WHATEVER THE COST: A Mark Cole Thriller (20 page)

Abd al-Aziz Quraishi wasn’t a name he was familiar with, but Cole had recently heard news reports about this Arabian Islamic Jihad; wasn’t that the same group which had killed Brad Butler, the CNN correspondent? And hadn’t the man who’d beheaded Butler referred to himself as ‘the Lion’? The stories had also implicated the organization in the attacks on Riyadh, Muscat and Dubai; Arabian Islamic Jihad was obviously an emerging force. And if it had big oil money behind it, then the danger was increased exponentially.

Cole put a blanket around the shivering man and pulled him up, assisting him across the deck to the cabin.

He would get the man warm and comfortable, and would then learn everything he could about this man known as the Lion, and the terrorist group he commanded.

PART FIVE

1

Just two hours later, Cole had everything he would ever get from al-Zayani, and was satisfied that he’d been told the truth; the threat of being returned to the sharks was too overwhelming a possibility for al-Zayani to try lying about anything.

It turned out that al-Zayani really
didn’t
know what was in the crate that had been brought from Sumatra by Umar Shibab; al-Zayani was just the paymaster, and not concerned with operational details. All he knew was that after the private plane had landed in Dhahran, the crate had been picked up by someone al-Zayani only knew as
Matraqat al-Kafir
, the Hammer of the Infidel. He thought it had been taken to a safe house somewhere in Saudi Arabia, but that was as much as he knew.

Al-Zayani’s own job for the terrorist organization known as Arabian Islamic Jihad had been going on for years;
he had been leaching large sums from the accounts of Saudi National Oil and its subsidiary companies for the past decade, providing the entire start-up costs for the AIJ.

Al-Zayani had been brought into the AIJ by Abd al-Aziz Quraishi, the so-called ‘Lion’ who fronted the organization, and Cole recognized the same techniques that case officers used to recruit agents for western intelligence agencies.

Al-Zayani told Cole how he had never been against the Saudi government before, indeed had been a loyal and devout citizen all of his life, right up until an event which occurred ten years ago. He had just made Vice President of Finance for Saudi National Oil, and was looking forward to finally starting a family with his wife, who was pregnant for the first time. And then one night, when al-Zayani was working late, the Mabahith broke down the doors to his home and took his wife from her bed.

He campaigned against the government, demanding to know where she was, why she’d been taken, if she was alive or dead; but all that came back was stony silence.

It was then that he’d been approached by Quraishi, who offered to use his influence at the Ministry of Interior to find out what had happened to his wife, and get her back if he could. Al-Zayani had been so anxious that he agreed to do anything in return, and waited for news to come from Quraishi.

Days passed, until finally Quraishi came to see him in his home. It see
med that his wife had been seen in the local market asking questions about moving to America to raise her children there. Sensing some form of blasphemous disregard for Saudi Arabia’s own culture, the Mabahith were called in and had taken her to the cells for questioning.

When al-Zayani had asked the obvious question, Quraishi had sadly
shook his head; regrettably, his wife had died during the interrogation, along with their unborn child. Apparently the body had already been ‘processed’ – which meant it had been burned to ashes in one of the subterranean ovens kept for that very purpose.

Al-Zayani hadn’t been able to believe what he was hearing; how could this happen to a man like him, in a senior position in his nation’s most profitable business? And yet he’d heard so many stories before about these things happening that he didn’t doubt Quraishi’s story for a second.

His rage holy and indignant, he was fully primed for the offer Quraishi made next; to use the power of his position to help establish a group which would one day oust the Saudi monarchy and its corrupt government. Quraishi admitted to his own role, how he had dedicated his entire life to building up his position in order to more effectively lead a freedom-fighting group, and al-Zayani in his moment of weakness agreed absolutely to help the man in any way he could.

And so finance for the terrorist group had been made through the funds of
Saudi National Oil ever since, with no one ever the wiser.

Cole had to give Quraishi credit; his group was clearly better funded and better organized than any that had gone before. And his own role as
Assistant Minister for Security Affairs
meant that it was his job to stamp out dissident groups; in effect, he was policing himself, which was the perfect position to be in. He could take down rival groups, recruit from their resources, all while protecting the AIJ and his own interests.

