“This is a very big gamble,” one man said. “There are so many things that could go wrong now.”
“It has to be done,” a second man said. “We knew we’d have to deal with this situation eventually. No one else was doing anything about it.”
“It was left up to us to take some action,” a third man said. “It shouldn’t have come to this, but it did.”
More cigarettes were lit and more coffee poured. The room became even smokier.
“But we’re walking such a thin line here,” the first man said. “Our people at Langley agree; what few we have left. Our lines of communications could be discovered. Just what the hell we’ve been doing here all these years could be revealed. That would be a disaster.”
“Doing nothing about this situation would be a disaster too,” a fourth voice said. “Our reason for being is not just to sit here and do nothing. Our reason for being is to act as a last resort. That’s what we’ve done in this case. That’s what we had to do.”
“Personally, I think we should have acted long before they sank the LaSallette,” a fifth man added.
This opinion was seconded by the sixth and seventh men present. The first man just shook his head and finally shrugged.
“OK, I just hope these guys can pull it off—it’s such a high-wire act,” he said. “They’re professional military men and 1 just hate pulling their strings like they are puppets. They haven’t got the faintest idea what is really happening and that’s just not right.”
“It’s better that they don’t know,” the second man said. “We agreed on that long ago. Just let them fly the mission. We’ll give them what we can along the way. We’ll have our friend look in on them from time to time. Who knows? They might just get lucky and things will work out our way.”
There was almost a laugh around the table.
“And in thirty-five years, just how many times have we got lucky?” someone asked.
“Just about every time,” the second man said. “I think.”
PART TWO
THE MAN IN ROOM 6
Chapter 16
The palace was called Qom-el-Zarz.
It was located in a very unusual part of the world. Just fifty miles northeast of Baghdad, it straddled the border of Iraq and Iran, tucked away in the very rugged foothills of the Suhr-bal. This area was so barren and desolate, at one time NASA had considered using it as a training ground for U.S. astronauts heading for the moon. In many ways, it did look otherworldly.
The palace was built into the side of a 3500-foot mountain. It looked like a cross between a modern-day fortress and something from the pages of Arabian Nights. Though it had been seen by very few eyes, its architecture was among the most beautiful in the Middle East. It featured four minarets, each one housing a Rapier surface-to-air-missile platform. Its main building was a pale-blue domed affair, looking not unlike a mosque, ringed with satellite dishes and Bofors antiaircraft guns. It was surrounded on all sides by high, thick walls. Their parapets were patrolled day and night by heavily armed mercenaries.
A dozen smaller buildings were scattered around the palace compound itself, which in turn was surrounded by another heavily guarded wall. One building housed a vast collection of rare automobiles. Deusenbergs, Bugattis, Mercers, a half-dozen Lamborghinis, several special-order Jaguars—there were thirty-five of them in all, this despite the fact that only one road led in and out of the palace and it was poorly paved at best.
Another building contained an immense art collection. Rembrandts, Reubens, Titians, Monets, Renoirs. Some sculptures. Some modern pieces. All of the artwork was priceless. Most of it was stolen.
The second-largest structure in the compound was a six-story, twenty-two-room affair located near the outer southern wall. It resembled a five-star hotel, which in some respects it was. It featured great views of the snowcapped Rabat Mountains to the east or the equally pleasing Divila River to the west. Some of the most notorious figures of the last half of the 20th century had come to this place to drop out of sight. Carlos the Jackal had stayed here. So had Idi Amin, Abou Abbas, Carl Letiner of the Cali Cartel, and various members of Hamas, the IRA, and the Red Brigades. Lesser-known art forgers, jewel thieves, wealthy billionaires who’d faked their deaths, and high-up government officials who’d felt the need to disappear—many of them had also spent time as guests in the “Hotel.”
It was said that exactly one half of the Qom-el-Zarz palace sat in Iraq, and the other half in Iran. There was no real proof of this; the border here was hazy at best. But if true, neither Iran or Iraq ever tried to lay claim to the place. This was out of respect for—and fear of—the person who lived here.
His name was Azu-mulla el-Zim, more simply known as “Zim.” He was an odd, mysterious figure, weighing nearly four hundred pounds, with a scraggly beard and Coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses. He was a modern-day sultan of sorts, rich beyond dreams. He had no friends, but no enemies either, as they said in the Middle East. And he was a true paradox. He was a sadist, ruthless in many ways, but also a connoisseur of great art. He was responsible for the deaths of countless innocents over the years, yet tears never failed to come to his eyes when listening to a Wagner opera. His stolen art collection was among the largest in the world, yet he’d made many substantial if secret contributions to the Louvre Fund over the years.
Zim began life as a smuggler at the age of ten, swallowing packets of opium for Syrian drug dealers and then walking across the border into Lebanon to sell them on the other side. As he grew older, he went into dealing arms, heroin, and much later, black-market computer chips. He’d amassed a great fortune simply by eliminating anyone he saw as a competitor. He’d murdered dozens of people himself, and had paid to have hundreds more killed. He read The Wall Street Journal, the Financial Times of London, and at least a dozen other financial sheets cover-to-cover every day, and held huge interests in every large world market. Yet very few people in the West knew he even existed.
His wealth was estimated at several billion. But with Zim, it was not really about money. It was about control, power, and the love of playing two sides against one another. He was ruthless, a misogynist, a charming liar. He lived a fabulous life. He owned many things. He owned many people.
He also owned the AC-130 ArcLight gunship.
Just how Zim had come to possess the special operations plane was a deep mystery to those who knew him.
Some believed Zim had “willed” the airplane to land near his compound the night it disappeared. Others claimed he had somehow interfered with the plane’s navigational system and forced it down that way. Still others said he’d managed to get into the dreams of the pilots flying the plane and had introduced a hypnotic suggestion forcing them to land that night. Another tale said he’d secretly paid off the crew weeks before, and that they came willingly.
But however he’d come to own it, he considered it more than just another weapon or another piece of art.
In many ways, it was his most prized possession.
On this day, Zim was sitting in his main chamber, perched upon exactly one hundred large silk pillows, reading the latest edition of Le Monde.
He was of indeterminate age; though he looked to be in his mid-fifties, it was thought he was at least twenty years older. His usual attire was a simple silk gown, sandals, and a kufi. His beard was somewhat gray, his skin tanned on his face and hands, but nowhere else. When he spoke English, he did so with a pronounced lisp.