“You should return to your rooms and try to get some rest, Mishaan,” Mansur said. “You’ll be awakened at about nine, and I have arranged to have body armor delivered to your suite for you to wear under your robes.” He glanced at Bash, one brow raised. “I trust that will make you feel a little better, Sebastian?”
“Unless you can put him in a full suit of anti-ballistic armor wrapped up in kevlar and covered by titanium plates, I’m not going to feel better, no. But if that’s the best we can do, I guess I’ll have to deal with it.” He gave Mansur a stern look. “But I’m inside that mosque, and I don’t give a fuck about protocol. I’ll wear robes and a keffiyeh if I must, but I’m on that guard detail, Mansur.”
“Fine.” Mansur sighed, but there was a light of amusement in his dark gaze. “I’ll make sure the Royal Guard knows that you are responsible for finding the traitor. Hopefully, they won’t resent your presence too much.”
“They can hate my guts for all I care,” Bash replied. “But until Sean is on Nick’s plane and on his way back to Fortress, I don’t give a fuck about their feelings.”
Bash wasn’t going to let down his guard for a moment. As the saying went, things weren’t over until they were over.
28
The darkly tinted windows of the armored SUV kept out the glare of the sun, but the air conditioning did little to cool an interior packed with robed and armored men. Bash gritted his teeth, annoyed not just by the heat, but also by the delay. Since they didn’t want to attract any undue attention to their undercover transport, they’d been forced to join the ranks of vehicles making their way toward the mosque. Traffic was at a crawl because of the throngs of people on foot who hoped to attend the funeral service in person. There were probably ten times as many as the mosque could accommodate, which meant they’d pack the outer courtyards and overflow into the streets. Departing the brief service would no doubt take ten times as long, but hopefully by then, the assassin and maybe even his cohorts would be in custody.
Mansur had arranged for the “official” motorcade to approach the mosque once Sean had been smuggled safely inside, so it looked as though the funeral would be delayed. As he reported over the guard network, even Mansur seemed surprised by the crowd turning out to pay homage to his father, and Bash had to admit to a certain amount of grudging admiration for the old king. Faisal had been a bastard, but apparently his people had indeed loved him.
After several minutes, the traffic moved more freely, and Bash noted the Akkadian police had set up additional measures to deal with the crowd, with cordoned off walkways to allow people to pass. They could finally make their way around to the side of the mosque, and under the cover of a portico, they could disembark and make their way inside. No one in the vehicle other than Bash knew one of the “guards” among them was actually their own king. The men had been chosen from different squads of the Royal Guard, so it was easy enough to slip Sean into their midst without comment.
Once inside the coolness of the large building, Bash had escorted Sean to a small antechamber, where Mansur was waiting. Sean kept on the body armor, but he donned a robe of pure white over it, as well as a keffiyeh of white with a black agul to hold it in place. He then retired to a restroom to remove the brown contact lenses Mansur had provided as part of his disguise.
“You look very much like a king,” Bash said quietly when Sean returned. The white of the robes suited Sean, making him even more handsome and regal.
“Thank you.” Sean smiled, but there was an edge of nervousness to it. Apparently, the reality of the situation was hitting him in a way it hadn’t the previous night, and Bash stepped closer.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.”
Sean’s smile grew more relaxed, and Bash noticed his hand move, as though Sean wanted to reach out and touch him, but had stopped himself. “I know.” He took a deep breath. “I just hate being in the spotlight, with or without a deadly assassin’s attention.”
“Still no sign of the assassin,” Mansur said quietly, frowning as he listened to the earpiece hidden under his own keffiyeh. “If Carapov got word of Majid’s capture, which we tried to keep secret, then maybe they aborted their mission.”
“Maybe.” Bash felt a return of his sense of unease. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling there was something they were missing. He’d played back over everything a dozen times during the sleepless hours he’d spent before they’d left the palace, but he still couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him. Maybe things had gone too smoothly, and it wouldn’t be the first time during a textbook op that Bash had felt this impending sense of another shoe about to drop. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn’t, but the feeling wouldn’t go away.
