WHATEVER THE COST: A Mark Cole Thriller
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As his dining companion placed his order, Cole agreed to have the same; yet his mind was elsewhere, having just seen al-Zayani’s assistant Abu come through the front door with two other men.
It could have been a coincidence, but Cole was unsure what to think. The club was for level 11 executives only, and Abu was surely well below that. So what was he doing here? He didn’t seem to pay them any attention, which – given the fact that al-Zayani was his boss, and Cole was an honored guest – was strange in itself. He simply went to the bar with his colleagues, ordered black tea, and then led the group to a table in the corner.
Did al-Zayani suspect Cole was not who he said he was? Or was the man so upset over the loss of face he had suffered on the golf course that he was going to have Cole beaten up, and sacrifice a billion-dollar business deal? Or was Abu here just because he liked it, and had somehow bypassed the entry requirements?
It was going to make things more complicated, that much was certain; even if Abu wasn’t here at his boss’s request, he would probably still notice if the two men went missing suddenly.
Cole settled back into his wicker chair and sipped at his cardamom-scented coffee, trying to relax. After all, he had the whole of dinner in which to come up with something.
An hour later, Cole had managed to alleviate the mood and brought al-Zayani back onto his side; he had discussed the proposed oil deal over dinner, and had made certain concessions that had pleased the man immensely. It even seemed that his loss on the golf course had at last been forgotten, and al-Zayani was in a jovial mood by the time he’d finished his dessert of Baklava, freshly made on the premises by the resident pastry chef.
Abu had finally come over to their table to pay his respects as they were partway through their meal, and Cole reassessed his previous position; it was probably just a coincidence, and perhaps Abu was higher up the executive food chain than he’d first thought. But still Cole watched the group out of the corner of his eye, still not quite trusting the situation.
‘Ah,’ said al-Zayani as he pushed himself back into his chair with an air of deep satisfaction, ‘perhaps it is just as well that I lost today, eh? Otherwise we might never have enjoyed such a meal, or worked things out so agreeably.’
‘These things happen for a reason.’
‘Yes,’ al-Zayani agreed, ‘in sha’Allah.’
Okay, Cole thought, it’s time.
‘Do you have a boat in the marina?’ he asked, although of course he already knew the answer; he had found out earlier that al-Zayani owned a western forty-foot cruising yacht which was moored only a hundred feet down the dock.
Cole was glad when he saw the proud smile on the man’s face. ‘Yes I do,’ he said happily. ‘Do you like boats?’
‘Love ‘em,’ Cole replied honestly; he’d had his own yacht when he’d lived in the Caribbean. When he’d had a family.
No, he told himself firmly. Don’t think about them. Now wasn’t the time.
‘You have boats in Dallas?’ asked al-Zayani in surprise. ‘There is no sea.’
‘We have lakes,’ Cole answered. ‘The Dallas Yacht Club is on Lake Lewisville, I’ve got a small day sailing yacht there.’
Al-Zayani clapped his hands together. ‘Excellent! We will see my boat, yes?’
‘I’d love to,’ Cole said, already rising from his chair. He moved towards the bar to pay, and but al-Zayani waved his hand. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘They will add it to my account. Now come,’ he said, ushering Cole out of the sliding screen doors which led out towards the jetty.
Cole checked Abu and saw that he hadn’t moved at all, was still sat chatting animatedly to his friends, and decided that his plan might just work after all.
‘So what do you think?’ al-Zayani asked as they sat on the main deck of his yacht, staring back towards the marina at Half Moon Bay.
‘Very impressive,’ said Cole, meaning it; the yacht must have cost more than most people’s homes.
‘Some say that the Arab people are reluctant mariners,’ al-Zayani said, ‘but they forget about those who spread our faith to Africa, India and the Far East.’ He patted the teak woodwork which lined the entire deck. ‘I feel like that myself,’ he said. ‘A sailor blessed by Allah to spread His word.’
It was the eyes which did it; a slight glimmer, for just a fraction of a second.
