Reynolds had brought his somewhat out-of-date parabolic mike along, but he knew that the engine noise from the UH60 would make it impossible to hear anything. Something big was happening, and he needed to know what was going on. Not having brought the proper equipment to circumvent the electric fence surrounding the base, there was no way he could get in closer. Besides, his running and gunning days were over. If these guys really were up to something that they shouldn’t be, there was no question in Reynolds’s mind that they would kill him if they discovered him lurking around the hangar. As much as he didn’t want to, he knew there was only one person he could call for help. Faruq al-Hafez might not be his biggest fan, but he was completely devoted to the Saudi Royal Family, and a meeting of this magnitude was something he’d want to know and hopefully do something about.

Without taking his eyes from the scene inside the hangar, Reynolds fished his cell phone from his pocket, raised it to his mouth, and said, “Call deputy intel minister, cell. “The voice-activated feature began to dial the preprogrammed number, but just as it was starting to ring, Reynolds saw something that made him immediately disconnect the call. Walking out of the adjacent hangar with two large aluminum briefcases in his hands was Faruq al-Hafez himself.

He placed the briefcases on a folding table set up near the mouth of the hangar, popped the lids, and began setting up three stacks of bills. Reynolds watched as a representative from each group came up and collected their money. One of the militants lifted a stack of American currency and fanned through it with his thumb and then shoved the rest of his pile into a dusty, desert-camouflaged knapsack.

The National Guard and Royal Land Force soldiers were far less dramatic than the Wahhabi radical. After a cursory glance, they each piled their money into one of the aluminum cases and shook hands with Faruq. Whatever was going on, everyone seemed to be satisfied.

The National Guard members headed for their UH60 Blackhawk as the representatives from the Saudi army climbed into a Hummer parked on the far side of the hangar. While the militants headed toward their car, the deputy intelligence minister raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth and gave some sort of command. A fraction of a second later, the doors of hangar number two rolled open revealing a sleek Dessault Falcon 50EX business jet. What the hell is he up to? wondered Reynolds. The only time Faruq used one of the Intelligence Ministry jets was when he traveled out of the country. There was only one way to find out.

Reynolds removed his cell phone and voice-dialed the man again.

“Hello?” Faruq responded in Arabic.

Reynolds could hear the whine of the Falcon’s engines in the background. “It’s Chip Reynolds, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, Mr. Reynolds. What is it? I’m quite busy.”

Reynolds watched as al-Hafez entered the hangar. “I have a security matter I’d like to discuss with you. I’m concerned with some activity we’ve seen around one of the northern pumping stations. I’m going to be near your office later today and was hoping we could meet.”

“That won’t be possible,” replied the deputy minister. “I’m on my way out of the country and will be gone for several days.”

“Vacation?” asked Reynolds.

“Business,” said Faruq as he climbed the Falcon’s retractable stairs and paused before entering the cabin. “Whatever this is, I’m sure it’s nothing. If there’s still a problem when I get back, we can discuss it then. “With that, the deputy intelligence minister punched the end button on his cell and climbed into the plane.

Hiking back to his Land Cruiser, Reynolds downed a liter of water from the cooler on his back seat and then reached for his body armor. He had one last lead to pursue, and something told him that with that much money lying around, Mo(hammad), Larry, and Curly were going to be in a shoot first, ask questions later kind of mood.

SIXTY-TWO

There was only one road back to Riyadh, and Reynolds got on it as fast as he could. He pushed his Land Cruiser as hard as it would go and beat the militants to the outskirts of the city by a good twenty minutes. By the time they passed him, Reynolds was secreted on a small side street, and they never noticed as he pulled back onto the road and began to follow them.

He had expected the men to return to the small apartment they shared near their mosque, but instead they led him to a large warehouse in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Riyadh. So much for the Saudi government’s campaign to eradicate poverty, thought Reynolds as he passed dwelling after dwelling where the inhabitants were so poor they couldn’t even afford electricity. People could say what they wanted about America, but he had never seen such an enormous or hopeless chasm between the haves and the have-nots than he did in Saudi Arabia.

Risking only one casual drive-by, Reynolds noticed that the building apparently belonged to yet another good-for-nothing member of the Saudi Royal Family-a young prince named Hamal. Reynolds didn’t know which type of Saudi royal he hated more-the heavy-drinking, whoring, spend-like-there’s-no-tomorrow kind, or the ultrareligious, hypocritical, spit-in-the-face-of-the-world, bite-the-hand-that-feeds-you kind. As far as he was concerned, Prince Hamal fell into the latter category. With an Oxford education and a bottomless bank account, Hamal didn’t want for a single thing in his life, yet as a convert to extremist Wahhabism, he never missed an opportunity to strike out at the Saudi monarchy for being bloated, lazy, and corrupt.

Recently, Hamal had taken a page from the British monarchy and had begun issuing royal titles to merchants who were furthering the greater good of Islam and the Islamic world. Much as pastry shops and shirt makers were being recognized as official purveyors to the crown in England, Hamal was recognizing businesses that made life better for Muslims around the globe. While quietly the higher-ups in the Saudi Royal Family were more than a little upset at not having been consulted before the young man embarked on his endeavor, they liked the idea of the Saudi name supporting people who bettered the lives of the followers of Islam. What’s more, Hamal was the brains behind the bottled water that supposedly came from a secret spring beneath Mecca. Reynolds thought it was all a crock, right down to how Hamal claimed he was donating all the proceeds to worthy Muslim charities.

That move was surely a winner with the Royal Family. Ever since 9/11, the Saudis had been forced to discontinue their highly successful charity drives on television, which had brought in hundreds of millions of dollars for various Islamic groups worldwide. The U.S. had seen it as blatant fundraising for terrorists, and though the Saudi monarchy didn’t necessarily agree, they had buckled under the pressure from their staunchest Western ally.

The money Prince Hamal’s venture stood to raise and the positive spin it placed upon the Royal Family meant that the powers that be were willing to look the other way and forget that he had never even attempted to go through the proper channels before setting up shop. At the end of the day, the Saudi monarchy had seen his effort at worst as worthwhile and at best as a way to keep the radical young prince out of their hair and maybe a means by which he could grow to be less of a pain in their collective ass.

After parking his car and surveying the building from the rooftop of an abandoned building down the street, Reynolds knew he wasn’t going to be able to leave until he got a look at what was going on inside. Finding a small slice of shade, he waited until most of the neighborhood’s residents had left for afternoon prayers before making his way down to the pavement. He had hoped that Mo, Larry, and Curly would leave the warehouse to attend prayers as well, but today just wasn’t turning out to be his day.