The majordomo, right-hand man and enforcer for Abdulaziz, middling-tier prince of the Sudairi lineage of the House of Saud, chewed on a handful of nuts as he watched the two American mercenaries move away from the burned-out building in the northern part of the town of Sinjar. Farhan had escaped with the double-crossing mercenary and that ridiculous cook, but the majordomo wasn’t worried. They wouldn’t get far. If he followed these two, he’d find where the prince was holed up. A good thing, too. He needed the prince, and he needed him badly.
The majordomo had worked in the Saudi intelligence forces for thirty years, since he was sixteen, and his uncle, a tailor for Abdulaziz’s father’s chauffeur, had used that connection to secure him a junior assistant position in the General Intelligence Directorate, the Saudi CIA. Within five years, he had come to General Abdulaziz’s attention. The prince sent him to England for an education in languages, international relations, and business. On his return, he discovered that royal connections exempted him from the Kingdom’s harsh rules. Forbidden fruits such as alcohol, drugs, and whores were all on tap. If only he could have had Princess Umm Abiha, too. The old man had suffered an unlucky draw, twelve daughters and two sons. He despised his daughters for that, but despised even more any man who tried to take them from under his thumb. The old man craved power, and there is nothing more powerful than a father’s hold over a pliant daughter.
Funny that the old man was having a granddaughter now, even if he did not know it. If Marhaz had been pregnant with a son, Abdulaziz might have relented to the marriage. But then again, probably not. The girl was an Iranian Christian, born and raised in the United States. It was haram, forbidden, and, even more important, unwise. A Westerner marrying into the royal family would never work in the Kingdom, especially for an ambitious prince still several rungs down from the Saudi throne.
As Abdulaziz had barked at him two days ago, when Farhan escaped again: You should have killed the whore last year. That was your chance. He still didn’t know if the old man had meant it sincerely.
What he shouldn’t have done, the majordomo knew, was approve Abdulaziz’s decision to send Farhan to Istanbul. Abdulaziz should have entrusted that sensitive mission to him, his most trusted servant. Instead the old man indulged a soft spot for his youngest son, and soft spots, after all, were signs of rot. It was the grave personal insult of being passed over for the most important task of Abdulaziz’s life that, more than anything else, had led him here.
He chewed on a medjool date and watched the two mercs slinking up the road, checking their six o’clock every half block. The man from the house was still in the burka, but the disguise wouldn’t fool anyone, since women weren’t six feet three inches tall. These guys weren’t trying for disguise, though. The majordomo was sure they would gun down any patrol that stopped them.
They disappeared around a corner. The majordomo waited a full minute. No one else followed. It was time to go.
He split his twelve men, following at a safe distance. The mercenary was good. He had found the baker in less than two days, when Abdulaziz’s men had forgotten the man existed.
But the majordomo was good, too. His men were an elite Saudi counterterrorism unit, trained in the volatile Middle East. Together, they had busted dozens of terror plots and Shia subterfuge, sending hundreds of men and a few women to their deaths. No more than five or six had been political enemies of Abdulaziz and his allies, and even with those few, the majordomo had always found a compelling reason. Drugs, homosexuality, treasonous ambition: there were plenty of offenses that would allow a problematic man to lose his head in the Kingdom.
Not the least of which was letting your patron prince’s favorite son disappear into a civil war. Or falling in love with that patron prince’s daughter.
He moved into the shadows at the edge of the dark streets. No windows were lit, but even the waning moon threw bright light in the dry desert. He couldn’t see the prince, but he kept an eye on the Asian merc covering his back. Farhan was four blocks ahead at least, but there was no need to get closer. As he had learned with Umm Abiha, there was never any good in getting too close to the Abdulaziz family.
His heart hurt when he thought of her, isolated and held house captive. He hadn’t seen her for two years. No one had. And all because she had spoken to her father’s majordomo in private. If the prince knew how close they had really become . . .
What he’d said to Farhan, in his anger, about her being under him. What he’d stupidly said. If that ever got back to Abdulaziz, it would get her killed.
Thankfully, Farhan knew that, too. He would never cause the death of his favorite sister.
But her lover? Farhan would kill him, the majordomo knew, if he ever got the chance. Farhan could never get back to Riyadh to speak to his father.
The merc slowed, then stopped, settling in a doorway. The majordomo faded into the side street, the darkness swallowing even his bloodstained white suit. He followed the merc’s gaze to a plain two-story building a half block farther on. Wooden shutters, unusual for this area, were being pulled securely over the one door and one window. A light flicked on, leaking past the edge of the shutter. Two minutes later, it went out. Five minutes after that, the mercenary looked both ways, walked across the street, pulled open the front door shutters, and disappeared inside.
This is the place, the majordomo thought.
He took out his radio and beeped once, signaling his position. Two beeps responded. He checked up and down the street. There was nothing. It was another nondescript block, in a world full of them. He always found it ironic, the boring places such stories ended. But end it would. Tonight. Within the hour, the majordomo would kill Farhan and the girl. When Abdulaziz confronted him, the majordomo would find someone to blame. There was always someone else to blame. The American, probably. Then he would be free of this royal brat and never have to spend another day in the hellhole of northern Iraq.
He looked at his watch, an oyster-banded stainless steel Rolex submariner he’d picked up during his first year at King’s College London. Two minutes to midnight. It was time.