Ovechkin stood by the pool of his borrowed villa absorbing a view he would enjoy for a few more minutes—and then never see again. It truly was spectacular. Perhaps I can find something like it, he mused. Chile or Ecuador.
“It’s done!” The voice, coming from behind, shattered his daydream.
Ovechkin turned to see the assassin emerge from the main house. He carried the massive gun effortlessly. The man had spent all morning on the northern balcony, the weapon and its guidance system poised and ready. Waiting. When the shot finally came fifteen minutes ago there had been no warning. Ovechkin had instinctively recoiled.
The man set the gun on a cushioned lounge chair, walked toward him, and handed over a compact set of binoculars. Ovechkin trained them on the distant cape. At this range the scene was not particularly detailed, but he could see enough. Poor Zhukov lay crumpled next to the empty equipment case. Ovechkin scanned the surrounding area for the second body.
“I don’t see Slaton,” he said.
“I finished him—doubly so. The bullet struck with such force it sent him over the cliff.”
Ovechkin pulled away from the binoculars. He saw perhaps a trace of amusement in the man’s expression. He felt nothing close to it. He had arranged his share of violence over the years, but rarely did he find himself in such close proximity to its execution. “He fell into the sea?”
“I can’t imagine otherwise. It’s a sheer drop of sixty meters.”
Ovechkin set the binoculars on a table that was stocked with pastries and coffee. “That could be a complication.”
“Not really. The body will be found. When I place the rifle there later, I’ll create a bit of evidence to show the police the way. The scene was never going to be perfect from a forensic standpoint—which is in line with our objective. The more confusion the better. It will be enough to fix responsibility for the elimination of your corporate partners on an elusive Israeli assassin. Anyway, the police in Morocco are not the world’s best.”
“But the world’s best will become involved … given what is still to come.”
“It doesn’t matter, I tell you. Combine the scene we will build here with the one being set in Tazagurt. There will be far more questions than answers. And don’t forget—Petrov will insert his own investigators into the process to muddy things further. What’s happening at the RosAvia complex assures Russia a stake in the inquiry.”
Ovechkin eyed the killer pensively, trying to grasp his thinking, his motives. He always preferred that—to know, as the Americans were fond of saying, “what makes a man tick.” In this case, the divergence between the two of them seemed unfathomable. He could only trust that their objectives were one. He shifted his gaze to the distant hill where the big truck was parked between two aerials. The engineer would be inside, guiding the MiG. Ovechkin wondered how far away the jet was at that moment. Thirty miles? Fifty? He nodded upward and said, “It’s almost time. You’ll need to deal with the engineer as soon as his part is complete.”
The assassin casually selected a pastry from the table and took a bite, bits of sweet icing crumbling to the stonework below. He patted the partially visible holster beneath his unbuttoned outer shirt, the matte-black grip of a semiautomatic obvious. “I am ready. But I think I will delay my hike for a few more minutes. The airshow we are about to see is not to be missed.”
Ovechkin nearly rebuked the sergeant, but something held him in check. Perhaps the fact that his own security staff had largely departed, only two men remaining at the villa. He checked his Rolex, a Christmas gift from Estrella. In thirty minutes they would all be gone—he and his detachment in one car, the assassin going his own way in another. Ovechkin wondered if he would ever see the man again. He found himself hoping against it.
The assassin poured a cup of coffee, having put his most recent murder behind him. The two locked eyes, and the sergeant lifted his cup in a mock toast. Ovechkin had to grin. Standing side by side, the two Russians turned their eyes skyward. They looked eager and expectant.
Like children waiting for a fireworks display.
* * *
Three miles south of the patio where Ovechkin and an assassin stood gazing skyward, a crescent-shaped tract of tan beach swept pleasingly out to sea. It was situated just beyond the next seaside cape, at the threshold of what had long been among the least developed and pristine shores of Morocco’s Atlantic coast. Above the high-tide line, gently undulating dunes carried inland as far as the eye could see, a minor geologic curiosity in a country that abounded with them.
It was on an eighty-acre plot of this shore, cradled in the swale of a bluewater bay, that the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia had been granted special dispensation for the most unique of undertakings: the construction of its very first palace outside the Saudi peninsula.
The king himself had been the driving force behind the effort. For a ruler who spent considerable time abroad, the idea of another penthouse in London or New York had long lost its appeal. Everyone was doing that. Instead, the king envisioned a necklace of great palaces across the globe, residences whose scope and grandeur would reflect the monarchy’s ambition. After considerable debate, he selected Morocco as the trial for his royal expansionism. The choice was as practical as it was esoteric: situated in a stable and friendly Muslim country, the site offered wondrous views of the Atlantic with its seemingly endless bounds. On any number of levels, it was a new frontier.
Four years under construction, the palace north of Agadir was without question among the most extravagant ever commissioned. The main residence was as majestic in scale and finish as any in the Saudi realm. There was a string of lavish guest villas, four separate kitchens to rival the five-star restaurants of Paris, and brilliant blue helipads dotting the compound like so many focal points on a grand mosaic. The parking lot of the main residence had spaces for over a hundred cars, those behind the service buildings three times that.
It had all been completed only weeks earlier, just in time to fulfill what had been the king’s wish from the outset: that his new palace would make its debut as the venue for this year’s family gathering.
If the construction of the palace had been impossible to conceal, the royal assemblage now taking place had been held far closer to the House of Saud’s vest. As secrets went, it had been reasonably well kept, yet no event of such grandeur could be shaped without hints of what was to come. No fewer than a thousand members of the Moroccan Royal Guards were on loan to secure the grounds. Twice that many drivers, cooks, housekeepers, and gardeners were in well-compensated attendance, although most with minimal forewarning.
As vital as they would all be for the coming week, in that moment there was one group of hirelings who were of outsized importance. They were a small contingent who in the last hour had scattered to various points around the palace grounds. One was lying prone on a helipad, while another had saddled into the umpire’s chair of a tennis court across the street from the main residence. There were twelve in all, a tiny battalion of photographers and videographers making final checks of batteries and foregrounds and sun angles. The product of their efforts during the coming week would be packaged in commemorative albums to be distributed to attendees. There would be posed group photos along balustrades, and candid shots of every pool party. Yet for all the photo ops, none would be more spectacular than the opening scene.
At that moment, the king’s 747 was making its final descent along the coast. In fifteen minutes, the world’s most expensive airliner would perform a low altitude flyby in front of the world’s grandest vacation home. Shutters would fly and lenses zoom as each photographer composed their best shot, hoping it might become the signature image of the week.
In those breathless, anticipatory minutes, none of the photographers could imagine how it would play out in the end: that the pictures they would so meticulously capture would never see the light of day.