True Faith and Allegiance

EPILOGUE

Sami bin Rashid couldn’t sleep, not even on the Egyptian cotton sheets, not even with the soft mood lighting, and not even in the cool silk pajamas.

It didn’t really make sense to him. Though he normally had trouble sleeping on aircraft, tonight should have been different because he was flying on Etihad Airlines and staying in the Residence, the most opulent commercial airline experience on earth. It wasn’t a seat; it was two rooms with an en suite bathroom/shower, private concierge service, and gourmet meals created by the onboard chef.

This flight from Dubai to Sydney, Australia, was fourteen hours long, and for the first three hours he’d dined well and read distractedly, but after that he’d had nothing but time to sit and ponder his predicament.

Overtly, at least, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia considered bin Rashid a pariah; dangerous, toxic. If Riyadh even admitted they knew his location it would be problematic with the Americans, so he’d used a cover legend and documents and enacted a long-arranged but never seriously considered plan to flee somewhere safe.

He’d chosen Australia. Far away and unknown, the last place anyone would look for him.

Of course members of Saudi intelligence knew he was going; he was doing it with their blessing, in fact. He had been more than pleased to hear through back channels that the kingdom just wanted him to lie low for a time; perhaps a few years, and then they would consider working with him again quietly and at arm’s reach.

He didn’t know what he’d do in Australia, but he had money to do it with, and now he had nothing but time.

So why couldn’t he sleep?

He sat up in the bedroom of the Residence, pulled off his sleep mask, and rubbed his eyes.

Al-Matari. That’s why. The son of a bitch. Somehow he’d fucked up and failed bin Rashid’s American operation. President Jack Ryan had crippled the Islamic State by eviscerating their ability to make slick propaganda pieces to draw in new recruits, and by linking the oil-rich states to the Islamic State, giving off the false impression that the whole fucking caliphate was just part of some evil Saudi oil-business scheme.

Ridiculous.

Sami bin Rashid tossed his eye mask on the bed, stormed out of his little bedroom, through his sitting room, and stepped out of the Residence, still in his silk pajamas.

His personal concierge was on him in an instant, a beautiful woman half a head taller than bin Rashid. She was ready to bring him food or drinks, but bin Rashid waved the woman away, and looked around.

He was glad to see the little bar was open; the bartender stood there with only one patron leaning against the half-moon-shaped surface in the center of the first-class cabin.

Bin Rashid stepped up, still wearing his black silk pajamas. “Give me a drink.”

“Of course, sir. What would you like?”

Bin Rashid did not drink in Dubai, or in Riyadh, but he’d consumed alcohol working in cover as an intel operator in his younger days. He’d turned down offers of champagne from the concierge when he boarded, but now he wanted a drink more than anything in the world, because he did not want to think about al-Matari, and the failed plan to save Saudi Arabia from domestic rot and international Shiite attack.

He looked to the man leaning next to him. A Westerner in his shirtsleeves, pushing seventy. His white hair was thin, and he had a smile on his face.

The man lifted his glass. In English he said, “If you want to keep it simple and effective, you can’t do much better than a vodka on the rocks.”

Bin Rashid nodded, and the bartender started making the drink.

The American reached out a hand. “I’m Carl, from Denver, Colorado.”

“Mohammed, from Dubai.”

The older American nodded toward the Residence. “Hell, pal, I spent a big chunk of my retirement on a seat up here in first class, but you got yourself a condo for the night. What kind of work do you do?”

“Consulting,” bin Rashid said. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, least of all a chatty old American.

“Yeah? I do a bit of consulting myself. Thought I’d come down and look around Australia, see what that’s all about.”

The vodka on ice was placed in front of the Saudi, along with a tray of salty snacks. He took the drink and sipped it. It burned going down, and he made a face.

The American smiled. “Let the ice melt a second, softens the blow.”

Bin Rashid nodded, and he left the drink on the bar. The bartender stepped away to talk to passengers who had just sat at one of the small cocktail tables nearby.

“Is that as nice as they say? The Residence?” The man pointed again to the open door to the space.

Bin Rashid said, “Yes, it is quite nice.”

“Your concierge sure is a looker.”

Bin Rashid turned to regard the woman as she knelt in his sitting room, straightening the pillows on the sofa.

“Yeah,” Carl from Denver said. “A little young for me, but a guy like you, why not?”

The Saudi looked at the woman a long time. She was, indeed, beautiful. He wondered if perhaps Australia would have women who looked like that. He was a wealthy man… maybe he could make things happen there that hadn’t happened for him in Dubai, because of his work.

After a full minute of regarding the concierge while she faced away from him, standing in first class, the American said, “I bet it’s just about perfect.”

Bin Rashid was still looking at the woman’s ass. Slowly he turned back around to the American. “I’m sorry?”

“Your drink. Should be nice and cold by now.”

“Ah, yes.” Bin Rashid drank it down.

The American sipped his own. “How ’bout another? We can drink to new beginnings.”

The Saudi shook his head. “No, thank you. I must rest.”

He turned and walked away, back toward the Residence.

“Sleep well, then,” the American called out from behind.

Bin Rashid lay back down a minute later, pulled the sleeping mask over his eyes, and tried to think about something other than his failure in the American operation.

Thirty minutes later he was still trying.

And thirty-one minutes later, his failure in the American operation no longer mattered to him.

The heart attack was sudden, and it was massive. He’d not even managed to sit up. He just lurched there in the bed, let out a short gasp, then dropped back dead, his hands across his chest.

John Clark still could feel the effects of his two vodkas thirty minutes later, but as he looked at his watch, he doubted his effects were anything like what Sami bin Rashid was feeling right about now. Squirting the eyedropper of advanced neurotoxin into the vodka when the Saudi looked at the woman had taken speed, dexterity, and some luck, but nothing like the luck of having the Saudi step up to the bar when Clark assumed the man was sleeping.

The original plan had involved slipping into the Residence unseen and injecting him with a fast-acting heart-stopper, holding a hand over his mouth while he thrashed for several seconds.

That had been no one’s first choice, but it would have been preferable to losing him in Sydney.

To make this work Ding Chavez would have had to do the hit while Clark distracted the concierge and the bartender, and this looked like it would have been a tough op in the small and quiet confines of first class, so both Clark and Chavez were happy that bin Rashid made it easy, and the next eight hours of their flight could be spent in utter relaxation here in the opulence of first class.

Sure, an hour or so before landing there would be a shriek from the Residence, stress from the flight crew, and perhaps some delays in deplaning. But flying to Sydney meant there really was no place for the aircraft to divert to on the way, so no one on the flight would be terribly inconvenienced by Clark’s actions.

Except for Sami bin Rashid.

Clark looked away from his watch, confident the job was done, and he looked across the width of the darkened cabin and saw Ding checking his own watch. The two men made eye contact for a moment, Clark winked, and Ding smiled back, and then both men reclined their seats as far as they could and closed their eyes.