DOMODEDOVO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. MOSCOW. RUSSIA.
Zahra Hassani remained in the back of the room. Hands always by her sides, free, she oversaw the negotiations, looking at everyone and no one, assessing the potential threat level of each player at the table, and especially of the bodyguards stoically parked behind them.
Three Russians in their tailored business suits, wearing gaudy rings and watches, sat across from her principal, Prince Mani al Saud. Twice as many protectors stood behind them.
Plus the woman, Zahra thought, glancing at the tall Slav with the auburn hair and pale skin standing just to the right of the bodyguards. She spoke on a cell phone, out of earshot of everyone, while monitoring the proceedings with the calculating hazel eyes that crowned her high cheekbones. She also had the most peculiar tattoo—an elaborate compass rose surrounded by red roses and snow—covering the base of her neck and disappearing inside her shirt.
As had been the case in the past, Prince Mani was clearly in charge, controlling the meeting even when heavily outnumbered by players and bodyguards, laying out his terms to the Mafia bosses. It didn’t matter if the prince was dealing with the PKK, the Russians, the Sicilians, the Americans, the Iraqis, the Iranians, the Pakistanis, the Taliban, or even bin Laden himself. The man was always in control, always dictating nonnegotiable terms, always getting the other side to conform to his requests. And he did it with the finesse of a veteran diplomat, his confident smile and demeanor putting everyone at ease, including the man sitting directly across from him: Vyacheslav Ivankov, one of the richest, most feared, and best-connected crime bosses in Russia, with an estimated net worth of nearly $700 million.
Pocket change, she thought.
It didn’t hurt the prince’s negotiating position, of course, that he always arrived with suitcases full of cash, bonds, and diamonds. It also didn’t hurt that, having done this for nearly a decade—first for Saudi Arabia and then for himself—the man had friends in high places across two dozen governments and twice as many militia groups. And tonight the situation wasn’t much different from previous meetings.
With two exceptions.
One, the last-minute nature of this assembly, as it usually took weeks to set up these sessions.
Two, the damn Russian woman.
Unlike the stereotypical bodyguards remaining close to their principals, hands free and ready to reach for their concealed weapons, the redhead seemed far more interested in her conversation than in the proceedings. Which, of course, raised the obvious question.
Why the hell is she here?
But Zahra was a pro, and she did what pros were paid to do: she kept her cool while handling the immediate task at hand with maniacal focus—which in her case was protecting her mark. And while keeping a pragmatic eye out for anything suspicious beyond the horizon. This, however, kept pointing her operative compass to the woman’s ornate compass.
She continued scanning Ivankov and his two associates, the bodyguards, the two access points into a building adjacent to the hangar currently housing the prince’s Citation X, and of course, the redhead.
But although she stood alone behind Prince Mani, Zahra wasn’t quite on her own. A tiny lapel microphone and a flesh-colored earpiece and matching wire coiling into her black shirt connected her to the prince’s copilot, the chef, and two flight attendants—all armed and standing by in the adjacent hangar.
Zahra felt confident that she and her backup could handle the row of overfed clowns with their bull necks and barrel chests who were standing behind the Mafia bosses, should the negotiations break down. But she wasn’t so certain about the woman. She was too relaxed, too at ease. And that level of tranquility—in sharp contrast with the tense faces of the bodyguards—telegraphed the presence of a real operator.
But so are you, she thought. And so is Mani.
The prince, a graduate of the prestigious United States Air Force Academy and former fighter pilot with the Saudi Air Force, ran his international smuggling business with the same cold and calculating precision with which he flew jets. And in true form, Prince Mani had arranged for the location of this clandestine meet to his convenience.
They would remain in the international section of the airport for their entire stay, beyond the reach of customs agents. Getting the goods, obtained from a military warehouse outside of Moscow, past airport security checkpoints was Ivankov’s problem. The Mafia boss had to deal with customs to smuggle the small box of components on the left side of the table. And he would also have to deal with customs to bring into the country the large Louis Vuitton case next to Zahra, packed with a ridiculous amount of cash and uncut diamonds from one of Mani’s mines in Africa.
All Russian eyes—even the woman’s—had gravitated to the iconic pattern on the leather suitcase the moment Zahra had rolled it into the room, following the prince. The bodyguards in particular had struggled the entire meeting, furtive eyes breaking their training for another glance at the riches inside a case that, even empty, cost as much as a Rolex watch.
But before anyone could lay hands on its soft leather handle, the technical contents inside the cardboard box required a technical inspection. Mani looked over his right shoulder at her, and she in turn tapped her lapel microphone three times.
The door connecting the meeting room to the hangar swung open and two men wearing Russian Army uniforms walked in the room. Both captains, they carried black duffel bags filled with gear, and an empty padded rucksack.
