Arabian Collusion Read online




  Arabian Collusion

  A Novel

  James Lawrence

  Copyright 2018 by James Lawrence

  All rights reserved.

  Arabian Collusion is a work of fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events, locales, or living persons is entirely coincidental.

  Cover and ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Contents

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Thank you

  Other books by James Lawrence

  Preview of Arabian Deception

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wife and family. Without their support and assistance, it would not have been possible to complete this book.

  About the Author

  James Lawrence has been a soldier, small business owner, military advisor, and international arms dealer. He is the author of four novels in the Pat Walsh series, Arabian Deception, Arabian Vengeance, Arabian Fury and Arabian Collusion.

  Chapter 1

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Prince Turki bin Talal Abdulaziz tried to sit up in an attempt to get out of bed. A bout of dizziness forced his head back down onto the pillow. He was in a king-sized bed in a suite located on the third floor of the Riyadh Ritz Carlton. The surroundings were opulent, the bed soft, expansive and luxurious. The grandeur did nothing to salve the pain shooting through every muscle in his body, especially the throbbing agony in his back. He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed a half-liter-sized plastic Evian water bottle. Unsteadily, he twisted off the cap and with trembling hands brought the bottle to his lips. It took several tries, but eventually, he was able to splash enough fluid into his mouth to quench his thirst before slipping back into unconsciousness.

  When Prince Turki awoke, it was morning; he could tell from the sliver of sun brightening the room through the narrow gap in the heavy curtains. The sheets around his waist were moist. He had either wet himself again, or it was the night sweats brought on by his nightmares; he couldn’t tell, and he didn’t care. Too tired and in too much pain to get up and clean himself, he lay still, helpless, staring at the ceiling, listening for the sound he had dreaded every morning for the past week.

  As if on cue, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching his door. His heartbeat went into overdrive. The footsteps triggered another panic attack, and he was struggling to breathe by the time he heard the door open. Then came the familiar South African baritone.

  “Wakey, wakey, princeling; time for another meeting with Mr. Van Doren.”

  Strong hands clamped down on his ankles and he was dragged off the foot of the bed. His back and head thudded against the hardwood floor. He slid easily across the polished wooden bedroom floor and then, with less ease, across the tile of the living room. Eventually, he felt the friction burn of the thick corridor carpet abrading his naked back. The trip ended when he was dragged by his heels into a hotel room at the end of the corridor. Once inside the makeshift interrogation room, his bony naked body was lifted by strong hands and he was strapped down to a wooden chair. His feet were shoved into a plastic tub of water. He felt alligator clips bite into his scrotum and a pail of cold water was splashed across his face and chest. After what felt like an eternity filled with dread and fear, a short red-headed man entered his field of view.

  “I had a meeting with your cousin last night after you retired to your room. I proposed your offer of fifty-three billion dollars. I conveyed your promise of no retribution and your assurance that fifty-three billion is the maximum amount of liquidity you have. I was very persuasive in making your case. Unfortunately, your cousin is a very stubborn man. He’s convinced seventy-five billion is achievable; he believes I just haven’t provided you with the proper motivation.” Van Doren nodded his head. A rubber dog bone was shoved into the Prince’s mouth. He heard the metallic click of the switch being thrown and then felt the lightning strike. A surge of electricity convulsed every muscle in his body and then a red flash blanketed his vision. He regained consciousness to the familiar copper taste in his mouth and the smell of ozone in the air. Unsure how long he’d been out, he did his best to convince his captors he was still unconscious.

  A bucket of ice-cold water caused him to betray his deception. “Your cousin thought it would help if you met with some of the family members who refused his generous offer of restitution. Only the most compassionate of leaders would allow criminals like you to return the money stolen from the Saudi Arabian people to pay for your corruption.” The Prince felt himself being unstrapped and dragged from the chair. Naked and wet, he was dragged on his back along the corridor, into an elevator, down several stories and then through a kitchen. He heard a metal latch open and the sound of a vacuum seal being broken. He saw a thick, heavily insulated steel door, and he instantly felt a biting cold. He knew immediately he’d been dragged into a freezer. Lying on his back, looking at the ceiling, he folded his arms across his wet chest and began to shiver. He turned to his left and saw racks of frozen food. With what little strength he still possessed, he turned his head to the right. The sight shocked him. The wall was lined with bodies. He counted seven. He recognized all of them. His second cousin, Major General Hussain Ali, was the first in the line, his features frozen in a scream. Ice crystals had formed in his eyes and hair, making for an eerily grotesque sight. The other six cadavers were frozen in similar states of ante-mortem distress. All appeared to have died in the throes of agony. He screamed.

  When he awoke, he once again found himself strapped to the chair, with his feet in the familiar water bucket. The hard pinch of the alligator clips against his badly bruised genitals focused his attention. He felt the water splash against his body and prepared himself for what was to come.

