Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“Yes, but what kind?”

“Don’t you have one with a little less snow on it?”

Balfour hesitated. “Unfortunately not.”

Emma kept her eyes on the picture, fully aware that Balfour was lying to her and that he knew more than he was letting on. “Where exactly did you say you found this?” she asked.

“I didn’t.” There was noise of motors approaching. Balfour snapped the photo out of her fingers and slid it into his pocket. “Our secret.”

“Of course.”

Emma turned to see a convoy of seven black Mercedes SUVs speeding across the tarmac. Small UAE flags flew from the antennas. Balfour returned to the hangar. Emma followed at a distance. As she walked, she glanced up at the roof of the hangar. The shadow she’d seen earlier was there again, and this time he wasn’t hiding. Nor were the three other snipers positioned on the rooftop. Either the prince was exceedingly conscious of his safety or something was wrong.

“Are you getting that, Frank?” she said under her breath. “They’ve got shooters on the roof. Something’s up. He’s never done that before.”

Emma waited for the voice to answer, but no one responded.

“Frank?” she whispered.

A faint, high-pitched whistle filled her ear. The whistle indicated the presence of a jamming device designed to seek out and defeat all wireless transmissions in the immediate area. She could no longer hear Connor; she could only hope he was able to receive her voice and her pictures.

Effectively isolated, Emma quickened her pace, watching as the fleet of Mercedes pulled to a halt. The driver’s door opened and a man wearing the tan uniform and green shoulder boards of a general in the national police got out.

The prince had arrived.

His full name was Prince Rashid Albayar al-Zayed, and he was the twelfth son of Crown Prince Ali al-Zayed, the sitting president of the United Arab Emirates. Thirty-two years of age, Prince Rashid stood a strapping six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a matinee idol’s smile, and flashing brown eyes that captivated all with their sincerity. Rashid was not one of the lazy royals who lived off his family’s name and squandered money as if it were an Olympic discipline. He was the opposite thing. A graduate of Phillips Exeter Academy, Cambridge University, and INSEAD, all with honors, he had returned home to commence a career in his government’s service. In six years he had moved from commissioner of customs and excise to deputy minister of foreign affairs, and now he headed the country’s national police.

In his off hours, Prince Rashid chaired a pan-Arab summit on climate change and served as the royal family’s representative for the Emirates Hunger Challenge, a charity that had raised over $200 million for starving children in sub-Saharan Africa. His wife was a Lebanese beauty, and Christian. His four lovely children attended a French lycee in Dubai City. To all eyes, the prince was the model of a modern secular Muslim and a postage-stamp representative of the UAE.

But the file on him painted a darker portrait. It suggested that his public activities were for show and nothing more than a workaholic’s laboriously constructed facade to camouflage his true calling: the funneling of arms and materiel to fundamentalist Islamic terrorist organizations.

As he walked across the hangar floor, arms outstretched, Prince Rashid turned up the wattage on his smile and made bold use of his flashing eyes. In the Middle East, a greeting says everything about a relationship.

“Ashok, my dear friend,” he said, taking Balfour into his arms and hugging him. “I’m so very glad to see you. I can’t thank you enough for helping me… and my friends.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said Lord Balfour. “May I introduce Miss Lara Antonova of the Russian FSB?”

“I thought Siberians were blond,” said Prince Rashid, bowing slightly.

“Not all of us,” said Emma. He was shaking her hand, and for a moment she thought he was not going to let go. His hands were large and surprisingly callused. Another snippet came back to her. The prince was a devotee of martial arts. Rumor was that he enjoyed sending his sparring partners to the hospital.

“If I didn’t know General Ivanov better, I’d say you were British,” the prince went on.

“Moscow prefers that we speak the queen’s English.”

Rashid laughed, and they were joined a moment later by his cadre of police officers. Just then his phone rang. He spoke briefly. “Miss Antonova, your plane has requested permission to land. It will be on the ground in two minutes.”

The prince rubbed his hands together and strode onto the tarmac. Balfour and Emma accompanied him, careful to stay the requisite step behind. The twenty-odd police officers, all dressed in the same crisp short-sleeved khaki uniform as their commander, followed.

The Tupolev landed and taxied to the near end of the runway. The cargo hatch dropped. The plane’s crew began to unload pallet after pallet stacked high with wooden crates painted an olive drab and stenciled with Cyrillic words.

The next hour passed quickly. Prince Rashid strode among the cargo, pointing out random crates to open and inspecting the contents against his packing list. Lord Balfour walked at the prince’s side, saying, “It’s all here” again and again. “One hundred percent fulfillment, as requested.”

Emma stood off to one side, arms crossed, her eyes shifting between the prince and the snipers positioned on the rooftop. It was while she was checking over her shoulder that she noticed the man for the first time. He was small and lithe, bearded, like nearly every male present except the prince, but very different in manner. He stood next to the prince’s Mercedes, and she suspected he must have ridden in the passenger seat, which made him a VIP. His skin was dark, and even standing, one hand clutching the SUV’s open door, he appeared hunted, as if afraid of being spotted. He was dressed in traditional Arab garb but not a rich man’s robe, just a simple white dish-dasha and headdress with a coiled black rope. His clothes marked him as a common man, but no common man rode shotgun with Prince Rashid.

Emma looked at him long enough for her camera to get a nice shot for Frank Connor and the boys back at Division.

The man was the end user: Prince Rashid’s terrorist of the month. Emma had no proof, but she knew it all the same. Experience.

“One hundred percent fulfillment.” This time it was the prince speaking, and she turned to see him approach. “I’m impressed. I look forward to doing more business with General Ivanov in the future.” He signaled to an aide-de-camp, and a minute later Emma was in possession of two stainless steel briefcases, each containing $5 million.

“The pleasure is ours,” said Emma. “In fact, the general has asked me to present you with a gift on his behalf.”

“Really?”

She stared at the prince, wondering if his surprise was genuine or if his sincerity was always so transparent. She signaled to the airmen, and a few moments later they descended from the Tupolev carrying a lacquered black rifle case between them. “Put it there,” she said, gesturing to a nearby crate.

With ceremony she opened the box, revealing the Vychlop sniper’s rifle embedded in maroon velvet. Directly beneath the rifle, each in its own compartment, were three five-inch-long bullets with the circumference of a Cohiba cigar. Each bore the prince’s name and family crest engraved on its brass jacket. More important, each was capable of penetrating an armored Humvee at a thousand yards.

Prince Rashid put the rifle to his shoulder. It weighed twenty-two pounds, but he clasped it as if it were a Daisy Repeater.

“I hope it meets your satisfaction,” said Emma.