Executive Power Part 38

It was a drama, and he wasn't in the mood for it. Maybe a comedy would have grabbed his attention but definitely not a drama.

What he needed was an escape from the harsh reality of what he'd been doing. David did not enjoy murdering, but he understood it as a necessary evil in a world where it was often the only way to get things done. Thousands upon thousands of lives had been ended in the quest for Palestinian independence. What would a few more matter? None of this was new to him. He'd known it from an early age. He had seen his path in life, knowing that someday he would have a hand in shaping the birth of his nation. And now that his dream was so close, the guilt disappeared in the hum of jet engines. At 45,000 feet somewhere over the vast Atlantic Ocean he tucked a thin blue blanket up under his chin and thought of Palestine, warm thoughts of a nation at peace, and then he fell asleep.

He'd landed in Paris and changed flights without incident. The first sign that something had gone wrong was when he landed in Nice and caught a news update on the television. He'd been incommunicado for the better part of seven hours and was starved for information.

The vote had not taken place. The UN had been shut down due to a bomb threat. David's eyes squinted at the television and instantly knew the bomb scare was a ruse. Angry but under control, he headed off in search of answers. Unfortunately, those answers would have to come from Omar. As promised, a limousine was waiting for him at the curb. David climbed into the backseat and settled in for the short ride down the coast. He was entirely oblivious to the fact that he was being watched.

Rapp stood AT the window of his hotel room. The lights were off and he was careful to stand a few feet back from the gla.s.s. Before leaving the States he'd honored his new agreement with his wife and told her the destination and likely duration of his trip. She wanted to know if his sudden departure had anything to do with the car bomb, and after a slight hesitation, he told her that it did. All in all he was surprised how well the conversation had gone.

Rapp pressed a pair of high-powered binoculars to his face and looked down on the harbor of Cannes, in the South of France. The Albert Edouardo Pier stretched out before him. Some of the world's finest yachts were berthed for the night, crowded together with barely a foot to spare between each, all neatly tucked in. As grand and opulent as all the other vessels were one stood out above the rest. Actually, it towered above the rest. Rapp had seen wealth before. He'd traveled the world and visited many cities, most of them port cities, but he had never seen a noncommercial or military vessel as large as Omar's yacht.

The ma.s.sive s.h.i.+p was moored at the end of the pier, no individual slip was big enough to hold it. Omar's yacht was easily twice as large as the next biggest vessel, which was no small thing when one considered that it was parked in a harbor that was known as the ultimate playground for the world's wealthy.

Rapp had never met Omar, and until this week had only heard of him in pa.s.sing. He suddenly had a great desire to meet this corpulent Saudi Prince. The signs were easy enough to recognize; Rapp had seen them before. He knew how to a.n.a.lyze himself better than any shrink.

He would like to put the Prince on the other end of his gun and watch him squirm. Men like Omar were never humiliated. That was their biggest problem. They went through life with a very warped sense of reality. Their own lives took on an over exaggerated sense of importance while virtually everyone else around them became trivial expendable small. His yacht symbolized how Omar perceived himself.

He was his s.h.i.+p, the biggest and thus most important. Everyone else was secondary. Only his desires were what mattered.

It was approaching midnight. Rapp and his team had arrived two hours ago and were in the process of calibrating all of their equipment to make sure it worked perfectly. They didn't need much. The British surveillance team that had been in place since Monday was on top of things. They briefed Rapp thoroughly, and as always their cooperation was excellent. Rapp had worked with the folks from MI6 before and had found them to be extremely good at their jobs.

In addition to what the Brits already had in place, and their own directional microphones, Scott Coleman had just finished placing listening devices on the hull of the yacht. Rapp looked through the binoculars at the small sailboat and watched as Coleman handed his scuba tank to one of his men and climbed aboard. The British sailboat was tied up two jetties over from Omar's yacht and was partially blocked by a sizable cabin cruiser. When Coleman was finally back on board the sailboat Rapp relaxed a bit. Everything was in place.

