“I know what it is.” Gabriel entered the seven characters, and a single icon appeared.
“Omar,” said Hanifa as tears washed over her cheeks. “The password is Omar.”
46
Gulf of Aqaba
It was a few minutes after four in the afternoon when El Al Flight 2372 from Berlin landed at Ben Gurion Airport. Gabriel, Mikhail, and Sarah squeezed into the backseat of an Office SUV waiting on the tarmac. Yossi Gavish, the bookish head of Research, was in the passenger seat. As the SUV lurched forward, he handed Gabriel a file. It was a forensic analysis of Crown Prince Abdullah’s checkered business career, based in part on the material supplied by Khalid during his visit to Gabriel’s home.
“We’ve got it cold, boss. All the money came from you-know-who.”
The SUV stopped next to a private Airbus H175 VIP helicopter that stood, rotors drooping, at the northern end of the airport. Khalid’s pilot was behind the controls. Yossi handed a Jericho .45 pistol to Mikhail and a Beretta 9mm to Gabriel.
“The IAF will shadow you as far as they can. Once you get into Egyptian airspace, you’re on your own.”
Gabriel left his Office BlackBerry and laptop in the SUV and followed Mikhail and Sarah into the Airbus’s luxuriously appointed cabin. They flew southward along the coast, over the towns of Ashdod and Ashkelon, then turned inland to avoid the airspace of the Gaza Strip. Fires burned in fields of grain on the Israeli side of the armistice line.
“Hamas starts them with incendiary kites and balloons,” Mikhail explained to Sarah.
“It’s not such an easy life.”
He pointed toward the chaotic skyline of Gaza City. “But it’s better than theirs.”
Gabriel read Yossi’s file twice as the Negev passed beneath them. The sky outside his window darkened slowly, and by the time they reached the southern end of the Gulf of Aqaba the sea was black.Tranquillitylay at anchor off Tiran Island, aglow with its distinctive neon-blue running lights. A shore craft hovered protectively off the massive superyacht’s port side, another off its starboard.
The Airbus alighted onTranquillity’s forward helipad—there were two—and the pilot shut down the engine. Mikhail exited the cabin and was confronted by a pair of Saudi security men in nylon jackets bearingTranquillity’s insignia. One of the men held out a hand, palm up.
“I have a better idea,” said Mikhail. “Why don’t you shove—”
“It’s all right,” Khalid called down from somewhere in the upper reaches of the ship. “Send them up right away.”
Gabriel and Sarah joined Mikhail on the foredeck. The two guards scrutinized them, Sarah especially, but made no offer to escort them to Khalid’s quarters. Unchaperoned, they wanderedTranquillityat their leisure, through the piano lounge and the discotheque, the conference room and the movie cinema, the billiards room, the steam room, the snow room, the ballroom, the fitness center, the archery center, the rock-climbing room, the children’s playroom, and the undersea observation center, where the many species of Red Sea aquatic life darted and frolicked for their private amusement on the other side of the thick glass.
They found Khalid on Deck 4, on the terrace outside the owner’s suite. He was wearing a zippered North Face fleece, faded jeans, and a pair of elegant Italian suede moccasins. The wind was making waves on the surface of a small swimming pool and fanning the flames of the inferno that crackled and spat in the outdoor fireplace. It was the last of his wood, he explained. Otherwise, he was well provisioned with food, fuel, and fresh water. “I can remain at sea for a year or more if necessary.” He rubbed his hands vigorously together. “It’s cold tonight. Perhaps we should go inside.”
He led them into the suite. It was larger than Gabriel’s apartment in Jerusalem. “It must be nice,” he said as he surveyed his opulent surroundings. “I don’t know how I ever managed without a private discotheque or a snow room.”
“They mean nothing to me.”
“That’s because you’re the son of a king.” Gabriel displayed the file Yossi had given him at Ben Gurion. “But you might feel differently if you were merely the king’s half brother.”
“I take it you reviewed the documents I gave you in Jerusalem.”
“We used them only as a starting point.”
“And where did they lead you?”
“Here,” said Gabriel. “ToTranquillity.”
The primary system by which the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia funnels the country’s immense oil wealth to members of the royal family is the official monthly stipend. Not all Saudi royals, however, are created equal. A lowly member of the House of Saud might collect a cash payment of a few thousand dollars, but those with direct blood ties to Ibn Saud receive far more. A grandchild of the Founder typically receives about $27,000 a month; a great-grandchild, about $8,000. Additional payments are available for the construction of a palace, for a marriage, or for the birth of a child. In Saudi Arabia, at least for members of the royal family, there is a financial incentive to procreate.
The largest stipends are reserved for those privileged few at the top of the food chain—the sons of the Founder. He had forty-five in all, including Abdullah bin Abdulaziz. Before his elevation to crown prince, he received a monthly payment of $250,000, or $3 million per year. It was more than enough money to live comfortably, but not lavishly, especially in the Al Saud playgrounds of London and the Côte d’Azur. To supplement his wages, Abdullah siphoned money directly from the state budget or received bribes and kickbacks from Western companies wishing to do business in the Kingdom. A British aerospace firm paid him $20 million in “consulting fees.” He used a portion of the money, explained Gabriel, to purchase a grand house at 71 Eaton Square in Belgravia.
“I believe you dined there recently, did you not?”
Receiving no reply, Gabriel continued with his briefing. Abdullah, he said, was quite good at theotherfamily business—the business of graft and theft—but in 2016 he got himself into serious financial trouble with a string of bad investments and questionable expenditures. He begged His Majesty King Mohammed for a few extra riyals to cover his living expenses. And when His Majesty refused to bail him out, he prevailed upon his next-door neighbor, the owner of 70 Eaton Square, for a loan. The man’s name was Konstantin Dragunov, better known as Konnie Drag to his friends.
“You remember Konstantin, don’t you, Khalid? Konstantin is the Russian billionaire who sold you this ridiculous boat.” Gabriel made a show of thought. “Remind me how much you paid for it.”
