Otto Penzler - Murder For Revenge

But why now? he pondered as he rested in his suite at the Taj Mahal after his morning meeting with the representative of the prime minister of India. There was no intruder. The guards at his door were his personal force, trusted and caring. Al Hez had taken a bullet for him once. He would do it again if need be, Saata assured himself. Even though he now heads our military, he still insists on personally accompanying me when I leave the country.

Then why the growing certainty that danger was close? It was probably because the fruit juice that room service had delivered when he returned was not sitting well. Vague, smothering pains were beginning to cause discomfort in his chest.

Was that the sound of voices in the foyer?

Al Hez was alone there guarding the bolted door. Hasna got up slowly, then noiselessly moved across the room, taking care not to be in view of anyone in the foyer. Standing behind the partially open door, he listened intently.

Age had not diminished his acute hearing. As the meaning of al Hez’s words sank in, Hasna Ibn Saata shook his head sadly. Al Hez was talking to Rasna, the head of the guards, outside the suite. My trusted bodyguard, Rasna, Hasna Ibn Saata thought. My trusted aide, al Hez, who had just said, “Stop worrying. You will be well rewarded. The juice should do its work soon. The old man will be dead in minutes.”

Poison. Hasna Ibn Saata made his way back to the chair. His throat was closing. It was increasingly more difficult to breathe. No wonder the rebels were becoming so strong. Al Hez, who was privy to the innermost secrets of the palace, was one of them.

In the last moments of his life Hasna Ibn Saata’s hand reached for the phone. He had to warn His Majesty. He pressed the button that would bring the operator on the line, then felt the phone being taken from his hand.

He looked up. Through darkening vision he could see al Hez bending over him, smiling.

“Why?” he whispered. But he knew. Al Hez’s father had been hanged by the sultan’s father, his innocence established after his death.

It was as though al Hez could read his mind. “My father wasn’t innocent,” he whispered, “but you were the one who had him arrested. If he had succeeded I would be sitting in the palace now. But my time has come. Die knowing that in a few days American tourists will be kidnapped and massacred in Ahman, supposedly by bands of rebellious Bedouins. The United States will welcome the restoration of order when the sultan is assassinated by those same people and I take control to save my country.”

“No, no…” Hasna Ibn Saata felt his knees buckle. He managed to whisper, “Allah, save His Majesty,” before his lifeless body sank to the carpet.

The first night aboard ship they dined alone at a window table. A full moon shone on the tranquil waters of the Arabian Sea. Sunday sipped wine, listened to the soft strains of the violinist in the background, and smiled at Henry. “The only thing that keeps this from being perfect is that this damn wig is beginning to feel like a helmet,” she said.

“I must admit that seeing you in that wig and getup brings to mind the biblical reminder about hiding your light under a bushel,” Henry commented, “but it is nice to be anonymous. Enjoying yourself?”

“You know I am. I saw that in the list of activities someone is lecturing on Ahman tomorrow morning, and I’d like to go.”

“So would I,” Henry said promptly. “The lecturer is also going to head our tour to the Silver Mountain in Ahman. I understand it’s only six of us in the group because it’s a pretty strenuous trip. An hour in the bus, then two hours on horseback through the mountains. I’m glad you learned to ride.”

“How could I have not learned when one of your wedding presents to me was a horse?” Sunday asked. “Before that my idea of riding was to go on a carousel.”

The next morning at the lecture, Sunday observed Henry’s barely concealed annoyance as the lecturer, Maja bin Sayyid, a native of Ahman, discussed his country. At first his remarks had been interesting; that ninety percent of Ahman was covered with rocky and sandy desert separated by ten-thousand-foot mountains from the lush and ferule coastal plains; that vast supplies of oil had been discovered fifteen years ago; that the present sultan had been responsible for sweeping social reforms such as compulsory schooling for girls, hospitals and health centers, and foreign investment.

It was here that Sayyid drew Henry’s wrath. “That does not mean our sultan is honoured by all his people. Quite frankly, many of us are not pleased to be in America’s hip pocket, as you might say. We feel the sultan’s education at Harvard was not good for our way of life.”

Henry stood up. “Can you be more specific?” he asked coldly.

The lecturer shrugged. “I am veering off my subject. I know only a small group are planning to take the arduous journey to the Silver Mountain, which is a pity. It is a breathtaking sight, a city of ornate buildings chiselled out of the rock in the secret valley seven thousand years ago and only rediscovered early in this century. So far, I am happy to say, it does not have a McDonald’s.”

“That McDonald’s crack referred to the sultan’s nickname didn’t it?” Sunday asked Henry as they walked back to their room.

“It certainly did, and I’m surprised anyone from Ahman representing his country on this ship would have the gall to make such a statement,” Henry said. “It says to me that affairs in Ahman may be approaching a crisis. I intend to get into conversation with that guide on the bus tomorrow. According to his credits he’s a retired military officer. That’s not the kind of insolence to the monarch I you expect from an officer, retired or not.”

When they reached the cabin, he locked the door. “Take off that wig,” he suggested. “I miss the real you.”

“Gladly,” Sunday agreed. “But shouldn’t you check in with Sims?”

“Good God, yes. I almost forgot. I certainly don’t want him giving the White House a no-contact report on us.”

One of the phones in Drumdoe was registered to Arthur Sims. It was the one Henry called now. Sims answered on the first ring.

“Harry Potter, here,” Henry said.

“Oh, Mr… Potter, good to hear your voice.”

It was clear to Henry that Sims had almost called him Mr. President. “Just to let the family know we’re having a grand time,” he said heartily.

“Very quiet around here, sir. We miss you and Mrs. Potter.”

“We’ll keep in touch.”

Sunday had been reading the abbreviated copy of the International Herald Tribune that had been slipped under their door. “Henry, look,” she exclaimed.

They both stared at the picture of Hasna Ibn Saata. The caption under it read “Advisor to the sultan of Ahman dead of heart attack in Mumbai.”

Together they skimmed the story. His body had been found by his security chief, General al Hez, and his longtime personal physician, Dr. Ayla Ramas.

“Ramas,” Henry snapped. “I never heard of him. He’s not Hasna’s longtime personal physician.”

He took the paper from Sunday. “I’m very glad to have the opportunity to try to get that guide to talk tomorrow. My gut instinct tells me that Mac may have serious trouble brewing. Hasna looked terribly frail. If he felt he had to go personally to India, it must have been a mighty important mission.”

In his stateroom four decks down, Maja bin Sayyid was on the phone to General al Hez, who had returned to Ahman with the body. As Henry had, he spoke as though in casual conversation. “Yes, sir,” he said, “I am happy to report that I have found exactly the calibre of tourists we were seeking. Tomorrow I will escort a group of six to Silver Mountain. Four of them will interest you. The Camerons; Lloyd and Audrey. He is the retired chairman of Parker and Van Ness International Investments. She founded Audrey Cosmetics. Very well known to the media. They just gave five hundred million dollars to found a research hospital. They’re quite elderly. Why they thought they could do the horseback part of the trip amazes me.”