Well, Ibrahim thought coldly, he had repaid their investment in him a million times over.
He returned his attention to the task at hand. The Radical Islamic Front’s plan to destroy the American undersecretary of state contained a single, troubling flaw — a flaw that would have to be mended before it was put into action.
Ibrahim glanced up from the document in his hands. Massif Lahoud sat across the table, watching him closely.
“Do you approve this venture, Highness?” Lahoud asked carefully.
Ibrahim nodded, then held up a single finger. “On one condition.
The Front must first agree to work with Afriz Sallah. You know this man?”
Lahoud shook his head. Usually it was not wise to admit ignorance in front of the prince, but in matters like this there was always much hidden.
“Sallah is a demolitions expert — one who has handled such matters before, usually in Egypt. And the Front lacks the necessary explosives expertise to carry out this operation on its own. I don’t want Carleton walking away unscathed because they bungled the mission. Tell the Front we will cover their expenses and Sallah’s fee — if they can work effectively with him.”
Ibrahim tore off a piece of paper, wrote an address on it, and showed it to Lahoud. “Contact Sallah at this address and arrange a meeting.
Understand?”
The older man read the address, committed it to memory, and then handed the paper back. “I will attend to it immediately, Highness.”
Ibrahim nodded again. “Good. Hashemi will arrange for your transportation back to Taif.”
The meeting was over.
Ibrahim turned his attention back to his paperwork. He had more important matters to manage.
Colonel Peter Thorn left the tent being used as a makeshift morgue more shaken than he’d expected. He wiped off the dab of menthol rub from under his nose and took a deep breath of the fresher air outside. The menthol had helped make the nauseating smells inside the tent bearable — but only by a slim margin.
“Jesus, God,” he muttered, trying to push the grim sights he’d just witnessed to the back of his mind.
“That was a bad one,” agreed a quiet voice from beside his shoulder.
Thorn turned. Helen Gray looked ghostwhite, and so did Koniev. The MVD major was busy dabbing at his mouth with a balled-up handkerchief.
Thorn didn’t blame the younger man for getting sick. He still felt ill himself.
Two teams of Russian doctors were busy in the tent behind them — racing against the clock to positively identify the dead, and to find out what precisely had killed them. They were operating under extremely primitive conditions — forced to conduct autopsies by lamplight on folding tables, with only boiled riverwater at hand to wash off the tables between corpses. There weren’t enough diesel generators available to provide refrigeration yet, so the medical teams were also fighting the rapid decay of the bodies they were trying to examine. Bacteria and other microorganisms were erasing vital physical evidence with every passing hour.
Thorn grimaced. Death was never pretty, but what he’d seen laid out on those autopsy tables was appalling. He sought refuge in routine and turned to Koniev. “So where exactly do we stand, Major? I got lost pretty fast in there. I’m afraid my Russian language skills are limited.”
“Dr. Panichev is fairly confident that he and his subordinates will be able to identify everyone aboard the plane,” the MVD officer replied slowly. “They’ve been able to take fingerprints from most of the bodies recovered so far. They may also need dental records, of course.
I assume you can provide such information for the Americans on the inspection team?”
“Of course.” Helen nodded. The color was just starting to return to her face.
“What about causes of death?” she asked. “My Russian’s a little better than Colonel Thorn’s … but not that much better — especially when it comes to technical terms. And Dr. Panichev is, well. he’s …”
“Cryptic?” Koniev finished for her. He forced a wan smile.
“Plain words are not so impressive to laymen, perhaps. Of course, I suspect the good doctor would even use medical jargon to propose marriage.”
Helen chuckled. “Probably.” She shook her head. “Not like you, I suppose, Alexei?”
“Oh, no.” Koniev’s smile perked up. “I would be extremely eloquent — even poetic.”
Thorn felt faint stirrings of jealousy. Helen and this Russian policeman sometimes seemed entirely too close for his comfort.
Especially when the MVD major’s honesty was still an unknown factor.
Down, boy, Thorn told himself quickly. Helen and Koniev had been assigned together for several months. It was only natural that they would have established a friendly working relationship by now. Still, he had to admit that he would feel far easier in his mind if the MVD officer was not quite so determinedly charming and good- looking.
“In any event, I fear the autopsy results are slim so fan-despite Panichev’s best efforts to dazzle us,” Koniev continued. He shrugged.
“From what I gathered, the predominant cause of death seems to be impact trauma.”
“Oh?” Thorn countered. “What about the burns we’ve noted on every body recovered so far?”
“Mostly postmortem,” the younger man answered.
“And the other injuries we observed?” Helen asked. “The puncture wounds and gouges?”
“Panichev says they appear consistent with a crash. There was a lot of torn metal flying about when the plane hit the trees.”
Koniev frowned. “But the good doctor won’t rule out the possibility that some of them might have been inflicted by shrapnel from a bomb or missile.”
The Russian officer nodded toward the helicopter landing pad — barely visible through the trees. “He’s sent tissue samples to the labs in Moscow so they can be tested for explosive residues. But getting conclusive results will take several days at least.”
Thorn and Helen nodded their understanding. They headed toward a large tent adjacent to the landing pad. Maybe the NTSB and Russia’s Aviation Authority teams had found something new. Maybe.
Pieces of twisted metal and heaps of twisted, fireblackened control and electrical cabling covered the tarp floor inside the tent. The piles of wreckage were scattered in separate sections corresponding to different areas of the aircraft — each marked by painted outlines on the floor and signs in both the Russian and English alphabets.
Technicians wearing gloves and sterile surgical garb crouched beside different pieces of debris — intently examining them and taking detailed notes of their findings. Others stood conferring beside large worktables set up along one wall of the tent.
The tall, gaunt head of the NTSB investigative team, Robert Nielsen, was in one of those small groups. Nielsen turned his head when Thorn and the others came in. He immediately broke away from his colleagues and came over to meet them.
Nielsen looked tired and irritated. The higher-ups in Washington and Moscow were all over the investigation, demanding answers instantly.
Thorn, Helen, and Koniev had been careful not to joggle his elbow, because they understood the difficulties the crash team was operating under. Distant bureaucrats were not as understanding — or as patient.
Still, Thorn and the others needed something, if only a status report.
“Do you have any theories about what went wrong yet?” Helen asked softly.
“Theories, yes. Proof, no.” Nielsen hesitated. “The pilot’s Mayday calls show he lost both props — one right after the other before the plane augered in. So right now we’re looking pretty hard at some kind of catastrophic engine or fuel system failure. That seems the most likely scenario anyway.”
“But you don’t have any hard data that would confirm that?”
Koniev pressed.
Nielsen shook his head wearily. “No, Major, we don’t.” He pointed to two marked sections on the floor. Both were nearly empty. “That’s where we’re going to reconstruct the engines … when we find them. So far we’ve only
