The Negotiator

“And the regular Army?” asked Salkind. “There are fifty thousand of them.”

“Yes, but they are not all in Riyadh. The locally-based Army units will have been on maneuvers a hundred miles away, due back in Riyadh the day before the dress rehearsal. The Army’s vehicles are maintained by Palestinians, part of the huge foreign presence in the country of foreign technicians who do the jobs the Saudis ca

“What’s the Palestinians’ kickback?” asked Cobb.

“A chance of naturalization,” said Easterhouse. “Although the technical infrastructure of Saudi depends on the quarter-million Palestinians employed at every level, they are always denied nationality. However loyally they serve, they can never have it. But under the post-Imam regime they could acquire it on the basis of six months’ residence. That measure alone will eventually suck a million Palestinians south from the West Bank and Gaza, Jordan, and Lebanon, to reside in their new homeland south of the Nefud, bringing peace to the northern Middle East.”

“And after the massacre?” Cyrus Miller asked the question. He had no time for euphemisms.

“In the last stages of the firefight inside the stadium, it will catch fire,” said Colonel Easterhouse smoothly. “This has been arranged. The flames will engulf the structure fast, disposing of the remains of the Royal House and their assassins. The cameras will continue to run until meltdown, followed on screen by the Imam himself.”

“What is he going to say?” queried Moir.

“Enough to terrify the entire Middle East and the West. Unlike Khomeini, who always spoke very quietly, this man is a firebrand. When he speaks he becomes carried away, for he speaks the message of Allah and Mohammed, and wishes to be heard.”

Miller nodded understandingly. He, too, knew the conviction of being a divine mouthpiece.

“By the time he has finished threatening all the secular and Su

“What about this pro-Western Saudi Prince who is going to replace him?” asked Cobb. “If he fails…”

“He won’t,” said the colonel with certainty. “Just as the Army’s trucks and the Air Force fighter-bombers were immobilized when they might have prevented the massacre, they will reenter service in time to rally to the Prince’s call. The Palestinians will see to that.

“Prince Khalidi bin Sudairi will stop by my house on his way to the dress rehearsal. He will have a drink-no doubt about that; he’s an alcoholic. The drink will be drugged. For three days he will be detained by two of my Yemenite house servants in the cellar. There he will prepare video and radio tapes a

“I will then transfer the Prince to the safekeeping of the U.S. embassy, forcing America to become involved whether it likes it or not, since the embassy will have to defend itself against Shi’ah mobs demanding the Prince be handed over to them. The Religious Police, the Army, and the people will still need a trigger to turn on the Shi’ah usurpers and eliminate them, to a man. That trigger will be the arrival of the first U.S. airborne units.”

“What about the aftermath, Colonel?” asked Miller slowly. “Will we get what we want-the oil for America?”

“We will all get what we want, gentlemen. The Palestinians get a homeland; the Egyptians, an oil quota to feed their masses. Uncle Sam gets to control the Saudi and Kuwaiti reserves, and thus the global oil price for the benefit of all mankind. The Prince becomes the new King, a drunken sot with me at his elbow every minute of the day. Only the Saudis will be disinherited, and return to their goats.

“The Su

The Alamo Five sat in silence. Two of them had thought to divert Saudi’s oil flow America’s way, nothing more. The other three had agreed to go along. They had just heard a plan to redraw a third of the world. It occurred to an appalled Moir and Cobb, though not to the other three, and certainly not to the colonel, that Easterhouse was a completely unbalanced egomaniac. Each realized too late that they were on a roller coaster, unable to slow down or get off.

Cyrus Miller invited Easterhouse to a private lunch in his adjacent dining room.

“No problems, Colonel?” he queried over the fresh peaches from his greenhouse. “Really, no problems?”

“There could be one, sir,” said the colonel carefully. “I have one hundred and forty days to H-hour. Long enough for a single bad leak to blow it all away. There is a young man, a former bank official… he lives in London now. Name of Laing. I would like someone to have a word with him.”

“Tell me,” said Miller. “Tell me about Mr. Laing.”

Qui

The wisdom of the city council decreed that the Old Town should not be despoiled by the industrial sprawl and poured-concrete obsession of the late twentieth century. Instead, it has been renovated and restored, a circular half-mile of alleys, markets, streets, squares, churches, restaurants, hotels, and pedestrian malls, almost all of them cobbled. At Qui

Modern buildings are few in the Old Town, but one is the five-story red-brick block on Rade Markt, which houses the police station.

“You know somebody here?” asked Sam as they approached the building.

“I used to,” admitted Qui

He was not. The young blond officer at the reception desk confirmed that, yes, Inspector De Groot was now Chief Inspector and commanded the Cernéente Politic. Whom should he a

Qui

“He seems to know you, mijnheer.”

They were shown up to the office of Chief Inspector De Groot without delay. He was waiting for them, advancing across the floor to greet them, a big florid bear of a man with thi

The Dutch police has three branches: the Gemeente, or Community, Police, the criminal branch, known as the Recherche, and the highway patrol, the Rijkspolitie. De Groot looked the part, a Community Police chief whose avuncular frame and ma

“Qui