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The prince nodded knowingly. “When you are done then. I will present them to you as a gift.”
David smiled graciously, but didn’t say what he was thinking. That he would prefer to find his own women. Women who didn’t need to be paid—women who hadn’t been defiled by the prince’s diseased sex organ. Getting back to more important matters he said, “There is something you could do for me at present.”
“And would that have anything to do with money?” asked Omar with a stern look.
Not the least bit embarrassed, David replied, “Of course. You know how things are among our Arab brothers. As long as they get paid they are happy.”
“What about the cause?” snapped the prince. “Isn’t that enough?”
“For a select few, yes. The martyrs and the true believers, but they are not the type we want involved in this. As I’ve told you, we need professionals, not people who will simply blow themselves up.”
“But I thought you said the martyrs are part of your plan.”
“They are,” answered David in a slightly irritated voice. “They will act like livestock spooked by a fire. They will be driven into action by rage, not by any orders that I give them.”
Omar thought about this for a moment and then asked, “How much more do you need?”
David help up all his fingers and for the first time in all his negotiations with the prince he knew he would get exactly that much and not a penny less.
“Ten million,” scoffed the prince. He began shaking one of his chubby fingers in the Palestinian’s direction. “You have become far too greedy.”
The prince was a billionaire many times over, easily one of the hundred richest men in the world. Ten million was a pittance, but it was still the most David had ever asked for in a single sitting. “My prince, you are a man who understands value. My services do not come cheaply, and what I am about to embark on for you and my people will change the course of history.”
“Five million.”
David stood and joined the prince on the couch. With a sideways glance he noticed Chung moving closer in case he was needed. In a hushed voice, David said, “Prince Omar, what is the one thing in this whole world you would take the most pleasure in?”
The prince’s eyes lit up at the question and David could tell he was going through a lengthy list. “My prince, think of the subject at hand. What we are about to embark on.”
Omar smiled with a hateful lust in his eyes. “To see Israel destroyed.”
“Exactly, my prince. Ten million dollars is a pittance, and for it I will give you a front-row seat to the self-destruction of the Zionist state.”
Omar grabbed David’s hand and squeezed it. “Half now and half when you are done. Tell Devon where you want the money wired and it will be done. Now, be on your way, and give me the gift I have waited a lifetime for.”
6
The silver-haired gentleman appeared to have his nose buried in the European edition of the London Times. A soft breeze blew across the water, seagulls played above and the lines slapped out their rhythmic notes on the tall mast of the sailboat. To all outward appearances, Alan Church looked to be enjoying retirement. First observations with such a man, though, were always a bit tricky. The seventy-one-year-old Brit had spent the majority of his years trying to give people the right first impression—or the wrong one, depending on how you looked at it.
Alan was a mechanical engineer by training, but even that was only half true. He spent his twenties and thirties working for a large British energy conglomerate, and again this was only part of the story. During that time he traveled to the world’s smaller and poorer nations in an effort to bring them hydroelectric power. It seemed for those two decades that Alan could be found wherever things were the nastiest, usually in a country where the transition from one ruling group to another was taking place and not in a peaceful democratic way. Most of those halcyon days, as he now somewhat sarcastically called them, were spent on the continent of Africa.
In truth, his time on the Dark Continent was anything but tranquil. He was robbed, shot at, kidnapped, twice caught malaria and once caught yellow fever. It was after the s
econd bout of malaria that the powers back in London decided that it was time for Alan to take a new job in international finance. He’d spilled blood and toiled for the Crown, or more precisely, Her Majesty’s Secret Service, for almost two decades. He was placed, without having to interview for the position, at one of Britain’s finest banks where he eventually ended up keeping an eye on the financial comings and goings of The House of Saud.
Officially, or unofficially, depending on how you looked at it, Alan Church never worked for MI6, Britain’s foreign intelligence service. To this day, if someone asked him the question he would laugh heartily and begin telling over-the-top tales of all the female spies he’d boffed in the service of the Crown. People who really knew him well, which weren’t many, knew that there was a half-truth in almost everything Alan Church said.
Even now, as he sat on the deck of his sailboat, anchored just off the coast of the French Riviera, one had to look closely to see what Alan was really doing. At first glance he looked every bit the relaxed and retired gentleman casually perusing the newspaper as another day in paradise got under way, but upon closer inspection there were a few telltale signs that Alan had not entirely left the employ of his government. The first hint was a bit difficult to catch. It involved the unusual size of the radar dome that sat near the top of his mast and the odd-shaped antennae that sat next to it. The next sign that was a bit more obvious was that Alan wasn’t really reading the paper.
Out of sight, but within reach, was a small control panel with an array of dials. Plugged into this control panel was an earpiece. Alan at first listened intently to the conversation that was taking place between the prince and his visitor, manipulating the various controls in an effort to boost the effectiveness of the directional microphone concealed at the top of his mast.
He had dropped anchor the morning before just off the port beam of the prince’s massive yacht, placing one other boat between his and the prince’s. Under orders from London, he’d been loosely shadowing the prince for over a week. He’d even gotten to know a few of the crew members in the process. The captain of the ship was a retired French naval officer, as was much of his crew. Like most mariners, they were friendly to other sailors. While picking up provisions back in San Remo, Alan found out the ship was headed for Monte Carlo and then on to Cannes, a very common trip for the big yachts. Alan let it be known that he was headed in the same direction, so they’d probably be bumping into each other along the way. Things had progressed now to the point where the crew knew him on sight and waved as they went back and forth to shore in their power launch.
Headquarters was famous for being skimpy with the information they gave to their people in the field. They’d told Alan only to follow, observe, record and report. They didn’t tell him why they wanted him to baby-sit Prince Omar, but then again, they didn’t really need to. Alan knew enough about the dysfunctional House of Saud to know what his government was interested in.
The conversation that was taking place on the big ship didn’t appear to be what they were after, and the dashing young man who had arrived less than an hour ago didn’t fit the profile of an Islamic fundamentalist. With this in mind Alan checked his dials one more time to make sure everything was being recorded and then he began to read his paper, only half listening to the conversation that was going on in his left ear.
With the sun quickly warming the cool morning air, Alan let out a yawn and crossed his left leg over his right. The voice of a woman drew his attention away from the paper and he looked across the water to see what was going on. From his vantage point all he could see were the tops of several heads, and then a blond beauty came into view near the back of one of the upper sundecks. Without warning she dropped her robe and stretched her pale arms above her head, revealing a very nice pair of breasts. Alan lunged for his binoculars, but by the time he got them up she was gone. He laughingly shook his head. He was slowing down in his old age.
