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Authors: Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader
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sharpshooters with hunting rifles in cars in front and back. He seriously doubted whether the man would be foolish enough to go after him. But since one couldn’t read the mind of one’s enemy it was prudent to act as if he himself were under attack, rather than the Eastern Brotherhood.
Within fifteen minutes the motorcade pulled into the Eastern Brotherhood’s private parking area and the men in the cars surrounding Khoury’s leapt out, making a thorough search of the area. Only then did one of them communicate to the bodyguards traveling with Khoury through a wireless network that it was safe to exit.
The elevator took him and four bodyguards directly up to the top floor of the private building owned by the Eastern Brotherhood. Two of the bodyguards stepped off the elevator first, secured the floor, and checked the faces of their boss’s personal staff to make sure they were all known. Then they stepped aside and Khoury hurried across the reception area to his office. When his secretary turned toward him, his face pinched and ashen beneath the burnished color of his skin, Khoury realized something was wrong.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “There was nothing any of us could do.”
Then Khoury looked beyond him to the three strangers, and immediately the primitive part of his brain, the fight-or-flight center, understood. Nevertheless, the civilized part of him was shocked, rooting him to the spot.
“What is this?” he said.
As if sleepwalking, he went across the magnificent jewel-tone carpet, a present from the president of Iran, staring with stupefaction at the three men in tailored suits ranged behind his desk. The men on the left and right stood with their arms hanging loosely at their sides and produced laminated badges identifying them as agents of the US Department of Defense. The one in the middle with hair the color of iron filings and a hard, angular face said,
“Good afternoon, Mr. Khoury. My name is Reiniger.” A
Bundespolizei
ID card was attached to a black cord around his neck. It said Reiniger was a highranking officer in GSG 9, the elite counterterrorism unit. “I’m here to take you into custody.”
“Custody?” Khoury was taken aback. “I don’t understand. How could you—?”
His voice died in his throat as he looked down at the dossier Rein-iger had produced. To his horror he saw photo after photo, green-lit from infrared film, of him with the sixteen-year-old busboy from the See Café, whom he saw three times a week when he went to Lake Starnberg ostensibly for lunch.
Gathering himself with a supreme effort, Khoury pushed the photos across the desk. “I have many enemies with deep resources. This smut is doctored. Anyone can see it isn’t me performing these wicked and disgusting acts.” He looked up into Reiniger’s yellow teeth, wrapped in his fraudulent piety. “How dare you accuse me of such—”
Reiniger made a small gesture with one hand and the man on his right stepped one pace to the left, revealing the sixteen-year-old busboy from the See Café. The boy would not meet Khoury’s dark glare, instead staring fixedly at the tops of his sneakers. In this superheated room, amid the tall, wide-shouldered Americans in their dark suits, he looked younger than his years, slender and fragile as bone china.
“I’d introduce you,” one of the American agents said with an audible snicker, “but that would be redundant.”
Khoury’s brain was on fire. How had this horror been visited on him? Why, if he was the chosen of Allah, had his dark secret, learned at the knee of his childhood instructor, been revealed? He had no thought for who had betrayed him, only that he could not bear to live with the shame, which would strip him of the power and prestige he’d worked for decades to amass.
“This is the end for you, Khoury,” the other American said.
Which one was which? They all looked alike to him. They had the evil look of dissolute infidels. He
Within fifteen minutes the motorcade pulled into the Eastern Brotherhood’s private parking area and the men in the cars surrounding Khoury’s leapt out, making a thorough search of the area. Only then did one of them communicate to the bodyguards traveling with Khoury through a wireless network that it was safe to exit.
The elevator took him and four bodyguards directly up to the top floor of the private building owned by the Eastern Brotherhood. Two of the bodyguards stepped off the elevator first, secured the floor, and checked the faces of their boss’s personal staff to make sure they were all known. Then they stepped aside and Khoury hurried across the reception area to his office. When his secretary turned toward him, his face pinched and ashen beneath the burnished color of his skin, Khoury realized something was wrong.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “There was nothing any of us could do.”
Then Khoury looked beyond him to the three strangers, and immediately the primitive part of his brain, the fight-or-flight center, understood. Nevertheless, the civilized part of him was shocked, rooting him to the spot.
“What is this?” he said.
As if sleepwalking, he went across the magnificent jewel-tone carpet, a present from the president of Iran, staring with stupefaction at the three men in tailored suits ranged behind his desk. The men on the left and right stood with their arms hanging loosely at their sides and produced laminated badges identifying them as agents of the US Department of Defense. The one in the middle with hair the color of iron filings and a hard, angular face said,
“Good afternoon, Mr. Khoury. My name is Reiniger.” A
Bundespolizei
ID card was attached to a black cord around his neck. It said Reiniger was a highranking officer in GSG 9, the elite counterterrorism unit. “I’m here to take you into custody.”
“Custody?” Khoury was taken aback. “I don’t understand. How could you—?”
His voice died in his throat as he looked down at the dossier Rein-iger had produced. To his horror he saw photo after photo, green-lit from infrared film, of him with the sixteen-year-old busboy from the See Café, whom he saw three times a week when he went to Lake Starnberg ostensibly for lunch.
Gathering himself with a supreme effort, Khoury pushed the photos across the desk. “I have many enemies with deep resources. This smut is doctored. Anyone can see it isn’t me performing these wicked and disgusting acts.” He looked up into Reiniger’s yellow teeth, wrapped in his fraudulent piety. “How dare you accuse me of such—”
Reiniger made a small gesture with one hand and the man on his right stepped one pace to the left, revealing the sixteen-year-old busboy from the See Café. The boy would not meet Khoury’s dark glare, instead staring fixedly at the tops of his sneakers. In this superheated room, amid the tall, wide-shouldered Americans in their dark suits, he looked younger than his years, slender and fragile as bone china.
“I’d introduce you,” one of the American agents said with an audible snicker, “but that would be redundant.”
Khoury’s brain was on fire. How had this horror been visited on him? Why, if he was the chosen of Allah, had his dark secret, learned at the knee of his childhood instructor, been revealed? He had no thought for who had betrayed him, only that he could not bear to live with the shame, which would strip him of the power and prestige he’d worked for decades to amass.
“This is the end for you, Khoury,” the other American said.
Which one was which? They all looked alike to him. They had the evil look of dissolute infidels. He
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