FORTY TWO.

    Trust was a word that David wasn't very fond of at the moment.

    Ben Freidman had broken their agreement. There could be little doubt based on the news reports that the head of Mossad had wanted his newest informant to die in the attack that had taken place on the previous eve. Extending that logic, and understanding the brutality that Freidman was known for, David felt the need to get out of Israel as quickly as possible.

    After stumbling away from the site of the bombing, David didn't make it far; only two blocks to be precise. A ruptured eardrum caused him to walk as if he were drunk. His dust-covered suit, listless walk and bloodied face caught the attention of a paramedic, who after a quick examination thrust him into a waiting ambulance. Upon arrival at the hospital David gave a fake name.

    Mossad had spies everywhere and if they weren't lucky enough to have one at the hospital, they could hack into the patient files with little effort. One of the first people to arrive after the attack, he was treated right away. The gash in his leg and neck were cleaned and stitched up with great speed. More seriously injured people were being pulled from the rubble and on their way.

    Having grown up around hospitals David had no problem finding the doctors' lounge. He moved without fear of being discovered. The staff would be working at a crisis pace for the next day or more. His clothes were no longer useful, so he threw them into the garbage and cleaned up. The only thing he kept were his undergarments, shoes, and a money belt that contained cash and documents for an assumed identity. Next he searched the lockers until he found one that contained clothes roughly his size. David changed into them and took the car keys sitting on the top shelf.

    Out in the parking garage he went to the first level where the physicians parking was located and hit the door lock button on the keyless entry twice. Up ahead on his right a pair of headlights flashed and a horn honked. David left Hebron as directly as possible. Various Palestinian groups had already begun setting up barricades to keep the Israeli Defense Forces from entering the city and he was lucky to find a way through them.

    By sunup David had made it all the way to the south and crossed the border into Jordan at Arava. Feeling only slightly safer, he called the Prince and requested that he send his plane to the seaside town of Aqaba to pick him up. The Prince, comatose from a night of festivities, was unable to speak, so it was his always efficient assistant Devon who sent one of Omar's five private jets. By noon he was safely out of Freidman's reach and on his way to France. He landed in Nice in mid-afternoon and was taken by limo to the Carlton Hotel in Cannes, where Devon had booked him a suite.

    The first order of business was clothing, so after an hour of shopping along de la Croissette and billing everything to his hotel room, and ultimately the Prince, David returned to the solitude of his plush room and collapsed out of exhaustion. Sometime later, he was awakened by the fleshy soft hand of none other than Prince Omar.

    David rolled over onto his back and tried to blink the weariness from his eyes. As the room came into focus he realized it was nighttime.

    Omar reached out and pawed the side of David's neck. The touch stung the tender skin around the stitches. Out of reflex David slapped the Prince's hand away. Almost instantly he was aware of someone else in the room. Someone large by the size of the shadow they cast against the wall.

    Chung, the obedient Chinese bodyguard, was making his presence known, lest David try anything stupid. Prince Omar, however, was not bothered by the slap. He was too amused by the mark on David's neck and the implications it held.

    "I think someone has been up to something." Omar cupped David's cheeks in his hands and said, "I want to hear all about it."

    David shooed Omar's hands away. His head was killing him and the last thing he wanted right now was the Prince touching him.

    "Hear about what?"

    "About last night!" proclaimed the Saudi Prince with a twinkle in his eye.

    "I don't know what you're talking about," David groaned.

    Omar stood up laughing. He was dressed immaculately in a very expensive silk suit.

    "Oh… you know what I'm talking about. Now get your duff out of bed and get ready for dinner." Omar gestured with his hands toward the bathroom.

    "Come now… hurry. I am very hungry and I have been watching Al Jazeera. I want to know everything.

    We will eat and celebrate tonight. I will be waiting for you downstairs."

    Omar, as giddy as a schoolgirl, left the room with Chung in tow.

    By the time he got into the shower his spirits had lifted a bit. He was famished. Maybe a nice feast with Omar wouldn't be so bad. Shaving proved to be a bit more of a challenge than he would have liked, but with Omar skipping it was not an option. The Prince was a stickler for appearances. He wanted to be surrounded by beautiful people and that meant well-groomed and well-dressed people.

