by Sean McFate
Ten minutes later, three crew members rolled the large rotary-wing Fire Scout drone onto the destroyer’s flight deck. The rotors began to turn and the machine took off, zooming toward the dark horizon.
Chapter 26
The majordomo, right-hand man and enforcer for Abdulaziz, middling-tier prince of the Sudairi lineage of the House of Saud, chewed on a handful of nuts as he watched the two American mercenaries move away from the burned-out building in the northern part of the town of Sinjar. Farhan had escaped with the double-crossing mercenary and that ridiculous cook, but the majordomo wasn’t worried. They wouldn’t get far. If he followed these two, he’d find where the prince was holed up. A good thing, too. He needed the prince, and he needed him badly.
The majordomo had worked in the Saudi intelligence forces for thirty years, since he was sixteen, and his uncle, a tailor for Abdulaziz’s father’s chauffeur, had used that connection to secure him a junior assistant position in the General Intelligence Directorate, the Saudi CIA. Within five years, he had come to General Abdulaziz’s attention. The prince sent him to England for an education in languages, international relations, and business. On his return, he discovered that royal connections exempted him from the Kingdom’s harsh rules. Forbidden fruits such as alcohol, drugs, and whores were all on tap. If only he could have had Princess Umm Abiha, too. The old man had suffered an unlucky draw, twelve daughters and two sons. He despised his daughters for that, but despised even more any man who tried to take them from under his thumb. The old man craved power, and there is nothing more powerful than a father’s hold over a pliant daughter.
Funny that the old man was having a granddaughter now, even if he did not know it. If Marhaz had been pregnant with a son, Abdulaziz might have relented to the marriage. But then again, probably not. The girl was an Iranian Christian, born and raised in the United States. It was haram, forbidden, and, even more important, unwise. A Westerner marrying into the royal family would never work in the Kingdom, especially for an ambitious prince still several rungs down from the Saudi throne.
As Abdulaziz had barked at him two days ago, when Farhan escaped again: You should have killed the whore last year. That was your chance. He still didn’t know if the old man had meant it sincerely.
What he shouldn’t have done, the majordomo knew, was approve Abdulaziz’s decision to send Farhan to Istanbul. Abdulaziz should have entrusted that sensitive mission to him, his most trusted servant. Instead the old man indulged a soft spot for his youngest son, and soft spots, after all, were signs of rot. It was the grave personal insult of being passed over for the most important task of Abdulaziz’s life that, more than anything else, had led him here.
He chewed on a medjool date and watched the two mercs slinking up the road, checking their six o’clock every half block. The man from the house was still in the burka, but the disguise wouldn’t fool anyone, since women weren’t six feet three inches tall. These guys weren’t trying for disguise, though. The majordomo was sure they would gun down any patrol that stopped them.
They disappeared around a corner. The majordomo waited a full minute. No one else followed. It was time to go.
He split his twelve men, following at a safe distance. The mercenary was good. He had found the baker in less than two days, when Abdulaziz’s men had forgotten the man existed.
But the majordomo was good, too. His men were an elite Saudi counterterrorism unit, trained in the volatile Middle East. Together, they had busted dozens of terror plots and Shia subterfuge, sending hundreds of men and a few women to their deaths. No more than five or six had been political enemies of Abdulaziz and his allies, and even with those few, the majordomo had always found a compelling reason. Drugs, homosexuality, treasonous ambition: there were plenty of offenses that would allow a problematic man to lose his head in the Kingdom.
Not the least of which was letting your patron prince’s favorite son disappear into a civil war. Or falling in love with that patron prince’s daughter.
He moved into the shadows at the edge of the dark streets. No windows were lit, but even the waning moon threw bright light in the dry desert. He couldn’t see the prince, but he kept an eye on the Asian merc covering his back. Farhan was four blocks ahead at least, but there was no need to get closer. As he had learned with Umm Abiha, there was never any good in getting too close to the Abdulaziz family.
