Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (175 page)

'What is it, Meyer?' the captain asked wearily.

'My wife wants an Oriental carpet. Can we take souvenirs?'

The men laughed.

'Shove it, Meyer,' the captain said with conversational good
cheer. He paused and looked around. 'Check your weapons
and get in gear.'

Suddenly there was a lot of clicking and clattering going
on, and the rustling of movements everywhere around. Dani reached under the low table and flipped a helmet across it to
Schmarya, who caught it, and tossed another further back to
Najib.

Najib caught it like a football. 'Is this really necessary?' He
held up the helmet. 'It feels so heavy.'

'Better to curse it now than wish belatedly you'd had it on,'
Schmarya advised.

Najib looked at him and then nodded. He put it on and
strapped it under his chin. Amazingly enough, it was a perfect
fit.

Turning to the Perspex window, he looked at his reflection.
Black helmet, black face. He smiled to himself. Even his own
mother would not have recognized him. Now, if only no one
at the palace did either.

Again he looked past Schmarya, toward Dani, and this time
he caught his eye and held it for a long moment.

Dani met his gaze challengingly.

'I haven't had the opportunity to thank you for coming,'
Najib said softly. 'I want you to know how much I appreciate
it.'

Dani shook his head. A faint smile crossed his lips. 'It should
be I who thank you. Daliah is my daughter, and I've been
behaving childishly. I'm sorry if I was a little tough on you
back on Cyprus.'

'You had every right.'

Dani shook his head. 'No, I did not. I went far beyond my
rights.' He hesitated, looked away, then back at Najib. 'I want
you to know that Daliah is very lucky. Few men would have
done what you are doing.'

Najib laughed. 'That is because few men could afford it.'

'That is not what I mean. I just want you to know . . .
well . . .' Dani looked away, suddenly embarrassed.

Najib did not prod him.

Dani's eyes came back around. 'What I want to say is: I will
not stand between you and Daliah.'

Najib looked at him with surprise. Then a smile broke across
his lips. But before he could reply, Captain Childs's flat voice
came over the cabin speaker. 'Five minutes until landing,
gentlemen,' he drawled. 'The helicopter is taking off at this
moment and will meet us at the runway. The palace is straight
ahead on our left. We'll be passing over it, and we'll leave the
window shades up so that you can get a look at the compound.
Please extinguish all smoking materials. In fifteen seconds I
will douse the cabin lights and turn off all external safety lights.
We will be coming in totally blacked out, without even navigational lights, and I'd appreciate it if none of you mentioned
this little fact to the aviation authorities. We are breaking
every regulation in the book, and I happen to like flying.' He
paused. 'Five seconds until lights-out.'

And then the plane blacked out completely, both inside and
out. Even the computer map faded. Only the dim red lights
above the emergency exits glowed softly.

'Good luck, gentlemen,' Captain Childs added, and then
the fuselage gave a shudder as the landing gear came down.

There was a lot of commotion as all the men moved over to
the left side of the jet. Najib activated his seat to swivel it
around, and pressed his black face to the Perspex and looked
down. There it was! Coming up ahead, and almost close
enough to touch, the Almoayyed palace glowed like a multi
faceted beacon.

He turned to Dani one last time. 'Good luck, friend,' he
said softly.

'Good luck,' Dani said equally softly, and added gently:
'friend.'

All around them, the men were commenting on the palace
fortress. There wasn't one among them who wasn't impressed.

Dani was the only one who did not look down. He was
sitting erectly, a submachine gun lying across his knees. It felt
strangely light for its size, and oddly greasy. He clamped one
hand on the grip and the other around the barrel. There was
something strangely reassuring about it. It was almost as
though it was an extension of his body. The years fell away to
the exciting days of his youth. He felt strong and invincible,
his animal instincts heightened. He felt the long-forgotten
tightening inside his stomach, the wire-drawn tension in all his
muscles, and finally the adrenaline charge letting go, as if a
massive floodgate had been thrown open. He could almost
feel himself growing ten feet tall. Once a soldier, he thought, always a soldier. It never faded from your blood.

And then the jet came in low over the rooftop of the palace.