Their guy had landed. He was no longer John Doe. With the delivery of the encrypted file from Mossad, Kennedy had put a name with the face. He was Jabril Khatabi, the Palestinian who had given Mossad the intelligence boon that had turned into a ma.s.sacre. The man who had started it all. A man who interested Rapp greatly. On the flight over, Rapp had read every sc.r.a.p of Jabril's file, and the more he read the more interested he became. On the face of it, this Jabril did not seem like a p.a.w.n. Marcus Dumond had plunged into his financials and so far had discovered a personal fortune in excess of five million dollars, almost all of it in highly liquid a.s.sets. He had been educated at the very bosom of American agnostic liberalism, the University of California at Berkeley. He'd gone to work for a venture capital firm in Silicon Valley after college and had traveled the world, focusing mostly on investments from Arab oil people. Everything in his file pointed not to terrorism, but to capitalism.

If it weren't for the audio surveillance they had of his meetings with Omar, and the fact he'd been a Mossad informant, Rapp would have sworn the man was nothing more than one of Omar's abundant financial advisors. He found it hard to believe this wealthy man from a well-educated family was a terrorist, but the evidence was conclusive.

Before the night was over Rapp was hoping to have a little chat with the Palestinian to see if he could clear a few things up.

They didn't have much time. The President's deadline was firm.

Every time Rapp had talked to Kennedy she'd reminded him of that.

Things in Was.h.i.+ngton had grown even more hectic since he'd left.

Neither the French nor the Palestinians had been placated by Israel's withdrawal from Hebron. The Israelis now claimed incontrovertible evidence that there had been a bomb factory in Hebron, and they were prepared to present that evidence before an international board of inquiry.

The evidence of course had been planted during the military occupation of the town, in order to save Prime Minister Goldberg from a controversy that would spell the end of his government.

The French Amba.s.sador to the UN had privately confronted the American Amba.s.sador and accused the CIA of doing exactly what they'd done; phoning in a bomb scare in order to delay the vote on Palestinian statehood. Amba.s.sador Joussard was offended and indignant that the world's lone superpower would stoop so low. Even though he was right, it was rather amusing that the condemnation was coming from a man who'd been bribed into putting forth the resolution that was causing so much consternation in the first place.

Israel was offering to sit down and discuss peace with the Palestinians as soon as the Palestinians honored a cease-fire agreement. The Palestinians for their part refused to abide by a cease-fire agreement until they had it in writing that Prime Minister Goldberg would close and relocate every Jewish settlement in the West Bank. Prime Minister Goldberg flat-out refused such a request and the violence continued.

Both the Russians and the Chinese were suspicious about the timing of the bomb scare that shut down the UN, and both were vowing to make sure the French resolution was voted on first thing in the morning.

The President was getting a great deal of pressure from the Secretary of State and his chief of staff to bring the French into the fold on the entire matter. Rapp had just spoken to Kennedy on the secure satellite phone and she had rea.s.sured him that although the President was tempted, he was going to honor his commitment of twelve hours.

SEVENTY FIVE.

David tipped the driver and declined the man's offer to carry his lone bag to the yacht. He stood for a long moment at the beginning of the pier and looked toward the hulking white s.h.i.+p. It seemed as if all of his strength and energy were being sucked from him. He did not look forward to seeing Omar. He desperately wanted information; he just wished there was a way to get it without having to sit down for a royal audience.

Reluctantly, he put one foot in front of the other and started for the white yacht. He was barely halfway there when he spotted Devon LeClair standing in the open gangway at the side of the s.h.i.+p. High above on the bridge David could see men in white uniforms moving about. He knew from previous visits that the s.h.i.+p was always more active at night. That was when Omar entertained, when he held his hedonistic parties after he'd returned from the discos and the casinos. The casinos in Cannes didn't even open until eight in the evening. The high rollers like Omar rarely showed up before midnight.

David secretly hoped Omar was gone and Devon could tell him what was going on, but he doubted he would be so lucky. Omar would want to hear all the details of his trip to America, especially the car bomb in Was.h.i.+ngton. That had been Omar's idea. At first David had said no. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many innocent bystanders who could be hurt. Omar persisted though. He'd badgered him for months and had thrown larger and larger amounts of money at him. He threatened to pull out of the entire operation, and send David packing. He pointed out that the brutal murder of the Saudi Amba.s.sador would put the Crown Prince in a position of sympathy.

