Rules of Betrayal

6

His full name was Prince Rashid Albayar al-Zayed, and he was the twelfth son of Crown Prince Ali al-Zayed, the sitting president of the United Arab Emirates. Thirty-two years of age, Prince Rashid stood a strapping six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a matinee idol’s smile, and flashing brown eyes that captivated all with their sincerity. Rashid was not one of the lazy royals who lived off his family’s name and squandered money as if it were an Olympic discipline. He was the opposite thing. A graduate of Phillips Exeter Academy, Cambridge University, and INSEAD, all with honors, he had returned home to commence a career in his government’s service. In six years he had moved from commissioner of customs and excise to deputy minister of foreign affairs, and now he headed the country’s national police.

In his off hours, Prince Rashid chaired a pan-Arab summit on climate change and served as the royal family’s representative for the Emirates Hunger Challenge, a charity that had raised over $200 million for starving children in sub-Saharan Africa. His wife was a Lebanese beauty, and Christian. His four lovely children attended a French lycee in Dubai City. To all eyes, the prince was the model of a modern secular Muslim and a postage-stamp representative of the UAE.

But the file on him painted a darker portrait. It suggested that his public activities were for show and nothing more than a workaholic’s laboriously constructed facade to camouflage his true calling: the funneling of arms and materiel to fundamentalist Islamic terrorist organizations.

As he walked across the hangar floor, arms outstretched, Prince Rashid turned up the wattage on his smile and made bold use of his flashing eyes. In the Middle East, a greeting says everything about a relationship.

“Ashok, my dear friend,” he said, taking Balfour into his arms and hugging him. “I’m so very glad to see you. I can’t thank you enough for helping me… and my friends.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said Lord Balfour. “May I introduce Miss Lara Antonova of the Russian FSB?”

“I thought Siberians were blond,” said Prince Rashid, bowing slightly.

“Not all of us,” said Emma. He was shaking her hand, and for a moment she thought he was not going to let go. His hands were large and surprisingly callused. Another snippet came back to her. The prince was a devotee of martial arts. Rumor was that he enjoyed sending his sparring partners to the hospital.

“If I didn’t know General Ivanov better, I’d say you were British,” the prince went on.

“Moscow prefers that we speak the queen’s English.”

Rashid laughed, and they were joined a moment later by his cadre of police officers. Just then his phone rang. He spoke briefly. “Miss Antonova, your plane has requested permission to land. It will be on the ground in two minutes.”

The prince rubbed his hands together and strode onto the tarmac. Balfour and Emma accompanied him, careful to stay the requisite step behind. The twenty-odd police officers, all dressed in the same crisp short-sleeved khaki uniform as their commander, followed.

The Tupolev landed and taxied to the near end of the runway. The cargo hatch dropped. The plane’s crew began to unload pallet after pallet stacked high with wooden crates painted an olive drab and stenciled with Cyrillic words.

The next hour passed quickly. Prince Rashid strode among the cargo, pointing out random crates to open and inspecting the contents against his packing list. Lord Balfour walked at the prince’s side, saying, “It’s all here” again and again. “One hundred percent fulfillment, as requested.”

Emma stood off to one side, arms crossed, her eyes shifting between the prince and the snipers positioned on the rooftop. It was while she was checking over her shoulder that she noticed the man for the first time. He was small and lithe, bearded, like nearly every male present except the prince, but very different in manner. He stood next to the prince’s Mercedes, and she suspected he must have ridden in the passenger seat, which made him a VIP. His skin was dark, and even standing, one hand clutching the SUV’s open door, he appeared hunted, as if afraid of being spotted. He was dressed in traditional Arab garb but not a rich man’s robe, just a simple white dish-dasha and headdress with a coiled black rope. His clothes marked him as a common man, but no common man rode shotgun with Prince Rashid.

Emma looked at him long enough for her camera to get a nice shot for Frank Connor and the boys back at Division.

The man was the end user: Prince Rashid’s terrorist of the month. Emma had no proof, but she knew it all the same. Experience.

“One hundred percent fulfillment.” This time it was the prince speaking, and she turned to see him approach. “I’m impressed. I look forward to doing more business with General Ivanov in the future.” He signaled to an aide-de-camp, and a minute later Emma was in possession of two stainless steel briefcases, each containing $5 million.

“The pleasure is ours,” said Emma. “In fact, the general has asked me to present you with a gift on his behalf.”

“Really?”

She stared at the prince, wondering if his surprise was genuine or if his sincerity was always so transparent. She signaled to the airmen, and a few moments later they descended from the Tupolev carrying a lacquered black rifle case between them. “Put it there,” she said, gesturing to a nearby crate.

With ceremony she opened the box, revealing the Vychlop sniper’s rifle embedded in maroon velvet. Directly beneath the rifle, each in its own compartment, were three five-inch-long bullets with the circumference of a Cohiba cigar. Each bore the prince’s name and family crest engraved on its brass jacket. More important, each was capable of penetrating an armored Humvee at a thousand yards.

Prince Rashid put the rifle to his shoulder. It weighed twenty-two pounds, but he clasped it as if it were a Daisy Repeater.

“I hope it meets your satisfaction,” said Emma.

