investigation could be controlled.”
He scowled, thinking aloud now. “But I find the American presence worrying. Managing them will require activating special assets I had hoped to preserve for another day.”
Serov kept quiet. The German had already made it very clear that security arrangements beyond Kandalaksha were not Serov’s concern.
Reichardt shrugged. “That is another matter.” His voice sharpened.
“You are quite sure there are no more ‘mistakes’ waiting to be found at your end of the Operation?”
Increasingly confident, Serov nodded. “My officers and I have taken every possible precaution, Herr Reichardt.”
He froze, suddenly aware of Reichardt’s cold gray stare boring into him., “Do not try my patience, Serov. You promised me perfection once before. You failed. And your failure placed this entire operation in jeopardy.”
Reichardt paused, then took two steps closer to the Russian, bringing them only an arm’s length apart. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Let me be very, very clear, Feodor Mikhailovich. One more error. One more accident. Anything. Anything at all. If this transaction is compromised in any way by your actions or those of your men, you will die.”
The German smiled cruelly. “And I promise you that your death will be painful, as will be the deaths of your wife and daughters.” He let that sink in, watching the horror spread across Serov’s face with satisfaction. “Sergeant Kurgin is not my only agent on this base. I will be watching you, Feodor Mikhailovich. Remember that.”
Reichardt turned abruptly and strode toward the door. Serov followed him, moving slowly on legs that felt shaky.
At the door, the German issued one final warning. “Your only chance of survival is to keep this operation secure and secret.
And you had better hope to God the investigators find nothing incriminating at that crash site.”
He rapped on the door twice, and it slid open. Kurgin came in and walked over to the staff car. Another car was waiting outside.
Without another word, Reichardt turned his back on Serov and climbed into the second car. Moments later it sped off, leaving the Russian general and his new orderly alone.
Stunned, Serov shuddered.
Then, aware that Sergeant Kurgin was watching him, he fought for control over his expression. You knew what you were undertaking, he told himself sternly. He was not a child who could run home crying because the game had suddenly turned sour.
As a fighter pilot, Serov had developed a reputation as a skilled gambler — as a man always willing to push his aircraft to its limits in pursuit of victory. Nothing in his personality had changed with increasing age and rank. And, despite Reichardt’s threats, the Operation still appealed to him. The risks, even now, were manageable, and the rewards-he allowed himself to visualize a vast estate perched above sunlit Caribbean waters — the rewards were dazzling.
No, Serov told himself again, nothing had changed. Not really.
Nothing except that he now knew with absolute certainty that Reichardt would kill his entire family without remorse — should he fail. Well, he should have anticipated that. The stakes were high, very high, both for winning and for losing.
Prince Ibrahim al Saud’s country estate covered several hundred acres of rolling hillside south of Taif. Located in the foothills of the Asir mountain range paralleling the Red Sea, the town was a popular summer getaway for many Saudis. It provided a restful contrast to the bustling cities of Jedda and Riyadh. The higher elevation made it marginally cooler, and irrigation held the sun-baked brown rock of the surrounding landscape at bay.
Entirely surrounded by a low rock wall, Ibrahim’s estate was almost a small town in its own right. Marble from Italy, wood from Turkey, and coral from the Red Sea merged in a series of buildings that were more than a mansion but less than a palace. Outbuildings for the servants and security staff, a garage for a small fleet of luxury automobiles, a helicopter pad and hangar, and a private mosque all surrounded the central residence.
Ibrahim al Saud knelt in the mosque now, facing northwest, toward Mecca. His entire staff, save only the security guards actually on duty, knelt and prayed beside and behind him. By Islamic law, only the noon prayers on Friday required attendance at a mosque, but Ibrahim carefully cultivated his public image as a man of deep religious faith.
As a member of the vast Saudi royal family, he felt it important to maintain the proper appearances in this intensely conservative Islamic land. His various business and other enterprises ran smoother without attracting the unwelcome attention of the Kingdom’s fanatical religious monitors.
He finished the rakat — the cycle of prayer — and stood. Tall and slim, Ibrahim’s dark hair and complexion framed a pair of even darker, penetrating eyes. None of his staff liked to attract his attention, because that meant being pierced by those eyes, searched for flaws, and studied as an object to be used — or discarded.
Barefoot like the rest of the worshippers, the prince turned and watched his staff quickly disperse. He moved toward the door outside, retrieved his own sandals, and walked the fifty meters to the south wing of his residence.
The mansion’s white marble walls reflected the fierce sun, but stepping into the shady portico that surrounded the singlestory building brought instant relief from the glare and the noonday heat. Ibrahim sat down at a small table facing an immaculately landscaped garden — a fantastic mix of flowers and shade trees that would never have survived the Arabian peninsula’s harsh climate without massive irrigation and constant care.
He had never asked how much maintaining this garden cost.
Whether a hundred thousand or a million dollars, the figure was immaterial — a tiny droplet from the boundless sea of his personal fortune.
Like all the Saudi princes, Ibrahim had been born to wealth.
And like them, he had been well educated, schooled first in Cairo, then in Oxford, and finally at Harvard. Unlike most of his royal peers, however, he had demonstrated an uncommon flair for organization and finance.
Over the past thirty years, he had painstakingly built an international business empire that now ranked second to none in Saudi Arabia — Caraco.
Most of the corrupt and foolish members of the Saudi royal family had only parlayed their vast oil wealth into still vaster debts — mortgaging their kingdom to the West for fancy automobiles, aircraft, showcase cities, and other baubles.
But Ibrahim and his allies had carefully diversified their own holdings before the worldwide slump in oil prices. Now Caraco’s yellow-and-black corporate logo flew over banks, engineering firms, transportation companies, and import-export enterprises around the globe.
By blood, he was merely one of several thousand princes — a minor member of Saudi Arabia’s sprawling elite. But when money and personal power were thrown into the equation, Ibrahim al Saud could walk as proudly as any of the great kings of antiquity.
A servant appeared with lunch followed by Hashemi, his personal secretary, bearing the usual thick sheaf of faxes and phone messages.
Ibrahim studied the first and most important: “Mr. Lahoud of the Persian Gulf Environmental Trust will arrive in Taif at one o’clock this afternoon. He requests the honor of an appointment with Prince Ibrahim al Saud — at the prince’s convenience.”
Ibrahim looked up at Hashemi. “Arrange for Mr. Lahoud to be brought to the estate as soon as he arrives in Taif. I will meet with him as soon as he has refreshed himself.”
“You have appointments at two and three this afternoon, Highness,” the other man gently reminded him.
“Reschedule them,” Ibrahim said.
Hashemi nodded silently and glided away to obey his orders.
Ibrahim was still at work an hour later when Hashemi reappeared.
“Mr. Massif Lahoud,” the secretary announced.
The prince rose to greet his visitor, a shorter, darkerskinned, and older man. He noted the armed guards hovering in the background and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Their presence was customary when he
