Over seven thousand miles away, Brigadier Hasni was at the Royal Embassy of Saudi Arabia at House No.14, Hill Road, F-6/3, Islamabad, meeting with the ambassador, Rahul Al-Dhakheel. It was the early hours of the morning and both men hadn’t slept properly for two days.
The ambassador wore a blue suit and a pair of brown, tasselled loafers, preferring Western clothes to a dishdasha when he wasn’t on official visits. He sat on a padded armchair in a room with a marble floor and mahogany chests, the sealed windows covered by slatted blinds. As Hasni sat down opposite him on a leather sofa he noticed the Arab’s attentive eyes on him, so black that they appeared to be all irises, reflecting the bright artificial light eerily. Like an alien’s.
“I had a conversation with Swiss. Well, to be truthful, Brigadier, it was more a one-sided shouting match. I’m worried that he’s getting overly nervous,” the ambassador said.
“I have apologized for what happened. The American special agent was going to kill my son, Mahmood,” Hasni replied, referring to Tom Dupree.
“I know. I am grateful for your honesty. Swiss isn’t.”
“They have never understood us.”
The ambassador nodded. “I know you think we have been excessive by asking you to assist, but I’m sure it will turn out to be the right thing to have done,” he said. “The Americans will go to war with Iran and do the killing for us. Just as they did in Saddam’s Iraq. They can’t help themselves, you know.”
“Let us hope so.”
Agreeing to have the secretary kidnapped in Islamabad had been a huge gamble. Hasni knew the plan was in danger of breaking apart now. Swiss might speak out, if only to save his own skin. Even though he had never met the man or had a conversation with him, it was a fair assumption to make. But he also knew that Swiss and the ambassador’s business relationship was strong, Swiss’s company selling millions of dollars’ worth of arms to the ever-nervous Saudis.
“So, Brigadier. I can safely leave this in your capable hands, yes?”
Hasni was used to diplomats speaking indirectly, but he really didn’t know what the Arab was referring to. He was sure his face hadn’t shown any emotion, something his military father had trained him not to do in childhood. But he needed clarity. “Mr Ambassador, I’m not sure what you mean.”
The Arab grinned. “Forgive me. You must take care of the unbelievers.”
“All of them?”
“Indeed.”
“The same terms?” Hasni asked.
“Of course.”
Hasni nodded once. He understood now. As far as the minor players were concerned, he was already on it. But whether it was just a glitch or something worse, Swiss and those who knew too much would die as well now. No one would be left to talk. The alternative was to risk being found out. And he had a lot to answer for. Due to his political influence, together with the customary bribe, he’d persuaded the new Prime Minister to invite the Secretary of State to Islamabad at precisely the time the Arab had asked him to. But they had absolutely no intention of handing their nuclear weapons over to the US. It had been a ruse.
That act alone had bagged Hasni one million US dollars from the Saudi. After he’d ensured her abduction outside the children’s hospital and subsequent removal from the country, he’d gotten another million. Once he’d disposed of the Westerners, he now had the promise of the same amount again. Good money. Too good to pass up. Besides, it suited him for the US to go to war with Iran. The thought of those Shia lunatics invading south-west Pakistan and taking their natural resources was intolerable.
The Arab’s right, he thought.
It was, after all, the definitive insurance policy against someone becoming a squealer. Yes, he thought, a clean shot between the eyes, just as he’d done to Sandri Khan. But not before the little shit had had all of his teeth removed with pliers. If the American special agent Tom Dupree had badly injured Mahmood, he would have ensured that Khan’s death had taken days.