“What Max didn’t know is that Kerikov and Rufti planned to cancel the deal all along and leave him with the mess following the destruction of the Petromax Arctica. Max had already fulfilled his part of the bargain, letting them use his ships and washing their money, so they were going to doublecross him. To ensure he never revealed what he’d done, Kerikov and Rufti’s assistant, a man named Abu Alam-”
“Oh, we know Alam,” Bigelow said. “The man’s a bloody psychotic.”
“Right now he’s just blood. Maybe a little tissue, but I doubt it. Anyway, Alam and Kerikov kidnapped Johnston’s daughter, Aggie. By holding her, Kerikov could threaten Max with her death if their deal were ever made public. Johnston’s hands were tied.”
“So Max Johnston didn’t know that the money he laundered from Rufti would eventually be used to destroy him?” Khalid asked.
“He had no idea. Kerikov and Rufti played off his greed for their own benefit while planning to betray him. It’s almost like a Shakespearean tragedy in its scope. It hasn’t been reported yet, but the FBI raided Max’s home yesterday. I was told by Dick Henna that Johnston had shot himself. I doubt he knew that Kerikov was no longer holding his daughter, so he must have traded the silence of his death for her life.”
“And avoided a long stint in gaol,” Bigelow said.
“I’ve known Max for a number of years. He would have gone to prison to make things right. I believe he saw his suicide as a way of rescuing his daughter, not to avoid his responsibilities.”
“Did Johnston know that Kerikov was using that oil rig you escaped from?”
“Yes, he did know that. Actually, Kerikov took it over and then told Max about it. But it was too late for him to do anything. He was in too deep.”
“And you managed to stop it all before it really even began?”
“Well, it did begin in the United States, but yes, it’s over. The twin spills in Alaska and Puget Sound were not nearly as bad as they could have been. Cleanup will still run into the hundreds of millions of dollars, but since this was a terrorist act, the federal government will be picking up a good share of the cost. But here in the Gulf, Kerikov and Rufti’s operation never really got off the ground. Colonel Bigelow told me a little about the action this morning. That was where everything finally stopped, Kerikov’s plan, Rufti’s coup, and the Iran-Iraq pact to dominate the Middle East.”
Khalid smiled for the first time since their conversation began. “At dawn this morning, a squadron of American F-18 Hornets from the carrier Carl Vinson made a series of subsonic passes over the tanker sitting off the coast, Petromax Arabia or Southern Accent, whatever you prefer to call it. Your Admiral Morrison phoned me himself to lend U.S. air support to our seaborne counterstrike.”
Bigelow continued for Khalid, adding the color that he felt the story needed. “While the fighters were strafing the port side of the tanker with Gatling gunfire and barrages of unguided rockets, UAE special forces boarded the tanker from the starboard, capturing the ship without ever needing to fire a shot. All of Hasaan Rufti’s troops were more than happy to surrender after the aerial bombardment.”
“Preliminary reports from our intelligence people indicate that they had lists of those to be executed and those who would be loyal to the new regime, as well as timetables for linking up with forces sweeping through Kuwait and Saudi Arabia,” Khalid concluded.
“Why didn’t your CIA catch on to the troop movements already under way in Iran and Iraq?” Bigelow directed the question to Mercer as if he were responsible for America’s lack of hard data.
“You can move troops in school buses and artillery pieces in tractor trailers, and tanks can be deployed like mobile homes. If the effort is coordinated, it’s impossible to detect,” Mercer lied. He believed it was more plausible that American Intelligence had been caught unaware again, as it had when Saddam Hussein first took Kuwait. Changing the touchy subject, Mercer asked, “So where does this leave us? Is everything settled?”
“Mostly,” Khalid said. “The troops we captured this morning, and the division Rufti had poised in Ajman, will be tried for treason and executed some time next month. Those who are not Emirate residents — mercenaries and the Iranian and Iraqi instructors — will be deported within the week, probably to face heroes’ welcomes, but that’s the price we pay for diplomacy.”
“What about Rufti?” Mercer asked.
“We have something very special planned for him. Perhaps you would like to watch. It won’t be pleasant, but I can assure you it will be satisfying.” Khalid checked his watch. “It’s time for lunch. Afterward, we’ll go see the esteemed Hasaan bin-Rufti.”
They dined in a private room at the top floor of Khalid’s office building, a sumptuous meal of curried lamb, whose flavor and spice balance kept Mercer eating well past the point when he was full. Though Khalid Khuddari abstained, Wayne Bigelow seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of wines in some private cellar. He found a soul mate in Mercer, bringing out three bottles before the meal was finished and stuffing a bottle of eighty-year-old brandy into his tunic for the ride that followed.
Seated in the back of a limousine racing out into the desert on the Al Ain Road, Bigelow and Mercer, after having shown the aromatic spirit its proper deferential respect, passed it back and forth, drawing from its open neck like soldiers slugging water from a single canteen. The ride, like the meal, was one of celebration. After an hour in the air-conditioned car, the three men transferred to a converted truck, the heavy vehicle reconfigured to make it more usable in the harsh desert environs. Khalid had to be carried from one vehicle to the other. He tried walking, but his canes sank into the soft sand. He withstood the ignominy stoically.
The ride out into the desert was over a tortuous route that was barely a rut in the baked earth, the truck jostling passengers and driver alike as it bucked farther into the empty expanse. The air in the high cab was approaching a hundred degrees, and even the breeze funneling through the open windows was too hot to be a comfort. Abrasive particles of sand swirled through the truck, covering the seats, the dash, the men themselves. If it weren’t for the brandy, Mercer would have considered the trip miserable.
Two hours after leaving the main road, the truck ground over the top of an old dry wadi and rumbled to its bottom. The sun was high overhead, blazing at its hottest in the midafternoon. Another truck was parked in the ancient riverbed, a boxy ten-wheeler, its canvas cargo cover faded and torn by years in the desert. Several Bedouins were hunched around a small, smokeless fire a short distance from the truck, their long robes protecting their skin from the brutal solar rays. They stood when they saw Khalid Khuddari shuffling toward them, his canes finding better purchase on the riverbed’s hardpan.
As was the custom of the nomads, Khalid and the Bedouins spoke for a few minutes, gesturing and laughing like old friends reunited after a long absence. Khalid took a cup of strong tea from them, Mercer and Bigelow following suit. After another long exchange that Bigelow seemed to follow with interest, one of the nomads detached himself from the group and went to the back of the truck. Returning a moment later, he placed a large plastic crate on the ground near Khalid.
From within it, a falcon called clearly — as if to welcome her master.
Hasaan bin-Rufti was secured to four metal stakes that had been driven into the ground. He lay naked and spread-eagle under the sun’s glare; his body burned raw and blistered by the sun. His hairless body was so rounded and creased by the rolls of fat that he resembled a pillowy Scandinavian sofa covered in bright red vinyl. He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours. The ravaging thirst that burned his throat was matched by the deep rumbling in his empty stomach. He hadn’t had a thing for hours now, and the lack of food was drifting his mind and blurring his thinking.