Zakir clutched the BlackBerry in his small hand as if the tight grip would make Monsieur Burgoyne at the other end of the call change his mind. He took a deep breath to gain a few precious seconds, then selected another word instead of the string of obscenities served by his enraged mind. “The prince will be extremely displeased and very, very disappointed.”
His tone of voice conveyed a terse edginess. Like Saudi Prince Husayn bin Al-Farhan, Zakir, the prince’s personal aide, was not accustomed to people saying “no” to his demands.
“My sincerest apologies to you and to the prince. I apologize on behalf of our staff and of our company.” The Frenchman’s apology came with his trademark politeness and nasal accent. “It is impossible, simply impossible to satisfy the prince’s request. Bugatti Veyron Super Sport creations, like all our editions, have to fulfill very strict international standards of safety. We cannot, simply cannot, boost the engine horsepower in order to increase the speed. You see, the other parts of the automobile, the tires, headlights, mirrors, they cannot withstand such radical changes.”
“I’m not interested in a crash course in car mechanics. I’m interested in making sure the prince owns the fastest and the most powerful car in the world,” Zakir said. “You will hear from me again, once the prince is informed about your refusal. I promise you, it will not be pleasant.”
He ended the call and began cursing at Chief Engineer Burgoyne and his design team at the Bugatti manufacturing plant in France. How dare they refuse the prince’s request? Don’t they know who he is and that he can buy the entire plant, if he wants? The prince was not considered extremely rich by sheikhs’ standards. Still, with a net worth of five billion dollars, he frequently made the Forbes list of the richest people of the world.
A range of options appeared in Zakir’s mind. He could present those options to the prince, to ease the sting of the French rejection and to save himself a great amount of humiliation. Prince Al-Farhan was notorious for literally shooting the messenger, especially when they bore bad news. Zakir had learned many tricks over the years to ensure his survival. The prince wanted the 100th car of his collection to be a Bugatti Veyron Super Sport, but customized with a larger engine and a higher speed to fit his billion-dollar ego. I can set up a meeting with the Board of Directors of Bugatti and convince them to accept the prince’s proposal. Perhaps the prince can make a considerable donation to one of their stupid museums or universities. Or perhaps I can convince the prince to accept a German or Italian aftermarket customization of a standard Veyron.
He stood up from his desk and glanced through floor-to-ceiling windows down at the city’s fascinating skyline. From the prince’s apartment on the 72nd floor of the newly finished Burj Khalifa, Zakir admired the city unfolding underneath his feet. His eyes followed the traffic racing through the six lanes of Sheikh Zayed Road. The thirty-for-mile stretch led to the border with Abu Dhabi, the capital of the United Arab Emirates, where Prince Al-Farhan was sealing an oil exploration business deal with powerful French investors.
His BlackBerry chirped with the arrival of another call. Zakir checked the caller ID and grinned. He spoke with clear anticipation in his voice, “Nassir, what is the good news?”
“We were ambushed,” Nassir rasped, loud clatter echoing in the background. “Almost everyone is dead. We’re pulling bodies out of the cars as we speak.”
“The sheikh?” Zakir asked. “Is the sheikh alive?”
“No, sir. The sheikh is dead.”
“Did he finish his job?”
“I think he did. He was talking to the Canadian agents when two choppers attacked our camp.”
“What rebel group was it?”
“Unconfirmed. We brought down both choppers, old Mi-17s. Everyone aboard is dead. The Sudanese Air Force often uses such choppers to attack rebel strongholds. The Liberty Front and Unionists also have such models. Egypt too is full of them.”
“What are the Canadian agents doing?”
“The man, Justin, is on a satphone. Talking to his chiefs, I assume. The woman, Carrie, is examining the briefcase. She’s going through a stack of documents in a large black folder.”
“The sheikh’s briefcase? Tell me it’s the sheikh’s briefcase.” Zakir placed the BlackBerry in front of his mouth so that Nassir would not miss a word.
“Yes, it is,” Nassir confirmed.
“Allahu Akbar! This is the good news that should have started your call,” Zakir shouted. “The prince will be extremely pleased to know you have delivered on your promise.” And maybe, just maybe, the news about the Bugatti Veyron will not sound that bad after all.
Nassir barked a few orders to someone and Zakir quickly turned down the volume on his phone. “Nassir, you’re still there?” he asked after a few seconds.
“Yes, just having trouble with one of our Rovers. A bullet has pierced the radiator, so I’m telling my men how to patch it up.”
“Do you know if the agents are going to intermediate for the Alliance?”
“I’m not sure. All the sheikh’s men are dead.”
“That’s not a problem. They’re all replaceable,” Zakir said. “Stay close to the agents and learn their intentions. Then call me with an update.”
“Sir, they’ve already picked one of Ali’s men as their guide. It will be difficult to follow their moves.”
Zakir began to pace around the room. “Nassir, do I have to explain everything to you? Become the replacement for the guide at any cost. In this way, you’ll always be with them. We need to know what they’re going to do and where they’re headed.”
“I understand. My tasks are clear now,” Nassir replied in a humble tone.
“Great, I’m glad you finally got it. Sometimes I wonder why the prince wastes his money on you.”
Nassir did not mouth off an angry reply. “I’ll call you back to inform you of new developments,” he said.
“Do so in good time,” Zakir said before pressing the End Call button on his BlackBerry.
“No, we have no way of confirming his identity with a hundred percent certainty.” Justin curbed his anger to a mere raise in his voice.
“I understand you’re in a difficult situation, Justin, but keep your cool,” Johnson said over the satellite phone connection. “How do we know this man is not simply a supporter of the Israeli cause?”
“One of the local Tuaregs swears the man’s accent is not North African. And I mentioned earlier the man is wearing the Star of David around his neck.” Justin clenched the phone handset.
“Any helpful evidence found on him or at the crash site?”
“No, none. Ali’s men indentified some of the bodies of the helicopters’ crews as Sudanese militants. They belonged to a group called Freedom for North Sudan.”
There was a tense pause for a few moments.
“So you believe your captive is a Mossad field agent?” Johnson asked.
“Yes, I do. And I don’t want to be his watcher or get in the way of a Mossad rescue mission.”
Another pause followed. Justin could hear the mental gears turning inside Johnson’s head.
“What are you suggesting, Justin?” she asked finally.
“An intel exchange. Israelis tell us the nature of their operation here in Sudan and how it ties to the attack against the sheikh. In turn, we give them the location of their agent.”
“Is this man in your custody?”
“No, but we know where he is,” Justin replied, looking at the black smoke from the burning helicopter ballooning above the ridge. They had lit up the fuel, leaving no evidence for the surviving gunmen to dig up when rummaging through the wreckage. Their attempts at looting the other helicopter had produced nothing of significance. “I don’t want the Mossad to come after us, thinking we have their man. I want to avoid a war with Tel Aviv at all costs.”