by Ward Larsen
SEVENTY-ONE
Nazir arrived twenty minutes later.
As usual he parked across the street from the apartment block. He was crossing the street when his eye was caught by a sight that made his heart skip a beat. Half a mile away, meandering across open desert, he saw a roving security patrol. The vehicle seemed in no hurry, and he forced himself to ignore it. Sultan had told him the National Guard would be active this morning.
Nazir’s nerves were beginning to fray. By not showing up for work this morning, he’d crossed the point of no return. He and Sultan had been planning this day for months, and while he thought they’d covered every detail, now, as the strike played out in real time, doubts began to creep in.
Captain Mahrez would have noticed his absence by now. Hoping to muddy the waters, Nazir had called from the gas station and explained to the squadron’s admin clerk that he was ill with a stomach virus. Calling in sick was not a red flag, but the standard procedure was to do so before a shift started—especially on a day when a performance was scheduled.
He took the stairwell to the apartment. Once inside, Nazir shut the door, threw the bolt, and leaned into the wall. He swept his eyes over the place and decided nothing had changed. He went to the counter, retrieved the first drone—the one with the canisters—and carried it to the balcony. Five minutes later everything was in place.
He took out the burner phone he’d recently purchased and powered it up for the second time in what would prove to be a very short service life. The first had been earlier that morning, just long enough to install the latest secure messaging app.
He tapped on the only contact and sent a message: EVERYTHING IS IN PLACE.
The reply took nearly a minute: UNDERSTOOD. NO SPECIFIC THREATS NOTED. MEETING TONIGHT AS SCHEDULED.
Nazir waited. Nothing else came. The clock on the phone read 11:13.
He placed the handset on the counter and stood looking out the window. Forty-seven minutes, he thought. If nothing changed, all he had to do was keep his eyes on the tower and send one final report. He planned to do so from a distance, taking the bike a few miles north toward the main road. The slightest of head starts for his escape.
Barring any last-minute changes, he would then be home free.
* * *
Slaton drove as fast as the traffic permitted. The route to the rental agency took him west toward the coast, bypassing the Ash Shati district. He turned parallel to the sea on King Abdul Aziz Road, the primary coastal boulevard, until the directions on his map reached an end. He parked along a curb between two larger vehicles, leaving ample room in front—if he had to leave quickly, he didn’t want a multi-step maneuver to get back under way.
In the distance ahead he saw an amusement park, quiet for the moment in the midmorning heat. Beyond that the Red Sea sprawled out toward Africa. The car rental agency was directly across the street. It turned out to be an Avis outpost, the usual counter with a half dozen agent stations, only half of which were occupied. While making the drive, Slaton reasoned that the day of the week and time of day might work in his favor. He’d been right. It was Monday morning, the start of a business week, and the place looked busy.
He was close enough that he didn’t need binoculars. Through the agency’s wide front window, he saw a line of customers corralled inside crowd control stanchions. There were ten people waiting, but Omar Hadad was not among them—he had already reached the counter and was talking to the leftmost of the three agents on duty.
Avis’ setup could not have been more standardized. The rental counters were at the base of a three-story office building, and to the left was a three-level parking garage. There was a door connecting the two, and even a sign with a large arrow and English lettering that Slaton could read from across the street: THIS WAY TO CARS.
He surveyed the parking garage and saw the exit behind his left shoulder. To keep track of its fleet, Avis would permit only one way out. Regardless of which way Hadad turned when he reached the street, Slaton could easily fall in behind. He tried to get a feel for the flow of traffic on his left, then adjusted his mirrors accordingly.
Slaton left the car running and waited.
SEVENTY-TWO
The observation deck of Jeddah Tower was prepared, a gathering fit for a king. All the regalia fitting such a grand occasion had been put on display. A red carpet led from the entrance to a low stage, and this was backed by silk drapery in regal colors. At long tables on either side, ice sculptures presided over golden flatware and cutlery, with trays of the finest delicacies lying in wait. Above it all, on a newly installed flagpole, the green standard of Saudi Arabia snapped smartly in the breeze.
The few guests who’d arrived early were being kept inside, milling noisily in the reception hall on the 157th floor. The deck was populated by an army of caterers, sound technicians, waitstaff, and security teams. The man in charge of the latter was Lieutenant General Muhammed al-Bandar. As commander of the Saudi National Guard, he looked worriedly down at the ground almost half a mile below.
He saw cars backed up on the road at the lone security checkpoint. The general hoped it didn’t get any worse. The last-minute change to deny helicopter travel had thrown the plans of dozens of dignitaries into disarray—the sort of men who were not accustomed to waiting.
Al-Bandar’s executive officer, Major Samir, appeared at his side. “We’ve finished one last search of the building, sir. Nothing was found.”
“Good,” the general said, the distance in his voice implying his thoughts were elsewhere. “Has the king arrived?”
“Yes, he is on the way up now—elevator fifty-six. The crown prince is with him.”
“And the rest of the guests?”
“Eighty-six invitees are in the building.” Samir looked down at the road checkpoint. “Will we adjust the schedule if some are delayed?”