Cole moved instinctively as an iron bar swung down towards his head from behind him. Turning quickly, he kicked the first of Abu’s friends in the gut. The second moved in with a knife, and Cole reached out for the knife arm, wrenching the man around and securing the attacker’s forehead with his arm as he slit the attacker’s throat with his own knife.
Blood spurted out onto the deck, showering al-Zayani as he ran for the steps down to the jetty, and Cole took off after him, stabbing the first man – just rising after the kick to his gut – through the chest as he went; but then the gorilla-sized form of Abu stepped between Cole and al-Zayani, handgun raised.
Cole’s hand snaked out to the side, ripping an oar from its place secured to the starboard wall, and in the same action slammed the heavy wood down onto Abu’s arm. He heard the arm crack and the man try and stifle the scream as the gun dropped to the ground. Cole moved forwards quickly, sweeping both of Abu’s legs out from under him with the oar and leaping over the falling body just as al-Zayani reached the steps.
Pulling the man around, Cole’s hand fired out in two rapid strikes to the man’s neck, rendering him instantly unconscious.
He turned to see Abu rising unsteadily back to his feet, hands groping about on the deck for the gun. Cole dropped al-Zayani’s body and shot forwards, cracking Abu across the head with the blade of the oar.
The big man staggered backwards, his eyes rolling back into his head, but miraculously he still remained standing and Cole rammed the point of the oar towards Abu’s throat.
With incredible speed, Abu caught the oar in mid-air and smashed the forearm of his other hand straight through it, coming back at Cole with the broken half.
Cole used his own half of the oar to block the attack, swinging it back round to slice across Abu’s cheek and ear, the broken wood splintering on his face.
His eyes filled with rage, Abu attacked again, but Cole sidestepped the giant and sent a kick into his knee which dropped him to the deck. And as the big man fell, Cole arm accelerated the broken oar outwards, the jagged end piercing the side of Abu’s thick neck, until it was buried up to Cole’s knuckles, blood spilling in thick gouts over his hand and arm.
Cole let the body drop to the deck all the way, and it landed with a loud thud.
Taking a few deep breaths, Cole surveyed the deck for any sign of more attackers; seeing none, he turned his gaze back to the yacht club. Nobody was coming to investigate, and presumably the action had gone mercifully unnoticed.
But, Cole decided, it was probably time to take the yacht out for a little sailing.
It was another hour later before al-Zayani regained consciousness; and when he did, it was clear to Cole that he wished he could have just stayed asleep.
Al-Zayani was upside down, hanging off the edge of the boat, head close to the water; to his right and left were the similarly inverted bodies of his colleagues – or at least what was left of them.
‘Bull sharks,’ Cole said from the deck, and he saw al-Zayani crane his head up to look at him, terror in his eyes. ‘Nasty little bastards. They enjoyed having your friends for dinner though,’ he said amiably, as if they were still talking business back at the yacht club.
Cole had sailed out into the waters of the Arabian Gulf, and although there were sharks out here, they hadn’t caused the horrific, bloody damage to the bodies strapped next to al-Zayani on the side of the boat; Cole had done it himself.
It had been a nasty job, but he needed al-Zayani to talk, and to talk honestly; and there weren’t many men who could overcome the fear of being eaten alive by a hungry shark. Even a man with a knife wasn’t as inherently terrifying as a
shark; you could reason with a man, after all.
‘Attracted to blood in the water,’ Cole said casually, leaning down and stroking the blade of his knife across al-Zayani’s exposed belly.
‘No!’ al-Zayani screamed. ‘No, please! I’ll tell you everything! Please!’
‘Why did your men attack me?’ Cole asked.
‘They were only going to question you,’ al-Zayani sobbed, ‘I promise you! Please! I promise you! Pull me up! Pull me up!’
‘Question me about what?’ Cole asked as the ship bobbed up and down in the dark waters, the movement of the waves making al-Zayani scream again in terror, thinking that it was sharks approaching the boat.
