SEVENTY FIVE.

    David tipped the driver and declined the man's offer to carry his lone bag to the yacht. He stood for a long moment at the beginning of the pier and looked toward the hulking white ship. It seemed as if all of his strength and energy were being sucked from him. He did not look forward to seeing Omar. He desperately wanted information; he just wished there was a way to get it without having to sit down for a royal audience.

    Reluctantly, he put one foot in front of the other and started for the white yacht. He was barely halfway there when he spotted Devon LeClair standing in the open gangway at the side of the ship. High above on the bridge David could see men in white uniforms moving about. He knew from previous visits that the ship was always more active at night. That was when Omar entertained, when he held his hedonistic parties after he'd returned from the discos and the casinos. The casinos in Cannes didn't even open until eight in the evening. The high rollers like Omar rarely showed up before midnight.

    David secretly hoped Omar was gone and Devon could tell him what was going on, but he doubted he would be so lucky. Omar would want to hear all the details of his trip to America, especially the car bomb in Washington. That had been Omar's idea. At first David had said no. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many innocent bystanders who could be hurt. Omar persisted though. He'd badgered him for months and had thrown larger and larger amounts of money at him. He threatened to pull out of the entire operation, and send David packing. He pointed out that the brutal murder of the Saudi Ambassador would put the Crown Prince in a position of sympathy.

    Omar explained that he had been preaching to his brother for years to stand up to the Americans and that when the time was right he would be there in his ear telling him what to ask of the Americans when they apologized for the shocking international incident that had taken place on their soil.

    Everything hinged on the Americans. They had the veto power and they alone could stand in the way of the creation of a Palestinian state. Omar explained that international pressure wasn't enough. They needed economic pressure on their side and they needed the American President to feel guilty over the death of Crown Prince Faisal's favorite cousin. It wasn't enough to simply show the world once again that Israel was run by thugs. The world already knew that. Killing the Palestinian Ambassador would rally the UN to their cause, but would it be enough pressure to forestall a veto by the United States? Possibly not.

    David didn't like the idea of putting so much into his plan and coming up short. Omar was right and like everything else in his Princely life he eventually got his way.

    As he approached the gangplank he asked himself again what could have possibly gone wrong. They had thought of everything, but somehow the Americans had delayed the vote.

    He forced himself to smile at Devon.

    "Good evening."

    "You look tired," was all the Frenchman said in response.

    "Thank you," replied David with feigned sincerity.

    "And you look marvelous as always."

    Devon frowned at him from behind his glasses.

    "The Prince is waiting for you in his private salon."

    David nodded and stepped into the ship.

    "Leave your bag, and I'll have someone put it in a stateroom. I assume you're staying the night."

    "I suppose." David dropped his bag and headed down the passageway in search of his benefactor.

    When he reached the lavishly decorated private salon he was pleasantly surprised to find only Omar and his ever present bodyguard Chung. This was where Omar usually entertained the call girls and prostitutes that he kept around for his perverse sexual pleasures. As with almost everything Omar commissioned, the room was overdone.

    Too many pillows, too many Persian rugs on the floor, too many silk panels on the walls and too much chiffon draped from the ceiling. The place looked like some kind of a cross between a desert harem and a whorehouse, which on second thought was probably exactly the look Omar was after.

    Before David got far, Chung stepped forward, his eyes checking out the assassin from head to toe. David opened his suit coat and did a three-sixty so Chung could see that he was unarmed. It amused him slightly that Chung had stopped frisking him. It would have been very easy to hide a small-caliber pistol in the waistband of his underwear.

    There had been times lately where the thought had crossed David's mind. Omar disgusted him more and more. David knew what his own cause was, but with Omar it wasn't so clear.

    At first the Prince had espoused with great passion his belief that there was no more important Arab cause than Palestinian statehood.

    David had listened to Omar speak glowingly of his commitment to the Palestinian cause, and David had believed every word of it. That had been more than two years ago, and since then he had learned a great deal. First and foremost he'd learned that Omar didn't really care for anything other than his own pleasure. And sometimes his own pleasure involved watching other people suffer. Omar's feigned love of Palestine was the thin outer veneer of a sadistic hatred of Israel. Where David dreamt of a free Palestinian state as an end, Omar dreamt of a free Palestinian state as the beginning of an end… the end of Israel.

    In an unusual gesture Omar stood. He not only stood but he smiled. He held out his arms like he was a father greeting his favorite son. Before David knew it he was being pulled in. It was part of the other side of Omar. His mood was infectious, whether he was up or down, he brought everybody with him like the tide. Right now he was up, and David couldn't help but grin.

    "Come here," Omar's voice bellowed.

    "You have succeeded."

    David allowed himself to be hugged even though he didn't feel like he'd succeeded.

    "You have done marvelously," roared Omar as he patted David on the back.

    "Have you seen the tape?" asked Omar as he released him.

    "No. I've been on a plane all day. I have no idea what's happened.

    What is this I hear about a bomb threat at the UN?"

    Omar deflected the question with a flip of his wrist.

    "That is nothing. Only a delay tactic by the Americans. Come, you must see the videotape." Omar forced David over to a chair in front of a large plasma TV.

    "Sit… sit… I command you. When we are done we will go to the casino and then the discotheque for some women."

    David reluctantly dropped into the chair and watched as Omar picked up a remote control.

    "What is going on at the UN? Why didn't they vote?"

    "There was some bomb scare, but do not worry. The vote is going to take place first thing in the morning and it is going to pass."

    David eyed Omar suspiciously.

    "How do you know it will pass?"

