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“What? How so?”
Nassar allowed for an appropriately dramatic pause, given the news he was about to deliver. “The Americans believe that Talal bin Musaid recently went to Morocco to make a payment to ISIS.”
“What are you talking about? That’s outrageous!” the king said, before descending into a coughing fit. It was violent enough that Nassar wondered if the old fool was finally going to drop dead.
Unfortunately, Faisal managed to regain his breath. “Is there any truth to this, Aali?”
“In my opinion, there is not, Majesty. The accusation relies entirely on the account of a single mercenary and a laughably poor photograph. While it’s true that the prince was in Morocco at the time, I’ve spoken to his security people and embassy personnel, all of whom are willing to testify that he was nowhere near the site of the alleged exchange.”
“Have you spoken to him? Have you spoken directly to Talal?”
“I haven’t, Majesty. We—”
“I’ll summon him to the palace immediately.”
It was the expected reaction, but a potentially disastrous one. What were the chances that the idiot prince wouldn’t let something slip under questioning?
“Sir, I’d strongly recommend against that. Given some time, I believe I can prove his innocence to the Americans. And if that’s the case, the entire matter will go away without anyone ever knowing about it.
“I’m not convinced, Aali. President Alexander wouldn’t make this kind of an accusation lightly.”
“I agree, Majesty. He’s an impressive and thoughtful man. But not infallible. If I’m wrong and my investigation doesn’t clear the prince beyond a shadow of a doubt, then he should be called upon to explain himself. But why humiliate him with an accusation that I’m convinced is false?”
Faisal didn’t immediately respond, but Nassar could hear his ragged breathing on the other end of the line. “You’ve never failed me before, Aali. And your heroism in Mauritania has once again demonstrated that you were the right man to oversee our intelligence efforts. I’ll do as you advise. I’ll wait for your report.”
“Thank you, Majesty.”
Faisal disconnected the call and Nassar leaned back in his chair. The conversation had gone as well as could be hoped. He had time to carefully consider the problem that bin Musaid posed and how to best solve it. Further, at this point, it was unlikely that the Americans would contact the king to protest the tone of Nassar’s meeting with the president. But if they did, he could always excuse his performance by citing the shock he’d felt at a royal being the target of such an accusation.
There was a knock on his office door and a moment later the bearded face of Mahja Zaman peeked around the jamb. “I hear you’re off the line with the king. Do you have a moment to speak with a common peasant like myself?”
Nassar’s parents had been servants in the Zaman household, and because he and Mahja were the same age, the two of them had struck up a friendship. They’d attended the same madrassa in their youth, and it was Mahja’s father who had recommended Nassar for the university scholarship program created by the king. Mahja and Nassar continued their lifelong friendship, rooming together at Oxford and exploring Europe during school breaks. Upon their return to Saudi Arabia, Nassar had joined the military—the best way for the son of a working-class father to move up in society—and Zaman had taken over his family’s wildly profitable construction company. Despite their divergent paths, the friendship endured.
“You look healthier than I expected,” Zaman said as Nassar came around his desk to embrace the man.
“It was nothing.”
“Nothing? I read that you were forced to jump onto an armored vehicle and kill those dogs yourself! Praise Allah that you escaped with your life.”
Nassar indicated for his friend to sit and then took the chair next to him. The office door was closed, but still he scooted close so that they could speak in whispers.
“Once again, I must ask for your help, Mahja.”
Zaman’s expression turned conspiratorial. “You know that I am always at your service and at the service of God.”
The lessons of the madrassa had influenced Zaman even more than they had Nassar. He had remained devout, but his life of privilege had left him yearning for something more meaningful than the acquisition of more and more wealth. Like Prince bin Musaid, this nagging emptiness made him
useful, but the analogy ended there. Whereas the prince was a spoiled boy in the throes of a tantrum, Zaman was strong, devoted, and clever. Those qualities made him an effective soldier, but also made it necessary for Nassar to tell him more than he would have liked. Zaman was not a man who would tolerate being a simple pawn, and his intelligence allowed only the most careful lies.
“Fortunately, while critical, it’s not a complicated matter.”
Zaman nodded. “What, then?”
“We need to make another cash payment.”
“Where?”
“Brussels. You’ll take the money in your private plane, transfer it to a car, and then drive to a designated location in the Molenbeek neighborhood.”