The bosses exchanged a nervous glance. The bodyguards sensed their superiors’ uneasiness and shifted uncomfortably.
The captains belonged to the Rosatom State Atomic Energy Corporation, the regulatory body of the Russian nuclear complex—ironically, the same institution that the Mafia had raided to obtain the components.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Ivankov.
Zahra hid her amusement at her principal’s ability to hold all the cards, even with someone who was known to have connections with Russian state intelligence organizations. Ivankov had made a name for himself first in Russia, in the 1980s, and then in the United States, where he arrived in 1992 and grew a powerful crime organization from New York to Los Angeles. The FBI finally caught up to the man, arresting him and then deporting him to Russia in 2004 to face murder charges over two Turkish nationals shot at a Moscow restaurant in 1992. But he had been acquitted of all charges the previous July when the state witnesses to the crime—one of them a police officer—mysteriously changed their stories.
“They’re with me,” said Prince Mani with an innocent smile, legs crossed and hands on his lap as he tilted his head at the Russian officers. “Technical check.”
Ivankov rubbed his white goatee while staring at the two captains through the light tint of his round glasses.
And Zahra knew precisely why: the Mafia boss had tried to recruit the Russian officers for years but they had seemed incorruptible. Now they did as instructed by the Saudi smuggler, using the hardware in the bags to inspect each component.
Zahra looked at the woman, the only one on that side of the table who had not reacted, continuing her side conversation while the captains performed their checks. But, for a brief moment, Zahra thought that one of the captains gave the Russian woman a subtle nod.
Did I just imagine that?
“You do not trust me, old friend?” asked Ivankov, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table, his diamond rings glittering under the fluorescents. He had known the prince for over a decade.
“I certainly do trust you, just as I’m also certain that you believe the components are good. But please understand that my client … well, it’s very unhealthy to disappoint him. I need to be absolutely sure they are in perfect working order. There will not be a second chance.”
Ivankov considered the answer for a moment before exhaling, glancing at the Louis Vuitton case, and finally leaning back, gesturing agreement with his right hand.
The inspection took another twenty minutes as the parties sat quietly checking their cell phones, except for Zahra, who never stopped her disciplined scan.
The captains connected each piece of hardware to various testing devices, reviewing the results in a handheld LCD screen. Satisfied, they slipped the hardware inside a bubble-padded sleeve, labeled it, sealed it, and placed it inside the rucksack.
They checked the voltage in the battery pack and the integrity of various metallic rings. The double thumbs-up from the captains came after inspection of the final component, a bundle of colored wires, which they also bagged and stowed with the rest of the gear.
And that was Zahra’s cue to roll the suitcase around the table, where one of the bodyguards hefted it in between Ivankov and the prince.
The Mafia boss did the honors, unzipping it and taking almost fifteen minutes to inspect the $5 million in mixed currency—mostly U.S. dollars, euros, and British pounds—plus another $3 million in diamonds.
“You do not trust me, old friend?” asked Prince Mani with a grin. “It’s all in there.”
Ivankov looked up from the stash and also smiled, his face relaxing, before halting his review, zipping up the suitcase, and saying, “Old habits.” He then nodded at the same bodyguard, who removed it from the table and kept it by his side.
As the group stood and the principals shook hands, the Russian woman promptly walked away. Zahra stared at her long red hair swinging across her back as she vanished beyond the hangar door, the phone still pressed against her right ear.
Fifteen minutes later, Zahra knelt between Prince Mani and the copilot as they taxied out of the hangar under an overcast afternoon sky.
“Who was that woman?”
Prince Mani shrugged. “The pretty one? I’m guessing one of Ivankov’s bodyguards?”
Zahra shook her head. “More than that, I think.”
“Oh, like us?” He shifted his right hand from the dual throttles and placed it on her thigh. Zahra promptly moved it back.
“I’m serious. She was an operator.”
“Okay … so, how does that change things? It was still a clean trade.”
“I’m not sure. How good do you know those two Russian officers?” she asked.
“Two hundred thousand euros good. Each. Why?”
“Because I think one of them looked at her and gave her a nod.”
“I don’t blame him. She was hot, especially with that tattoo.”
“Dammit, Mani. I’m serious.”
“If you want to be serious, then worry about what’s coming next.”
“What’s that?”
“Karachi.”
“Why? I hate Pakistan.”
“Change of planes. A business jet is not conducive for the run we need to make.” He patted the rucksack.
“Run? Where?”
“Southern Afghanistan.”
“I hate that even more. Who is doing the delivery?”
The Prince looked over his shoulder, smiled, and said, “You are.”