    David put on his new clothes: a white shirt, four-button black suit, and blue tie. The tie was a bit tricky but as long as he didn't turn his head too much it was manageable. A large flesh-colored Band-Aid over his stitches helped keep blood off the collar.

    David found Omar downstairs in the bar. He was sitting in a corner booth squeezed in between four women, two on each side. Two other men sat at each end of the U-shaped booth. They were both Arab and more than likely were several of Omar's three-thousand-plus cousins. As for the women, they were undoubtedly high-priced hookers that had been secured for however long the Prince chose to stay in Cannes, or until he tired of them and replacements were obtained.

    David almost didn't notice Chung, which was no easy feat considering his size. Somehow he'd managed to conceal himself on the other side of a large potted fern and column. David winked at him, just to let him know he wasn't fooled. Chung's sphinx like face remained utterly impassive.

    As David approached the table, Omar released his always groping hands from two of the girls. Reaching out, he held his palms up in a gesture of enthusiastic welcome.

    "David, I am so glad you could join us." Looking to his guests he said with a conspiratorial wink, "David is a man of many talents, and he is soon to be very famous." The two Arab men nodded as if they knew more than they should.

    The girls looked at him with playful eyes and then began giggling and muttering to each other in French. David ignored the women and gave the Prince a disapproving look.

    Omar, not wanting his little party spoiled by the often too serious David, rushed to say, "Sit!" The Prince gestured to one of his cousins to make room.

    "Come sit with us. We will celebrate." Looking to the waiter standing obediently near the booth, Omar yelled, "Champagne… more champagne!"

    David held up his arm, freezing the waiter before he could fill the order. With a smile, and a slight bow at the waist, David said, "My Prince, if I may have a moment of your time in private?" David's forceful dark eyes conveyed that his words were not a request but a demand.

    "Of course." Omar clapped his hands twice and gestured for the table to be removed. He was not about to slide his plump form out of the booth.

    The waiter snapped his fingers and two busboys rushed over and removed the table. Omar left his guests without saying a word and grabbed David by the elbow. With a look of deep concern, he asked, "What is wrong?"

    David strained to look at ease. He was willing to bet double or nothing on the ten million dollars that Omar had given him not even a week ago, that the Prince had shared their secrets with other members of the Saudi royal family.

    "Who are those two men?"

    "Cousins, of course."

    "Ah… just as I thought. And what have you told them?"

    "Nothing."

    David stared doubtfully at Omar.

    Caught in an obvious lie, Omar said, "Nothing of consequence. I simply told them you are a great man who is changing the world. A true warrior for the Arab people."

    David sighed uncomfortably. He had to have a serious conversation with Omar, but he would need his undivided attention for at least an hour.

    "I am very hungry, and I need to speak with you."

    Omar looked back the table.

    "Good, then let's sit-" "No. Not them. Just the two of us." The Prince looked back and forth between David and the table several times, reluctant to leave the women.

    Reading his mind, David said, "They can wait. You will have all night to enjoy them. All I need is one hour of your uninterrupted time."

    Omar finally agreed. After waving one of his cousins over and explaining the situation, Omar and David were led to a private table in the far corner of the restaurant.

    David was unsure of how to proceed. He had stressed many times how important it was to share their plans with no one. As a brother to the Crown Prince and high-ranking member of the Saudi royal family, Omar had always done whatever he wished. This was why David had to handle him with kid gloves.

    Even so, there were times when it was simply impossible not to speak his mind. As the last twenty-four hours had shown, this was a very dangerous game they were playing, and although it was David who was currently on the front line taking the risks, circumstances could change very quickly. If the voyeuristic Prince wasn't careful he just might end up closer to the action than he would ever wish.

    After choosing his words carefully, David said, "It flatters me that you say such noble things about me, but I can't stress enough that you must cease all conversation regarding our plans."

    "But, David, there are people who care deeply about the cause.

    People who we can trust."

    "People like your cousins?" asked David with a raised eyebrow.

    "Of course. I trust them with my life."

    David studied his benefactor.

    "What did you tell them?"

