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An improbably young man in a colonel’s uniform appeared from a tent and, instead of attempting to avoid Nassar, rushed to meet him. Maheer Bazzi had recently been promoted to lead Saudi Arabia’s special forces. While insufferably eager and loyal, he was wholly unqualified for the position. King Faisal had felt obligated to reward the man for his role in saving Saudi Arabia’s oil fields from an attack orchestrated by ISIS. The fact that Bazzi was likely complicit in the murder of his predecessor by Mitch Rapp was something the king was apparently willing to overlook.
“Director Nassar,” the man said, stopping to give a crisp salute. “It’s a pleasure to see you, sir. Are you aware that the king is on his way here?”
Nassar had been informed of that fact only an hour ago and, despite the efforts of his staff, was still in the dark as to why. The aging monarch rarely left the walls of his palace anymore. What matter could be urgent enough for him to venture out into the world that he had become so fearful of?
“His Highness and I have matters to discuss and this was a convenient time and location,” Nassar said, being careful to hide his contempt for the young colonel. He was a tepid Muslim with little guile or ambition beyond simple service to his king and country. Nassar’s people had found nothing with which to blackmail him, and he would likely be immune to offers of money, women, or power.
That, combined with the fact that he’d gained the king’s favor, made him a man to be rid of at the earliest opportunity. Fortunately, that opportunity was about to present itself.
“Is everything ready?” Nassar asked as jet engines became audible to the east. He didn’t bother to look, confident that the source of the sound was Faisal’s Airbus A380. Despite being only an hour’s drive from Riyadh, the geriatric fool had flown. Undoubtedly out of fear of leaving the lavish ministrations of his wives and doctors.
“Yes, sir. Intelligence has confirmed that General al-Omari is en route slightly ahead of schedule.”
“Will that be a problem?”
Bazzi shook his head. “I was prepared for variations in our timetable. We’ll be wheels up a half hour earlier than planned, but it won’t affect any of the other operational parameters.”
Nassar gave a barely perceptible nod. Dabir al-Omari was near the top of ISIS’s command structure. Before the invasion of Iraq, he had been one of Saddam Hussein’s most talented young officers and now he was adding his strategic genius to Mullah Sayid Halabi’s messianic charisma. Capturing him would be a devastating blow to the terrorist group and a service that Colonel Bazzi was anxious to perform for his beloved king.
“I have every confidence in you,” Nassar started. “But I’ve decided to personally oversee this operation.”
“But, sir, the general will be traveling with a significant security force. There’s no way I can guarantee your safety. Please allow—”
“I understand. Neither I nor the king hold you responsible for my safety.” He forced a smile and clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “I think you’ll find my men quite useful and I assure you that I can take care of myself.”
The Airbus passing overhead drowned out Bazzi’s response and Nassar began walking toward the runway, feeling his sense of agitation increase with every step. If anything, he had been overcautious in his efforts to undermine the authority of the country’s monarchy. Was it possible that his actions had been discovered? The likelihood seemed remote. But even if the king had unwittingly stumbled upon some faint trail, nothing would lead to Nassar personally. Still, the damage to his plans could be considerable.
A group of soldiers double-timed a set of steps to the plane and Nassar climbed them as one of Faisal’s security men opened the door. He stepped aside and bowed his head respectfully.
“His Highness is waiting for you at the back, Director.”
Nassar passed through the opulent interior and found King Faisal sitting alone on a sectional sofa near the rear bulkhead. There was an oxygen mask next to him but the tank it was attached to was tastefully hidden. Eighty-six years of life and hundreds of thousands of American cigarettes had left the man with emphysema and congestive heart failure. But as near as Nassar’s people could tell, maddeningly free of cancer.
“It’s my understanding that preparations for tomorrow’s operation are proceeding acceptably,” Faisal said, dispensing with the formalities he’d reveled in as a younger man. With so few breaths left, he now tried to use them wisely.
“This is my understanding as well, Your Highness.”
“I also hear that you’ve decided to involve yourself personally.”
“You are indeed well-informed.”
“Do you think it’s wise?”
“The risk to me is minimal and the importance of this operation can’t be overstated. If we move quickly, the capture or assassination of Mullah Halabi is within the realm of possibility.”
“Is that something that we would handle ourselves?”
“No, Highness. I think it would be much wiser to have the Americans take the lead.”
Faisal nodded, his blue-hued lips pursed into a perceptible frown. It had been the king’s strategy for decades—let the West protect his privilege while he quietly undermined them. It wouldn’t work for much longer, though, and Faisal knew this better than anyone. He was one of the smartest royals and had the impressive distinction of being perhaps the most selfish. He saw the growing power of the jihadists and understood the horrors that a confrontation would bring. He just wanted to make sure that confrontation didn’t occur until he was gone.
“And what of the other matter?”
“You’re referring to Tha’labah?”
“You know I am.”
Tha’labah was a Saudi blogger who despised the monarchy and was becoming increasingly bold in airing that distaste.
