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The imam doesn’t reply, but Rashad can sense the man’s pleasure at his words.
A few moments pass and the imam says, “That prize you hope to win…”
“The Blue Riband.”
“Who holds the record now?”
Rashad says, “The record is nearly seventy years old, and was set by the ship the SSUnited States.Named after a place I still hate, old friend, even after my reconsideration.”
The imam breaks away from Rashad’s grasp, motions his hand and the two Russian bodyguards are now on the balcony. As they crowd him away from Rashad, the imam’s voice is sharp: “I have survived many years, with many enemies. It saddens me that I need protection from a longtime friend such as you.”
“It saddens me as well,” Rashad says. The two bodyguards advance on Abdullah, and in one smooth motion they toss the man of peace and love over the side into the unforgiving ocean.
Chapter72
IT’S EARLYmorning at Gatwick Airport near London, and Marcel Koussa is in the South Terminal at Gate 14, waiting for his British Airways flight to take him to America. He’s pacing back and forth in both anticipation and fear.
For the past three years Marcel has been at Rashad Hussain’s side, performing the oddest tasks—like traveling to Istanbul to purchase a mock-up of a steward uniform for the never-completed Berlin-to-Baghdad railway—up to and including the bloodiest of tasks, like disposing of that antiques dealer in Paris the other day.
Grim work, but all part of the job, all part of the actions that have led to a reasonably comfortable life and fat bank accounts secretly stored in the Cayman Islands, the Seychelles, and Bali. He has traveled far, has met with a number of desperate and determined characters, all in exchange for the comfortable life he is planning once Rashad’s latest—and deadliest—attack takes place.
But now that job and comfort—and his future—are threatened.
Marcel looks up at the display board.
His flight will begin boarding in about ten minutes.
He pulls from his carry-on the burner phone he had purchased yesterday at a Tesco store, and dials the memorized number once again.
It rings, rings, and continues ringing, until Marcel disconnects the call in frustration.
A woman’s voice breaks into his foul mood with the first boarding announcement.
A brief flurry of movement as families and the disabled start heading to the open gate door.
Damn.
He hits Redial.
He has a lot to report, but there is still no answer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, again, good morning,” comes the voice from the attractive blond British Airways woman at the counter. “We will now board First Class, Club World, Club Europe, and World Traveller Plus passengers.”
One of the perks of working for a man like Rashad is first-class travel, but Marcel stays behind for the moment. Once he boards, he won’t be able to use his cell phone, followed by an eight-hour flight without any type of secure communication.
Unacceptable,he thinks, nearly bumping into a yawning American businessman who steps by him, carrying a copy of that day’sFinancial Timesand a Starbucks coffee container.
Barbarian.He thinks again of what Rashad has planned in four days.I’ve got to make that call, have got to get things confirmed.
“And, ladies and gentlemen, we will start boarding…”
Another phone call placed.
Another phone call unanswered.
Marcel pauses, thinking furiously.
He has to keep to the plan.
