Desert Falcons

“Hedging our bets, so to speak,” Grimaldi added.

She considered that and nodded. “I can understand that. The Secret Service is already complaining about the last time he was in Vegas. Their code name for him is Royal Dissidence.

“Let’s keep in touch,” she added. “We should get together and compare notes ASAP.” She gave Bolan one of her business cards. “Call me later and we’ll set up a meet.”

“Hey,” Grimaldi said, “can I get one of those, too?”

Turning toward him, she smiled demurely. “Sorry. I just brought one.” She and her partner brushed by them going toward their government sedan.

Bolan watched her go, then glanced back over his shoulder at the gate to Camp Freedom. The militiamen were filing back inside the compound with military precision, following Autry on his large white horse toward a group of buildings approximately a hundred yards from the gate. Two men stood by the gate, watching the law enforcement retreat. One of them was the big guy who’d accompanied Autry to the front of the confrontation. The other was the younger version with the red hair.

There was something about that big guy that bothered Bolan, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Had they crossed paths before? Maybe it was more the type than the actual individual.

Whatever or whoever he was, Bolan thought, he looked like he knew his stuff.

“You know,” Grimaldi said, slapping Bolan on the shoulder, “I think Agent Dylan digs me.”

Bolan held up her card as he headed for the Escalade. “Obviously.”

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_dd830dd6-da79-5029-a90d-68dc9caf58a1)

Fedor Androkovich watched as the contingent of law enforcement agents began to disperse. The news cameras were still on the scene, and they would be moving closer to the gate as soon as the police dispersed, trying for an interview and using their zoom lenses to take long-range shots of the compound. Luckily, they’d stashed the ambulance in one of the barns Autry used as a storage facility. Androkovich doubted the old fool would discover it there, and the younger Autry was too preoccupied with drinking and his other activities to have much curiosity or ambition. Nevertheless, the Russian decided that he’d post a guard just to be sure. They still had to finish the painting.

“I didn’t think they’d trace those two missing agents so quickly,” Rudolph Strogoff said in Russian. “Do you think we buried the bodies deep enough?”

His partner turned toward him and frowned. “How many times have I told you to speak only in English when we’re on a mission?”

Strogoff flushed. “Sorry.”

He was back to using his Southern-style drawl. Good. It was imperative that they stayed totally in character during an assignment, and particularly this assignment. With what the Saudi conspirators were paying him, Androkovich knew this would be his last one, too. In another week or so, he would be living it up on the Riviera with a beautiful woman on each arm.

“How did they know to come here to question Autry about those rangers?” Strogoff asked.

His partner shrugged. “They were grasping at straws. If they had any solid evidence, other than their suspicions, they would have acted.”

He was still scanning the departing law enforcement officers. Two, in particular, piqued his interest. They weren’t the ones who had been involved in the minor fracas. These two had arrived after the others, but were singled out by the female FBI agent. She’d given the bigger one something. A note or card. Both men had the look of total professionals. He noticed that they wore their sidearms strapped to their belts, with extra magazine pouches on the opposite side for quick reloading during a firefight. The larger of the two looked to be in excellent physical condition and moved with the grace of a jungle cat. He also had some sort of folding knife clipped to the lower pocket of his trousers—another indication that this man was experienced. The way he moved, his calm, yet observant demeanor, all added up to a man who had been there, done that, as the Americans were fond of saying. And even now, as they all were leaving, this man had paused to glance back at the gate.

It was almost as if he was looking directly at me, Androkovich thought. As if he was delivering a message that they were destined to meet again.

“What about their car?” Strogoff asked. “Do you think they will find it?”

“We disabled the GPS devices and destroyed the radio. They have to locate it by air search, but it will probably take them at least a day or two. Besides, it’s still far enough away that they will have no crumbs to lead them back here.”

“I hope not. You seem awful quiet. Is something wrong?”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about that group of police?”