His heart hurt when he thought of her, isolated and held house captive. He hadn’t seen her for two years. No one had. And all because she had spoken to her father’s majordomo in private. If the prince knew how close they had really become . . .
What he’d said to Farhan, in his anger, about her being under him. What he’d stupidly said. If that ever got back to Abdulaziz, it would get her killed.
Thankfully, Farhan knew that, too. He would never cause the death of his favorite sister.
But her lover? Farhan would kill him, the majordomo knew, if he ever got the chance. Farhan could never get back to Riyadh to speak to his father.
The merc slowed, then stopped, settling in a doorway. The majordomo faded into the side street, the darkness swallowing even his bloodstained white suit. He followed the merc’s gaze to a plain two-story building a half block farther on. Wooden shutters, unusual for this area, were being pulled securely over the one door and one window. A light flicked on, leaking past the edge of the shutter. Two minutes later, it went out. Five minutes after that, the mercenary looked both ways, walked across the street, pulled open the front door shutters, and disappeared inside.
This is the place, the majordomo thought.
He took out his radio and beeped once, signaling his position. Two beeps responded. He checked up and down the street. There was nothing. It was another nondescript block, in a world full of them. He always found it ironic, the boring places such stories ended. But end it would. Tonight. Within the hour, the majordomo would kill Farhan and the girl. When Abdulaziz confronted him, the majordomo would find someone to blame. There was always someone else to blame. The American, probably. Then he would be free of this royal brat and never have to spend another day in the hellhole of northern Iraq.
He looked at his watch, an oyster-banded stainless steel Rolex submariner he’d picked up during his first year at King’s College London. Two minutes to midnight. It was time.
Chapter 27
Prince Mishaal heard the footsteps approaching as if they were underwater. The sound seemed distant and soggy. He lay on his cot and listened, hoping they belonged to his friend, his benefactor, his savior. He thought it might be the middle of the night, since it had been quiet for as long as he could remember, or perhaps it was early morning, the light just beginning to brighten . . .
He heard the footsteps getting louder, and he stopped thinking to listen. It felt as if his body’s cells were calling out for drugs, as if they were crawling toward the door, but he knew he was lying motionless on the bed. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t vomit. The idea of moving made him sick.
The lock turned. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid it wouldn’t be true. He heard the door creak and smelled . . . almonds. He could taste almond paste on his tongue. He thought it would gag him.
The man’s robes swept. His feet shuffled. The lock clicked shut again. The prince could hear the stranger breathing. He could feel his own breath. Something touched his neck. It was cool and damp. The man was swabbing a spot on his neck. Mishaal could hardly breathe.
“What did you have with you in Paris?” the man whispered.
Mishaal’s brain flashed, searching for the right answer. He felt sick. “Pride,” he offered.
The man was silent.
“Indulgence,” the prince said hurriedly, before the opportunity got away. “Appe . . . appe, appetites. I had appetites. Sins.” What did this cleric want to hear?
The prince heard the chink of a needle being removed from a metal box. His body shivered in anticipation.
“What did you have with you when you were a
pprehended?” the man whispered. The prince could feel his breath.
“Cocaine,” he said, shutting his eyes tighter, and listened. He heard a plunger being drawn back. “Dilaudid.” He heard liquid being sucked into a needle. He stopped breathing, waiting. “Captagon,” he said. “Synthetic amphetamines. One thousand pills. In an overnight bag. For my personal use.”
“The briefcase,” the man said. “What was in the briefcase?”
“Nothing,” he said automatically, feeling his brain recoil.
“Nothing,” he said again, as he felt the man drawing away, like a shadow retreating from the light.
“Nothing,” he said through his tears. “Believe me, it was nothing. It was for my father. It was a favor. It was . . .” He felt relief pulling away, and fear flooding in, flooding every cell in his body.
