Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [178]
“I know, just his life. More dangerous in its way, but all men die, don’t they?”
“The local infidels act as though they have no fear of that. It is strange how many Christian churches there are here. People like to get married in this city—I do not understand why this is so, but it is. The Emir selected this city because of its anonymity. I think he was wise to do so. So many people come here to gamble and to sin against Allah. There is enough crime of the sort that keeps the local police concerned.”
Tariq made a right-hand turn for the final approach to the Emir’s country home, and Tariq thought of it. It was far more comfortable than the caves of Western Pakistan, much to Tariq’s personal pleasure, and that of the remainder of the staff, Allah be praised. He slowed and flipped his turn signal to turn left. He and his colleagues obeyed every law that they knew of in America.
“This is it?”
“Yes,” Tariq confirmed.
He’d chosen well, Hadi didn’t say. The Emir might have chosen a better-defended dwelling, but that might well have attracted the interest of his neighbors, and been counterproductive in this age of helicopters and bomb-laden aircraft. On the approach to Las Vegas, the pilot had called attention to a large U.S. Air Force base just north of the city. Another clever move on his friend’s part, to settle close to a major American military installation—on the face of it, not a good idea, but brilliant for that very reason. His desire to live in the Infidel West but writ large, Hadi thought in admiration. How long had he planned it? How had he arranged it? Well, that was why he’d come to lead the organization: his ability to see that which others could not see. He’d earned his place in the world, and in that place he had the ability—the right—to have his way with men … and women, according to the man behind the wheel. All men have their needs, and their weaknesses, Hadi told himself. That one wasn’t particularly disabling. For his part, Hadi had partaken in some of the joys of Rome. Often enough that he felt no guilt for it. So his friend did the same. No surprise there.
The car pulled into the garage. One space was empty, he noted. So did he have another servant? He got out of his car, fetched his bag from the trunk, and walked toward the door.
“Hadi!” boomed the voice from the door to the house. The garage doors were already coming down.
“Effendi,” Hadi called in return. The men embraced and kissed in the manner of their culture.
“How was your flight?”
“All four were fine but tiring.” Hadi took the time to look him in the face. The voice made him more recognizable. The face did not. Saif Rahman Yasin was transformed. The nose, the hair, even the eyes somewhat—Or were they? he asked himself. Only the expression in them. Clearly he was pleased to see his childhood friend, and the mirth they contained was so different from his formal face seen on TV and in the newspapers. “You are well, my friend,” Hadi said.
“It is a gentle, comfortable life I live here,” the Emir explained with a rare smile. “Praise Allah, we have no hills to climb. There is much happiness in living under their noses, as they say.”
“When I learned of this, I thought you mad, but now I can see your wisdom.”
“Thank you.” The Emir pulled him into the house. “You choose to travel as a Jew, do you not? That is well. There are many of them here.”
“Is this city as corrupt as they say?”
“Much more so. The population is very transient. People here do not recognize anyone, except perhaps their closest friends; it is as Lebanon used to be.”
“Or Bahrain still is?”
“That is far too close to home.” He didn’t have to explain. Many Saudis drove there in their chauffeured cars to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, but too many of them might recognize his voice, if not his new face. The Saudi royal family wanted him as dead as the Americans did. Indeed,