“Ah, the official motorcade is arriving,” Mansur said a few minutes later.
Shortly afterward, the guard who was masquerading as Sean entered the room, wearing an identical outfit to the one Sean now wore, but with sunglasses covering his eyes. A hurried change of clothing, and then they departed, twenty members of the Royal Guard escorting Sean and taking up a position behind him.
The mosque was already filled with mourners, and Bash glanced around, seeking anyone who seemed out of place or unusual. Mansur had assured him everyone had passed through metal detectors and security screening before being permitted to enter. That included a scanner similar to ones in use in airports, since 3D printed guns made of plastic couldn’t be detected any other way.
As Sean took his place, an Imam took up a position at the front, and the doors opened once again to admit Faisal’s body, wrapped in white and borne on a simple stretcher. The bearers consisted of men Bash knew on sight, the members of Faisal’s cabinet. They proceeded slowly toward the Imam, then lowered the stretcher to the ground in front of the black clad man, retreating to stand in line as the Imam began the prayers.
Bash’s sense of foreboding deepened. He looked at the cabinet members, who stood in a line facing Sean and his line of guards. There was portly Tawfiq Al Hadaan, who actually had tears in his dark eyes, but then, he’d been one of Faisal’s few genuine friends. Next to him was Amir Al Bishara, the minister of defense, who had argued so passionately with Majid. Bash wondered what Al Bishara would think about his opponent being a traitor to the kingdom. Beside Al Bishara was the tall, handsome form of Khaleel Al Rabiah, who was Sean’s leading contender as crown prince, if for no other reason than the man fairly oozed competence. He would certainly make an imposing ruler. Standing next to Khaleel, Jamil Al Daoud looked tiny. He was the shortest of the regional governors, while Khaleel was even taller than Majid.
A sudden shock went through Bash as he realized what had been bothering him since the previous night. He replayed his pursuit of the robed figure, seeing his quarry standing next to the sedan before entering it. The man’s head had barely topped the black roof of the car — and Majid, as tall as he was, would easily have been ten inches taller.
The man he’d chased last night hadn’t been Majid at all. Hamid had been with Mansur, so it could only have been Jamil Al Daoud.
Bash glanced over, trying to catch Mansur’s eye, but everyone seemed intent on the prayers of the Imam, the entire crowd standing in respectful silence. Mind racing, Bash looked around as surreptitiously as he could, certain as he’d ever been of anything that the assassin hadn’t shown up on the rooftop because he was here, inside the mosque.
That meant Sean was likely only moments from death, and only Bash knew what was going to happen.
Where could Carapov be? How could he have smuggled in a gun, despite the security precautions?
The assassin could be in the crowd of mourners, but Bash dismissed that almost as he thought it. No, back in the crowd would be too difficult to make a shot, too many people in the way. Could it be a guard? Or maybe Jamil intended to do it himself. If he’d slipped a gun onto the stretcher under the body, no one could see it.
But Jamil was not the type to dirty his own hands, not if he wanted the throne. Bash’s heart raced frantically as he looked about, and then his eyes fell on the news crews who were filming the funeral. There were even women among the journalists, a sign of the changing times, but he focused on the cameramen, several of whom held the bulk of their equipment on their shoulders. Equipment that would have been passed in with only cursory inspection. Equipment that could easily have concealed a weapon.
Time slowed. Bash could still hear the prayers, the responses of the crowd, but he ignored them as he looked at each cameraman. All of them were dressed in robes, hair hidden by their keffiyehs, but one he saw stood with feet wider apart, in a stance that Bash recognized. A shooting stance.
The Imam said something, and the crowd was moving, kneeling. As Sean lowered himself to his knees, Bash saw the camera suddenly swing in Sean’s direction. Without thinking, Bash threw himself over Sean, tackling him roughly to the ground. Almost simultaneously, a sharp, loud crack sounded, and Bash felt a searing pain in his shoulder, just where the armor fastenings joined. He hissed in pain as shouts and screams echoed around him, and he slumped, his lips close to Sean’s ear.