Omar explained that he had been preaching to his brother for years to stand up to the Americans and that when the time was right he would be there in his ear telling him what to ask of the Americans when they apologized for the shocking international incident that had taken place on their soil.

Everything hinged on the Americans. They had the veto power and they alone could stand in the way of the creation of a Palestinian state. Omar explained that international pressure wasn't enough. They needed economic pressure on their side and they needed the American President to feel guilty over the death of Crown Prince Faisal's favorite cousin. It wasn't enough to simply show the world once again that Israel was run by thugs. The world already knew that. Killing the Palestinian Amba.s.sador would rally the UN to their cause, but would it be enough pressure to forestall a veto by the United States? Possibly not.

David didn't like the idea of putting so much into his plan and coming up short. Omar was right and like everything else in his Princely life he eventually got his way.

As he approached the gangplank he asked himself again what could have possibly gone wrong. They had thought of everything, but somehow the Americans had delayed the vote.

He forced himself to smile at Devon.

"Good evening."

"You look tired," was all the Frenchman said in response.

"Thank you," replied David with feigned sincerity.

"And you look marvelous as always."

Devon frowned at him from behind his gla.s.ses.

"The Prince is waiting for you in his private salon."

David nodded and stepped into the s.h.i.+p.

"Leave your bag, and I'll have someone put it in a stateroom. I a.s.sume you're staying the night."

"I suppose." David dropped his bag and headed down the pa.s.sageway in search of his benefactor.

When he reached the lavishly decorated private salon he was pleasantly surprised to find only Omar and his ever present bodyguard Chung. This was where Omar usually entertained the call girls and prost.i.tutes that he kept around for his perverse s.e.xual pleasures. As with almost everything Omar commissioned, the room was overdone.

Too many pillows, too many Persian rugs on the floor, too many silk panels on the walls and too much chiffon draped from the ceiling. The place looked like some kind of a cross between a desert harem and a wh.o.r.ehouse, which on second thought was probably exactly the look Omar was after.

Before David got far, Chung stepped forward, his eyes checking out the a.s.sa.s.sin from head to toe. David opened his suit coat and did a three-sixty so Chung could see that he was unarmed. It amused him slightly that Chung had stopped frisking him. It would have been very easy to hide a small-caliber pistol in the waistband of his underwear.

There had been times lately where the thought had crossed David's mind. Omar disgusted him more and more. David knew what his own cause was, but with Omar it wasn't so clear.

At first the Prince had espoused with great pa.s.sion his belief that there was no more important Arab cause than Palestinian statehood.

David had listened to Omar speak glowingly of his commitment to the Palestinian cause, and David had believed every word of it. That had been more than two years ago, and since then he had learned a great deal. First and foremost he'd learned that Omar didn't really care for anything other than his own pleasure. And sometimes his own pleasure involved watching other people suffer. Omar's feigned love of Palestine was the thin outer veneer of a s.a.d.i.s.tic hatred of Israel. Where David dreamt of a free Palestinian state as an end, Omar dreamt of a free Palestinian state as the beginning of an end the end of Israel.

In an unusual gesture Omar stood. He not only stood but he smiled. He held out his arms like he was a father greeting his favorite son. Before David knew it he was being pulled in. It was part of the other side of Omar. His mood was infectious, whether he was up or down, he brought everybody with him like the tide. Right now he was up, and David couldn't help but grin.

"Come here," Omar's voice bellowed.

"You have succeeded."

David allowed himself to be hugged even though he didn't feel like he'd succeeded.

"You have done marvelously," roared Omar as he patted David on the back.

"Have you seen the tape?" asked Omar as he released him.

"No. I've been on a plane all day. I have no idea what's happened.

What is this I hear about a bomb threat at the UN?"

Omar deflected the question with a flip of his wrist.

"That is nothing. Only a delay tactic by the Americans. Come, you must see the videotape." Omar forced David over to a chair in front of a large plasma TV.

