TABUK, SAUDI ARABIA
EVEN WITH THE PILOTS pushing the throttles through the firewall, it took Mishaal’s executive jet several anxious hours to fly from Riyadh to Tabuk, hours that seemed to stretch into eternity when an urgent message was received en route. Intelligence services were reporting that the Israelis were scrambling their forces and getting into high gear after receiving a cryptic and brief advisory that a nuclear weapon had been captured by terrorists in Saudi Arabia. The unidentified source was considered highly credible, and the target was to be Jerusalem, the ancient and historic city that was revered by Jews, Christians, and Arabs alike.
Henry Tsang had grabbed his war bag from the trunk of the diplomatic vehicle that had taken him to the Marriott and was now out of his suit and into jeans and a blue T-shirt that emphasized his muscular upper body. He did not have much to say during the flight, but missed nothing that was going on. The passing hours would be pushing China closer to launching the invasion. If Jerusalem went up in a mushroom cloud, the international community would probably applaud the Chinese for moving so decisively to stem the possibility of other nuclear attacks elsewhere in the region. Beijing and Washington might even work together instead of fighting. It was most confusing, Tsang thought.
Mishaal was glowering silently out of the window while fielding messages on the situation. The King Abdul Aziz Military City was totally locked down, and would stay that way until he got there. The commanding general had committed suicide. Mishaal was embarrassed and infuriated. If he had not attended those long conference meetings, this missile would already have been packed safely away. He had personally spoken with King Abdullah about the dire situation and the monarch was clearly worried. If that missile-a Saudi weapon that had been kept secret until only a few days ago-struck Jerusalem, there would be no stopping the Jews. Others would pile into the fight until the House of Saud was gone and perhaps the whole country with it.
Kyle Swanson ran the mental tapes over and over in his head, staring straight ahead at the empty seat in front of him. He was thinking about it this way; it makes absolutely no fuckin’ sense.
A SMALL CONVOY LED by the commanding general had arrived at the main gate just after dawn, a flag of Saudi Arabia fluttering on a small pole attached to one fender of his luxury sedan and his two-star flag of rank on the other. Although his authority was unquestioned, the sedan intentionally stopped to allow the sentries to verify his identification both by sight and credentials. When the guards snapped to attention, the sedan rolled through, followed by an armored Humvee and two giant M920 8 × 6 tractor trucks, each hauling a M870A1 lowboy semitrailer that was more than twenty-five feet in length.
The vehicles were driven straight to the interior compound in which the nuclear missile system was secured, and the general told the colonel in charge that there had been a change in the orders. He had received a fax from the Interior Ministry that called for the immediate pickup of the weapon, and cancellation of the original schedule set for later in the day. Faced with the major general’s personal presence and the official government document, the colonel and his troops complied.
The two long lowboys had been parked side by side, with their huge engines rumbling at idle, and the armored personnel carriers-one containing the warhead and the other with the missile-were positioned on specific load spots on each flat deck, where they were locked down with chains and load binders.
The transfer papers were signed, the convoy left in the glow of the morning light, the colonel disbanded the guard unit, and the commanding general went back to his office, stuck a pistol to his head and blew his brains out.
A smooth and flawless operation, Kyle decided.
That was the mechanical side. What had him puzzled was why a sealed envelope with his name on it was among the paperwork given to the colonel.
THEIR PLANE MADE A smooth landing at the King Faisal Air Base within the military city and taxied to a stop near a group of senior officers standing stiffly before a line of sedans. Prince Mishaal was the first person off the plane and his grim face gave them no solace. He was in a rage, and their nervousness was made complete as his aide went down the line making a list of their names.
Kyle went down the stairs into the heat lifting from the tarmac, determined to keep Mishaal in check. It would do no good at this point to have him just fire a bunch of officers because he was angry. “Get that envelope,” he said from just behind the prince’s shoulder.
Mishaal barked an order and a full colonel stepped forward and handed him the sealed manila envelope. A rather elegant looping handwriting had written the name of the addressee.
“Now take us to the office of the commanding general,” Mishaal ordered. “Is the body still there?”
“Yes, sir. No one has touched anything. We were awaiting your arrival.”
Kyle and Mishaal got into the rear seat of the second sedan, with Henry Tsang given the passenger side in the front. As the line of cars blasted away from the flight line, Swanson ran a finger beneath the sealed flap and tore it open. An eight-by-ten piece of common writing paper, folded one time, was inside.
I am waiting at the end of the world. Juba.
“Shit!” snarled Kyle. He passed the brief note to Mishaal, who read it and gave it to Tsang.
“What does it mean?”
“It means we are facing down a total madman, a terrorist who is responsible for thousands of deaths, someone I thought was already dead.”
Henry Tsang spoke up. “Juba. The terrorist from the biochem attacks in London and San Francisco a few years back? He’s behind this?”
“Maybe not the entire plot, but he probably was the one pulling the triggers to order the specific attacks.” Kyle looked out the window as the sedan screamed toward the headquarters building. “I can’t believe he lived through that mess in Iraq. Not only did I shoot him, but we dropped a bomb on his head at the same time. Unbelievable.”
“So this message is a challenge to you? He wants some kind of duel to exact revenge?”
“It looks that way. Like I said, he is crazy and has apparently become fixated on killing me. Don’t expect logic from someone who is insane.”
The car slowed and curved into a broad parking area before a large whitewashed building that was three stories high. Guards were at the doors.
“And he wants to meet you at the end of the world,” said Mishaal as he opened the door to the office of the commanding general.