nothing in his letters or other possessions that would indicate another motive.”
Ibrahim considered that a good sign. Harboring an ungrateful wretch was bad enough. Harboring an enemy spy would have been much worse — especially now, with his plans coming to fruition.
Most of the estate’s groundskeepers, house staff, and other menial workers were illegals hired in Pakistan, Jordan, Syria, Sudan, and other Islamic countries-ostensibly on one-year contracts.
They were slipped into the U.S. on student or tourist visas. The Immigration and Naturalization Service turned a blind eye to this activity — again thanks to his generous support of the American political establishment. After all, if a wealthy and well connected Saudi prince wanted to surround himself with fellow Muslims as his servants, why rock the boat?
Ibrahim made sure his servants were given reasonably good quarters and decent meals. But most of their pay was sent home, and when their year-long contracts were up, they found it very difficult to leave.
Expenses were charged against their pay, or the promised immigration papers were delayed, or they were simply threatened with arrest by the local police if they strayed off the estate. Poor, undereducated, and utterly ignorant of American law, they stayed put. Those few who tried to steal away were always caught.
“Where is this Pakistani?” Ibrahim snapped.
“In the equipment shed, Highness,” the groundskeeper said nervously.
“Very well. Then get back to your work. Talal and I will handle this matter ourselves. Nothing more will be said. Nothing. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Highness!” The groundskeeper bobbed his head, obviously relieved, and then disappeared.
The equipment shed housed the gardening tools used by the grounds staff. It stood well off by itself on one side of the main house, screened from view by a stand of trees.
Talal unlocked the door. “I’ve confined the grounds staff to their quarters, Highness. They believe we are conducting a search for missing items believed stolen by this Pakistani.”
Ibrahim nodded his approval. It was a good cover story one that would discourage any sympathy for the missing man. Theft was a serious crime in the Islamic world.
The shed’s interior was all steel and fiberglass on a concrete foundation. Workbenches lined two walls with pegs and tools for maintaining the other equipment, while the floor was taken up by several tractors and power mowers. Bags of fertilizer and grass seed were stacked against one wall.
The Pakistani lay facedown on the concrete floor— huddled against the bags. He was bound hand and foot. The young man raised his head weakly when Ibrahim and Talal came in, but he didn’t speak. His eyes were unfocused — though whether from fatigue or from the security chief’s “questioning,” the Saudi prince couldn’t tell at first. One side of his face looked wrong somehow.
Talal stepped over and roughly pulled the Pakistani up to a sitting position — propping him against the stack of fertilizer and seed bags.
Now Ibrahim could see that his security chief had been very thorough in his questioning. Blood matted one side of the young man’s head, and the eye on that side was puffy and swollen.
Ibrahim’s anger, so carefully controlled in front of his subordinates, now sprang to the surface. He was a scion of the Prophet and a prince of the royal blood. And yet this worm, a man who had eaten his salt, had defied him — challenging his authority, abusing his hospitality. No excuse could justify such betrayal or mitigate the punishment he must exact.
In a cold rage, Ibrahim stepped closer to the Pakistani. He grabbed one shoulder and threw the dazed young man flat on his back. Without stopping to think he snatched one of the bags from the neatly stacked pile nearby, felt himself stagger slightly under its weight, and then hurled it down on top of the prostrate Pakistani.
The man screamed as the bag slammed into his chest.
Ibrahim looked more closely at his handiwork and smiled icily as he considered the hundred-pound bag of grass seed he’d just thrown onto the traitor.
The Pakistani struggled vainly to escape the weight slowly crushing the breath out of his body. “Forgive me, Highness,” he whispered painfully. “I beg you …”
Ibrahim ignored him. He picked up another heavy bag with both hands and tossed it on top of the first. The added weight drew another scream of agony from his victim. A third bag — this one hurled onto the man’s face — muffled his cries. Blood trickled out onto the concrete floor.
Sweating now, and enjoying the exertion, Ibrahim piled a fourth and fifth bag atop the writhing Pakistani. By now only the young man’s legs were visible. They kicked at the floor, wildly at first, and then slower and slower.
Ibrahim stood back, watching and waiting. Even after a full minute by his watch, the Pakistani’s legs still quivered spasmodically.
It took another thirty seconds before all movement ceased.
He turned to Talal. The security chief stood impassively waiting by the door. “Clear this mess up. And get rid of the body tonight.”
There were plenty of lonely places in rural Virginia, and Ibrahim knew Talal would bury the body deep.
“What do we tell the rest of the workers, Highness?” the security chief asked quietly.
“That he was caught stealing, and that we have turned him over to the American police.”
Talal nodded silently and bent to begin hefting the bags back into place.
Ibrahim stepped past him and headed for the main house — eager to read Reichardt’s latest report. Pleasurable or not, he’d wasted enough time on trivial matters for now.
CHAPTER TEN
EXECUTION DOCK
Berkeley County Airport was a small, single-strip field twenty-five miles north-northwest of Charleston, just one mile from the town of Moncks Corner. Church spires dotted the town’s skyline.
To the northeast loomed the swampy forest of cypress and scrub pine that had sheltered Francis Marion, the “Swamp Fox,” during the American Revolution. The olive-green waters of Lake Moultrie glittered in the distance.
Buildings clustered north of the runway, linked by dirt and gravel roads. The facilities of the general aviation firms based there — aircraft rental companies, an aerial surveyor, a flying school, and an air charter service — were dwarfed by Caraco’s three brandnew steel-frame hangars and two smaller buildings.
A forbidding chainlink fence surrounded the compound.
Rolf Ulrich Reichardt emerged from one of-the hangars and stood blinking in the bright morning sunshine. He mopped impatiently at his forehead, already finding the Southern heat and humidity oppressive. A small plane — a single-engine Cessna — droned low overhead, touched the runway, and trundled past, taxiing toward the rows of other private aircraft lined up on the lush green grass. Another Cessna circled lazily off in the distance — waiting its turn to land.
Berkeley had no control tower. Pilots using the field listened to a common radio frequency, Unicorn, and worked out any traffic control problems among themselves.
Reichardt turned to his escort, who stood waiting patiently at his side, completely attentive to his superior’s needs.
Dieter Krauss was one of Reichardt’s men from the old days.
He was reliable, if utterly unimaginative. Once he’d headed a Stasi Special Action squad, used to beat dissidents whose activities the State found inconvenient or irritating. But Krauss had aged poorly, and his strength had faded. Too many vices.
Now in his early fifties, he looked like a man fifteen years older.
He was still useful in a supervisory role, and in an operation of this magnitude, Reichardt needed every agent he could lay his hands on.
“You have had no trouble from the locals?” Reichardt asked.
