My God, I thought. The woman is a fanatic.
Ling straightened her hair and blushed slightly. “I apologize, Michael. I get carried away on occasion. I am very passionate about this, I’m afraid.”
“I can, uh, see that,” I managed. Crazy, I didn’t add.
“I do have a point,” Ling said, obviously a little embarrassed. “As I said, I’m not trying to talk you out of doing what you think you must do. My whole life is dedicated to bringing vengeance to the corrupt and the wicked. I am in no position to lecture you about doing the very same thing in your own way.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why did you bring me out here?”
“Really, Michael, I just wanted to talk to you. You obviously had something on your mind.”
“So . . . you’ll help me go home, then?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “It might take a little time, but we will find you a safe way to return to the United States, if that’s what you really want. We’ll be sorry to lose you, but I’m not going to stand in your way.” Ling’s expression hardened. “I do have some advice for you. There’s a very fine line between avenging those who have been wronged and seeking revenge for your own gratification. It’s easy to stray from one side to the other. Once you start down that path, it becomes harder and harder to turn around. There’s no telling where it will lead you, and you may not like where you end up. You may find yourself digging your own grave in addition to your enemy’s. Are you prepared to deal with the consequences?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, looking out over the ocean. “But I don’t have anything to lose. They took everything from me. My life, my friends . . . Sarah. What else can I do?”
“Would Sarah have wanted you to make this choice?”
Ling stared at me for a few seconds. I really didn’t have an answer to that. The question made me uncomfortable. After a moment, Ling’s expression softened. I could almost see the gears turning behind her dark eyes, but as usual she gave no indication of what she was thinking. I was taken by complete surprise when she grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly.
“Walk with God, Michael,” she said. “And please be careful.” She let go of my hand, stood up, and turned away. She paused after a few steps and looked over her shoulder. “It will take me a few days, maybe a bit longer, to make the preparations. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”
Ling then walked away without looking back.
Chapter 23:
The Heist
LORENZO
June 15
Countdown to D-Day.
The radio was on in the background. Just as I had expected, General Al Sabah’s true colors were showing. All of Zubara’s major industries had been nationalized, and if you didn’t like it, too bad, please line up against that wall and wait your turn. The brain drain of the upper-class fleeing was already starting to affect the running of the country. People who had cheered the general’s rise to power a few short months ago were cursing now as their property was confiscated. The university had been closed down, the remains turned over to the craziest mullah he could find. The Zoob was toast.
People never learn. It made me kind of melancholy. I had liked this city. But it didn’t matter, we’d be leaving for our meeting in Saudi Arabia shortly, and I didn’t plan on ever coming back. I’d had some good times here. Shaking my head, I went back to work comparing three different shades of brown contact lenses so that I could match Falah perfectly. Good times? I was just being stupid. Carl shouted for me from the garage.
“What do you think?” he asked proudly when I came down the stairs. He was gesturing at the massive black car that filled the entire space. “No more of that pussy van. This is class.” It was a Mercedes-Benz 600 luxury car, built in 1968. When I had explained the plan to Carl, he had been very specific about what kind of vehicle we would need. “six point three liter V8, single overhead cam, Bosch mechanical fuel injection, hydraulic suspension, sweet mother of God, it has hydraulic windows and trunk lid.”
“You’re starting to sound like Reaper,” I said.
Carl shook his head at my apparent lack of appreciation for automotive excellence. “No soft electronics, genius. I’ve worked this baby over. She’s cherry. I don’t know where Hosani found her, but damn.” He whistled.
“Maybe he bought it off Fidel Castro?”
Reaper was in the backseat, bolting Starfish down. Our testing yesterday out in the boondocks had shown it was ready to go. He chimed in. “Pol Pot, Kim Jong Il, and Ceaucescu drove one of these, too. Idi Amin, Ferdinand Marcos, all the real bad asses. This is the ultimate dictator dope-ride.”
“Don’t forget Elvis Presley,” I added. “And the Popemobile.”
“See,” Carl insisted. “Those guys know class.” He turned back to the car sadly. “Too bad we’ve got to trash her.”
“Every mission has casualties. We’re sacrificing her for the greater good.” I put my arm over his shoulder. “Dude, we live through this and I’ll buy you two.”
Carl patted the hood fondly. “I’m gonna hold you to that, Lorenzo.”
LORENZO
East of Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
June 18
Phase Three begins.
The palace compound rose out of the bleak desert like some ancient monument. It was the only human habitation for miles, with nothing but sand stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see. It had once been an oasis and was now a self-contained miniature city. Isolation was the complex’s first layer of defense. There was no way to sneak in. If you wanted to get through those walls, you needed an invitation.
Behind the walls lived a staff numbering in the hundreds, and only a select few of them were ever allowed to leave. Every inch of the interior was constantly monitored. The security here was so unbelievably tight that only once a year were outsiders allowed into the inner sanctum.
The temperature outside was so bad that the window glass of the limousine was scorching hot to the touch, but the overburdened air conditioner kept me semi-comfortable in my traditional robes and additional fake fat padding. Starfish was sitting on the floor next to my legs, black and ominous. “Reaper, is this thing going to give me cancer?”
“Probably not. Now back to quizzing. Third wife’s name and birthday?” Reaper spoke from the front seat. He looked much different with his hair in a neat ponytail and wearing a suit. Both he and Carl were sporting the black-sunglasses bodyguard look.
“Sufi. August twentieth, 1985,” I answered, switching back to Arabic. I tugged on the fake beard that had been weaved into the real one I’d grown out over the last two months and dyed gray. “She is a shrill little harpy, who will give a man no rest.”
“What do you think about football?” Carl asked.
I checked the glued on latex attachment on my nose. It itched horribly but looked perfect. “It is a pathetic distraction that takes our young men away from more important pursuits, such as jihad or reading the scriptures,” I replied, knowing that my tone and inflection was a perfect match to the hours of recorded tapes of Falah’s conversations. Then in my own voice in English, “But I think Al-Nasiffia will take the regional championships.”