Hildegard Keppler had been bom in East Germany before the wall came down. Her father had been an assembly-line worker in Dresden, employed at a washing machine factory that produced the typical shoddy products of a socialistic manufacturing system. Hildegard, like all her generation, joined the Young Communist League for activities and recreation that were punctuated with heavy political indoctrination. That part of the activities bored her, but she endured it, as she did the dreadful evening TV when government programs with such subjects as factory production records went on for hours.
It was at the local youth center that Hildegard met Franziska Diehm, a girl her age who became her best friend. Both were pretty and matured young, and when they were fourteen they caught the attention of the commissar who administered their chapter of the Young Communists. The lothario arranged to have them visit him at his retreat on Lake Ellbogen on weekends and during the vacation season.
The commissar's lakefront cabin was one of the typical places where the party elite enjoyed getting away from the pressure of administering a workers' paradise. These excursions were described as nature study to the girls' parents, who were under the impression that all the kids attended.
The first couple of visits were innocent fun with swimming, horseback riding, outdoor sports, and eating exotic foods brought in from West Germany. Eventually, the girls learned that there would be great advantages not only to themselves, but also their families, if they shared sexual favors with the commissar. They had already had some experiences with boys of their own age, and the older man seemed like a good sort, so they acquiesced to his request. At least his lovemaking was more than just a pimply faced adolescent rutting on top of them. The commissar kept his promises, and the girls's fathers were promoted to good jobs, and the families's lives improved as well as could be expected under the Communist regime.
After the Berlin Wall tumbled down, the two girls saw their personal lives spin out of kilter, but they had already learned the value of their bodies. After some futile attempts at finding well-paying jobs in the new united Germany, they decided that since using their sexual charms in a Communist country got them money and benefits, it would be even more rewarding under a capitalist system. After a few awkward months of streetwalking, the two girls met an enterprising middle-aged woman who ran an escort service. Hildegard and Franziska quickly entered her employ, eventually ending up as high-priced call girls in Berlin. As time passed, they eventually began servicing mostly wealthy Saudi Arabians in Germany on business. It was in these circumstances that they met Sheikh Omar Jambarah. He took an instant liking to the young women, and this led to the offer of more pay aboard the Royal Yacht Sayih.
Now, sure her friend had been murdered, Hildegard would go to any length to have revenge on the man who committed the crime. It seemed impossible at first, but this strange and likable Arab-American might be the answer to that great desire. He was a pleasant fellow, rather good-looking, and something about him made Hildegard feel there was some mysterious potency in Mike Assad. These qualities were clandestine but effective, and he seemed the type of man to latch on to, even if only temporarily.
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0945 HOURS LOCAL
SHEIKH Omar Jambarah stood on the reviewing stand located atop the officers' quarters prior to a scheduled parade of the garrison mujahideen. Usually he had an entourage with him for such occasions, but this day he was accompanied by only one man, Mikael Assad.
Mike noticed that the other ranking officers and guests, including Hafez Sabah, were located farther down out of earshot. Mike had been issued several sets of uniforms that were set aside for the al-Mimkhalif elite. These were specially fitted to him in the tailor shop, and were made of high-class olive-drab material woven in German mills. Like everyone else, Mike also sported an Afghanistan pakol cap. This headgear was considered a symbol of the successful resistance to the invasion by the Soviet Union of that country in the 1980s. Even the sheikh always had on one of these peasant caps when he went outside.
The garrison's small drum-and-bugle corps, consisting of three trumpeters, three snare drummers, and a bass drummer, opened the ceremonies. Mike didn't know the military march they played, but it was obviously Arabic and touched something deep within his psyche. Goose bumps broke out on him as the small musical group marched past, the exotic and ancient call to battle sounding across the parade ground.
The fortress guard force, except for those at their posts, next made an appearance. They filed past the reviewing stand in their platoon formations, properly dressed right and covered down. The British influence showed in their style of swinging their arms up to shoulder level, as hobnailed boots stomped in an even staccato across the hard-packed desert earth.
The sheikh glanced over at Mike, smiling. "What do you think of the garrison mujahideen, Mikael?"
"They look really sharp," he replied, remembering that he was not supposed to have any military experience other than the time he'd spent in al-Mimkhalif.
"British officers and soldiers of fortune moved into the Middle East after World War One," Jambarah said. "The type of drill we employ here--or 'bashing on the square'-- is typical of the United Kingdom's armed forces. I received military training in Britain as a boy cadet in school."
"This is a smart-looking place," Mike said. As he watched the marching men, he thought they would have served their cause better up in the mountains under Kumandan's command.
"You are not aware of it," Jambarah said, "but you are in the supreme headquarters of al-Mimkhalif."
Mike forgot about the music and the marching as he saw the chance to pick up some excellent intelligence data without arousing suspicion. Any inquiries on his part now would seem no more than natural curiosity. "Does our great leader Husan stay here? I would like to meet him."
"You already have, Mikael," Jambarah said. "I am Husan. It is my nom de guerre. That is French for 'war name.'"
Mike was surprised in a way, but not completely. But he played the naive-kid role and stared openmouthed at the sheikh. "Wow!"
"My family is tied in closely with the Saudi government," Jambarah said. "I will not discuss that with you now, but you will learn more about it later. You may be sure you are destined to hobnob with some very important people on the Arabian Peninsula."
Mike's mind swirled. I gotta get the fuck out of here and back to American intelligence, he told himself. He shook his head, showing an expression of wonder and surprise. "This is really big, Sheikh Omar!"
"Indeed," Jambarah said. "And you will be able to play an important part in our counterattack. This defeat suffered by that rascal Mahamat has not stopped us, though I admit we are slowed a bit." He chuckled. "And the final phase of that unhappy event is about to be played out. Look!" He pointed to a door in the wall across the way.
Commodore Muhammad Mahamat stepped into view from the portal. He was dressed in a simple cotton tawilqamis--the long nightshirt style of peasant dress--and his hands were tied behind his back. He was flanked by two guards and followed by a third man who carried a large sword as the group walked to a place in the middle of the parade ground.
Even from that distance Mike could see that the commodore was in a deep daze. "What's going on?"