“It was electronic,” he whimpered, “a detonator. It controls a weapon. Please! I don’t know any more. I don’t know anything.”
“That’s what I thought,” the man whispered, as he plunged in the needle.
Chapter 28
Midnight. Sinjar was quiet, as the world always is before the hammer comes down. There might have been an American drone high overhead, invisible in the night, but the bombs were gone until morning, when the targets would be crawling, and the snakes were tucked up in their corners with their rifles and their murderous certainty. Mount Sinjar was burning, but the smoke was gray on black and the fires too small to be seen from several kilometers away, where the empty desert fed into empty streets.
The majordomo waited, it wasn’t clear what for. Nothing was moving in the building. No lights were on.
His radio beeped. He beeped twice in return. A figure started forward twenty meters away, gaining momentum as he ran. The majordomo watched. When the figure neared the shuttered door, the majordomo dropped his arm to signal his men. The night exploded with gunfire. The front of the building began to chip and scatter. The running man kicked open the shutters, which didn’t seem to be locked—or maybe it was his adrenaline that smashed them so easily—and disappeared inside.
Another man followed, sprinting beneath the automatic covering fire, and another followed him. The majordomo watched, his Kahr PM9 in his hand, as his men poured into the building. For a long moment it was bedlam, as assault rifles blasted away in the shadows. He could hear his men yelling to each other in Arabic as they cleared each room. There was no one in the window on the second floor. There was no one trying to escape through the door. He waited, his pistol raised, but nothing happened. The shooting and shouting died away. He dropped his arm to his side.
It’s done, he thought, as he walked toward the building.
Then something exploded, shaking the street, and before he had thought through his next actions, he rushed toward the building.
Smoke was pouring out the door. Behind it, the sound of heavy fire had doubled, and he knew two sides were fighting. He could hear his men shouting. The orderly assault had devolved into a firefight, bullets ripping crosswise against each other. The majordomo held his breath and plunged into the smoke. He slammed into a wall and stood with his back against it, catching his breath, until he saw one of his men dead at its base, saw the holes in the plaster, and realized the wall wouldn’t stop the enemy’s rounds.
He hit the floor. He wasn’t wearing a vest. He had assumed the mercenaries would surrender. There was no reason for the prince to fight, and even less for the mercs. Negotiating was one thing. But why were they willing to die here, in this nothing place? He wasn’t willing, and this job was his life.
He glanced around the wall into the main room. Visibility was near zero, save for the red laser sites skipping through the smoke. He aimed at one and fired six quick shots. Immediately, automatic fire sprayed the wall around him and he dove for cover.
A small canister arced through the air, bounced off a wall, and landed two meters in front of him. It exploded, a white light and boom that left him blind and deaf. A flashbang grenade.
A hand reached out and tapped him. A man was signaling to him from behind an upturned wooden trestle table. It was one of his men . . . but who? He was wearing a gas mask, making him unrecognizable, and besides, the majordomo had never bothered to learn most of their names.
The man lifted his mask. The majordomo knew him by sight. He scrambled behind the trestle table. “False targets,” the man said in Arabic, meaning the laser sites.
The majordomo nodded. The man lowered the mask, making him look once again like an alien in the smoke. The mercenary had set up laser sights to draw their fire. Had they anticipated the attack? Had they planned a counterambush all along?
But why?
“Aistaslam,” he yelled. “Aistaslam!” Surrender.
But the prince didn’t surrender. Instead, the majordomo’s call was greeted with a fresh barrage of gunfire. If that was the way he wanted it . . .
“Aim low,” the majordomo said, pointing toward the other end of the table and putting a second clip into his pistol.
The man nodded. They rolled in opposite directions until they had clear lines of fire, the majordomo on his belly aiming knee high. He emptied his clip. He heard a scream, then a thud. He rolled back behind the table. He was starting to understand the layout now, sense the flow of battle, but he still didn’t understand why. What did the mercenaries have to gain?