Cole couldn’t help wonder if Quraishi had organized the capture and death of al-Zayani’s wife himself, purely in order to recruit the man to his cause. From what he’d heard already, it wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest.

However, Cole
was
surprised that he hadn’t heard more from Quraishi’s terrorist group, but this was ominous in itself; it was possible that it meant Quraishi was saving himself for something big.

Cole still didn’t know what was in the crate, but assumed it must be nuclear; the North Koreans had the right materials to make such things, and an attack with a nuclear device on American soil would explain what the big event was that Quraishi was heading towards.

But guesswork simply wasn’t good enough; he had to
know.

And so he had asked al-Zayani to call Quraishi to ask for a meeting. It was under the pretense of Texas Mainline Oil’s concerns about security from terrorist groups; ‘Dan Chadwick’ wanted confirmation that TMO’s investment would be secure, and needed to speak to the government minister responsible for dealing with counter-terrorism.

And so – even though it was terribly short notice – al-Zayani had stressed over the telephone that his US associate would be returning to Texas the day after tomorrow, and Quraishi had therefore agreed to meet him the very next morning.

And now, the meeting arranged, Cole stood on the deck and wondered what to do about al-Zayani. He felt sorry for the man – he had been badly abused, and the fate of his wife too closely mirrored Cole’s own experiences. Wouldn’t Cole have agreed to Quraishi’s requests for money if their situations had been reversed?

He had already forced the man to call Saudi National Oil headquarters to say that he, Abu and the two other men – who, it turned out, had also been company employees – were taking an impromptu fishing trip the next day, and wouldn’t be back until the following evening.

It gave him a window of opportunity; questions might be asked, but not before Cole had gone to his meeting with Abd al-Aziz Quraishi
in Riyadh and met the Lion himself.

Cole was a killer, but thought long and hard about the fate of al-Zayani. Could he just leave the man out at sea, and hope he wasn’t able to contact anyone and spoil Cole’s plans? Could he trust al-Zayani not to talk if he was found?

Cole looked up at the stars and the moon, bright in the cloudless night sky, and shook his head.

No.
The unhappy fact was that he couldn’t take that chance. He’d already gone against his instincts with Boom Suparat, and that had turned out badly for everyone. Cole’s only hope of a lead was his meeting with Quraishi the next day; if that was jeopardized, then who knew what would happen?

When Cole returned to the cabin below,
his mind made up and steeled for what he had to do, he saw that al-Zayani was sleeping. He sighed; that would make it easier, at least.

Approaching the sleeping body, Cole’s hands reached out and struck three of the nerve points on al-Zayani’s exposed skin; points which caused instant death, and al-Zayani’s eternal sleep.

Cole’s remorse was short-lived; he couldn’t afford to have it any other way, and he immediately set about making plans to scuttle the ship.

He would swim back to shore and – if anyone came looking for al-Zayani and his friends when they didn’t return the next night – all that would be found would be pieces of the million-dollar yacht strewn across the blue waters of the Arabian Gulf.

And the men on board would never be seen again.

2

The raindrops collected on the leaves above the three men hiding in the forest, showering them repetitively every few seconds when they got too heavy.

Jake Navarone was soaking wet, but never even noticed; his entire attention was focused on the industrial buildings which lay beyond the fence line in their own private compound.

Navarone, Devine and Liu were nestled in the trees which bordered the camp, just a hundred yards away from the curious compound. He could see that one of the structures had a huge chimney, which belched smoke up into the cloudy sky.

It was daytime
, although the sun was struggling to break through the storm clouds above, and the valley remained dark and grey. But Navarone was now able to see more of the eastern side of the camp, especially from his new vantage point.

The rest of his men, under the leadership of Frank Jaffett, would be taking detailed notes on the rest of the complex, drawing up plans of the buildings, establishing timings of guard changes, camp routine, how many prisoners they could see and what they were doing, the list was endless.

But Navarone wanted to find out what was going on in these outbuildings. Why was there a group of buildings fenced off from the rest of the camp? What purpose did they serve?

A claxon sounded then, and Navarone recoiled in
surprise; but it was just used to summon the prisoners to the camp square for roll-call, and Navarone watched in wonder as they began to stream out of the four barracks blocks, each person dressed in grey fatigues, heads down.