"Sit sit I command you. When we are done we will go to the casino and then the discotheque for some women."

David reluctantly dropped into the chair and watched as Omar picked up a remote control.

"What is going on at the UN? Why didn't they vote?"

"There was some bomb scare, but do not worry. The vote is going to take place first thing in the morning and it is going to pa.s.s."

David eyed Omar suspiciously.

"How do you know it will pa.s.s?"

"I just talked with my brother. I've been talking to that poor excuse for a man all day. I think he actually cried when he found out Abdul had been blown up." Omar stopped fiddling with the remote for a second and looked at David with his most incredulous expression.

"Can you believe that a grown man would cry over such a thing? My brother is a fool."

David was sure that somewhere, in some very thick medical reference book, there was a term that described Omar's personality, but he had yet to take the time to sit down and look it up. Ignoring his obsession with his brother the Crown Prince, David repeated his question.

"How can you be so sure it will pa.s.s tomorrow?"

"My brother, the weak fool, has been given a.s.surances by all of the permanent members that they will vote in favor of the resolution."

"Even the United States."

"They have not given their word yet, but they have no choice. As we discussed I convinced my brother that now was the time for the threat of an all-out embargo." Omar smiled and said, "After you killed Abdul, the President asked my brother if there was anything he could do and my brother told him to vote for the French resolution." Omar began laughing so hard he actually began to shake. After he'd calmed a bit he added, "They are all such idiots."

All David could think to do was nod and smile.

When the tape was finally rewound, Omar hit Play and said, "You will not believe this. A film crew showed up just minutes after the explosion."

David watched as the screen went from black to black-and-gray and then finally a shot of people running down a sidewalk. In the distance was a cloud of smoke. Most of the people were running away from the smoke but the cameraman and several other people were running toward it. David began to feel himself sweat. He s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in the chair. He had no desire to watch this, but he could feel Omar's eyes on him.

Suddenly there were people on the ground. The camera stopped at each one for a few seconds cataloging the tragedy and then the reporter began shouting instructions. The lens came up and the horizon was filled with smoke and the twisted burning wreckage of cars.

David looked away and found Omar standing only a few feet away, watching him.

"You don't like this?" he asked with a gleam in his eye.

David managed to keep his voice calm.

"I know what I did. I do not need to watch it."

"Oh, but you do." Omar walked closer to the TV. With one hand he gestured toward David and with the other toward the large screen.

"This is your work. This is what you have accomplished you should be proud of it."

Omar was smiling widely now and it occurred to David that he was probably taping this for his voyeuristic collection.

"I am proud of what I did," David lied. He was proud of what he did in Jordan, he was proud of what he did with the attache cases in Hebron, and he was even proud of what he did in New York, but this carnage that he was watching on TV, he was not proud of.

"Tell me," said Omar excitedly.

"Do you think my cousin survived the initial blast?" The screen was now filled with images of a breached and burning limousine.

"I hope he did, that American-loving b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Look closely, I think that is someone's leg!" Omar paused the tape and looked at his a.s.sa.s.sin for an answer.

David shook his head. He'd had enough.

"My Prince, I'm sorry, but I have no desire to watch this."

It took David only a split second to realize something was wrong, but by then it was too late. Omar was still smiling at him and watching him closely when suddenly he looked just beyond David and gave a signal. Before David could react something was around his neck and he was yanked backward. His hands immediately shot up, and his fingers desperately tried to get under the rope that was choking him.

Omar was suddenly before him.

"I have enjoyed corrupting you." His gloating face was only several feet away.

"Your intentions were so pure, and look at the great destruction you've caused." Omar turned and pointed to the TV.

David gave up on trying to get his fingers under the rope and reached back for Chung's head. He found a fistful of hair with one hand and began searching for an eye with the other.

Omar enjoyed the struggle.

"You should have known better than to trust me You of all people." Omar shook his head like he was admonis.h.i.+ng a child.

"You always preached to me about security. You were the one who told me not to talk to anyone about our plans. "The smile suddenly vanished from Omar's face and he leaned in close.

"And you always kept asking for more money!"