No Remorse (31 page)

“Yes, I know. Khalid will be stopped soon. But first, we
must
get the canisters before he sells to the highest bidder. God forbid that they should fall into the hands of Al Qaeda, or the Iranians. We tried to make contact with him last night without success. We will try again. Will he negotiate, do you think?”

Sheriti took off the bikini and tried on another. “Perhaps, if he senses it’s in his best interests. He is not interested in laying down his life for a cause. He loves the celebrity lifestyle too much. But he seems intent on destroying the Saudi regime.”

“We cannot let that happen. Without the House of Saud, Arabia would become another Iran. And we have enough problems with Egypt, Syria, Jordan and Libya. Imagine if Khalid had power to influence Arabia, with the grip it maintains on the balls of America!”

“His two senior bodyguards, Ibrahim and Masoud, are still missing after his father’s funeral. They are gone several weeks now. Where, Khalid will not say.”

Miki’s expression hardened. “Perhaps they are recovering the canisters. We have been tracking the
Princess Aliya
. Soon, hopefully, this mission will be over for you.”

“I won’t fail you, Miki.”

“You won’t fail Israel. Your mother sends her love, by the way, and says thank you for the birthday present. Now, I want to discuss several contingencies with you.”

“Rosco! We’ve got him!” After trapping and releasing eighteen other houseguests on their fake internet portal, Tally watched with mounting excitement as Khalid logged on. A small Trojan program automatically downloaded and installed on his laptop, then installed an activity monitor and keylogger. Now they could ride shotgun whenever he logged onto the internet, at least until some smart IT person cleaned his computer.

Rosco raced over to her screen as Khalid logged on to the first bank account. “Jesus. Since when does anyone keep that sort of money in a cash account?” he said, pointing to the screen. “The moron should have it on term deposit, at least. Are we recording this?”

“Oh yes, we certainly are.”

They watched in silence as Khalid transferred millions of dollars from the numbered accounts on his spreadsheet to other accounts.

Tally studied the numbers Khalid typed intently. “That’s it. Now we just need the token tags.”

She switched on Khalid’s laptop microphone and turned up the volume. He was discussing investing in oil futures and gold futures with someone named Ahmed. After the phone call, Khalid opened a second spreadsheet. Bearer bonds, cash, paintings, ancient artifacts, gold, diamonds… and five canisters of highly enriched uranium!

“Holy crap. There they are,” Rosco said, breathing down the back of Tally’s neck. “The canisters.”

“This is it, Rosco. What we’ve been waiting for. Now we just need to find out where they’re hidden.”

She compressed and encrypted the recorded material before uploading it to the ASTA server and emailing Derek Wisebaum the link. She could hear Khalid talking to someone else—no, he was talking to himself. She turned the volume up to its maximum. He was mumbling something about destroying the House of Saud and changing the course of history.

There was a knock at the door. “Housekeeping!” called a female voice.

Tally looked at Rosco. He called out: “Don’t need anything!
Merci
!”

“Housekeeping!”

“Oh, hang on!” Rosco yelled.

Tally switched off the monitors, leaving the computers running.

Rosco checked the security viewer.

“It’s okay. Just the daily bowl of fruit.”

He opened the door, and took the fruit bowl offered. “
Merci.
But we don’t need the room serviced.”

Tally turned in her chair. Instantly she recognized the cleaning woman as Khalid’s sister Rubi, and shouted a warning. Too late. Two men leapt from behind the cleaner’s trolley and tackled Rosco to the floor. Fruit spilled across the carpet as Ziad stepped inside and pointed a pistol at her. He closed the door behind him.

Tally lunged for the panic button.

Khalid stepped out of the elevator on the mezzanine floor with Seth close behind and entered the boardroom where Sheik Bulari was gazing out the window, his back to him. Seeing four bodyguards on duty, Khalid relaxed. He would be safe here. One of the bodyguards closed the door.

“
Salaam alaykum
,” Khalid said. “Peace be with you, brother.”

The man turned. It wasn’t Sheik Bulari.

“What is this? Do I have the wrong room?” A nervous twitch squirmed inside his gut.

