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More than a decade and a half later, Abel got that same feeling when he visited Saudi Arabia. Change was afoot, and there was no stopping it. It wasn’t whether it would happen or not, it was a matter of when. The hugely uneven distribution of wealth itself was forcing the country toward a boiling point. Add to that the supercharged religious component and Abel was willing to bet his life that Saudi Arabia was headed for serious upheaval.
The worldwide economic implications of such an event were staggering. Change for most people was stressful, but for Abel, it presented opportunity. He’d already made millions, but at forty-seven he had grander plans still, and large multinational corporations, international banks, investment houses, commodities firms, and even a few governments were listening to him this time. They were all paying him adequately for his services, but that wasn’t enough for a man like Abel. Like a true German he believed one must always strive for efficiency and perfection in order to obtain complete self-realization. He’d built into all of his consulting contracts large bonuses that were contingent on his global predictions coming to pass. Some of those contracts were due to expire in the coming year, and Abel didn’t like the idea of being right, but late. The revolution was going to take place. It was inevitable. He might as well profit from it.
Abel stopped in front of Abdullah Telecommunications and stared up at the benign, monolithic six-story building. As someone who grew up in Leipzig, a city famous for its Renaissance architecture, Abel couldn’t have been more unimpressed. As much as the former spy tried to embrace the Saudi culture, its architecture was one thing that as far as he was concerned had no redeeming value whatsoever.
After checking with the man behind the large block of stone that fronted for a reception desk, Abel was told politely to wait. No more than thirty seconds later a very anxious man exited an elevator and walked stiffly and quickly across the lobby. The man extended his hand, and in English presented himself as one of Abdullah Telecommunications’ senior vice presidents.
Knowing how Arab businesses worked, Abel was unimpressed with the title. A company like this was likely to have dozens if not hundreds of senior vice presidents—almost all of them related somehow to the main man, Saeed Ahmed Abdullah. They all collected sizable checks, maintained generous offices, and with the exception of a handful of Abdullah’s most talented relatives, stayed out of the way of the Western consultants who ran the company’s day-to-day operations. Abel and his escort took the elevator to the top floor, where Abel was walked through three separate sets of gold-plated doors. He was reverently deposited in a room that oozed Arab masculinity.
The mahogany-paneled walls were covered with the heads of exotic animals. In the center of the room, no more than ten feet away, a spotted leopard was staring him down with his glass eyes. The beast was mounted in a permanent state of agitation, which was conveyed through a snarl that fully exposed the deceased animal’s jagged teeth. A large oil painting of a desert landscape hung above the granite mantelpiece of a fireplace that Abel assumed was never used. The entire room was intended to convey virility and strength. That was obvious. How far Abel should read into all of this he was not sure. Some of these Arab men used such decorations as a way to make their position in the pecking order crystal clear, while others did nothing more than pay an overpriced French interior decorator to do what he’d done for some other member of the royal family. They were not big on original thought or content.
A door at the far end of the room opened. Abel turned to see an older man dressed in traditional fashion come striding in. There was a look of tension on his face. Abel met him halfway, by the sneering feline.
“I am Saeed Ahmed Abdullah.” The right hand was extended.
Abel was not surprised to hear the man speak English. It was the language of business in the Kingdom. “I am Erich Abel.” The German took Saeed’s hand. “Prince Muhammad asked me to come see you. He tells me the two of you are very dear old friends.”
“We have known each other since the age of nine.” Saeed gestured for his guest to sit. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Coffee would be fine, please.” Abel sat on one of the long couches.
Saeed pressed a button on the nearby phone, rattled off instructions in Arabic, and then sat on a different couch. Almost immediately, a service cart was wheeled into the room by two Indonesian men in crisp white jackets. They served coffee and left small plates of delicious-looking pastries in front of each man, then vanished as silently as they’d entered.
“Prince Muhammad has been a very good friend to me.” Saeed took a sip of coffee. “I think he has been treated unfairly by his brother the king.”
Abel immediately thought the man a bit reckless for offering such a frank opinion to a stranger. Always cautious he replied, “I have great respect for Prince Muhammad.”
Saeed reached for a pastry and then decided against it. “Did he explain to you my tragedy?”
It was obvious to Abel that his host was very anxious. “No, he merely told me that you were a dear friend, and he would consider it a favor if I would see you.”
Saeed clasped his hands together and looked up at the painting of the landscape.
Abel took a sip of his coffee and then set it down. “Mr. Abdullah, let me be blunt. I am not a squeamish man. I doubt that you could shock me. Tell me why you seek my services, and I’m sure we’ll be able to come to an agreement.”
Saeed looked the German in the eyes and said, “I want a man killed.”
Abel nodded casually, signaling that the request did not surprise him. “And who is this man that you would like eliminated?” he asked as he reached for his coffee.
“He is an American.”
Abel took a sip of the rich coffee as his interest increased. “Continue.”
“He works for their government.”
The plot thickens, Abel thought to himself. “His name?”
Abel noted sweat on Abdullah’s forehead as he waited for the answer.
“Mitch Rapp is his name.”
Abel stopped in mid-sip, and carefully placed his cup back on its saucer lest his host notice his hand beginning to shake. “Mitch Rapp,” he said coolly.
“Have you heard of him?”
“I’m afraid so. I doubt there is anyone in my line of work who hasn’t.”
Impatient and nervous, Abdullah gave him no time to think. “So will you take the job?”