Strogoff compressed his lips, thought for a moment, and then said, “You mean the two who came later, that you were staring at?”

This one is a quick learner, Androkovich thought. Wise beyond his years, which meant that when the time came for him to jettison his past and start over, Strogoff would become a liability. He didn’t want to take the chance of having to look over his shoulder when his new life began. Soon those two BLM rangers would not be alone in their unmarked graves.

* * *

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

MAHFUJ RAHMAN FOUND HIMSELF staring out the oval-shaped window at the fluffy layer of clouds several hundred meters below him, set against the blue sky. It was the first time he had been on a jet aircraft for a transatlantic flight. He had repelled and fast-roped from helicopters during his military training, but those crafts had hovered only thirty or forty meters above the ground. And, of course, he had flown in the prince’s private Learjet on the royal’s frequent trips to Bahrain, but those flights were short in duration. This one, which had left Riyadh about ten hours ago, was not even half completed. The projected time, with the refueling stops, was nineteen hours. With the time zone differences, when they landed, it would only be the early evening of the day they’d left.

It was strange, as if time had slowed to accommodate the prince. He slumbered in the sumptuous bedroom compartment of the plane, claiming that flying long distances disturbed his equilibrium. Never mind that the rest of them had to spend the nineteen hours plus in the discomfort of the standard airline seats. The prince would never be able to survive in the desert. He was not a warrior, not fit to be a leader, not a true Bedouin.

When they had left the airport Mahfuj remembered the expression on his father’s face as he wrapped a new bandage around Mahfuj’s injured hand. His father’s face was hard, unsympathetic, yet he knew the concern was there.

“I am sorry that you sustained this injury, my son,” his father had said.

Mahfuj had smiled and flexed his fingers. “It will soon be gone. I have lost none of my strength.”

They had been standing apart from the others in the terminal, watching as bag after bag of the prince’s luggage was loaded into the cargo bay of the jet.

“So many bags for such a short trip,” his father had whispered.

“Nor will he need all of them,” Mahfuj had added.

They’d said nothing of the intended plan. There was no need. Mustapha and his three sons had long ago committed each part to memory. There would be no discernable trace, no telltale line for the National Guard to pick up and follow. He’d watched as his father reached in his pocket and withdrew the king’s wristwatch.

“You still have not completed the repair on that?” Mahfuj had asked.

His father had shaken his head. “It is almost complete. The watch is such that it requires no battery. Only the inertia of someone wearing it to set in motion its tiny gears.” He’d smiled a knowing smile once again. “I wish to be certain everything is complete and in its place before I return it to the king.”

Mahfuj understood his father’s meaning. It was a metaphor for their intricate plan: each part dependent upon the working of the other, all simultaneously acting together in a special synergy of epic proportions.

“Give my regards to your brother Masoud, in the country of the infidels,” Mustapha had said.

The crew had signaled it was time to board. Mahfuj had leaned forward and kissed his father’s cheek. Mustapha had done the same to him.

“May God be with you, my son.”

They both knew this could be the last time they would see each other in this life. Even if their plan succeeded, much could still go wrong, and their every movement was fraught with danger until the final act was completed. But the hourglass had been turned. The sand was draining. It could not be stopped. “And with you, my father.”

The pain from his burned hand had almost subsided when Abdullah, the largest of the prince’s bodyguard contingent, ambled down the aisle and lowered his enormous frame into the seat next to Mahfuj.

“It is a long flight, my brother,” the big man said. “I have been asleep. You would do well to rest.”

“Perhaps later,” Mahfuj said. “I have a lot on my mind.”

Abdullah grunted and nodded. “Does your hand still hurt?”

Mahfuj shook his head. “There is pain, but it is a good pain. A reminder of one’s mission.”

“To protect the prince,” Abdullah said with a nod. “We would all die for him, if necessary, but it was you who saved him at the nightclub. You should wear your wound as a badge of honor.”