“
Shalom
, Sheik Khalid. You are in the correct room. Sheik Bulari has been unavoidably delayed. Sit down, please. I won’t take much of your time.”

Israelis!
Those who had threatened his father and stolen his gold.

“What is this outrage?” he demanded. But even as he stood there venting his anger, a cold shiver rippled up his backbone.

The four guards had drawn silenced pistols. Two of them blocked the exit. Seth appeared uncertain what action to take.

Khalid shook his head. They couldn’t kill him in the Riston boardroom.

“Very wise,” said the Israeli. “We are not here to kill you, but we would have no hesitation if your man gave us no choice.”

The Israeli was a fit man in his late forties, early fifties perhaps, with a weathered face, hard eyes of the palest blue, and a full head of stark white hair. He tipped his head at one of his men, who advanced on Seth.

“Your weapon please.”

Seth didn’t move. Khalid nodded, and Seth slowly removed the pistol from inside his jacket and handed it to the other man.

“Thank you.”

“Let me see some identification,” Khalid said, trying to exert some presence, although he realized he lacked any real clout.

“I believe it should be obvious I have adequate authority. Are you armed, Sheik Khalid?”

He held open his jacket.

“Very good. Your bodyguard will wait outside with my men, please.”

After the others left, the imposter said, “Sit, please. My name is Meir Cohen. I work for the State of Israel.”

As if that wasn’t obvious. The impudence of the man, coming here like this after stealing his gold. He sat down at the opposite end of the meeting table. “What are you? Ex-IDF? Mossad? An
Aluf Mishne
perhaps?”

“Yes, I did retire a Colonel. How perceptive of you.”

“I reject Israel’s illegal occupation of Palestine. I have nothing to say to you.”

The Israeli leaned back in his chair. “I knew your father, Prince Abu-Bakr, you know.”

“You threatened him, you mean.”

“We were negotiating. But we didn’t kill him.”

“No. He died in his sleep. Not, perhaps, as you hoped.”

“If you believe that is the case, then it is an unfortunate coincidence. Your father died as we were close to coming to an arrangement. In fact, I had a meeting scheduled with him later that week. We thought perhaps he might have been killed to prevent him accepting our offer.”

Khalid stopped breathing for a moment. Why would the Israelis think his father had been murdered? He tried to recall the words he’d used. Hadn’t he said that he had refused to deal with the Israelis? Still, he was curious. “What offer do you refer to?”

Cohen’s voice became sharper. “We want the canisters that Saddam Hussein gave your father to hide. We understand that—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What canisters?”

Cohen studied his face. “Sheik Khalid, we know about the two shipping containers that Prince Abu-Bakr received from Saddam just before the US invasion. Now, we aren’t interested in the looted treasures of Iraq. But we do want the uranium contained in those canisters. We cannot allow it to find its way to those who would want to start a devastating war that is in nobody’s interests. You will understand this, of course. We are willing to pay a generous sum.”

Khalid steepled his fingers, touching them to his lips as he contemplated his response. “But this is nonsense. Even the Americans found no evidence that Saddam possessed nuclear weapons.”

Cohen played with an old Zippo lighter. “They are not nuclear weapons. They are canisters of uranium from dismantled Soviet missiles in Kazakhstan. Somehow they ended up in your father’s hands. He in turn sold them to Saddam. Then, just before the US invasion in 2003—”

“Mr. Cohen, this is all very fascinating, but…” Khalid shrugged and placed his hands on the table. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about these canisters.”

“We are willing to make you the same offer we made your father.”

“In the event that I was to locate these canisters, what offer is that?”

“The State of Israel is willing to pay you one hundred million dollars. I’m sure—”

Khalid’s explosive laughter took Cohen by surprise. “And would that include the eighty million in gold you stole last night when your men killed two of my security team? Surely you realize you are insulting my intelligence.”

“What? I know nothing about any gold or any dead men. We had no intentions of harming you. In fact, two of my men were also injured in that explosion. Fortunately, they smelled the gas and got out in time. They had no contact with your men. In fact, we thought you were killed in the explosion. We had only been trying to put the same offer to you that I am making today. You obviously wouldn’t meet me voluntarily, would you?”