Of all the countless rooms in the palace, Saeed Almoayyed's
suite, which Najib had occupied, afforded the single best view
of the runway. At the moment, the sliding windows were open to the night, and the air was brisk and chill. Khalid was seated
in the dark, alone, a thermos of coffee at his side. Years spent staking out targets for Abdullah's terrorist activities and
month-long stretches of having had to go to ground after vari
ous missions had been completed had honed his patience to
that of a hunter. So seasoned by a lifetime of violence, he
felt no hurry and no nervousness, not even the rising rush of
adrenaline which in most men usually occurs in the lull directly
before a battle. Later, when the shooting began, power would
surge through him.

He could hear the unmistakable rumble of an approaching
jet. He checked his digital watch. The red LED letters flashed
02:44:02. Fifty-eight seconds, and he would activate the run
way lights with the remote-control unit at his side. He had
tested it at noon, when the sun was brightest and the lights clicking on would be the least noticeable, attributed to the
reflection of the sunlight. It had confirmed to him that the remote and the lights were in working order.

He got up from his chair and checked the ammunition clip,
yanking it out by feel and then snapping it back into his semi
automatic rifle. Then he unsnapped the flap of his holster
so that his revolver could be drawn without hesitation, and
unbuttoned his big boxy fatigue pockets so that he could get to the grenades. He picked up the remote unit and checked
his watch—02:44:59.

One more second.

He pushed the button of the remote unit, and in the dark
ness outside, the two strands of straight pearl necklaces shim
mered whitely.

The whine of the approaching jet was very close now. Very
low. It almost drowned out the clatter of an approaching heli
copter.

He grinned to himself. The waiting was nearly over.

Daliah stood stock-still as the eerie whine, like the whistling
of a dropped bomb, screamed to an ear-splitting crescendo.
Then an explosive boom, which sounded like the end of the
world, shook the palace to its foundations and rattled the
windows in their frames.

Her heart was beating wildly. So Khalid was right: Najib's
troops had landed.

Abdullah was in the
majlis.
Three tables had been shoved
together to form an asymmetrical U in the centre of the huge
room, directly under the three-storey-high stained-glass
rotunda. Spread out on each surface was a map—one each of
Jerusalem, the Vatican, and Mecca.

Like a general in his high-backed armchair, Abdullah sat
inside the open end of the U. Three shaded marble-based
fluorescent lamps—one on each table—cast a pool of white light on each map and threw his face into sharply angled,
prominently ridged shadows. Earlier in the day he had had squads of men remove every stick of furniture from the enor
mous room, with the exception of the three tables, three
lamps, a single black telephone, and his stately, chosen chair.
Now, at last, the
majlis
was to his satisfaction: a carefully lit, exceptionally dramatic stage set worthy of its occupant.

Ghazi, black glasses in place, stood on guard several feet
behind him, a burly unmoving statue with a semi-automatic
slung over his shoulder by its webbing strap.

Abdullah nodded to himself. The
majlis
had become his
combination throne room and war room, and he thought it
quite fitting. He felt a bridled, barely contained power race
inside him. All he needed was to unleash it at the appointed
hour, and the world would be his. This, he thought, was surely
how Mohammed had felt. Almighty and omnipotent. Filled
with Herculean power.

Despite the ungodliness of the hour, Abdullah was wide-
awake. He hadn't even tried to go to sleep. In fact, he felt like
he would never again need as much as another hour's sleep
for as long as he lived. He had never felt better or more alert.
Everything had taken on an unearthly clarity. All last night,
and then the entire day long, and now far into tonight also,
his mind had been bombarding him with bits and pieces of
logistical information. No matter what else he tried to concen
trate on, his glorious vision was overpowering and filled his
mind to bursting. The countless tactical problems of destroy
ing Mecca, the Wailing Wall, and St. Peter's were beginning
to work themselves out; at times, it was almost as though
he didn't even
have
to think; his subconscious was solving everything for him. Greatness begot greatness. The aphrodisiac of power was speed in his veins. He was filled with a
buzzing nervous energy.

Finally Abdullah turned and gestured for Ghazi to come
around and stand in front of the desk. He waited until Ghazi
faced him, and then asked, 'How does your hand feel?'