“Virulent psychopath with a deep-seated hatred for America. Her ambassadors at any rate. Sadist. Unlimited scientific and economic resources. Enjoys eccentric means to kill.”
“Could be just some nutcase genius with a grudge,” Stoke said. “Like that crazy Harvard fruitcake.”
“Which one?” Congreve asked.
“Unabomber. Kept sending ever more powerful mail bombs to people on his environmental shitlist. Too bad he didn’t get a ‘return-to-sender’ package and forget he had—”
“Mr. Alexander Hawke?” a waiter said.
“I’m Alex Hawke.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Hawke. A gentleman on the phone who’d like to speak with you, sir. Extremely urgent.”
“Certainly. What’s this gentleman’s name?”
“A Mr. Jack Patterson from the State Department, sir.”
Chapter Ten
London
SNAY BIN WAZIR AND HIS NEW BRIDE ARRIVED IN LONDON in the spring of 1986, bin Wazir’s febrile mind brimming with schemes and his coffers bulging with blood money. Elephant blood money to be blunt about it, although that chapter in his life had already been purged from the public record. Throughout the eighties and early nineties Snay bin Wazir would embark on a public relations campaign and a spending spree that eventually had all of London town in an uproar.
At first, putting his toe in the water, he acquired a palatial penthouse flat on Park Lane, with panoramic views of Hyde Park. He hired a staff of three, two maids and a Filipino cook, for his wife, Yasmin. Then he installed Tippu Tip, the former African chieftain, as the highest-paid bodyguard cum driver in London. Tippu in turn hired a houseboy named Kim who was soon lighting the Sultan’s trademark Baghdaddy cigarettes with a heavy gold Dunhill. That was Snay’s idea of a slow build. There was nowhere to go from there but up.
A Kuwaiti friend recommended a tailor in New Bond Street. Snay had six identical suits made, all black terry cloth. He noticed that people smiled their approval wherever he went. “Where on earth did you get that suit?” people would often ask, and Snay, now a fashion trendsetter of sorts, was happy to direct them to his newly acquired tailor.
After a month or more of prowling the fashionable and not so-fashionable West End clubs and casinos, he bought Harpo. This trendy, upscale nightspot in Knightsbridge had a huge dance floor on the ground floor and a plush VIP casino upstairs. For a while, Snay himself was on the door every night, ingratiating himself with London’s younger upper crust and ogling the Pretty Young Things who shimmered nightly through his increasingly famous portals.
He strode into Jack Barclay’s Rolls-Royce emporium on Berkley Square one fine morning and bought his first Roller. A gleaming aluminum-bodied 1926 Silver Ghost with a red leather interior. The vanity plate acquired at a princely sum read Ivoire. He outfitted Tippu Tip in pearl grey livery with ivory buttons. Tippu was easily the best dressed, most heavily armed private chauffeur in London.
In one of Snay bin Wazir’s more inspired moments, he turned the door at Harpo over to Tippu. The six-foot- six chief outfitted himself in a variety of colorful matching silk turbans and loincloths every night, his massive black chest complemented by a splendid ivory skull necklace of his own design. “Ebony and ivory, Boss,” he’d said laughing, “Living in perfect harmony.”
Almost overnight Snay bin Wazir’s rugged, mustachioed face was everywhere; between the covers of magazines and tabloids which covered such things, and smiling at you on a monthly, weekly, and, ultimately, daily basis. He had become, after a fashion, a minor celebrity, and had even earned himself a glamourous nickname, the Pasha of Knightsbridge. He knew he was destined for far greater glory, but, for the present, he was satisfied.
Then there was the night in the late eighties when the world-famous arms dealer Attar al-Nassar himself appeared at his door, a bevy of beauties on each arm. Bin Wazir knew from the moment he first laid eyes on al- Nassar that, somehow, his life was forever changed. He ducked into the cloakroom and rang up his friend, Stilton, a rabid society newshound at the Sun. “Al-Nassar’s here,” he told Stilton. “I’ll keep him here as long as I can but you’d better hop to it.” Stilton hopped right to it. The Pasha and the reporter had developed a very successful and symbiotic relationship.
Bin Wazir provided the diminutive and somewhat unfortunate-looking Sun journalist and his sidekick photographer with women. The Sun, which, on a good day sells around four million copies, in turn conferred celebrity status of a certain kind upon the arriviste Snay bin Wazir.
That night, bin Wazir showered the world-famous arms dealer with attention, ushering him to the best table on the dance floor and sending over endless bottles of Crystal, compliments of the house. Stilton arrived ten minutes later, his taxi screeching to a halt outside Harpo’s crowded entrance. The giant Tippu parted the throngs and personally escorted him inside. The shots of al-Nassar and his bevy on the Harpo dance floor were splashed all over the newsstands next morning.
The end of that splendid evening found Snay and Attar on a first-name basis, huddled in a corner banquette smoking cigars and talking politics, women, religion, and, ultimately, business.
“I take it you’re not a religious man, Snay,” al-Nassar said mildly.
“On the contrary,” Snay smiled. “I am a fanatic. My gods just happen to reside in a vault in Zurich.”
Al-Nassar laughed. “Then why do you trifle in nightclubs, my friend?”
“Have you looked carefully at the dance floor tonight, Attar?”
“Ha. Accessories! Baubles and bangles! I will tell you a confidence, Snay. Because I find I like you, and I don’t like many people. Today, I sold more than two dozen forty-million-dollar fighter jets to the Peruvian government. Eastern European jets. Highly unreliable design.”
“Unreliable fighter jets?”
“Hmm. Every piece that falls off is wildly expensive. The real money will be in keeping them flying.”
Snay, smiling, raised his flute of champagne and leaned back against the cushions. It had taken him many long years, but he realized he had finally found a role model.
“Beautiful suit,” he told al-Nassar, eyeing the man’s exquisitely cut three-piece navy chalkstripe. “May I ask, who is your tailor?”
“Chap at Huntsman, Savile Row,” Attar replied. “Fellow named Ronnie Bacon. I’ll ring him tomorrow if you’d like.”
Snay nodded and said, “I was wondering, Attar…I’m sitting on some money.”
“Yes?”
“Not a lot. Fifty million or so. English pounds,” Snay said, holding a match to the tip of his monogrammed yellow cigarette.
“Yes?”
“I don’t suppose you ever look for investors? At that level, I mean?”
“I don’t, to be honest, Mr. bin Wazir,” al-Nassar said.
“Sorry. Sorry if my question offended you, Mr. al-Nassar.”
“A wise man never regrets the questions he asks. Only the ones he didn’t ask.”
“This is good advice.”
Al-Nassar tapped his temple with his index finger and said, “My gods reside up here, Snay bin Wazir. Right now, my deities have all overindulged themselves. The lowly grape clouds their normally lofty judgment. It’s late in the evening. Would you be so kind as to give me a day or so to consider your question?”
“Certainly.”
“You’re basic raw material, Snay. Good, rough, hard stone. Don’t mind getting your hands dirty either, from what I’ve heard. I like that. A bit of polishing strictly for appearances and I might just be able to use a fellow like you.”
“I should be honored, Mr. al-Nassar.”
“Good. We’ll get you started. Forget ivory. Too visible. Too—messy. I’ve got one word for you, Snay.
