Desert Falcons. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
were fond of saying. And even now, as they all were leaving, this man had paused to glance back at the gate.
It was almost as if he was looking directly at me, Androkovich thought. As if he was delivering a message that they were destined to meet again.
“What about their car?” Strogoff asked. “Do you think they will find it?”
“We disabled the GPS devices and destroyed the radio. They have to locate it by air search, but it will probably take them at least a day or two. Besides, it’s still far enough away that they will have no crumbs to lead them back here.”
“I hope not. You seem awful quiet. Is something wrong?”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about that group of police?”
Strogoff compressed his lips, thought for a moment, and then said, “You mean the two who came later, that you were staring at?”
This one is a quick learner, Androkovich thought. Wise beyond his years, which meant that when the time came for him to jettison his past and start over, Strogoff would become a liability. He didn’t want to take the chance of having to look over his shoulder when his new life began. Soon those two BLM rangers would not be alone in their unmarked graves.
* * *
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean
MAHFUJ RAHMAN FOUND HIMSELF staring out the oval-shaped window at the fluffy layer of clouds several hundred meters below him, set against the blue sky. It was the first time he had been on a jet aircraft for a transatlantic flight. He had repelled and fast-roped from helicopters during his military training, but those crafts had hovered only thirty or forty meters above the ground. And, of course, he had flown in the prince’s private Learjet on the royal’s frequent trips to Bahrain, but those flights were short in duration. This one, which had left Riyadh about ten hours ago, was not even half completed. The projected time, with the refueling stops, was nineteen hours. With the time zone differences, when they landed, it would only be the early evening of the day they’d left.
It was strange, as if time had slowed to accommodate the prince. He slumbered in the sumptuous bedroom compartment of the plane, claiming that flying long distances disturbed his equilibrium. Never mind that the rest of them had to spend the nineteen hours plus in the discomfort of the standard airline seats. The prince would never be able to survive in the desert. He was not a warrior, not fit to be a leader, not a true Bedouin.
When they had left the airport Mahfuj remembered the expression on his father’s face as he wrapped a new bandage around Mahfuj’s injured hand. His father’s face was hard, unsympathetic, yet he knew the concern was there.
“I am sorry that you sustained this injury, my son,” his father had said.
Mahfuj had smiled and flexed his fingers. “It will soon be gone. I have lost none of my strength.”
They had been standing apart from the others in the terminal, watching as bag after bag of the prince’s luggage was loaded into the cargo bay of the jet.
“So many bags for such a short trip,” his father had whispered.
“Nor will he need all of them,” Mahfuj had added.
They’d said nothing of the intended plan. There was no need. Mustapha and his three sons had long ago committed each part to memory. There would be no discernable trace, no telltale line for the National Guard to pick up and follow. He’d watched as his father reached in his pocket and withdrew the king’s wristwatch.
“You still have not completed the repair on that?” Mahfuj had asked.
His father had shaken his head. “It is almost complete. The watch is such that it requires no battery. Only the inertia of someone wearing it to set in motion its tiny gears.” He’d smiled a knowing smile once again. “I wish to be certain everything is complete and in its place before I return it to the king.”
Mahfuj understood his father’s meaning. It was a metaphor for their intricate plan: each part dependent upon the working of the other, all simultaneously acting together in a special synergy of epic proportions.
“Give my regards to your brother Masoud, in the country of the infidels,” Mustapha had said.
The crew had signaled it was time to board. Mahfuj had leaned forward and kissed his father’s cheek. Mustapha had done the same to him.
“May God be with you, my son.”
They both knew this could be the last time they would see each other in this life. Even if their plan succeeded, much could still go wrong, and their every movement was fraught with danger until the final act was completed. But the hourglass had been turned. The sand was draining. It could not be stopped. “And with you, my father.”
The pain from his burned hand had almost subsided when Abdullah, the largest of the prince’s bodyguard contingent, ambled down the aisle and lowered his enormous frame into the seat next to Mahfuj.
“It is a long flight, my brother,” the big man said. “I have been asleep. You would do well to rest.”
“Perhaps later,” Mahfuj said. “I have a lot on my mind.”
Abdullah grunted and nodded. “Does your hand still hurt?”
Mahfuj shook his head. “There is pain, but it is a good pain. A reminder of one’s mission.”
“To protect the prince,” Abdullah said with a nod. “We would all die for him, if necessary, but it was you who saved him at the nightclub. You should wear your wound as a badge of honor.”
Mahfuj smiled slightly. If this big fool only knew what was in store, he thought.
“But hopefully,” Abdullah continued, “none of us will be hurt or injured again on this trip.”
“If it is the will of God,” Mahfuj said. He lowered his seat to the incline position and closed his eyes. “Perhaps I will try to rest. As you suggest.”
Abdullah grunted again. “I will wake you when we land.”
And I will give you a proper burial when the time comes, Mahfuj thought.
* * *
Camp Freedom, Unincorporated Clark County, Nevada
IN THE CONFINES of the small, dark room inside the far barracks of Camp Freedom, Fedor Androkovich watched as “radical cleric Ibrahim al Shabahb” typed a message to Hassan, one of the two young Muslim students the Yemeni sheikh had recruited on his website. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder and leaned close to him. He was not a radical cleric in Yemen, as the two young Muslim students believed, but an expatriate Iraqi, brought here after being a translator for the army during Operation Iraqi Freedom. Fedor’d had no trouble enticing him to drop off the Americans’ radar and resurface as “Pancho,” a Mexican member of the Russian’s little militia.
For the most part, Shabahb was kept out sight at the Autry ranch, surfacing only occasionally. For the most part he kept to himself, surfing the internet for who knew what when he wasn’t trying to recruit impressionable young Saudis to join the jihad. And the two that he had on the line now were the perfect pair. Young, impressionable, radicalized and filled with just enough fervor that they could be easily manipulated. Shabahb sent another instant message to one of them via the computer.
He grinned as the reply came back, glancing up at Androkovich for approval. “He says all is well.”
The Arab’s penchant for greasy, American food, an uncharacteristic fondness for beer, and an aversion to showering despite the substantial desert heat gave his corpulent body a rather pungent and repulsive odor. Several empty cans of beer sat atop an overflowing wastebasket along with the wrinkled papers from a fast-food joint.
He is not unlike one of the pigs these Muslims so despised, the Russian thought with some amusement. But he had endured far worse. He would make sure that the payoff, down the line, would be