‘About who you are,’ al-Zayani said weakly. ‘When you beat me at the club this morning, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I called the Colonial and asked about you, they were surprised, they said you weren’t that good, I should have beaten you easily! I asked what you looked like, and their description didn’t really match, I called Texas Mainline and they confirmed that it was you, but I just had to know!’
‘Do Saudi National Oil executives routinely ask questions with thugs, knives and guns?’ Cole asked, aware of the irony; al-Zayani had been trying to lure Cole to the boat in exactly the same way Cole had been trying to get him there.
‘No, I – I . . .’
‘Or is it that you were worried about something else?’ Cole asked, blade tickling al-Zayani’s ribs. ‘Maybe about something connected to a twenty million dollar payout to Jemaah Islamiyah for the hijacking of the Fu Yu Shan?’
There was a pause while al-Zayani weighed his options, hanging upside down between his three supposedly half-eaten colleagues, black waters below him threatening him with the same fate. In the end, it was no choice at all.
‘What else do you know?’ al-Zayani asked fearfully.
‘Let’s not get involved with what I know; I want you to tell me what you know. Now, what was in the crate that was so important?’
‘I don’t know!’ screamed al-Zayani. ‘Please, I don’t know!’
‘Wrong answer,’ Cole said coldly, drawing the knife across al-Zayani’s abdomen, opening up a thin cut which immediately started leaking blood down over his chest and face, until it dropped in small rivulets into the dark sea below.
‘No!’ al-Zayani screamed in unbridled terror. ‘No, please! Let me up! I will tell you everything!’ he shouted. ‘I will give you the Lion! It was the Lion! It was Abd al-Aziz Quraishi, the Assistant Minister for Security Affairs, it is his group, Arabian Islamic Jihad, he told me to do it! Please, let me up!’
The man was sobbing uncontrollably now, and Cole decided that the time had come to relent; he pulled the terrified man back up onto the yacht and let him fall to the teak deck, shaking with fear.
Abd al-Aziz Quraishi wasn’t a name he was familiar with, but Cole had recently heard news reports about this Arabian Islamic Jihad; wasn’t that the same group which had killed Brad Butler, the CNN correspondent? And hadn’t the man who’d beheaded Butler referred to himself as ‘the Lion’? The stories had also implicated the organization in the attacks on Riyadh, Muscat and Dubai; Arabian Islamic Jihad was obviously an emerging force. And if it had big oil money behind it, then the danger was increased exponentially.
Cole put a blanket around the shivering man and pulled him up, assisting him across the deck to the cabin.
He would get the man warm and comfortable, and would then learn everything he could about this man known as the Lion, and the terrorist group he commanded.
PART FIVE
1
Just two hours later, Cole had everything he would ever get from al-Zayani, and was satisfied that he’d been told the truth; the threat of being returned to the sharks was too overwhelming a possibility for al-Zayani to try lying about anything.
It turned out that al-Zayani really didn’t know what was in the crate that had been brought from Sumatra by Umar Shibab; al-Zayani was just the paymaster, and not concerned with operational details. All he knew was that after the private plane had landed in Dhahran, the crate had been picked up by someone al-Zayani only knew as Matraqat al-Kafir, the Hammer of the Infidel. He thought it had been taken to a safe house somewhere in Saudi Arabia, but that was as much as he knew.
Al-Zayani’s own job for the terrorist organization known as Arabian Islamic Jihad had been going on for years; he had been leaching large sums from the accounts of Saudi National Oil and its subsidiary companies for the past decade, providing the entire start-up costs for the AIJ.
Al-Zayani had been brought into the AIJ by Abd al-Aziz Quraishi, the so-called ‘Lion’ who fronted the organization, and Cole recognized the same techniques that case officers used to recruit agents for western intelligence agencies.
Al-Zayani told Cole how he had never been against the Saudi government before, indeed had been a loyal and devout citizen all of his life, right up until an event which occurred ten years ago. He had just made Vice President of Finance for Saudi National Oil, and was looking forward to finally starting a family with his wife, who was pregnant for the first time. And then one night, when al-Zayani was working late, the Mabahith broke down the doors to his home and took his wife from her bed.
