terrified. He had made the connection between himself and the bird as soon as his host had started to speak, but there was nothing he could do. The last of the limousines had pulled away a moment ago, taking with it his only chance of escape. All that remained were the two large trucks that would bring Khalid and his aides to the party he was throwing at Al-Ain.
“I think that-”
“Not a word.” Khalid whirled so that he faced Rufti, the falcon nearly losing her perch on his arm. “It is time for the hunt. I believe the poor creature can still fly, but we shall see.”
Rufti looked unsure, scared. He pulled the fat bird close to his chest as if its survival meant his own. “I don’t think I want to see this.”
“Release!”
Without thinking, Rufti did. The pigeon rose sluggishly from his hands, heaving itself into flight with sheer force of will. Khalid immediately loosed the jesses, and Sahara took to the wing.
The normal technique of a hunting falcon is to gain altitude and use its devastating dive to take down its prey, but Sahara ignored her instinct. The pigeon was so slow and lethargic that she came at it from behind, her amazing speed closing the distance in only a few beats of her wings. The pigeon didn’t have the strength or the ability to alter its course as it felt the falcon closing in for the kill.
Sahara raked her legs forward, drawing her talons up so she struck with her claws. At the instant of impact, she twisted slightly, tearing the pigeon into two bloody halves that she dropped immediately, contemptuously. The chase had taken seven yards. Three and a half seconds.
The two globs that had been the pigeon landed on the desert with a dull thud, spraying bright blood that soaked into the parched sand. Sahara fell onto the dead bird, tearing at it with beak and talon, stuffing her crop with strips of flesh as quickly as she ripped them from the carcass. Khalid ignored her, letting her eat her fill. He turned to Rufti, who was visibly shaken by the slaughter.
“Even a man of your limited intelligence should see significance in this situation. There are no witnesses right now; my assistants are members of my clan and would say nothing of what occurs here. Don’t think that I won’t kill you where you stand.
“I may be new to my job, Rufti, but I take my responsibilities far more seriously than you can imagine. I’ve taken the time to learn every facet of the UAE’s oil business. I’ve met hundreds of employees, from the managing directors down to the derrickmen in the field. I see all and I’m beginning to know all as well. I’ve been getting reports recently, disturbing reports of money being funneled into this country in the form of oil exploration grants, yet no work is ever done. I’ve seen entry and exit visas for men who do not exist, and I’ve heard rumors about a compound in your native Ajman, deep in the desert where no man has a reason to be.”
Khalid watched Rufti carefully and he noticed a spark of defiance burning behind the fat man’s eyes. His true character could be seen in that spark, for though he looked the fool there was true strength at the heart of that fleshy body. Maybe not now, not under these circumstances, but Hasaan Rufti was a very dangerous man.
“Eleven months ago, just a short time after the American President’s announcement, you were seen in Istanbul meeting with a man named Ivan Kerikov, a former high-ranking member of the KGB. Not long after that, money started flowing through Ajman’s Oil Ministry as if you’d just struck it rich. We both know that Ajman has no oil, but your department now has a budget of thirty million dollars in untraceable funds. Where did that money come from, Hasaan? You are too stupid to think an original thought, so I want to know who is bankrolling whatever it is you’re doing.”
Rufti opened his mouth to speak, but Khalid cut him off instantly. “Shut up. Don’t say a word. Whatever you say right now will be a lie, so save your breath.
“Because of your position within the government and the uncertainty of the times, we both know I can’t mount an official investigation, but you’d better believe that I’m not going to let this end here today. Now more than ever the UAE and OPEC have to show the world a united front. I want you to know that I will fight you, Rufti. I will fight you as the Minister of Petroleum for the UAE, I will fight you as a friend of the royal family, and I will fight you as a man who believes in justice. Consider yourself warned. Whatever it is you’re scheming, will not succeed.”
Khalid whirled away but turned back to the startled Rufti.
“We’re leaving now, my two cousins and I. When we reach Al-Ain, I’ll send a truck back to take you to that important meeting in Ajman. The truck should return in about an hour. It will be the longest hour of your life. Use the time wisely. Think about what I said, because if I don’t like your explanations next time we speak, there will be no truck to come to your rescue.”
Khalid’s parting words were spoken over his shoulder as he and his clansmen were striding across the hardpan toward the trucks. Rufti tried to follow, but his tremendous bulk slowed him to the point of capitulation. He stopped, watching the rapier figure of Khuddari gliding across the desert, the falcon on his arm, flanked by the robed Bedouin.
Rufti stood still for many long minutes after the sound of the departing trucks had been swallowed by the emptiness of the desert. When finally his rage abated to the point where he could think, a sickening smile piled up skin and fat atop his cheekbones. “You are too late, Khalid Al-Khuddari. Charon is already at his landing and ready to cross the River Styx with the soul of the United States as his passenger. You’ll never know who paid the toll, because you are going to be the first to die.”
Arlington, Virginia
Last night had ranked on the top ten list of Mercer’s worst. Following the attack, he spent four hours in the pandemonium of DC General’s emergency room. Ultimately, he was given an adhesive bandage for the cut on his cheek, a paper shot glass with two aspirins for his pain, and a prod in the chest to prove his ribs weren’t broken. The whole time, two uniformed cops guarded him as if he were public enemy number one.
Just as dawn was tinting the eastern horizon, he was released from the hospital and taken to the Arlington police station for a further three hours of inane, repetitive questions. There was no doubt that he was innocent of any wrongdoing, but it seemed that the cops needed to fill their quota of harassment and Mercer was unlucky enough to be there at the wrong time. He was allowed to leave with a stiff warning to stay in the Washington area and to report any suspicious activities in his neighborhood.
Mercer shed his tuxedo jacket as he made his way up to the bar on the second floor of his home. Whether he picked up the jacket later that day or later that year made no difference to him. His head ached fiercely, and his mouth felt as if a furry rodent had spent the night in it. His eyes were red-rimmed and gritty. He’d had a good buzz when he’d left Tiny’s, but now all he had was a raging hangover and an exhaustion that ran to his bones.
He knew that the attack last night had not been a random occurrence. He had been targeted as surely as Jerry and John Small. He was certain that Howard was also a target and more than likely dead by now. And linking them was the
What had been aboard the derelict that was worth killing to protect? Mercer wondered. His only clue was the mangled piece of stainless steel with the name roger on it, and he wasn’t even sure if there was any significance to it.
And now with two confirmed deaths, a possible third, and the attempt on his life, Mercer recognized that the stakes had been raised too high for him to play alone. He needed help. He cracked open a Heineken from the antique refrigerator, settled himself at the bar, and reached for the cordless phone. The private cell phone number he dialed was part of the directory he carried in his head.
“Hello?”
“Dick, Mercer here.”
“Oh, shit. What’s happened now?”
Dick Henna was the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and one of Mercer’s closest friends. They had met during the crisis in Hawaii and had maintained a tight relationship ever since. Mercer was always welcome for dinner at Henna’s house, and his wife, Fay, was determined to get him paired up.
“That’s a cheery greeting,” Mercer said. “But you’re right, something’s up. I was attacked last night coming home from Tiny’s.”
“Jesus. You all right?” While technically a bureaucrat, Henna had never lost the razor edginess he’d acquired
