Desert Falcons

It disgusted him beyond revulsion, and he wished more than anything that he could step out of this den of iniquity and into the cool night air. But his mission would not allow it, so he filed away the unpleasantness along with all the other sacrifices he had made in the name of God on this jihad, and steeled himself for what he knew was coming. So what if they were all behaving like animals, with the liquor flowing freely from the bar behind them. He had to remain strong. His task demanded it. But what made it more difficult, what disturbed him even more were the stroboscopic glimpses of Prince Amir bin Abdul Sattam Saud, the tall, handsome, well-built man in the tan shirt and blue pants, rotating his hips opposite the infidel whore, the man whose safety Mahfuj had been commanded to ensure.

To think that a member of the house of Saud, the Royal Family, the leaders of his country behaving in such a manner as to disgrace himself…

The prince had changed out of his traditional thobe and ghutra as soon as his private jet had landed in Bahrain. He’d told his bodyguards to change into Western-style clothing, as well. Many Saudis did that on their trips to Bahrain, to “relax,” which was nothing more than a euphemism for their apostate behavior, away from the watchful eyes of the secret police.

Nevertheless, Mahfuj had complied, taking care to wear a loose-fitting shirt due to the bulge created by his sidearm, a Beretta 92 F, so it would not be noticeable strapped in the holster on his belt. The clothes felt foreign to him even though he’d worn them numerous times on these excursions with the prince. They were less confining than his uniform, and this was one time he couldn’t afford to let anything interfere with the success of the first phase of the operation.

Mahfuj felt the cell phone in his pants pocket vibrate with an incoming message. He had switched to the silent mode the moment they walked into the place. The blaring music from huge speakers eliminated any chance that he would be able to hear the ring tone, and he couldn’t afford to miss the call from his brother Mamum. Taking the phone from his pocket, Mahfuj pressed the button so he could view the text message.

* * *

The moment has arrived, God willing.

It was time for the four desert falcons to begin their great jihad.

Mustapha, their father, was the first falcon. Mahfuj, his first born, was the second. Mamum, his younger brother by one year, was the third, and the youngest brother, Masoud, was the fourth. Each had his individual strengths. Mahfuj had always been the strongest, Mamum the most patient, and Masoud the most adaptable. That was why he had been chosen for the foreign assignment. Masoud could blend into any background, like a true Bedouin.

Mahfuj replaced the phone in his pocket and moved toward the door, imbuing his movements with as much nonchalance as he could. The dance floor of the nightclub occupied the center of the room, with tables surrounding it and the long, wooden bar running along the rear wall. The entrance had been curtained off by an enclosed corridor, perhaps three meters long, preventing people entering from seeing inside the club. At the doors, a big, muscular security guard stood poised to check and monitor all who sought to enter. Mahfuj glanced at the man, who nodded and smiled, his teeth glowing white among the dark hairs of his beard.

As Mahfuj positioned himself by the interior corner, next to the draped shroud of the canopy obscuring the corridor, he thought of the dream his father had repeatedly told them when they were young boys. How the vision of four falcons sweeping down from the heavens had awakened him, only to allow him a fleeting glimpse of four actual birds of prey diving down upon a cluster unsuspecting rodents. Their father said he knew the dream had been a sign from God.

“At that moment I knew, as I watched the birds’ sharp talons sinking into the rodents’ flesh, that I would have three sons,” his father had said. “We would be four desert falcons, who would be true Bedouins, true to our traditions, true to the will of God, who would guide us.”

Mahfuj’s cell phone vibrated again. He moved closer to the door and then paused to glance back at the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. The prince swung his arms in front of him, looking like a man battling some invisible demon.

At the far end of the corridor the door opened and Mahfuj positioned himself just on the other side of the canopy, out of sight to anyone who entered. Despite the music, he could hear the quick angry shout of the security guard, followed by the piercing pop of a gunshot. Mahfuj’s cell phone vibrated again in his pocket, but he did not acknowledge or look at it. Instead he quickly surveyed the dance floor to fix the prince’s position. He was on the far right side, still swinging his arms in front of him, dancing with some European whore whose large breasts bounced obscenely under a thin layer of cloth.

Mahfuj waited a few seconds more, not daring to glance around the corner of the canopy. The flashes from the oscillating lights and the vibrations of the blaring music swept over him like a desert sandstorm, but he steeled himself and remained ready. The man on the other side of the cloth barrier stepped forward, the barrel of his AK-47 rifle preceding him only by inches. Mahfuj reached out and seized the shiny barrel with his right hand just as the man yelled, “Allahu Akbar!”

The barrel jerked in Mahfuj’s hand. The heat seared his flesh, but his hand was thickly callused, his grip strong, enhanced by the daily exercises he performed immediately after morning prayers. A stream of fire shot outward and Mahfuj was pelted by a stream of hot, ejected shell casings. Still, he held fast to the barrel, allowing the rounds to penetrate the left side of the dance floor. Intermittent screams punctuated the loud music as the dancers twisted and fell under the rain of bullets.

It was essential that his heroism be enhanced by the requisite spilling of blood, like the traditional sacrificing of a lamb. Mahfuj pivoted and cocked his left arm, then whipped the toughened edge of his straightened hand against the assassin’s throat, at the juncture of his neck and body. The soft tissue gave way, and Mahfuj felt the popping yield of connecting tissue telling him that he’d succeeded in crushing the man’s windpipe. After a few seconds more, the rifle ceased its roar of death, and Mahfuj ripped it from the dying man’s hands.

In one smooth motion, he flipped the weapon in such a manner as to bring his hands into a firing position, and sent a 3-round burst into the crumbling figure next to him. As the man dropped to the floor, Mahfuj brought the weapon to his shoulder just as a second man, holding a rifle and three grenades, pushed his way into the door of the club. Mahfuj shot the man in the chest, allowing the rounds to stitch upward to the would-be killer’s head. This second man fell.

There would be one more. Mahfuj sidestepped and waited in place, not wanting to advance and thus expose himself in the confines of the corridor. It was, as his military tactics training had taught him, a kill zone. Instead, he forced himself to take a long, deep breath. The acrid smoke from the spent cartridges hung in the air, searing his lungs, burning his eyes; his injured right hand stung with the pain of a thousand needles, but still he did not lower the rifle or relax his guard.

His patience was rewarded seconds later when the third would-be assassin pushed through the door, wild-eyed and holding his AK-47 at port arms.

Foolish move, Mahfuj thought as he leaned around the draping shroud and squeezed off another 3-round burst. The third man dropped to the floor.

Mahfuj stepped forward, kicking the weapons away from the fallen men, pausing to put a round in the back of each of their heads, and then waiting when he got to the door. He glanced through the Plexiglas window and caught a glimpse of the dark van in which the killers had arrived. He kicked open the door, thrust the barrel of the rifle outward and fired off the remaining rounds in the magazine. He was careful to control his aim as the van sped off down the brightly lit street.

He watched it go, still holding the AK-47 in the ready position, its bolt now locked back, indicating an expended magazine.

The taillights of the van receded into the darkness, obscured by the bright dots of the ubiquitous street and building lights. As his hearing slowly returned, Mahfuj thought he could hear the sound of distant police sirens. He let the door swing closed and strode back into the club, holding the rifle in one hand now, so that it looked less threatening. As he rounded the corner, his eyes swept over the dance floor once again. People were huddled in corners and along the bar. Several bodies lay on the floor, some writhing with death throes, others eerily still. Mahfuj kept scanning their faces until he located Prince Amir, crouching in a corner. He strode over to him.

“Your Highness,” Mahfuj said, “are you all right?”

The 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.”