    "I bragged about you a bit," Omar answered in a sheepish tone.

    "Did you happen to mention that I may have been involved in something that happened last night?"

    Omar smiled.

    "Maybe."

    David clutched the ornate armrests of his chair so ferociously that he thought they might snap. His mind off and running, he imagined these two ninnies pulling out their cell phones and calling their friends and family back in Saudi Arabia, bragging about their cousin and the clandestine operation he was launching to finally rid them of Israel.

    David never wanted to get rid of Israel. He wanted Palestine to coexist with the Zionist state, but that would never be enough for Omar and the majority of his relatives. They wanted the complete destruction of the Israeli state and the annihilation of the Jewish people.

    As they always did, David's thoughts returned to the phones.

    "My Prince, I have warned you before and it is not just to protect me. It is for your own good." David shook his head sadly.

    "You cannot tell people what we are doing. I know you can trust your family, but you are missing the point. I do not think your cousins are going to run to the Americans and tell them what we are up to. No, I don't believe that for a moment. I think the Americans, however, will monitor their phone calls and they will catch them bragging to other relatives."

    Omar frowned and shook his head.

    "Impossible. The Americans do not spy on my country."

    David was taken completely aback by Omar's overconfidence.

    "You do not think the Americans spy on your country?"

    "No," answered the Prince in his same confident tone.

    "We have an agreement with them."

    David stared in disbelief, that someone as worldly as Omar could be so naive.

    "I hate to break the news to you, Prince Omar, but America spies on Saudi Arabia."

    "They do not, David. I have spoken with my brother about the agreement and our intelligence service monitors things very closely."

    With a smug nod, he added, "I can assure you."

    "They may not have people on the ground, they may not be actively spying on you, but that does not mean they are not passively spying on you."

    "What do you mean… passively?"

    "Satellites," answered David.

    "They pick up everything. Their National Security Agency listens to everything."

    Omar seemed to think about this for a moment and then asked with a frown, "How is it possible with so many people talking on phones?"

    David tried not to show his shock over the Prince's stupidity.

    Omar was not a very bright man, which in addition to his wealth was one of the reasons why David had picked him. He was a gambler with a very large bankroll. He had amassed his personal fortune, one separate from his family's, by getting out of real estate and into stocks at just the right time and then vice versa a decade later. His instincts in terms of knowing when to buy and when to sell were uncanny, but his knowledge of espionage was almost nil.

    "Trust me on this. They can do it, and every time you brag to one of your relatives we have no idea how many other family members they call." David detected a gleam in the Prince's eye and something clicked. Notoriety was the real reason for his loose lips. He had not been chosen as the Crown Prince, despite his financial successes, and so he now worked doubly hard to try to build his reputation within the dysfunctional House of Saud. One of the reasons he had been overlooked as a serious candidate for Crown Prince was his playboy lifestyle.

    In a country where over ninety percent of the residents were fervent Muslims, it was important that the king at least appear to follow the teachings of Muhammad.

    "Prince Omar, trust me when I tell you we do not want the Americans to find out what we are up to, or for that matter the French, the Israelis or anyone else."

    With a sour look on his face Omar said, "I am not afraid of the Americans. They wouldn't dare touch me. My family could flush their entire economy right down the toilet." Omar snapped his fingers contemptuously.

    David was tempted to point out that the Saudi royal coffers weren't what they once were. In addition, the Saudis had so much money invested in America that they would be cutting their own throats if they turned off the oil spigot. Omar was nowhere near as safe as he thought, but David would never be able to convince him of that. His life of opulence had given him a false sense of importance.

    "Please don't forget," pleaded David, "that the key to our success is to get the international community to think that Israel is out of control."

    Omar shook his head.

    "The key to our plan is getting my brother to threaten America with an oil embargo. That will wake them up."

    "Yes, that is very important, but if you want our plan to succeed, then we need to make sure the Americans don't find out what we're up to."

    Grabbing his menu, Omar nodded with a frown of irritation on his face.

    "Enough of this talk. I thought you were hungry." Omar gestured to the menu sitting untouched in front of David.

    "We will eat and you will tell me about last night."