He campaigned against the government, demanding to know where she was, why she’d been taken, if she was alive or dead; but all that came back was stony silence.
It was then that he’d been approached by Quraishi, who offered to use his influence at the Ministry of Interior to find out what had happened to his wife, and get her back if he could. Al-Zayani had been so anxious that he agreed to do anything in return, and waited for news to come from Quraishi.
Days passed, until finally Quraishi came to see him in his home. It seemed that his wife had been seen in the local market asking questions about moving to America to raise her children there. Sensing some form of blasphemous disregard for Saudi Arabia’s own culture, the Mabahith were called in and had taken her to the cells for questioning.
When al-Zayani had asked the obvious question, Quraishi had sadly shook his head; regrettably, his wife had died during the interrogation, along with their unborn child. Apparently the body had already been ‘processed’ – which meant it had been burned to ashes in one of the subterranean ovens kept for that very purpose.
Al-Zayani hadn’t been able to believe what he was hearing; how could this happen to a man like him, in a senior position in his nation’s most profitable business? And yet he’d heard so many stories before about these things happening that he didn’t doubt Quraishi’s story for a second.
His rage holy and indignant, he was fully primed for the offer Quraishi made next; to use the power of his position to help establish a group which would one day oust the Saudi monarchy and its corrupt government. Quraishi admitted to his own role, how he had dedicated his entire life to building up his position in order to more effectively lead a freedom-fighting group, and al-Zayani in his moment of weakness agreed absolutely to help the man in any way he could.
And so finance for the terrorist group had been made through the funds of Saudi National Oil ever since, with no one ever the wiser.
Cole had to give Quraishi credit; his group was clearly better funded and better organized than any that had gone before. And his own role as Assistant Minister for Security Affairs meant that it was his job to stamp out dissident groups; in effect, he was policing himself, which was the perfect position to be in. He could take down rival groups, recruit from their resources, all while protecting the AIJ and his own interests.
Cole couldn’t help wonder if Quraishi had organized the capture and death of al-Zayani’s wife himself, purely in order to recruit the man to his cause. From what he’d heard already, it wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest.
However, Cole was surprised that he hadn’t heard more from Quraishi’s terrorist group, but this was ominous in itself; it was possible that it meant Quraishi was saving himself for something big.
Cole still
didn’t know what was in the crate, but assumed it must be nuclear; the North Koreans had the right materials to make such things, and an attack with a nuclear device on American soil would explain what the big event was that Quraishi was heading towards.
But guesswork simply wasn’t good enough; he had to know.
And so he had asked al-Zayani to call Quraishi to ask for a meeting. It was under the pretense of Texas Mainline Oil’s concerns about security from terrorist groups; ‘Dan Chadwick’ wanted confirmation that TMO’s investment would be secure, and needed to speak to the government minister responsible for dealing with counter-terrorism.
And so – even though it was terribly short notice – al-Zayani had stressed over the telephone that his US associate would be returning to Texas the day after tomorrow, and Quraishi had therefore agreed to meet him the very next morning.
And now, the meeting arranged, Cole stood on the deck and wondered what to do about al-Zayani. He felt sorry for the man – he had been badly abused, and the fate of his wife too closely mirrored Cole’s own experiences. Wouldn’t Cole have agreed to Quraishi’s requests for money if their situations had been reversed?
He had already forced the man to call Saudi National Oil headquarters to say that he, Abu and the two other men – who, it turned out, had also been company employees – were taking an impromptu fishing trip the next day, and wouldn’t be back until the following evening.
It gave him a window of opportunity; questions might be asked, but not before Cole had gone to his meeting with Abd al-Aziz Quraishi in Riyadh and met the Lion himself.
Cole was a killer, but thought long and hard about the fate of al-Zayani. Could he just leave the man out at sea, and hope he wasn’t able to contact anyone and spoil Cole’s plans? Could he trust al-Zayani not to talk if he was found?
Cole looked up at the stars and the moon, bright in the cloudless night sky, and shook his head.