“The prince respects you a great deal,” Hassan said, attempting small talk. “He was worried that you might have been hurt in the recent unpleasantness.”
“I am only sorry that so many of our brave brothers gave their lives to the cowardly Americans,” I answered. “And I’m greatly troubled that I would have caused a man as noble as Prince Abdul any distress. I do hope that he will accept my humble apologies.”
The door whisked open at the top floor. We exited into a long hallway, and Hassan led the way into a meeting room the size of an aircraft hangar.
It was only because of Big Eddie that I knew anything about this meeting which was conducted annually in extreme secrecy. By special invitation only, it was a gathering of the region’s movers and shakers, and a handful of special guests from the rest of the world. Businessmen, politicians, scions of powerful families, royalty, and propaganda masters, some of the most important string-pullers on Earth were gathered here. Unspeakable things were planned in this room, agendas set, and massive checks written. This was where the real behind-the-scenes action took place.
Reaper’s conspiracy-theory radio would have a heart attack.
The guests were milling around, eating endangered species off a buffet table that could feed Ecuador for a year, mingling and waiting for their host to arrive. I recognized many of them from the flashcards, others from the news. I stayed in character, passing through the room, looking for familiar faces, watching for anyone who might know the terrorist financier that I was pretending to be. In this crowd, Falah was a low-level player. He barely ranked an invite only due to his many contacts. If a bombing was going down within 1,500 miles, Falah probably knew about it beforehand.
The prince had not arrived yet. In a country with 4,000 members of the royal family, he was not even close to being the heir, but through malicious use of his fortune, Prince Abdul had carved a place for himself as the ultimate arbiter of power in the Middle East, and since the world’s economy had stupidly become dependent upon this region’s resources, the decisions he made affected every person on the planet. He had his fingers in everything, oil, war, politics, even entertainment. Nothing happened here unless the prince had knowledge of it. OPEC was his bitch.
The annual meeting was held for two reasons. First, so the prince could set his agenda for the next year, and coerce or bribe the various VIPs to work together to accomplish his goals. Second, it was to stroke his massive ego. He liked being so important that presidents and dictators jumped at his command. Factions that absolutely hated each other came together for this meeting, all evil but each hoping to be the side that curried the prince’s favor this year. This must be what Satan’s throne room was like.
Of the hundred or so guests, there were maybe a dozen Europeans, a few Asians, and a handful of Africans. I recognized one American, a former senator who was surely here lobbying on behalf of something nefarious.
There was one man standing to the side that I knew immediately, not from the flashcards but from the protestor’s signs. General Al Sabah had come himself to pay respects to the ultimate Godfather. He looked a little uncomfortable. Maybe his ascension hadn’t had the prince’s blessing, but he’d earned his way in through ruthlessness. I’m sure he’d fit right in.
Flash back to the model. Remember the layout. Focus on the mission.
A hand fell on my shoulder. I slowly turned. It was one of the Europeans. “Ah, Mr. Al Falah. What a pleasure to meet you,” the man said. He didn’t look like much.
Falah’s English was rough, halting, and so was mine. “The pleasure is mine . . .” I did not recognize him from the flashcards. “Mister?”
“Montalban. Eduard Montalban.” He smiled, but his eyes were pools of nothing. I had looked into serpent’s eyes that held more soul. He leaned in close and hissed in my ear, “But for you, Lorenzo, my friends call me Big Eddie.”
I couldn’t speak. Big Eddie was real.
His accent was British, and his manner was effeminate. His nails were manicured, and each finger had some form of expensive jewelry on it. Probably only in his thirties, with Flock of Seagulls hair and dark circles under his eyes, he looked skinny and weak. He even spoke with a bit of a lisp.
All this time, I had been picturing Lex Luthor, and instead I got Carson from Queer Eye. It was a bit of a shock. As Carl would say, Big Eddie was a poofter. This really wasn’t what I had expected.
But I would be a fool to underestimate him. I knew for a fact that he was directly responsible for hundreds, if not thousands, of murders. He was a pure killer. This man had more blood on his hands than anyone could ever imagine.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Montalban. I do not believe that I’ve seen you at this meeting before.” It was difficult to stay in Al Falah mode and not just snap his neck. The room was lined with guards, and I wouldn’t make it ten feet. I could live, well, die with that, but it would seal my crew’s fate as well.
“No. You would be correct. This is my first year. Normally my half-brother represents the family interests.” Eddie did not blink as he appraised me. My initial take had been correct. There was no soul in there. He was empty.
“It is unfortunate that he could not make it.”
“Yes. His boat exploded. Bloody sad bit of business, that.” He glanced over his shoulder at the American delegation. “That Senator Kenton is a batty shit, isn’t she? Hag just won’t shut up. Her people are a constant pain in my arse.”
“Indeed. Filthy Americans,” I responded. What was he doing here? I struggled to be polite while the wheels in my brain were turning. “So, what is it that you do, Mr. Montalban?”
“The family business.” he waved his hand dismissively. “Shipping, mostly. All the oil in the world won’t do any good if they can’t move it, you know. I don’t trouble myself with the details.” Then Eddie leaned back in and whispered into my good ear. “Just a slight change of plan, chap. You just keep up the good work. Pretend I’m not here.” His closeness made me cringe.
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” I whispered.
“I make the deal. You do what I say.” He must have caught the murderous glimmer in my eye. “That would be a mistake, my friend. Even if you succeeded in taking me out, your family would still die.”
“What do you want?”
His breath stank of menthol lozenges. “Why, you’re a legend. The family wouldn’t be where it was today if it hadn’t been for you. I just wanted to meet you in person.” He reached up and tugged on the end of my beard. “I’d say face-to-face, but this is close enough. You’re probably the best employee I’ve ever had. When you quit, I was simply heartbroken.”
I had been warned back then. Nobody left Big Eddie’s service. Nobody. “Yeah, me, too.”
“Do your job. Now get back to work.” Eddie adjusted his silk tie as he walked away, waving foppishly at someone else, returning to the party.
Focus on the plan. Deal with Eddie later. It took me a moment to compose myself. Why had he bothered? It didn’t make any sense. Shit. He’d told me his name. He was going to kill me.
Servants in tuxedos began to usher the guests away from the buffet and toward a rectangular table the size of a basketball court. Bummer, since the harp seal looked delicious. The meeting was about to begin. I could only hope that Reaper and Carl were ready. I checked Falah’s Rolex, the meeting was exactly on schedule. It was time.
Hanging back, I waited for the group to begin to sit in their assigned places around the giant table. The room gradually darkened; projectors came out of the ceiling and displayed images and maps on the walls. The prince entered the room, and the power brokers politely clapped. Prince Abdul was one of the richest people in the world. If he woke up with a tummy ache, gas prices would go up fifty cents a gallon by lunchtime, so you damn well better believe they clapped.