Navarone had estimated that
each barrack building could hold about one hundred prisoners, and yet still they poured forth, spilling out of the concrete dormitories in huge numbers until the square was completely covered.

He couldn’t perform an exact count from his current position, as he was now too far away and there were simply too many to count; but he
could
see that it wasn’t just men who were imprisoned here, there were women and children too, some barely able to walk. Navarone clenched his fists in anger. What kind of political crimes could
children
be guilty of?

‘Are you seeing this, boss?’ Jaffett asked over the radio.

‘You can’t miss it,’ Navarone whispered with gritted teeth.

‘They’ve got
kids
here, man,’ Jaffett breathed in disgust.

‘I know. Can you see on your side how many prisoners in total?’

‘Best we can make out is about eight-fifty, nine hundred per block.’

Navarone breathed out in disbelief. That was nearly four
thousand
people cooped up in a space for four hundred. They must have been sleeping one on top of the other in there. Heaven only knew what sort of diseases were running through the place.

‘Okay, hold tight and carry on with the recon,’ Navarone said, and Jaffett gave him
a double-click on the radio to confirm.

Navarone continued to watch through his high-powered binoculars as North Korean soldiers followed the prisoners out, shouting orders to the ones at the rear.

These prisoners returned reluctantly to the barracks, picking up the wheelbarrows which rested by the doors as they went. Several minutes elapsed before Navarone saw them reappear, pushing the wheelbarrows which now contained what appeared to be dead bodies.

Navarone felt Devine’s fingers grip his forearm. ‘Dammit Jake,’ he whispered, ‘they’ve got kids on those fuckin’ wheelbarrows!
What the fuck kind of place
is
this?’

Navarone’s jaw was clenched as he saw the same thing; two of the dead bodies were those of children, what appeared to be a boy of about six, and a girl who might have been in her teens.

He remained silent as he watched the prisoners wheel the dead bodies past their comrades, who kept their heads down, eyes staring at the floor beneath them. Soldiers at the western edge of the compound moved to the heavy steel gates there and pulled them open, and Navarone watched as the wheelbarrows were pushed across the open ground, headed for the very area that he and his men were watching.

The gates of the secondary compound were opened, and the prisoners wheeled their dead colleagues through, heading for the building with the chimney; and it was then that Navarone’s fears were confirmed, and he knew what the building was. It was a crematorium, just like the Nazis had used at their death camps back in the worst days of World War II.

Navarone watched in horror as the bodies were wheeled inside, the prisoners appearing with empty wheelbarrows just moments later and starting their sickening journey back towards the main camp.

Navarone
was sure that the smoke turned darker then, thicker and more intense. It could have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he smelt the burning of human flesh.

It was probably from disease, or else starvation and
weakness from being worked too hard; there were probably deaths in the barracks every night.

Roll-call was going on all the while, and Navarone noticed for the first time the major he’d seen the night before. He was standing with a clipboard on a raised dais, gesturing to various prisoners as their names were called out, guards pulling them off to one side.

At the end of roll-call, there was a group of a dozen men and women gathered near the major’s dais, and Navarone could see the major talking to another man – obviously a senior rank, although Navarone couldn’t make it out from here. This second man then barked at the guards and pointed to the industrial compound.

Panic broke out in the dozen prisoners then, and Navarone could hear the screams and cries from where he lay in the soft undergrowth. A
woman tried to break free, kicking out at the guards and running for the open gate.

A shot rang out, and the women fell down face first, blood pumping out onto the dirt floor from the gaping exit wound in her chest
, a 7.62mm rifle round from one of the guards having entered her upper back at over a thousand feet per second.

The body was hauled to one side, the major pointed at another prisoner from the assembly to join the others in the dead woman’s place, and the dozen prisoners – now silent, accepting whatever
horrific fate awaited them – were led out of the main camp to the mysterious buildings which lay under Navarone’s position.

‘Shit boss,’ Devine whispered. ‘What are we going to do?’

Navarone shook his head, wondering exactly the same thing. ‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully, remembering that his orders were strictly to observe and report back. ‘I honestly don’t know.’