“No,” the general said, having already made that decision. “It would create too many complications.” He checked his watch. Thirty-six minutes. “We can trust the royals to mingle for a time. Plan on opening the door ten minutes before noon.”
Samir acknowledged the order.
“Has there been anything else from the Americans?”
“No,” Samir said, shaking his head. “Since throwing their little grenade in our operation, they have gone silent.”
“The Americans are a lot of things … but they are typically not reactionary. There is something behind their warning.”
“But a chemical weapon? Did they not explain the source of their suspicions?”
“No, not really.” The general regarded his long-time aide, who he thought quite competent. “Tell me, my friend … what are we missing?”
Samir’s gaze drifted to the balcony, then out over the sea. After a long pause, he said, “I can think of nothing. Everything is going to plan.”
* * *
The car turned out to be a white Ford sedan, and Hadad was in a hurry—Slaton knew because he was violating virtually every catechism of automotive tradecraft. He kept a judicious distance behind Hadad, and thankfully traffic was heavy enough to provide concealment.
When Hadad had turned onto the city’s main westbound artery, it seemed obvious he was headed for Jeddah Tower. This gave Slaton pause. Might Hadad himself have come to deliver an attack? Might the generic white Ford in front of him be transporting a binary chemical weapon? He tried to make the notion fly, but it didn’t feel right. He was weighing other possibilities when his gaze snagged on something in the distance: resolving out of the haze, a great spire reaching for the sky. The building truly was massive, although like so many structures on the Saudi Peninsula, more an endeavor of ego than engineering. If hubris were an architectural style, he thought, Jeddah Tower would be a masterpiece.
His phone vibrated. He saw a call from Sorensen.
Slaton picked up and said, “Our friend seems to be in a hurry.”
“And I know why,” she responded. “I just discovered that he was originally book
ed the first flight out of Damascus today, but the airplane had a mechanical issue. He bought a last-minute business class ticket on a different carrier.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“Especially for a Syrian policeman—he used his own credit card. Sounds like he has somewhere important to be.”
“The way it’s looking right now, it’s the tower. Maybe he has an invitation to the ceremony.” Slaton was sure the destination was no surprise to Sorensen—at the very least, she would be tracking his own phone. The building was gaining definition in his windscreen.
Quite abruptly, the Ford ahead shifted into the right lane and shot onto an exit. Slaton maneuvered quickly, doing his best to copy the move without being conspicuous.
“Check that,” he said. “It looks like our cop is headed elsewhere. I’ll get back to you…”
* * *
Captain Mahrez said a silent prayer as he watched the jets leave the parking apron. Six for six today, no maintenance turnbacks. The squadron’s seventh aircraft, a maintenance spare, hadn’t been needed. He watched with no small degree of pride as the formation taxied toward the active runway in tight pairs. 1 and 2, 3 and 4, 5 and 6.
His handheld VHF radio had been quiet. It was tuned to the squadron’s discreet maintenance frequency. If anything went wrong between the ramp and the runway, that was how he’d hear about it.
His brick remained silent.
SEVENTY-THREE
Slaton followed Hadad for roughly a mile, then watched the Ford pull into a nearly empty parking lot. Across the street was an apartment complex—the buildings looked new and mostly unoccupied. He slipped his own car behind a dormant bulldozer a quarter mile from the apartments. He would have preferred to be closer, but there was little traffic and virtually no cover on the final stretch of road.
Across the street from the apartments a strip mall was under construction, a half dozen minor stores with block walls and a roof, but waiting for drywall and windows. Outside were a handful of contractor trucks, electricians and air conditioning. In the direction of the tower Slaton saw a few clusters of vehicles. The largest was what looked like a staging area for security, roughly ten armored personnel carriers and light utility vehicles parked door-to-door. He recognized this for what it was—reinforcements for the larger contingent around the base of the tower. He saw another group of what looked like catering delivery trucks, and not far from that, in the center of a wide dirt lot, two work vans were parked with their rear doors open. Between them three men were busy setting up a fireworks display—wooden racks with mortars being placed in rows. This too made sense. According to Sorensen, today’s festivities would run into the evening, including a private dinner for the regent and certain select guests. For such an over-the-top event, a fireworks display seemed a fitting climax, and photos of the great tower backlit by pyrotechnics seemed predestined.
He turned his attention back to Hadad. Slaton watched him circle to the back of his rental car, open the trunk and lean inside. He retrieved something small and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. Slaton was a long way off, so he couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might have been a matte-black handgun.
His attention ratcheted up. Both he and Hadad had taken commercial flights this morning, no weapons permitted. Now the Syrian was armed and he was not. Still behind the car, Hadad closed the trunk and pulled out a mobile phone. He placed a call that lasted less than a minute, after which he set out toward the apartment complex on a purposeful walk. He approached one of the central buildings, drew the object from his pocket—definitely a gun—and walked directly into the main entrance.
Hadad disappeared inside.
“What the hell?” Slaton muttered.
* * *
General al-Bandar was in the reception area, watching the king welcome the emir of Kuwait, when his phone vibrated a unique double buzz. This was the setting reserved for one particular caller—the command center’s emergency hotline.
