The majordomo slipped away from the mercs in the confusion of the explosion and slunk down the dark street. The assault had been a shock. Worse, it had been an embarrassment. He had lost his team. He had lost his cool and begged for his life. Like a woman. Now he was angry. At himself, but also at whoever had complicated things.
The mission was simple: find Farhan. It was his mission. He’d performed. So why were the American mercenaries here? Had Abdulaziz lost faith in him? Likely, he had to admit. Istanbul was a disaster, and this was no time for caution. The majordomo had done everything he could to secure Farhan, including hiring Locke’s merc team, among others. Why wouldn’t Prince Abdulaziz do the same?
One thing was clear. He had to kill the brat.
“Locke,” he cursed under his breath. The scumbag had betrayed him. Failing to hand over the prince, as was their bargain, was a capital offense in the majordomo’s book. The rigged house? Unforgivable. Locke must have assumed he’d be followed and planned to double-cross him. Was there no honor among hired guns? Was there no professional code? When he paid money for services, the majordomo expected obedience. Otherwise, people lost their heads.
Locke will lose his head, the majordomo swore.
He glanced back. The Apollo team was out of sight. They hadn’t worried about his leaving. Why should they? They were on the same side. Probably. It was hard to say for sure, since he was no longer sure how many sides there were.
He pulled out his sat phone. Untraceable, except by the man who had given it to him. He paused. Was that how the Apollo team had shown up in Sinjar?
“We have a problem,” he said, when his call was answered. “The American double-crossed us. I need . . .”
He choked, unable to form the words. He felt a searing pain in his fingers, and he dropped to his knees, holding his hand. There was blood pouring down his arm. Half of his top two fingers had been cut off. The phone lay cracked on the ground beside him.
“Get up,” a voice said.
For the second time in an hour, the majordomo looked up at an assailant. This time, a man in a robe and long beard was standing over him, a bandolier across his chest and a scimitar in his hand. The waning moon was behind him, backlighting him so that the majordomo couldn’t see his face. But he knew that voice.
“Youssof,” he said, clutching his bleeding hand.
“Stand up, Majordomo,” the Wahhabi said. “Do they still call you that?”
The majordomo spat. “Are you planning to kill me?”
“Of course.”
The majordomo went for the pistol in his suit pocket, even though he knew it was hopeless—he was missing his index and middle fingers. The Wahhabi kicked him in the face, then stomped on his arm. The pistol clattered away.
“Not like that, old teacher,” the Wahhabi said.
The majordomo struggled wearily to his feet, gauging angles. He grew up a street thug in Medina and had survived worse than this. The gun was a short dive away. He marked its location, in case he got turned around in the struggle.
“You were never a good student,” he said, glancing in the direction of the mercenaries.
“They won’t come,” the Wahhabi said. “You won’t scream for help. You will die with honor.”
“I don’t care about honor. And neither do you.”
The Wahhabi laughed. “I am changed.”
“You found religion,” the majordomo chuckled. Fool.
“Even better, I found purpose. I no longer serve you and your kind. I am a prophet now.”
“A prophet?” The majordomo laughed. “A prophet of what?”
The Wahhabi eyed the majordomo’s Italian loafers, white suit, and red pocket square. It disgusted him. “You were my superior once,” the Wahhabi said with disgust. “What are you now?”
The majordomo pictured the gun. He considered diving for it, but this wasn’t the moment. And yet he couldn’t sit by and be insulted by his former underling, a stupid man who had shown no proficiency in anything but cruelty.
“I hired you, waghadd ghabi. I am still your leader.”
The Wahhabi paused. He shut his eyes.
Of course, this cretin wouldn’t know, the majordomo thought. He had used cutouts and middlemen.
“I found you in the gutter. I gave you purpose, not this false piety.” He gestured at the Wahhabi’s pilgrim robes. “I am the man who hired you for this mission. I am paying you to kill Farhan.”
“No,” the Wahhabi said. “This mission did not come from you.”
“Of course it came from me, working through middlemen.”
“I no longer take orders from you, or any man. My orders come from God.” He tossed the majordomo his sword and drew his curved jambiya dagger. “Pick it up, old teacher. Unlike you, I kill with honor now.”
“And if I don’t?”
The Wahhabi didn’t answer. The majordomo relented. He reached down and picked up the sword. The Wahhabi was no fool. He had thrown it away from the side with the pistol, but the distance was only two steps. The majordomo straightened, the plan fully formed in his head. He held the sword in front of him, as he had learned to long ago.
“Breaker of oaths,” the Wahhabi intoned, “torturer of the faithful, one of us must die. We fight as equals. Let Allah decide justice.”
The majordomo raised his sword, feinted and lunged, knowing that when the Wahhabi parried the blow, his momentum would carry him down to the left, where he could grab the pistol and raise it in one smooth motion, ending this foolishness.
But the Wahhabi didn’t parry. He deftly sidestepped, grabbed the majordomo’s sword hand, and twisted violently. The sword dropped and the man screamed; the Wahhabi thrust his shoulder into the majordomo’s chest, knocking him off his feet.
“Have mercy!” The majordomo begged for the second time this night. “Please!”
“I will give you one gift,” the Wahhabi said slowly, picking up the scimitar. “I will kill for you those you wanted dead.”
“No,” the majordomo started to say, but the Wahhabi sliced his old mentor’s head from his neck. The two parts flew soundlessly apart and fell to the dirt. The Wahhabi picked up the head and noticed the phone, cracked on the ground. It was still working. Whoever the majordomo had been talking with, the call was still live.
“Al-kafir mmayit”—the infidel is dead—the Wahhabi said and threw the phone into the shadows. “Saif al Haqq,” he cooed to the sword, calling it the Sword of Truth. “You are Allah’s judgment. I am slave to your will.”
He turned. There was a little man ten meters away, watching. The Wahhabi walked past him without a word. Then he stopped and, severed head in hand, turned back. “Did you get it?” he asked.
The man closed the camera on his mobile phone. “Yes, sayyid,” he said.
“All of it?”
“Yes, sayyid.”
The Wahhabi smiled. “Good. I am Allah’s sword and prophet. Let it be known.”