    David grabbed the menu and glanced at the first page. Based on a conversation he had had with Omar some months earlier, he decided to make one more attempt at getting him to shut his mouth. Looking over the top of his menu David said, "Omar, trust no one completely, not me and most definitely not your family. You have said it yourself that you have relatives who are far too cozy with the Americans. You know as well as I that there are people in your family, pro-westerners, who are very jealous of your success. They would gladly sell you out to the Americans."

    Omar slammed his menu down. The water glasses on the table jumped and the candle flickered.

    "And what would the Americans do about it?" spat Omar.

    "Kill a member of the Saudi royal family?

    Never!"

    David nodded, if for no other reason than to calm the Prince. His slight outburst had attracted some unwanted attention. Omar was probably right. The Americans were unlikely to assassinate him, but they might find someone else to do it. On the other hand, the Americans wouldn't think twice about killing David.

    David looked over his menu and decided it was best to change the subject.

    "How are things with the Ambassador?"

    "Fine," snapped Omar.

    "Devon has already wired him half the money and he will get the other half on Monday. We own him."

    David was pleased to hear this. The Ambassador would be a vital part of their overall plan. Things were going exceedingly well but David knew he should temper his optimism. Hebron had worked out beyond David's wildest dreams. Freidman had overplayed his hand and now had a massacre to explain. Tomorrow he would fly to America to carry out the next phase of the operation.

    it wasn't the Americans, the French or the Israelis who were currently on the job, but the British. Alan Church's sailboat was berthed in the harbor not far from the massive yacht he'd been following for weeks. His most recent report had stirred some guarded interest back at MI6 in London. His orders were to maintain surveillance, and see if he could identify the man who had met with Prince Omar. Apparently the photographs he had snapped in Monaco were either not good enough to get a positive identification, or the man was unknown.

    Church had been sitting at the bar keeping an eye on the Prince and his guests when in walked the very man in whom headquarters had shown an interest. The handsome Arab spoke to the Prince in a manner that suggested he was more than just another one of Omar's abundant sycophants. After a brief exchange Prince Omar and the mysterious individual went unaccompanied to the dining room where they were seated at a remote table.

    A longtime follower of the Saudi royal family, Church was more familiar than most with the turmoil and tumult that bubbled just beneath the calm veneer of the very private clan. The spoiled consortium of relatives numbering just over 5,000 sat atop a powder keg of some twenty-three million subjects who were growing increasingly impatient with the excesses of the ruling family.

    For years, the House of Saud had tried to placate religious fanatics in their country by building them lavish mosques and madras as The ultra-fundamentalist Wahhabi sect prospered more than any other group during this time, and now held great sway and power with an increasingly unruly populace.

    Church was unsure if he would see it in his lifetime, but he was confident that the days of the Saudi monarchy were numbered. They had sowed the seeds of their own destruction by funding religious fanatics who would never tolerate their secular ways and gluttonous lifestyles. Omar was one such royal. Living in the lap of western luxury he tried to assuage his guilt by paying penance to the ultraconservatives of a faith that he was born into, but one that he had never seriously practiced or believed in.

    Church informed the maitre d' that he was ready to be seated for dinner. Cannes was a town where people partied well into the night, and the evening dinner crowd was still light. The man escorted Church through the restaurant to a table that was surprisingly closer to the Prince than he would have liked. Church noticed the Prince's guest give him a suspicious glance.

    Knowing the limitations of his listening device, and not wanting to raise undue suspicion, Church stopped the maitre d' and pointed to a table that was closer to the bar and farther away from the subjects. The two men reversed course and left Prince Omar and his guest to talk without fear of being heard.

    Sitting with his back to the wall, the British agent now had a perfectly good view of both the bar and the Prince and his acquaintance. Personally, he was more interested in the four women the Prince had left in the bar, but duty was duty, so he turned his attention to the matter at hand.

    He retrieved a case from the breast pocket of his suit coat and donned his reading glasses. After fumbling with the case for a second he placed it on the table with the open end pointed directly at the two men conversing in the far corner of the restaurant. With the tiny directional microphone and recorder now doing the tough work for him, Church opened the wine menu and began searching for a nice expensive bottle of Bordeaux, courtesy of the British government.