“Do you know much about Caraco, Sam?” the CIA analyst asked.
“Not as much as I’d like,” Farrell said. He nodded toward the cooling plateful of food in front of Podolski. “That’s why I’m picking up the tab at this fancy diner, Mark.”
Podolski looked down at his uneaten pasta, then continued.
“Well, the head honcho is a guy named Ibrahim al Saud he’s literally a prince, a member of the Saudi royal family. And he’s down in our books as a straight shooter.”
“A Saudi prince?” Farrell shook his head and frowned. He’d paid a number of official visits to Saudi Arabia as head of J.S.O.C.
Some of his contacts with the royal family there had left a bad taste in his mouth. A few of the princes were energetic. A great many more were either indolent or just amiably corrupt.
“Ibrahim’s not typical,” Podolski insisted. “I pulled up his dossier before I came here. He’s sharp, shrewd, and tough.
Caraco’s his baby from start to finish. Together with all its subsidiaries, the company’s probably worth somewhere on the order of ten to fifteen billion dollars. He’s not going to rock the boat to smuggle in heroin.”
“And he’s prowestern?”
“Totally,” Podolski said. “He ran a little close to the radical edge as a university student at Cairo, but his family straightened him out — sent him off to Oxford, and then to business school at Harvard. Since then, he’s been a consistent supporter of our interests.”
The CIA analyst idly poked at his pasta dish with a fork and then looked up. “Look, I wouldn’t invite Ibrahim to an Israel Bonds fund-raiser, but he’s a solid guy otherwise. There was even a rumor a couple of years ago that one of the homegrown Saudi terrorist movements had him on a death list.”
Farrell sat up straighter. “Rumor? Or fact?”
“Nothing ever happened. But just in case, he’s built up a pretty reliable little private security force — mostly out of the best troops in the Saudi Royal Army. I’m telling you, Sam, Ibrahim al Saud is not your mysterious Mr. X smuggler.”
Farrell pushed his own virtually untouched plate away. “Okay, I see what you mean. But if Ibrahim hasn’t got a motive to run drugs or nukes into the U.S who else in his company does?”
Podolski shrugged. “You tried the backdoor route with Mayer and the FBI and wound up with nothing. This time, why not just knock on the front door and ask? Caraco has an office in downtown D.C. If somebody on their payroll is padding his salary by running a smuggling operation, they’re gonna want to find the guy and shut him down before it hits the front pages and sends the shareholders screaming for the exits.” Farrell nodded slowly. What the CIA analyst said made sense.
Why not give Caraco’s top management the information they needed to track down their own bad apples?
Prince Ibrahim al Saud surveyed the busy room — one of the two large working spaces in the building’s basement — with a measure of satisfaction. Desks and computer consoles filled the center of the room, and all four walls were lined with maps — maps of the entire United States and detailed plans of individual cities and towns. Most of the activity right now centered on a giant black-and-white weather map.
He watched closely as the planning cell’s meteorologist began updating the chart with the next day’s predicted weather. Until now, the former East German Air Force meteorology officer had only been able to provide statistical information. Now the man was dealing with near-term forecasts — ironically using data supplied by the U.S. National Weather Service.
Ibrahim swung around on Reichardt, who stood close by his shoulder.
“You’re sure that Major Schmidt can provide the accuracy we need?”
“Yes, Highness.” Reichardt shrugged. “But America is a vast country — with widely variable weather. It might be better if we could provide Schmidt with another qualified assistant for this last phase.”
Ibrahim considered that. The German’s suggestion was logical if a bit late in the game. For an instant, he wondered uneasily what else Reichardt had let slip while going after those interfering Americans, Thorn and Gray. “Very well. Assign one of the pilots. Who better to ensure that the major fully understands our requirements?”
Reichardt nodded.
Ibrahim turned back to check the work of the rest of his staff with a careful eye. Several of the computers were set to monitor the Internet and other information services continuously — constantly tracking the routine movements of American military forces and the operations of the major state and federal law enforcement agencies.
Members of the team evaluated the raw information they gathered at regular intervals — discarding any clearly irrelevant data immediately and sifting the rest for any news that might affect his master plan.
“Highness, a phone call has been forwarded from the estate,” announced the clipped, British-accented voice of Hashemi, his chief private secretary. “Mr. Garrett is on line one.”
Ibrahim grunted a reply and waved Reichardt over to one of the other phones so that he could listen in. Whatever news Garrett had would surely be of interest to both of them.
Ibrahim lifted the phone in front of him. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to trouble you again so soon, Your Highness,” Garrett said smoothly. “But I’ve just had a very interesting call from a retired Army officer. He claims to have important information about this supposed large-scale smuggling ring operating through some of our subsidiaries.”
Ibrahim turned away from the planning cell. “Oh? Who is that?”
“A Major General Samuel B. Farrell, Highness. He headed the Joint Special Operations Command until a year or so ago.”
Ibrahim exchanged a significant glance with Reichardt. Now they knew who Thorn had used as a conduit to the American authorities. He cleared his throat. “This is interesting news, Richard. I suggest you invite General Farrell to your office this evening to discuss his information.”
Garrett hesitated. “Are you sure that’s wise, Highness? We’ve already gone to considerable trouble to quash these rumors. Meeting Farrell may lend them unnecessary credence.”
Ibrahim shook his head, looking straight across at Reichardt.
“That’s a risk we must be willing to run, my friend. Rumors or not, these are extremely serious allegations. I don’t want to paper them over. Let’s act as the good corporate citizens that we are and offer General Farrell a fair hearing.”
Caraco’s Washington offices occupied the two top floors of a twelve-story building right in the city’s nerve center. The elevator only went up to the eleventh floor.
Sam Farrell stepped off and found himself confronted by both a receptionist and an armed security guard. The receptionist was a stunningly beautiful Asian-American woman.
The guard, with a crew cut and in his mid-thirties, looked like a professional — definitely a step above the usual moonlighting policeman or cop wannabe.
“Good evening, General Farrell,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Garrett is on the phone at the moment, I’m afraid. If you’ll wait in the lounge, I’ll let you know as soon as he’s free.” She indicated a door to the right.
The lounge was designed to impress visitors — and it worked.
One entire wall was glassed in, offering a spectacular view of the White House, the Washington Monument, and Lafayette Park. The taupe carpet was so thick that Farrell left footprints, and the other walls were covered with original oils by contemporary American artists — Hopper, Wyeth, Stella, and Thiebaud not the generic corporate prints for sale at office furniture stores.
Farrell had just started picking out landmarks in the city below when the receptionist appeared at the door. “Mr. Garrett can see you now, General.”
She led him through the reception area, through a pair of double doors, and then up a spiral staircase.
Garrett’s penthouse office had the same magnificent view. The man himself, white-haired and perfectly attired in a crisply tailored business suit, turned away from the window and strode over to greet him.
“I’m very glad to meet you, General Farrell,” the lawyer said. He gestured toward a small group of chairs