Cohen was good. He appeared genuine in his denial. Yet Khalid knew Israel was behind the thefts. Why else would they offer him such an extraordinary sum for the canisters?

“And the woman in Dubai. Mai Fanning. Your people helped her escape, don’t deny it.”

Cohen stood up and turned his back, gazing out the French windows. “That also was not us. I cannot say for certain, but possibly it was the CIA. They may also have become aware of the canisters.”

“Ah. Then if I find these canisters, we will have an auction, neh? I would think that the Iranians might also be interested. Perhaps others. My father always believed in the market deciding the value of things.”

Cohen turned back, his voice carrying more of an edge. “Let us speak from the position we find ourselves in now, Khalid. I don’t think an intelligent man like you would want to see this nuclear material in the wrong hands.”

“You are right. I would not.”
And Zionists would be the wrong hands.

“So, we believe that after proper consideration, you will conclude that our offer is more than generous. Forty-eight hours should be sufficient time to consider it. I will not make the offer again. Here is my number. Don’t worry, I have yours.” Cohen handed him a card with a telephone number on it and nothing else. “Let me be absolutely clear: should you try to sell the canisters to a terrorist group or a country hostile to Israel, we will have no hesitation in killing you and your sons. I would strongly advise you to accept our offer.”

“I will consider it. If, of course, I find these canisters that my father is supposed to have left me.”

They were bullies, the Israelis. And Cohen was lying. It was obvious they’d stolen his gold and killed Ali and Sadiq. And now there was the specter of his father. Had they killed him too because he would not negotiate? That seemed the likeliest scenario, given that the doctors had said he was almost better from the pneumonia.

They would pay.

He stood up and walked out, his heart pounding like a galloping racehorse. He strode towards the elevator, tearing Cohen’s card in two in his outrage, and tossing the pieces in a bin. Seth followed.

If the Israelis wanted to kill him, they could. But killing him would not get them the canisters. And by the time they learned of his intentions, it would be too late. Because what he had planned was something they could not anticipate, and something even Israel’s military power would be helpless to prevent.

The widow sat in the front left cherrywood pew of Chilworth’s St. Peter’s Church, her face veiled in black. Two-year-old George held her hand as he stared, bewildered, at the photograph on the oak coffin in front of the altar. Mai’s parents, who had accompanied her from Phuket, sat stoically next to George, casting the occasional anxious glance at their daughter and grandson.

Third pew from the back, Mac was only half listening as Bill Fanning’s brother Alan began his eulogy. A musty odor rankled his nostrils that suggested rising damp was endemic in the Saxon-era church, which had been constructed with stones reused from nearby Roman roads. One well-placed grenade could bring the lot crashing down, he thought, as he listened to the creaks and groans from the huge beams that moved with each gust of wind. Probably why Scotty had volunteered to take the outside guarding the perimeter.

As if to emphasize the civilized tolerance of England, Bill’s coffin was decorated with a paper boat, a model of a Thai temple covered in gold leaf—complete with
chofah
—and a delicate tribute of Thai orchids. Mai had explained to him the previous evening at Manor House, her mother-in-law’s residence, that although Bill had been christened Anglican, he associated closely with her Buddhist beliefs. Buddhist practice was to burn the body to release the soul, then she would scatter his ashes on the pond at Manor House.

His eyes scanned the main entrance and the doors at each end of the transept, the only places anyone could enter. Friends and family were scattered through the church, around thirty-five in all. There was nobody from Khalid’s group—not that he was expecting any—and no sign of any threats.

Alan Fanning resumed his seat. As the hunched organist ground out
How Great Thou Art
, Mai stepped to the altar, from where incense in a brass container smoldered. Removing a smoking stick, she waved it along the length of the coffin and planted it in a bowl of sand. She helped George do the same and her parents followed suit.

After the service was over, the Minister signaled and Mac whispered into the Bluetooth: “Coffin’s ready to roll, Scotty.”

“All clear. Send out the box.”

After tea and sandwiches at Manor House, Mac climbed into Mrs. Fanning senior’s BMW to drive Mai to the crematorium. This was to be her private farewell. Scotty followed in the rental.