Afghanistan.
He felt countless prying eyes pressing down upon him from the creases and crevasses, the deep folds in the earth and mountains, eyes judging his potential, weighing his possible net worth.
He drew comfort from the fact that certainly no one would mistake him for a wealthy Englishman. No, if anything he resembled a modern-day Lawrence of Arabia, riding tall in the saddle, swaddled head to toe in flowing white robes and blankets. Atop his head he wore a red-and-white-checkered scarf, wound round in a kind of turban.
His visit to the summit had been a brief one. A type of summit, really, with al-Rashad and one of his senior officers. He had traveled to the highest reaches of the Hindu Kush to see for himself that all was in readiness for what would be his ultimate strike. The time had come for him to drive a final, fatal stake into the very heart of the British Monarchy. And he had to see with his own eyes the men, the materiel, the final plans, and meet the man upon whose shoulders would rest the responsibility of ensuring that this time failure was not an option.
Six months earlier he had paid his old comrade the Lion of Punjab the princely sum of five million dollars. Money taken 'off the books' from a secret slush fund he had access to at the Bank of England. Gold bullion had been placed in the vault of a small family bank in Basel, Switzerland. For that he had acquired the services of a certain Colonel Zazi, the second-most-powerful warlord in al-Rashad's universe, and his dedicated team of thirty young commandos whom he had been training here in the mountains for six long months. Zazi and his men were to be the backbone of his next operation. He had seen enough to satisfy himself that it was a backbone made of steel.
He looked back at the camel carrying his supplies in saddlebags cinched round his girth and smiled. Though he was a man of a certain age, his still youthful face was alight with a fire that might terrify the unsuspecting. The fire inside burned brightly and its fuel was pure evil. He was a man nearing the resolution of a destiny predetermined long ago. He knew his time was short; the fuse that was his life of vengeance was burning rapidly, and he spurred his steed onward.
High above the desert sands, white stars burned holes in the black sky. He rode on, urging his camel driver to keep up.
He had an appointment in Samarra and he was running a tad late.
In the distance, barely visible on an unmarked paved strip of desert, he could now make out a black, otherworldly silhouette. It was sleek and ominous in the starlight, a machine from another planet. Two orange ovals were aglow at the rear of the beast, heat from the two Rolls-Royce BR710 engines. As he drew closer, the shape- shifter resolved itself into the now quite unmistakable outline of a Gulfstream V.
Jet black paint, gleaming under starlight. No markings. Blacked-out windows. Air Incognito, he liked to call his airplane. If you listened very closely you could hear the low shhhh of its two powerful engines, even at this distance.
He was feeling very close to the end of his life's journey now, and the hour of true vengeance drew nigh.
The door lowered out of the fuselage as he steered his horse down the black macadam strip to the waiting aircraft. Two men in black jumpsuits, armed against possible attack, descended the steps and took up protective positions on either side of the staircase, swiveling their weapons through ninety degrees in either direction. The G-V was a juicy target, and now was the time for extreme vigilance.
Smith dismounted and turned the stallion's reins over to his camel driver. Then he turned toward the opened door of the aircraft where two more men waited, hovering just inside. Smith beckoned them.
'See to my luggage, please, gentlemen.'
This done, Smith pulled a leather pouch from inside his blankets and produced a thick wad of Pakistani rupees. His camel driver accepted this generous consideration, mounted his animal, and was gone into the desert vastness in a blink.
The Englishman quickly climbed aboard, the two armed men right behind him. Smith settled into his accustomed leather recliner on the starboard side of the aircraft and nodded to the pretty attendant who strapped him in.
'May I bring you something?'
'A pillow and a blanket perhaps. I am tired,' he said. 'I will sleep now.'
'Ready for takeoff, sir?'
'Oh. You have no idea how ready I am, darling.'
Minutes later, the twin engines at the tail roared and the sleek black airplane surged ahead at full power, pressing the Englishman deeply into his seat, and suddenly lifted off into the nighttime sky. After a steep climb, it banked hard left.
It was headed west.
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, THE ENGLISHMAN made a satellite telephone call to Sheik al-Rashad. 'Hello, my brother,' Smith said. 'I just wanted you to know that I arrived safely.'
'Brother, are you calling on a secure line?'
Smith laughed. 'Yes, I certainly am. It is perhaps the most secure line in the entire world.'
'Good. How may I be of further service to you?'
'It is I who wishes to be of service. I am calling you with a warning. First, is your Islamabad luggage still in your possession?'
'It is. I am expecting a courier in the next few days. He will then smuggle it directly into the belly of the Great Satan, as we discussed. The weapon will be detonated in the center of the designated American metropolis to maximum effect. And I anticipate it will come as something of a shock to the laughable nation of infidels who have grown so complacent, so pitifully weak.'
Smith laughed. 'A wake-up call so to speak.'
'Yes, brother. But tell me. You mentioned a warning.'
'Yes. I am calling to warn you about the man who forced your hasty departure from the hospital at Islamabad. As of this moment he is crossing the northern desert with a small army of heavily armed fighters, headed for the mountains mounted on horseback. Perhaps thirty or so. He is coming after you.'
'Does he know where I am?'
'I'm afraid that he does.'
'Precisely?'
'Yes.'
'Then I must hurry and prepare a welcoming committee for this troublesome pest. We will ensure that he receives a very warm reception at Wazizabad.'
'Brother, listen carefully to me. Do not take this man lightly. His name is Alex Hawke. MI6. He is one of the most effective and most lethal counterterrorists in the Western world. The Russians, the Chinese, the Cubans, all have confronted him, and all have regretted it. I would go so far as to say he is perhaps the most dangerous man alive. Many have underestimated him over the years, and all paid dearly, most of them with their lives.'
'Ah, I see. So, I will heighten my security and use extra caution. I am capable of surprises of my own. I deeply appreciate this warning, my brother. Peace be with you.'
'And also with you.'
FIFTY-SIX
THE RAT PATROL RODE OUT at dawn; the desert air was frigid but bracing. Hawke rode a chestnut stallion standing fifteen hands at the head of his ragtag army. His weapon was in a leather scabbard mounted on the right side of his saddle. For some reason, during the night, Patoo had braided a scarlet pom-pom into the coarse hair at his animal's forehead, giving his steed a more warlike appearance. Hawke had named the stallion 'Copenhagen' after the magnificent chestnut warhorse that carried Wellington to victory at Waterloo.
Hawke was followed by his now deeply trusted aide-de-camp, Abdul 'Absolutely!' Dakkon, followed by Sahira. Behind her rode Stokely Jones on a huge white horse he had now taken to calling 'Snowball,' even though the horse's proclivity for biting humans and other horses made this innocuous name ill-fitting.
The previous night Hawke had ordered Sahira to keep her mount between his and Stokely's at all times as they crossed a desert valley. This high desert valley was still considered one of the most dangerous places on earth. But
