“You want to go to London?”
“Someone’s trying to wreak havoc on the U.S. economy. Al-Bashir is the only link we have now.”
The flicker of flashing green and red police lights lit up the rearview mirror. Hauck put the car back in gear.
“You’re lucky,” he said, pulling back onto the road. “I just happen to be free.”
Naomi looked out the window with a worried smile. “Whew.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The young girl trembled a bit, clearly scared.
Hassan ibn Hassani looked her over. She was only fourteen. Often they lied. But this one was truly a goddess. Her breasts were fully formed and he saw them quiver expectantly under her robe. Her hair was thick and soft as sable. Her eyes were dark, perfectly almond. Her lips were small yet full. There was a deepness to her that delighted him. Afraid, and yet intrigued by his attention.
And she had never been touched before.
“Exquisite.” Hassani smiled, signaling to the woman who had brought her that he was truly satisfied. There were twenty thousand euros for her in an envelope on the way out. Twenty thousand euros. For a fraction of that, he could fuck the most beautiful women in the world. Models, beauty pageant contestants, aspiring Bollywood starlets. But this one was a jewel. Unspoiled. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“What’s your name?”
“Sera,” the girl replied tremulously.
Sera. She had come from one of his villages back in the kingdom. A village that his family, sheiks for over two hundred years, still controlled. Her father had gotten into some trouble, built up a world of debts. A trifle to Hassani, who was willing to wipe the slate clean in an instant.
For such a price.
“Are you afraid?” he asked. He sat back in the gilded antique chair at his desk, a Louis XVI. He reached out and touched her hand. Electricity surged through him.
She flinched.
“Don’t be,” he said, letting his fingers fall from her hand and brush against her thigh. He imagined the heave of her delicious breasts underneath, the tautness of her nipples. “You are doing your father a great service. There, you would have nothing. And he would have been ruined. Here, you will have everything you need.”
Here, Hassani thought with pride, was his home on one of the many private islands that had been reclaimed from the sand in Dubai. More of a palace than a home. Modeled after a Venetian palazzo on the Grand Canal. Like a Canaletto painting, of which he possessed two.
Desire and anticipation surged through him. Yes, he lived a complicated life. He had contacts all over the world. He had sold arms. Secrets. He had enabled those who had caused many deaths. In the prophet’s name.
And yet he had also been a great friend to those in need-in the West. He had arranged financing for their most troubled banks. He was a conduit to the greatest wealth in the world, which these companies now needed. He was welcome in boardrooms across the globe. In government houses.
It was necessary to tread in both worlds in these times. To serve several masters. To keep a sense of balance.
And one of his many masters was the desire that rose up in his loins as he imagined the soft purr she would emit as he entered her before any others.
The way Hassani looked at it, he had sent many men on the path to countless virgins in paradise.
He was simply hedging his bet, as always.
He would take his here.
As he admired her, Hassani’s cell phone rang. His attention was so complete, he barely heard it. He looked at the display, disappointed that it was a call he had to take. “I’m sorry.” He sighed sadly. “I’ll need you to wait outside.”
He took the call, imagining the thought of running his hands underneath her robe. Hearing her cry out for the first time. Having her many times, until he dumped her back in her remote village, where she would be looked at as a whore.
“Hello,” Hassani said, lifting the phone and staring across the bay at the majestic Dubai skyline.
“Just letting you know,” the caller said in code, “that that matter of an old debt has been finally taken care of. But I fear there’s another issue. The two bondholders have left.”
“Left?”
“Another interested party, perhaps. Perhaps in London…”
“London,” Hassani said sadly. That would be a shame. He loved that lad like a son.
“See if they make contact,” the Bahraini said. “If they do, let me know.”
Maybe the time had come to close up the loose ends.
It was a complicated time. You had to see things many ways. It was written in the book: destruction first before renewal.
His entertainment would have to wait.
Hassani looked at his watch. A Breguet masterpiece. One of a kind. This little problem had to be shared. With the next level. There were others involved. It was six P.M.-morning in New York. He should just be catching him at his desk.
He pressed the speed dial and waited.
“Hanni,” his contact said when he picked up, six thousand miles across the globe.
Peter Simons. The CEO of Reynolds Reid.
PART IV
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
They arrived at Heathrow midday Saturday.
This time Naomi had alerted a contact with Scotland Yard that she wanted to speak with a Saudi residing in London about his involvement in a case she was working on. The official asked if she needed any support while she was there and she said she would advise. She also registered her firearm with the authorities. The last people she wanted to piss off were the British government. They weren’t in Serbia anymore.
She and Hauck booked rooms in a boutique hotel in Kensington called Number 29, a reconverted row of town houses that Naomi had stayed in before. On the way, they had their taxi pass by Marty al-Bashir’s home-a stately town house on Chesterfield Mews in Mayfair amid a quiet row of Georgian homes.
“There’s number sixty there,” the driver said, pointing out a three-story white façade with a roof terrace and coffered red door.
“Not exactly shabby,” Hauck remarked as they passed. It looked as impressive as any on the street.
“Ought not to be,” Naomi said. “This guy runs the largest investment fund in the world.”
Leaving, they had to wind through the maze of one-way streets of charming, tree-lined homes, embassies, and hotels to get back to Knightsbridge, the main thoroughfare back to the hotel. They checked in. Naomi went upstairs to shower and call her boss. Hauck turned on the news and unpacked his Dopp kit and went into the bathroom to shave. He thought about calling Annie. He’d left only a single message on her machine from Novi Pazar to tell her he was okay. He checked the time and thought maybe she’d still be sleeping. Friday nights were always late ones at the café. He knew he had withheld quite a bit from her. About April, and why he was even here. There were things he’d have to answer to when he got back. He knew he was avoiding it.
The BBC news report talked about the fear of the world banking collapse. While they were in Serbia, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac had gone under. The Fed would have to step in to bail them out. The insurance giant AIG was also said to be reeling. Not to mention JP Morgan and Reynolds Reid. All were selling for a fraction of what they had two months before.
The mood was darkening.
Around two, he and Naomi met back in the lobby for a coffee. Naomi told him what she knew about al-Bashir. “He’s young. Smart. Western. Very media friendly. He’s got an MBA from the University of Chicago. Did stints at Reynolds and Blackstone. You may have seen him on CNBC.”
“I don’t watch CNBC,” Hauck said.
“Stick around. This afternoon may have a positive effect on you.”
Hauck smiled, took a sip of his black coffee. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”
Naomi nodded. “I talked to my boss. We’re prepared to offer him a deal. We’re going to take him in.”