most famous and expensive hotel in the world. He had stolen it from some Saudi prince whom he well knew never bothered to read the fine print. The Ritz Paris was one more jewel in his father's crown, one that included Harrods department store in London, among other priceless treasures.
His father had suffered, however. He was a man who had, to his eternal chagrin, tried to buy his way into London society without success. Expecting a knighthood, instead he had been shunned and humiliated by British Royals and aristocrats for years. But now, finally, he stood at the brink of miraculous revenge.
His son was about to wed the mother of the future King of England.
Dodi could almost hear Papa licking his chops somewhere off-stage, flipping through Hello magazine, page after page of his son and the Princess frolicking on the glamorous Riviera. Revenge, on a platter. A dish best savored slowly. Perhaps now his father would take him a bit more seriously. Perhaps even now the tables were turning in favor of the son. Certainly the limelight was his and his alone and he gloried in its glow.
"I have a little something for you tonight, you know," Dodi said, nuzzling her neck.
"Hmm. Not something that comes in a small black velvet box, one hopes?"
"It might just," he said, ignoring the small gibe. Was she teasing him? Leading him on? He could never tell with women, especially this one. After all his dead-end romances, here was a woman who defined "high maintenance." But, God, she was worth it. When first he'd set his sights on her, he'd felt adrift, never knowing what to say or how to react to anything she said or did. But it was different now.
Now he was beginning in his small way to understand his much wiser father's counsel during this courtship, his father's perception of what made her tick: Listen, my son. Her thoughts travel no straight rational line, he had said. She has an active but reckless and whimsical mind that rushes to sudden violent conclusions; a mind that is touched by a certain kind of brilliance, but a brilliance that zigzagged as haphazardly and uselessly as lightning.
He had not understood at the time of the lesson. Now, as he was beginning to see, he felt his confidence growing.
She pulled away from him, picking up her handbag and giving him that shy smile from beneath her lashes. "No baubles now. Perhaps later. At your apartment. I want to get out of here. Away from all these horrible people."
He said nothing, just quietly grasped the small velvet box in the pocket of his leather jacket. A half hour earlier, he'd crossed the Place Vendome to see his friend the famous jeweler, Alberto Repossi. Alberto had a star-shaped ring with five diamonds for sale, a quarter of a million dollars. It was from the Dis-Moi Oui collection: "Tell me yes."
Dodi bought it on the spot, knowing his father would gladly pick up the tab.
ON THE SCREEN, SMITH COULD see that the false knight in his faux shining armor was clearly agitated. His cell phone chimed, and he turned away from the Princess, scowling angrily. He began pacing back and forth rapidly, a hungry tiger in a gilded cage. He had his mobile pressed tight to his ear, and he was berating one or the other of his two personal bodyguards, Trevor and Kez. He was speaking in a whisper, but the powerful microphone above his head picked up every word.
Grabbing his champagne glass, Dodi now moved over to the nearest bedroom window, peering down into the twinkling darkness of the Place Vendome, angrily shaking his head at the snarling packs of paparazzi, waiting like hungry wolves for a bit of fresh meat.
Smith leaned forward, eyes on the monitor, adjusting the volume in his earphones, concentrating on the young man's every word. This operatic fantasy was unfolding rapidly now, and it had all the elements of high drama. The fat lady was finally stepping out of the shadows, ready to sing for the lovely swan peering once more into her beloved mirror.