The majordomo loaded his third clip. Only one more after this. He nodded to the man with him behind the table, who was reloading his Heckler & Koch UMP submachine gun.
“Ayn hi alakharin?” Where are the others?
The man shrugged. The smoke was thick, adding to the darkness of the night. A torn shutter hung on one hinge. The majordomo thought of retreating and regrouping, but there were only three mercs and Farhan’s foolish friends. He had twelve highly trained men. Or at least he had twelve when the assault started.
“Satchel charges!” he ordered in Arabic, signaling toward the back, where the gunfire was heavy. “I will cover you.”
He could see the man’s eyes inside the gas mask widen, then glance at the small pistol, an ineffectual weapon for this purpose. He seemed to be making up his mind. Refusal would end his career, if the majordomo could identify him later. And if they survived.
The man looked at the majordomo and shook his head no. The smoke curled around them, purple in the darkness. The majordomo could feel the anger burning inside him.
“I’ll go,” the majordomo said, grabbing the satchel charge out of the man’s equipment pack.
The man nodded his agreement. He rose slowly to a crouching position, his smoke mask clinging to his face. He rested his H&K submachine gun on the top edge of the table, lined up his shot, nodded that he was ready, then jolted backward as blood exploded out the back of his head.
The majordomo stared at the body as it caught on the edge of the table, then tipped and slipped to the floor. He hadn’t heard the shot, only the echo. A dozen echoes. A hundred.
The table was cracking, splintering to pieces. A dozen high-powered guns were firing. The mercenaries were advancing, and he knew he had no chance of fighting his way out of whatever this trap had become.
Green laser dots danced across his chest. He dropped the satchel charge and his pistol, and came out with his hands on his head. This wasn’t over. There was no way, that he could see, for the mercenary to escape Sinjar with the prince, his friends, and a pregnant woman. One way or another, he would take Farhan dead or alive.
Dead is better, he thought. Dead is final. Dead is quiet.
He felt the rifle in the back of his head.
“Down!” an American voice said, and the majordomo slowly lay facedown on the floor. “Where are the mercs?”
The majordomo didn’t know what that meant.
“Where are the Americans?”
“With you,” the majordomo tried to say, but a boot was on the back of his skull, pressing his mouth into the ground.
Something hit the floor next to him. It
was tobacco spit. “Where’s the fugitive?”
A boot bore down on his head. He felt his hands being flex-cuffed behind him. Someone grabbed his arms, turning him over. He looked up at a huge man in body armor with enough heavy artillery to blast through a building. His face was painted in night camouflage.
“Identify,” the man said.
“I work for—” he hesitated, wondering if his next words would doom him or save his life, then plunged ahead “—Saudi intelligence. General Abdulaziz.”
The man stared down at him. He looked sideways at a second man in body armor, then spat again, inches from his ear.
“You’re Abdulaziz’s majordomo?” he said with disgust.
The majordomo nodded. “Who are you?”
The American kicked him in the ribs, and pain shot up his right flank. “You shot one of our guy’s knees out,” he growled. “Do you know how fucking dangerous it is to get your knee shot out in a place like this?”
“You killed my men,” the majordomo objected.
“Getting a medevac out here is going to be a son of a bitch,” the man said, spitting again, “and God knows if the company will pay for it, probably not, when they hear about this clusterfuck.”
“We’re on the same side,” the majordomo said, as the realization swept over him.
The boot came off his neck, reluctantly. The majordomo sat up and indicated his cuffs. The American stared at him, then cut him loose. The majordomo shrugged his way out of the flex-cuffs, then straightened his white suit jacket. He wiped something from the lapel and realized it was blood. He had dirt in his mouth from the floor. The smoke was clearing, and he could see five or six mercenaries in body armor with heavy weapons kicking corpses to roll them over. His men’s corpses.
“Muntahiki,” the majordomo muttered under his breath with disgust, using his pocket square to wipe filth from his lips.