    "I just talked with my brother. I've been talking to that poor excuse for a man all day. I think he actually cried when he found out Abdul had been blown up." Omar stopped fiddling with the remote for a second and looked at David with his most incredulous expression.

    "Can you believe that a grown man would cry over such a thing? My brother is a fool."

    David was sure that somewhere, in some very thick medical reference book, there was a term that described Omar's personality, but he had yet to take the time to sit down and look it up. Ignoring his obsession with his brother the Crown Prince, David repeated his question.

    "How can you be so sure it will pass tomorrow?"

    "My brother, the weak fool, has been given assurances by all of the permanent members that they will vote in favor of the resolution."

    "Even the United States."

    "They have not given their word yet, but they have no choice. As we discussed I convinced my brother that now was the time for the threat of an all-out embargo." Omar smiled and said, "After you killed Abdul, the President asked my brother if there was anything he could do and my brother told him to vote for the French resolution." Omar began laughing so hard he actually began to shake. After he'd calmed a bit he added, "They are all such idiots."

    All David could think to do was nod and smile.

    When the tape was finally rewound, Omar hit Play and said, "You will not believe this. A film crew showed up just minutes after the explosion."

    David watched as the screen went from black to black-and-gray and then finally a shot of people running down a sidewalk. In the distance was a cloud of smoke. Most of the people were running away from the smoke but the cameraman and several other people were running toward it. David began to feel himself sweat. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He had no desire to watch this, but he could feel Omar's eyes on him.

    Suddenly there were people on the ground. The camera stopped at each one for a few seconds cataloging the tragedy and then the reporter began shouting instructions. The lens came up and the horizon was filled with smoke and the twisted burning wreckage of cars.

    David looked away and found Omar standing only a few feet away, watching him.

    "You don't like this?" he asked with a gleam in his eye.

    David managed to keep his voice calm.

    "I know what I did. I do not need to watch it."

    "Oh, but you do." Omar walked closer to the TV. With one hand he gestured toward David and with the other toward the large screen.

    "This is your work. This is what you have accomplished… you should be proud of it."

    Omar was smiling widely now and it occurred to David that he was probably taping this for his voyeuristic collection.

    "I am proud of what I did," David lied. He was proud of what he did in Jordan, he was proud of what he did with the attaché cases in Hebron, and he was even proud of what he did in New York, but this carnage that he was watching on TV, he was not proud of.

    "Tell me," said Omar excitedly.

    "Do you think my cousin survived the initial blast?" The screen was now filled with images of a breached and burning limousine.

    "I hope he did, that American-loving bastard.

    Look closely, I think that is someone's leg!" Omar paused the tape and looked at his assassin for an answer.

    David shook his head. He'd had enough.

    "My Prince, I'm sorry, but I have no desire to watch this."

    It took David only a split second to realize something was wrong, but by then it was too late. Omar was still smiling at him and watching him closely when suddenly he looked just beyond David and gave a signal. Before David could react something was around his neck and he was yanked backward. His hands immediately shot up, and his fingers desperately tried to get under the rope that was choking him.

    Omar was suddenly before him.

    "I have enjoyed corrupting you." His gloating face was only several feet away.

    "Your intentions were so pure, and look at the great destruction you've caused." Omar turned and pointed to the TV.

    David gave up on trying to get his fingers under the rope and reached back for Chung's head. He found a fistful of hair with one hand and began searching for an eye with the other.

    Omar enjoyed the struggle.

    "You should have known better than to trust me… You of all people." Omar shook his head like he was admonishing a child.

    "You always preached to me about security. You were the one who told me not to talk to anyone about our plans. "The smile suddenly vanished from Omar's face and he leaned in close.

    "And you always kept asking for more money!"

    David couldn't get a hold of an eye. Chung was too strong. He began to realize that this was a fight he would not win. Specks of light started to appear on the periphery of his vision and his lungs began to ache. Suddenly Omar was very close to him saying something that he didn't bother to try to understand. His brain was too preoccupied with finding more oxygen. He could feel himself slipping away and his thoughts turned to the memories of his youth. To Jerusalem, and to his family. As his body began to relax into death he was comforted by the vision of his mother caring for the sick.

    RAFF SLOWLY REMOVED HIS HEADPHONES and tossed them on the bed. He didn't leave the window at first. He just stood there like a hawk perched on a tall branch, looking down at the large white vessel. Some stubborn sense of fairness in him did not like what had just transpired, but there wasn't much he could have done about it. He tried his best to not let it bother him, but it did, and he could tell it bothered the other people in the room too. No one spoke for at least a minute.

    Finally, Rapp turned to the others and said, "Pack everything up. I want to be out of here in fifteen minutes."

    The team of technicians were already at work. One of them was in the process of sending the encrypted audio back to Langley, while a second had begun packing the equipment. The third had hacked into the hotel's network and was placing a worm to erase all security footage from the time they'd arrived until thirty minutes from now:

    Before leaving, Rapp looked back out at the harbor one more time; at Omar's massive yacht and the limousine that was still parked at the entrance to the pier. The President would get all the evidence he needed and then some. Rapp had killed many times and could honestly say he'd never enjoyed it, or at the very least he'd never relished it. Yes, there'd been times where he'd felt just satisfaction in killing someone who deserved it, but that was about the extent of it.

    Pensively, he turned away from the window with the expression of a man who was lost in thought. He put on his suit coat over his holstered 9mm Beretta and started for the door. He paused on the threshold and looked back at the three analysts.

    "Good job, I'll see you at the plane."

    Rapp walked past the elevators to the stairs and started down.

    Raising his digitally encrypted radio to his mouth he said, "Scott, I'm coming down. Meet me by the east entrance of the hotel with the car."