Desert Falcons. Don Pendleton

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      Mahfuj stepped forward, kicking the weapons away from the fallen men, pausing to put a round in the back of each of their heads, and then waiting when he got to the door. He glanced through the Plexiglas window and caught a glimpse of the dark van in which the killers had arrived. He kicked open the door, thrust the barrel of the rifle outward and fired off the remaining rounds in the magazine. He was careful to control his aim as the van sped off down the brightly lit street.

      He watched it go, still holding the AK-47 in the ready position, its bolt now locked back, indicating an expended magazine.

      The taillights of the van receded into the darkness, obscured by the bright dots of the ubiquitous street and building lights. As his hearing slowly returned, Mahfuj thought he could hear the sound of distant police sirens. He let the door swing closed and strode back into the club, holding the rifle in one hand now, so that it looked less threatening. As he rounded the corner, his eyes swept over the dance floor once again. People were huddled in corners and along the bar. Several bodies lay on the floor, some writhing with death throes, others eerily still. Mahfuj kept scanning their faces until he located Prince Amir, crouching in a corner. He strode over to him.

      “Your Highness,” Mahfuj said, “are you all right?”

      The prince’s face was awash with the varying colors under the flashing lights. He nodded. The three other members of the prince’s bodyguard contingent ran over and flanked them.

      “Thanks be to God.” Mahfuj extended his hand toward the noble. “Come, my prince. We must leave immediately for a place of safety.”

      The prince accepted the extended hand and rose on shaky legs. “Mahfuj, you saved my life.”

      Mahfuj dropped the AK-47 on the floor and led the prince toward the rear exit, directing one of the other bodyguards to get their vehicle. “It was nothing, Your Majesty.”

      The prince’s face jerked into a weak smile as his eyes showed both gratitude and admiration.

      And it was nothing, Mahfuj thought as he pushed through the people who were slowly rising. After all, stopping a trio of killers was not that hard when you knew how many there would be, what door they’d be using, how they’d be armed, and exactly when they were coming.

      * * *

       Royal Palace, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

      ALHAMDULILLAH, THE MESSAGE SAID. Praise be to God.

      Mustapha bin Ahmad Rahman smiled as he read the text on his cell phone, then erased the word. It had come from his eldest son, Mahfuj. Mustapha had overseen the training of his three sons well, and his first born was the strongest and most capable. Yet each of them fit into his overall plan like the fingers of a glove. God willing, all would proceed now that the time had finally come to set things into motion. He glanced at the clock. It was close to midnight, and the elderly king would surely be sleeping. Mustapha knew he would have to wait until the proper notifications came through official channels that the attempt on the life of the king’s favorite great grandson, Prince Amir, had been thwarted by his loyal bodyguards, most specifically, Muhfuj.

      Mustapha picked up the watch he had disassembled and began working on repairing its intricacies. It had been his hobby since learning the craft from his own grandfather as a small boy. The old man had loved tinkering as a watchmaker, but he was also a secret revolutionary. When his fingers had been blown off building a bomb, he trained Mustapha to take over as the watchmaker. Working with these tiny, intricate, precise parts was his solace of late, a way to relax, like a slow journey through the desert on the back of a camel.

      Mustapha was the son of the son of one of the lesser princes fathered by a less-favored son with one of his lesser wives, so his status as a member of the royal family was ensured by his bloodline. Thus, the success of his career as an officer in the military, replete with accomplishments, was a foregone conclusion. Promotions came to him, and soon he’d found himself in the enviable position of full colonel. However, just as the status of his bloodline assured his success, the less than favorable status of his father’s father within the house of Saud also relegated him to an inconvenient obscurity. Mustapha worked hard, learning all that he could about the Koran, history and military tactics, which would enable him to become a great leader one day. But eventually the true nature of his position became clear to him. While it ensured comfort and success, he would never attain the coveted favorite, heir-apparent status for which he felt he was destined. He was the offspring of a lesser royal; he was a man who would never be king.

      Yet the desire to lead, to achieve greatness burned within Mustapha like a hard, gem-like flame. It fueled his ambition and slowly, cautiously had allowed him to secretly build a base of support among both the enlisted and officer ranks of the military. His physical prowess and other qualities made him a natural leader. Others, even those above him in rank, looked up to him. That he should lead was always obvious, and now, soon, the entire country would see this, would feel the same, but not in a nation vainly named after one family, the House of Saud. No, Saudi Arabia would become simply Arabia. And he would be President Mustapha bin Ahmad Rahman.

      He would not make the same mistakes as his predecessors had in 1969 when the air force officers, emboldened by Khaddafi’s success in Libya, let hubris and indiscretion overshadow their better judgment. If someone planned to kill the king, he had to be certain the blow was not only fatal, but not anticipated. Word of their plan came to the attention of the United States, and the subsequent intervention of the Americans, who warned King Faisal of the military’s plan, had been its ultimate undoing.

      This time, however, it would be different. This coup would not be spoiled by indiscreet words or intercepted messages. This time there would be no discovery or intervention by the Americans. No, this desert falcon was wise and learned from the mistakes of others.

      Yes, he was the man who would never be king, but he would be president.

      It was the will of God, he thought. I will succeed.

      Mustapha used the narrow tweezers to clip the last piston into place, then rotated the timepiece and watched as the tiny gears of the Rolex began clicking with a quintessential precision. He replaced its back and set it aside as he removed the second, seemingly identical watch from a pocket in his thobe. This one was the same only in superficial appearance. It was not even a true Rolex. Rather, this ersatz version had been given to them by the Russian. It contained the tiny, special tablets designed to induce a fatal cardiac arrhythmia, one of which Mustapha had used to eliminate his predecessor, the minister of defense, leaving the door open for his quick appointment to that esteemed position. It had been the first overt move of his highly complex plan. As a rule, Mustapha knew that it was better to keep a plan simple to ensure success, but when a person wished to eliminate a king, and change a country, an enhanced degree of complexity was requisite. This plan had to be worthy of toppling a king.

      It bore a strange similarity to working on a highly sophisticated timepiece: many small intricate parts, all working in conjunction, producing the necessary movements to move the hands of time.

      There was a knock on his door, and he quickly pocketed the ersatz Rolex. As he rose, the door opened, and the face of Hamid, the ultra-loyal assistant of the deputy prime minister and the king’s bodyguard, appeared in the crack.

      “Forgive me, sir, but I saw that your light was on,” Hamid said.

      Mustapha already knew what this intrusion was about but feigned a benevolent ignorance. He smiled. “Yes, I was up late working on the king’s watch.”

      Hamid’s eyes shot to the Rolex. СКАЧАТЬ