Desert Falcons. Don Pendleton
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. “You have finished it? It is his favorite.”
“Not quite yet,” Mustapha said. “It is a very complicated timepiece. Many intricate parts that must all function in unison.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Is there something you need?”
Hamid nodded and clasped his hands in front of him. “There has been an attempt on the life of Prince Amir.”
Mustapha jumped to his feet, continuing his sham. “What? Is he all right?”
Hamid nodded vigorously. “The prince said I was to summon you first, before we awakened the king.”
“Of course. We must do so immediately. I will accompany you both.”
Hamid straightened his body to its full height. “He also wished me to tell you that your son was the one who saved the prince. He is a hero.”
Mustapha nodded. “Thank God. It is well that I named him so aptly—Muhfuj, the protector.”
He barely was able to conceal his glee. It was all unfolding as he’d planned.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Mack Bolan jabbed twice and then sent a whistling right cross into the heavy bag with a resounding thump. Jack Grimaldi, who was holding the bag against his body, was propelled back a foot and groaned.
“Man, I bet they felt that one all the way back in South Bend, Indiana,” he said.
Bolan chuckled and delivered another rapid series of punches, concluding with a left hook that jolted Grimaldi off balance