bedroom.
The young man who had picked Juba up at the airport was settled in a large chair, with his long legs crossed. He had a long face framed by a well-trimmed beard and his hair was naturally curly. Juba estimated he was not yet thirty years old, probably stood about six foot two, and had a body that was slim and showed some work, although the manicure indicated that the muscles were the result of gym workouts and not from labor or soldiering.
“Get me something to eat,” Juba softly said.
“My name is Amin,” the man said. He had a strong edge in his tone as he stood, wanting to establish immediate authority. “I am not your servant.”
“I don’t care who you are and that was not a request.” Juba adjusted the eye patch to a more comfortable position. “I had to stop my work and fly halfway around the world to return to this shitty country. If some food is not out here in ten minutes, I’m leaving and your revolution is fucked. I want fresh fruit, croissants, and scrambled eggs. Strong tea. Then go get Dieter.”
Amin was stunned by the extraordinary change. This did not seem like the same person! Not only had the passenger washed away that awful smell, but his commanding manner was that of someone used to having his orders obeyed. Juba walked to the large television set standing blank in the corner, turned it on, and started surfing channels in search of news. He had to catch up.
“Very well. I shall inform the kitchen staff and summon my employer.” Amin did so by picking up a telephone and using an internal system. With that done, he hung up and intentionally moved to stand behind Juba, a tactic that he employed routinely so that his size would intimidate visitors. Maybe this stranger was no fool, but the white hair, the single eye, and other deformities left an overall unimpressive image. “Your food is on the way.”
Juba ignored him and was frustrated by the television broadcasts. Almost everything was being blocked and or heavily censored. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Amin said, “I cannot believe that you are the magic one who has been orchestrating the overthrow of the royal family.”
Juba snapped off the TV and dropped the remote, moving silently to the dining table in the next room and taking a chair in a place that had been set for him. A dark blue plate with gold trim matched the rest of the setting and a maid placed a pot of tea beside it. He poured and sipped.
Amin followed, growing more irritated at the treatment he was receiving, as if he were an underling. He pulled out a chair for himself, angled it and sat, unbuttoning his coat, leaning back and crossing his legs again. A pistol was visible in a shoulder holster. A tight smile came to his lips. He felt that his pressure was working as he reasserted his authority.
“
Juba put down the tea, unrolled the folded blue cloth napkin and arranged the dull knife, a spoon and fork, still without saying anything. He emptied a spoonful of sugar into the tea and then added a bit of cream. It tasted good. Food would settle his stomach.
“No wonder you hide in a place where no one can see you,” said Amin, accusingly pointing his left index finger. “I will no longer tell children that they must behave or that the scary Juba will come in the dark and snatch them from their beds. You may have some people fooled, old man, even Dieter Nesch, but I see you plainly for what you are.”
Moving with the speed and force of a bullet, Juba stood in a single move, grabbed Amin’s hair in his left hand and pulled him forward. The table knife was in his right hand and he extended his arm parallel to the floor, with his thumb on the bottom of the blade, and swept it across the bigger man’s left shoulder to plunge it into the soft throat.
Amin gagged as the short, stubby blade went in and was immediately jerked free again. His eyes flew wide in shock and he grabbed at the iron fingers holding his hair, then the knife flashed in again. This time, Juba buried it up to the handle, dug for the larynx before pulling it free, then stabbed in hard for a final time, digging in the soft internal tissue and feeling the blade grind against the spinal column. He left the makeshift weapon sticking from Amir’s neck. A final push sent the dying man toppling backward from his chair and onto the floor, choking with a cackling sound and flailing helplessly as blood gushed from the multiple ragged wounds, panic and fear written on his face.
AN HOUR LATER, GERMAN financier Dieter Nesch stepped into his modern villa and the confident smile fell from the face when he saw that his aide, Amir, was sprawled dead on the floor of the dining room. His housekeeper and the chef were trussed up and gagged and scrunched into a corner. The pale blue eyes moved over to where Juba sat at a window overlooking the harbor. Nesch shrugged. “I see you still have your skill at this sort of thing.”
“Good to see you again, Dieter. The boy was disrespectful,” said Juba, rising to shake the hand of the money man handling the entire operation. They had worked together on numerous occasions in Europe and Juba considered Nesch to be one of the few men who could be trusted in the dark world of terrorism.
“And I am happy to see you, Juba. Thank you for not killing the other two. They are good people and will not say anything.” Nesch moved over to the maid and untied her, then freed the chef and had a quiet moment with them. They vigorously pledged that they understood that any loose talk about what happened to Amir would result in their own deaths, too, for the special visitor was obviously unpredictable and violent. The financier threw a rug over the corpse. “Too bad about Amir. He was a promising young fellow with a real knack for numbers. I warned him many times about that arrogance. Now I have to find a new assistant.”
Nesch opened a rosewood cabinet, found a bottle of dark cognac and poured two glasses, giving one to Juba. “Cheers, old friend. Thank you for coming. I am delighted that you have recovered so well from your terrible wounds.”
Juba accepted the stiff drink and raised a silent toast. “Thank you. I did not expect to see you again until this was all over. Tell me about the nuclear missiles.”
Nesch took Juba gently by the elbow and guided him to the window. Tall and skinny palm trees and broad manicured grounds spread toward the nearby beach. Small pleasure boats dashed about on the water. “I really do not know very much and frankly advised that it was unwise to start changing plans at this late date. Your arrangements were doing very well, but this fellow Ebara got excited when he learned that nuclear missiles were in the country. I tried to convince him that it was just a pleasant coincidence: The assassination of the general and the murder of his family had been the point of that particular mission and it was successful. But Ebara sees it as the hand of Allah at work and ordered me to call you to supervise the targeting and the launch.”
“And the Russian agreed?”
“Ah. Another young man in a hurry, with more money than brains. This started out just as an oil grab, but now he also sees a nuclear destiny in the Middle East. Ivanov decided to let Ebara reach for a new, higher star.”
Juba nibbled on his lower lip. “Dieter, just what is it that Ebara has?”
“Well, I can only tell you what I have-a package in a safe deposit box at my local banking facility. Within the envelope are the launch codes for one missile, the key to work it and a booklet about the overall program which discusses the locations of the other missiles. The key and codes are for a missile that is parked within that huge military base at al-Kharj, outside of Riyadh.”
Juba slowly put his empty glass on a table. “That’s all? Ebara’s people do not actually control the weapons? Goddamn it! Those codes for that nuke will have already been changed! Useless, like a trinket sold in the souk! Perhaps I can find something useful in the book. Maybe the key is a master key for them all. Maybe not.”
His anger was climbing and his mouth twitched in exasperation. “We have momentum building in this uprising. Pulling me away from the control point risks wrecking everything. I thought I was coming here to oversee the firing of a missile, only to find that the rebel priest does not even really have one, much less five.”
Nesch spread his hands wide. “Ebara is not a sophisticated man, Juba. A bright student from the slums, the first boy in his class to memorize the Koran some twenty-five years ago. That got on him on the fast track with the imams and his ambition carried him to the leadership of the Religious Police. You know how everything around Saudi Arabia is wrapped in religion. He is a charismatic and harsh leader, which makes him the perfect front man for the coup. He enjoys being on television.”
“With an uneducated zealot in control of the government, the Russian could loot the place,” Juba responded.
