He had opened his opulent palace with great expectations. It was to be the cornerstone of his expanding personal real estate empire. But, then the disastrous opening and, the morning after, that infamous boldface tabloid headline had appeared. Two bloody words (written, no doubt, by the treacherous Stilton) were emblazoned above a close-up picture of Snay at the opening night reception. A full-page, four-color nightmare.
The fatal stab was the headline all London saw that morning. Above the shot of Snay toasting the camera with champagne, the erstwhile Pasha of Knightsbridge read these words:
“YESTERDAY, THE TOAST OF LONDON…TODAY, HE’S TOAST!”
Five long years after the fact, bin Wazir, still nursing those old wounds, was riding out another storm. Only now he was slung between two surly camel mounts in a custom cradle of ebony with an ivory rim, richly adorned with gold and jewels. Wind and snow whipped through, lashing the canvas awnings aside as if they were ribbons. Snay’s thick moustache was solid ice beneath his nose.
“How long, boy?” he called out.
“Another hour or two, I believe,” the boy Harib called back, quaking with fear. “Inshallah.”
Harib knew his indefinite answer would only serve to anger Snay further. Inshallah had many shades of meaning, from ‘God willing,’ to ‘soon,’ to ‘don’t count on it.’ But Harib couldn’t be more precise because he couldn’t see any of his familiar landmarks. The snowstorm wasn’t his fault, but Snay didn’t care. He’d been screaming at everyone for the better part of the day. Harib had already felt the sting of Snay’s rhino-hide whip across his shoulders when one of the camels had stumbled into a deep crevasse hidden by snow, nearly spilling the four- hundred-pound sumo-weight Pasha into a snowbank.
There were, in all, twelve camels in the storm-lashed caravan, the lead six bearing Snay, his four sumo guards, and the African chieftain Tippu Tip at the front of the pack. Six more camels behind them were loaded with supplies, weapons and Snay’s mountain fighters. The weaponry was sophisticated in this remote part of the world and included the very latest German machine guns and laser-guided rocket propelled grenades, RPGs.
No sign of trouble yet, fortunately, but there were many ancient warring tribes in these mountains, vicious warriors who bore no allegiance to either Snay or the Emir, and the danger of a surprise attack by these screaming, saber-rattling hordes was ever present.
The wind-whipped snow had been increasing in intensity. Snay had known he faced a treacherous ascent, even in mild weather. In white-out conditions, as now, it was madness. But what choice did he have?
He’d been summoned by the Emir. And so began the long, dangerous journey which would take him from one mountain peak, his own 18,000-foot Blue Mountain, down and across the Dasht-e Margow, the Desert of Death, that crossroads where three continents meet, and, from the baking desert floor, up again into one of the world’s most treacherous mountain ranges.
Ahead, on the so-called trail, Snay bin Wazir could almost distinguish three giant figures atop their struggling mounts. Tippu Tip was leading the two sumos in front of his sedan. Behind were camels bearing the two other sumos. He was well guarded as always, he thought, trying to find some comfort in his situation. But what could protect him from plummeting through a snow-covered crevasse? Or from a rock slide, an avalanche, a murderous horde? These things happened with regularity at this altitude and—
“Pasha! Look!” the camel boy shouted, interrupting his dark musings.
“What?” Snay said, looking everywhere for signs of his imminent demise. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind, wondering what the Emir wanted that—“What is it, damn your eyes?”
“There!” the excited boy said, pointing off to the right. “Do you see it? Allah be praised!”
Relief swept over him. No wild devils on horseback were sweeping down on him from the heights. No, what he saw was a massive radar dome. It was just the first of an outlying perimeter of many radar sites leading up to the fortress itself; but it meant the caravan was much closer to its destination than he’d been told by the witless Harib. First, the radar, and then, climbing higher, the anti-aircraft and surface-to-air emplacements. He was, by all approximations, less than an hour from learning what his future held.
Snay bin Wazir shut his eyes. He knew this next bit well enough. The cages.
Now came the first of many “man cages” erected on either side of the pass. These filthy iron baskets, stretching along either side of the “mile of death” leading to the fortress’s massive gates, held men, women, or the remains of either. They were ancient devices, made of thick iron slats, woven into basket shapes. The victim was placed inside, then hoisted high on poles that loomed above the pass, where no friends or relations could pass food, water, or salvation in the form of poison to the condemned. The cages were a sobering reminder of the Emir’s absolute power over all his subjects and agents; not that bin Wazir, of all people, needed any sober reminding.
“Allah preserve me,” Snay croaked, miserably rubbing away the painful icicles that had formed on his frozen eyelashes.
Chapter Sixteen
London, December 1999
THREE MEN STOOD UP WHEN ALEX APPROACHED THE CORNER table, one of only ten tables in the Connaught’s celadon green Grill Room. The tall, lean, Jeffersonian figure of Patrick Kelly; a solidly built hardcore Army type Hawke recognized instantly as former First Lieutenant Sonny Pendleton, now with the American Defense Department; and a surprisingly handsome mustachioed gentleman, tall, athletically built, and ruggedly resplendent in a three-piece chalk-stripe that could only have come from Huntsman’s.
This bin Wazir was good-looking enough, with a vulpine aspect to his ready grin, and, beneath luxuriant black eyebrows, a startling manic energy in his black eyes that fairly crackled with intensity.
“Why, you must be Lord Hawke,” the fellow boomed, sticking out his hand. Heads swiveled. The Connaught’s smaller dining room was filled with patrons accustomed to quiet civility and hushed decorum, although, since it had gone nonsmoking, it tended to attract a fair number of Americans. One of the reasons Hawke much preferred it to the stuffier main dining room. He was one of those somewhat rare Englishmen who’d always found the casual bonhomie of Americans refreshing rather than tedious.
Hawke shook hands with all three men. Snay bin Wazir’s handshake was surprisingly warm and dry. In Hawke’s experience, people in interview situations, which is what this evening basically was about, had very clammy handshakes. “An honor, your lordship,” he said.
“Alex Hawke will do,” Hawke said, smiling. “Don’t use the title, never have. I’m descended from pirates and peasants, you see. A rather churlish lot, but I’m proud of them.”
“I see. Well, then.” The man seemed at a loss and Hawke covered his obvious embarrassment by making a show of sitting down.
There was the usual small talk as drinks were served. Bin Wazir again surprised Hawke. The man was a brute, there was no disguising it, but someone had sanded off his rough edges. There was keen intelligence in those obsidian eyes, and a ready smile to go with it. Whatever his reputation, here was someone who clearly enjoyed life to the fullest. He was also, by reputation, utterly fearless.
Hawke leaned back and studied bin Wazir while the Arab, Brick Kelly, and the DoD man Pendleton engaged in a discussion in which the name of the arms dealer al-Nassar featured prominently. Here was a chap, this self-styled Pasha, who had just taken a bastion of London society and utterly destroyed it. And subsequently been soundly pilloried for it. If there was even an ounce of remorse over what he’d done to London’s most revered hotel, or any sense of social humiliation in the fellow, Hawke couldn’t see it.
Fascinating.
Dinner came and went uneventfully, with Pendleton pressing his case against al-Nassar’s imminent sale of more fighter jets to Iran and bin Wazir alternating between demurral and assent with Washington’s position. It wasn’t until coffee and brandy were being served that Brick brought up the subject at hand.
“Alex,” Brick said, putting a match to the end of a Griffin cigar, “Mr. bin Wazir here had a most unfortunate experience at Nell’s last Thursday evening.”
“Really?” Hawke said, looking over at the man, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. bin Wazir. Please tell me
