It was Paul Sassoon who fueled his ambitions, rightly recognizing his God-given talents. Tariq was smart, and by that he meant smarter than his brother, Jabr. His sisters didn’t count, and thank goodness for that. He was handsome. He was charismatic. More than that, he was Western. He passed for one of them. No hook nose, no hooded eyes. No one could call him a caricature. He was, in Sassoon’s words, the “new face of Qatar.”
TNT was also a dreamer, a fantasist, and maybe a fabulist too. He saw palaces where others saw windmills. But Don Quixote was poor, and Tariq al-Sabah was fabulously wealthy, a member of the richest family on planet earth. So maybe he didn’t have to be a dreamer or a fantasist, and maybe the stories he told himself weren’t so far fetched. Maybe he was a brilliant, transformational leader on the cusp of helping his beloved country realize its destiny as a guiding light for the Arab world.
And so to the business at hand.
“What are they asking for now?” he asked, settling back on the sofa.
Sassoon consulted his tablet. “Fifty for Hamas.”
“Since when did they become reasonable?” Tariq’s surprise was genuine.
“They’re desperate,” said Sassoon. “Out of munitions and matériel.”
“All the money will go to the Iranians,” said Tariq. “I don’t like it.”
“My understanding is that Russia is the primary supplier.”
Russia through Belarus through the Chechens, that bastard Kadyrov always taking his piece. Baksheesh. Tariq hated it.
“And Hezbollah?” he asked. Despite the annihilation of their entire command, the Shia militia maintained a considerable fighting force on Israel’s northern border and in the occupied territories.
“Two hundred,” said Sassoon. “Rockets are expensive.”
“They need more than rockets,” said Tariq. He was growing bored. He could feel the seconds ticking. His mind went to the Bugatti. For the first time, he wondered if LeClerc, the upright inspector, had been wise to the plot. Had Tariq seen something in his eyes? A knowing glint? It didn’t matter. LeClerc was in the hospital with a cranial hematoma. Fool that he was, Tariq had sent flowers and a get-well card.
“Give Hamas their fifty,” said Tariq. “But only a hundred for Hezbollah. And nothing for ISIS.”
Paul Sassoon frowned.
“Forget it,” said Tariq, throwing up his hands. “You win. Give Hezbollah what they want. They can have two hundred. Take the money from our accounts in Luxembourg. Buy a tanker. LNGs are going for cheap these days. Inflate the purchase price. Siphon the money into their accounts in Egypt and Sudan. Christ, I hate these sanctions.”
A smile. Sassoon noted all the information on his tablet. “And ISIS, really nothing?”
“Not a penny,” said Tariq. “Do I look like an easy mark?”
Sassoon smiled. He was smart enough not to answer. “And our lovely friend from Tel Aviv?”
“Upstairs sleeping.”
“Be careful,” said Sassoon. “She is too smart to believe she can change your mind.”
“You don’t know her,” said Tariq. “That one has a strong will.”
“Remember where she comes from,” said Sassoon. “Dispose of her as quickly as possible.”
“That has been my plan all along,” said Tariq. “I need to speak with her first.”
“Whatever she says, don’t believe it.”
“I’m an Arab,” said Tariq. “I don’t believe anyone.”
“Well said.”
“Sunday,” said Tariq, as he left the room. “A palace fit for four kings.”
“We shall be ready, emir,” said Sassoon, bowing his head.
Chapter 18