  “Your cousin has agreed to come down to seventy billion. This is his last offer, you can either accept it or go into the deep freeze permanently. What’s it going to be?” snarled Van Doren.

  A feeling of even deeper despair fell over the Prince. He knew if he agreed to seventy billion his life would be spared for the moment, but the reprieve would be short-lived. He would never be able to come up with the money and once the Crown Prince learned he couldn’t pay, he would be killed in an even worse way. He simply didn’t have seventy billion in liquid assets. Although his net worth as reported by Forbes Magazine was well over one hundred billion, most of those assets were not easily transferable and if he tried to liquidate quickly, the sale would depress the asset price and he would be lucky to get even half. He started to sob uncontrollably. He heard the metallic click of the switch being
thrown and then the lights went out.

  The next morning, the Prince awoke in a different room. He was clothed in silk pajamas. He felt a heavy object around his right ankle. He reached down to remove it but found it was locked. An Indian servant entered the room and rolled a breakfast service of coffee, juices, fruits, and meats to the lounge chair next to the window. It took all of his energy, but the Prince crawled out of bed and seated himself for his first real meal in weeks. He was starving. He had no idea how much weight he had lost during his ordeal, but if the flesh hanging from his arms and legs were any indication, it had been a lot.

  Hours later, Van Doren walked into the room, unannounced, as if he owned it. With him was a tall, middle-aged Saudi Arabian citizen wearing the local dress—a white kandura and red-and-white checkered keffiyeh. The Prince didn’t recognize the man.

  “The Crown Prince has generously decided to accept your offer of fifty-three billion. He is both kind and compassionate. He asked me to inform you that future corruption will not be dealt with as leniently. These are desperate times, and because of the serious financial crisis Saudi is facing, for the good of the Country he is willing to accept your offer of restitution instead of the retribution you deserve,” Van Doren said.

  “Talal is here to work out the details with you and your lawyers. You’ll not be permitted to leave the hotel grounds until you’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain. That ankle bracelet you’re wearing has an explosive charge inside it. It works like an invisible leash for a dog; if you try to exit the grounds it will detonate, and you’ll lose your foot. We also have a guard force monitoring your movements from the signal given off by the bracelet. If you try to escape, you can be sure we’ll drag what’s left of you into the deep freeze.”

  Over the next ten weeks, the Prince had his business managers and lawyers generate the documents that allowed him to sign away fifty-three billion dollars from his vast empire to the government of Saudi Arabia. He didn’t see Van Doren again, although the memory of his nemesis was rarely out of his mind. The hotel was swarming with his cohorts wearing the same distinctive black Frontier Security polo shirts as worn by Van Doren. When he was finally released from the hotel, his first act was to lease a private jet, as his Boeing 757 had just been sold, and fly to London. His second act was to plot his revenge.

  Chapter 2

  Homs, Syria

  Sara strained to find the tail lights of the Toyota Land Cruiser they were following through the thick dust. In the dawn light, the cloud of dust particles had an orange hue that gave the surrounding scenery a sepia-like quality.

  “How much further, Saed?” she asked the driver.

  “We’re almost there Doctor, another twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

  Sara shifted her gaze to Saed. He was a heavy-set man in his late thirties, a pleasant laid-back guy, with a ready smile. Saed worked for Shirin International as a combination driver, interpreter, and security provider. Sara was happy for the security; they were driving north from the Syrian city of Homs, through the Idlib Governorate, the last area of Syria still not returned to the full control of the Assad regime.

  Sara Salam’s official title was Assistant Director of Middle Eastern Antiquities at the University of Pennsylvania Cultural Heritage Center. She was part of a cooperative effort between UPCHC and Shirin International to save the antiquities that were regularly being stolen and ravaged because of the Syrian Civil War.

  As the sun rose higher in the morning sky, visibility improved. Eventually, Sara was able to make out a cluster of buildings on the horizon. Above the village on a hill, she could see the stone ruins that marked their destination. The village of Deir Semaan is home to a large Byzantine-era monastery. Prior to the war, it had a population of five thousand, although now it’s mostly deserted. In 400 A.D., St. Simeon Stylites, a fifth-century monk, set off a trend among his fellow hermits by living on top of a pillar. St. Simeon climbed a pillar inside the church in 412 A.D. in order to get away from a horde of disciples and onlookers who pursued him after being drawn by stories of his lifestyle of extreme self-denial. St. Simeon once survived the forty days of Lent without eating or drinking anything, an achievement he followed up by standing stock still until he collapsed. Because of his growing popularity, in order to escape the growing masses of followers, he spent the remainder of his life on a succession of ever-higher pillars. After he died, his fame grew even more, and spawned scores of imitators, known as Stylites from the Greek word for pillar, “style.”