“What kind of question is that?” asked the prince, lowering the rifle and passing a well-manicured hand along its barrel. “It is a thing of beauty. An instrument of death rendered elegant.”

“I’m glad you like it.” She checked her watch. “Excuse me, but I have a three a.m. flight to Zurich. I’m sorry to leave so soon-”

“Nonsense,” said Prince Rashid. “I’ll call the airport and see that it’s delayed. You must stay and try General Ivanov’s gift with me.”

Emma sensed an insistence that had not been there before. A false, predatory insistence. “Really,” she continued, a voice within her ordering her to run. “It’s late and I must be going. General Ivanov is expecting me.”

Prince Rashid flashed his movie star’s smile. “But I spoke with Igor Ivanovich earlier. He’s more than happy for you to stay. He called you his country’s finest ambassador. Now that we’ve met, I see that he spoke the truth.”

Emma’s eyes went to the roof of the hangar. The snipers had taken up position. Each was curled over his weapon. She had little doubt that her head was centered in the crosshairs of their scopes. She decided that Rashid had been expecting the rifle and that it was not a surprise. She looked at Balfour, who knew nothing about the gift. It was Connor’s play and Connor’s play alone.

“Surely you can stay,” added Balfour, his eyes sterner than his voice.

“But of course,” Emma consented, if only to buy time.

The prince rattled off a command, and a patch of scrub adjacent to the hangar was suddenly illuminated as bright as midday. At the far end was a wing-back chair. On it sat a mannequin dressed in the uniform of a United States Marine. Emma had her proof. Rashid had been expecting the weapon.

The prince handed her the rifle. “Please. I would be honored if you took the first shot.” He selected a bullet from the case. “I insist.”

Emma cleared the breech and slipped the shell into the chamber, slamming home the bolt with authority. Her odds were one in three. She’d faced worse, she told herself as anger replaced apprehension. She’d been betrayed. She knew too much, and knowledge was a double-edged sword. It was that simple. Whatever the case, she would proceed in style.

“Come,” she said, motioning to the prince to come closer. “Let me show you how to shoot it. The rifle is heavy in the barrel. It’s necessary to put weight on your back foot. To aim, you have to lay your cheek flat against the stock. Step closer. You can’t see from there.”

“I can see perfectly,” said Prince Rashid.

“As you wish.” Emma sighted the rifle on the mannequin’s chest, positioning the butt against her shoulder. “The trigger is surprisingly light. Squeeze gently and get ready for the biggest goddamn kick of your life.”

One in three.

She pressed her cheek to the stock, drew a breath, and tightened her finger.

The explosion was deafening.

The prince cowered, raising an arm to protect his head. Downrange, the mannequin sat in his chair just as before, but his head and half of his left shoulder were gone.

“A little high.” Emma shrugged, not entirely dissatisfied, and handed the prince his rifle. “I’m sure you’ll do better.”

Weapon in hand, the prince walked to the lacquered case, selected a bullet, and slid it into the chamber. Without a word, he returned to the firing line, drove home the bolt, raised the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired.

The shot was wide and low, loosing a cloud of dust.

“A devil of a kick,” said Prince Rashid, rubbing his shoulder. “My wife will wish to know how I received such a bruise.”

One bullet remained in its velvet cradle. Rashid thrust the rifle toward Balfour. “What about you, Ashok? Game?”

Balfour raised his hands. “I just sell the bloody things. Look at it. The damned thing is nearly as big as I am.”

“That’s two excuses,” said Prince Rashid. With a glance at Emma, he plucked the final bullet from its case and slid it into the carriage. “Perhaps you can help me this time,” he said to her. “How should I sight it?”

Emma stepped behind the prince and placed an arm around his shoulder, guiding his head so that his cheek lay in the proper position against the rifle stock. With her left hand, she helped raise the weapon so that it was aimed at the mannequin. “Don’t touch the trigger until you have the bead centered on the target. I suggest aiming a half-meter low to compensate for the kick. Press your front foot into the ground. Harder. Now tense your stomach.”

Emma stood just to the side of the prince, watching his finger caress the trigger. “Softly,” she said. “Take a breath and squeeze.”

The prince looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Softly,” he said.

“That’s right.”

Suddenly the prince stood tall, lowering the rifle. “Dammit,” he said, striding away.

“What’s wrong?” asked Balfour, rushing to his side.

“I just can’t do it to my shoulder,” said Prince Rashid. “It will ruin my golf game for a month.”

The gathering went silent; then a few of his underlings laughed and the laugh became contagious. Prince Rashid handed the rifle to a short, corpulent man in a captain’s uniform. “Let’s see if Captain Hussein can hit the target. As I recall, he used to be a shooting instructor at the academy.”

Hussein walked to the firing line. With care, he raised the weapon and sighted it on the mannequin. He would not disappoint his ruler.

“Softly,” said the prince, staring at Emma.

An instant later, the rifle backfired as the bullet exploded inside the barrel, blowing apart the bolt and chamber.

The police captain lay writhing on the ground, his face ripped clean off his skull, eyeballs, cartilage, and teeth mashed together to resemble nothing more than a crushed pomegranate. The police officers ran to the horrifically wounded man. Balfour shouted for an ambulance. “On the double!”

But Prince Rashid remained where he was.

“You,” he said to Emma, grasping her by the arm. “You will come with me.”