He answered breathlessly. “What is it?”
“We have a report of a threat, sir, but it is very vague.”
“Where?”
“The caller didn’t have time to say. He claimed to be a visiting Syrian policeman. He said he was going to check out a suspicious man he’d seen on the perimeter.”
Al-Bandar rushed outside to the observation deck. He went to the rail and looked out over the desert. Under a cloudless sky, he could see fifty miles in every direction that wasn’t blocked by the building at his back. “Where did the call originate?”
“We are trying to find out. This policeman said he would attempt to handle the matter on his own—he said there is no immediate threat to the ceremony.”
Were the general a balloon he might have burst. First the Americans tell him to expect a nerve agent attack. Now foreigners were engaging suspicious characters. “A Syrian policeman is going to save us all!” he spat incredulously.
Not surprisingly, there was no reply.
* * *
Hadad found the correct door easily: apartment 304.
He took a moment to study the entrance. Like any Syrian policeman, Hadad was intimately familiar with doors. He’d kicked in his share, and knew how to find the weak points. Deadbolts, chains, hinges. Some could pose problems. Businesses sometimes installed solid-core wood doors. Criminal organizations preferred steel-encased items. For anything like that a good breaching device was always preferred. What he saw here, thankfully, was nothing of the sort. It was a new-build apartment complex, and the developer had clearly chosen low cost over security. The cheapest of the cheap.
He saw a simple striker plate seated into a one-by-four jamb, no sign of a second plate above or below. Not being a large man, Hadad took the time to set his stance solidly. His main concern was to breach on the first try—the only way to keep the element of surprise. He reasserted his grip on the Glock—placed in the rental car by Sultan’s network—and held it close with a bent elbow, barrel up and away.
He reared back, brought his left knee high, and with careful aim lashed out.
The kick might have been perfect … had the door not opened in that instant.
Hadad’s heel had barely made contact when the door was pulled inward. He lurched forward, the momentum of his kick taking him into the apartment in an uncoordinated lunge. His gun hand reached for the door jamb to keep from falling flat on his face. He managed to get his front foot on the ground, but his legs were spread wide in a virtual split, his balance completely gone.
It was in that awkward position that he came face-to-face with the man he’d come to kill.
* * *
Nazir saw the gun clearly.
As a jet engine mechanic, he was not skilled in the dark arts. All the same, like military men and women around the world, he was versed in the basics of self-protection. And he knew a threat when he saw one.
His heart kicked, adrenaline flooded in, and he threw himself at the stranger. Nazir’s first instinct was to go for the gun, and he got one hand on the man’s arm. For good measure he followed with a knee to the stomach. He heard a grunt, and as they fell into the wall he got a second hand on the weapon. That was when things began to go wrong. His left hand unfortunately was clamped directly over the muzzle, and his adversary was the first to recognize it. A shot rang out, and Nazir’s hand exploded in a mass of blood and tissue. He screamed in pain.
The two men briefly stood straight, like a pair of grappling dancers, then tumbled toward the kitchen in a maelstrom of thrashing arms and kicking legs. They ended up side by side, bent awkwardly over the waist-high main counter. The intruder butted Nazir in the face, dazing him. He did the same right back. He still had his functioning hand on the gun, and was able to force the barrel away. Then his adversary, who was not a large man, began pummeling his face with an elbow. Every blow brought stars, and Nazir tried to hold on.
He saw a wrench on the counter, and realizing something had to change, he let go of the gun and went for the wrench. He no soone
r had his fingertips on the shaft when a second shot sounded.
The third and fourth Nazir never heard. His last conscious thought was that he wished he’d not taken one last look from the balcony. Ever the reflective type, he had wanted to take in the scene for a few final minutes.
And it had cost him his life.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Hadad sank onto his haunches, his lungs heaving like twin bellows. There was blood everywhere, some of it certainly his own. Nazir lay motionless on the floor, a pool of red spreading beneath him.
Hadad pulled himself to his feet using the counter for support. His nose was in agony, the cartilage surely crushed. He tried to touch it and winced, and his hand came away even bloodier. Staggering to the sink, he turned on the tap and seized a dishrag. He gingerly dabbed away blood, first from his hands, then his face. His vision was fuzzy, and he pulled the cloth gently over his eyes. Things seemed to get clearer.
Beginning to recover, he remembered what had to come next. Hadad set his gun on the counter, pulled out his phone, and placed a call.
Sultan himself answered. “Is it done?”
“Yes,” Hadad croaked, failing to keep the pain out of his voice.
A long pause. “You’ve done well then. It will not be forgotten. Make sure everything is staged as we discussed, then make your second call.”
Hadad said that he would. As he did so, however, he found himself looking out the window. The big tower seemed very close. “Are you sure I am far enough away?” he asked.
“Yes, I told you … the wind is very predictable near the sea. It will drive the agent away.”
Hadad wasn’t so sure, but before he could argue the point Sultan ended the call.
He pocketed his phone and looked around the room. The drones and equipment were already scattered about. There wasn’t really much to do. He looked down at Nazir’s body, and thought, The hard part is done.