  The monastery, northwest of Aleppo, has been a tourist attraction for centuries, and has come under the control of different groups during the course of the civil war, including the Free Syrian Army, Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL), the Kurdish YPG, the Islamist Group Ahar al-Sham, as well as the Turkish Army. It remains close to the front line between rebels, including Jabhat al-Nusra, the local al-Qaeda branch, the Kurdish forces from the YPG, and the Assad regime forces. Located in the Arfin valley, forty miles north of Aleppo, the area is of strategic importance to the Turkish, Syrian, and Kurdish people. Value is never a good thing in a war because it always invites more fighting. In May 2016, Russian bombers weighed in on the conflict and destroyed St. Simeon’s pillar and parts of the monastery.

  Sara’s convoy passed through the battle-scarred village and climbed the winding road up the hill. They halted in front of the ruins of the monastery. Sara stepped out of her vehicle and joined the others who were assembling around the hood of the lead vehicle. She greeted Doctor Wolfgang Boetter and Doctor Felix Reddinger. Wolfgang was a German in his sixties. Tall and thin, decked out in a safari hat and khaki expedition clothing, the genial Bavarian greeted Sara with a smile. Felix was a Swiss citizen in his late thirties. An academic and outdoor enthusiast who was raised in Africa, Felix was armed with both a pistol and a menacing-looking black HK416 carbine. Unlike the affable Wolfgang, Felix wore a serious demeanor.

  Wolfgang poured coffee from a silver thermos as they waited for the other two members of the inspection team to join them. Sara sipped the strong, steaming liquid and nodded to Wolfgang in appreciation. Doctor Wolfgang produced a box of chocolates and offered her the open box. Sara studied the assortment and selected a square and then turned to greet the rest of the group. Ole was a Norwegian, former military, and still looked the part of a special forces’ operator. Ole, like Felix, wore tactical clothing and came armed. Ole was in his early forties; he was a wealthy man who started out as a donor to Shirin before taking a more active role in preventing the looting and destruction of Syrian history. Adolpho was an Italian, a dapper fifty-year-old professor from the University of Rome. Unlike the others, who were dressed for the field, he wore a navy-blue blazer and shiny Italian leather loafers.

  As soon as the five academics and four drivers were assembled, Doctor Wolfgang addressed the group.

  “Two days ago, we received a report of looting at the St. Simeon Cathedral. Our task today is to catalog the damage. Because it’s not safe to remain here overnight, our time on site will be limited. We’ll depart no later than four this afternoon in order to make it back to our compound before it gets dark. That leaves us only seven hours to identify and record the damage to the complex. The Cathedral is vast and expansive. We’ll split up into four groups, each group composed of one archaeologist and one armed security member. Make sure you carry your hand-held radios and test them before you depart. Cell service in this area is not reliable. We’ll meet back here at exactly three forty-five. Felix, you’ll take the nave. Adolpho, you’ll assess the eastern and southern basilicas. Ole, I want you to inspect the western and northern basilicas, and Sara, you’ll survey the exterior. Are there any questions?” Wolfgang paused for a few seconds and then dismissed the group. “That’s all.”

  Sara attempted to hide her disappointment in her assignment. From where she was standing, she could look into the nave and see the fallen pillar of St. Simeon. Finding something of interest on the outside grounds seemed farfetched. She
returned to the SUV and grabbed a small red North Face backpack that held her camera, water, and snacks. The placid Saed was sitting in the driver’s seat with his eyes closed.

  “You and I are going to inspect the cathedral grounds,” she said to Saed, who immediately went to the back of the SUV and retrieved an AK-47 and his own backpack.

  “Do you really need that here?” she asked while pointing to the rifle.

  “I hope not, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  The massive stone ruins of the church and monastery were copper in color. The wooden roof of the church and monastery buildings had rotted and collapsed centuries earlier. The walls, arches, and pillars that framed the structure were still largely intact. Surrounding the buildings were rolling hills covered with high grass, shrubs, and the occasional hibiscus tree. Large stones, each the size and shape of a small refrigerator, were scattered around the structures, seemingly at random. When it was constructed in 473 A.D., under the order of Emperor Zeno following the death of St. Simeon the hermit, it was the largest Cathedral in the world.

  Sara began her inspection at the main entrance and began a slow survey counterclockwise around the cathedral. Waist-high grass sprinkled with red cardinal wildflowers made for a pretty view. The high grass also hid many of the fallen stones. Sara moved slowly and cautiously around the cathedral to avoid tripping and scraping her shins on the stones beneath the grass. She came across a bomb crater. She stopped and took photos of the car-sized hole in the ground, as well as some scarring on the exterior cathedral wall made by shrapnel from the blast.

  It took an hour to reach the first basilica, which stretched like an arm two hundred yards from the main church building. Sara sat on a stone and retrieved a bottle of water from her backpack; Saed sat next to her and did the same. The cool morning was turning into a warm spring day. Sara could see a sheen of sweat on Saed’s face. From the tip of the eastern basilica, she was able to see across the open field and observe the length of the northern basilica. In between were rolling green hills covered with the ubiquitous red wildflowers. The hill sloped gently away from the cathedral down to a valley where a smaller structure stood five hundred yards from the basilica.