Authors: Andrew Gross
Reckless (32 page)
And she had never been touched before.
“Exquisite.” Hassani smiled, signaling to the woman who had brought her that he was truly satisfied. There were twenty thousand euros for her in an envelope on the way out.
Twenty thousand euros.
For a fraction of that, he could fuck the most beautiful women in the world. Models, beauty pageant contestants, aspiring Bollywood starlets. But this one was a jewel. Unspoiled. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“What’s your name?”
“Sera,” the girl replied tremulously.
Sera.
She had come from one of his villages back in the kingdom. A village that his family, sheiks for over two hundred years, still controlled. Her father had gotten into some trouble, built up a world of debts. A trifle to Hassani, who was willing to wipe the slate clean in an instant.
For such a price.
“Are you afraid?” he asked. He sat back in the gilded antique chair at his desk, a Louis XVI. He reached out and touched her hand. Electricity surged through him.
She flinched.
“Don’t be,” he said, letting his fingers fall from her hand and brush against her thigh. He imagined the heave of her delicious breasts underneath, the tautness of her nipples. “You are doing your father a great service. There, you would have nothing. And he would have been ruined. Here, you will have everything you need.”
Here,
Hassani thought with pride, was his home on one of the many private islands that had been reclaimed from the sand in Dubai. More of a palace than a home. Modeled after a Venetian palazzo on the Grand Canal. Like a Canaletto painting, of which he possessed two.
Desire and anticipation surged through him. Yes, he lived a complicated life. He had contacts all over the world. He had sold arms. Secrets. He had enabled those who had caused many deaths. In the prophet’s name.
And yet he had also been a great friend to those in need—in the West. He had arranged financing for their most troubled banks. He was a conduit to the greatest wealth in the world, which these companies now needed. He was welcome in boardrooms across the globe. In government houses.
It was necessary to tread in both worlds in these times. To serve several masters. To keep a sense of balance.
And one of his many masters was the desire that rose up in his loins as he imagined the soft purr she would emit as he entered her before any others.
The way Hassani looked at it, he had sent many men on the path to countless virgins in paradise.
He was simply hedging his bet, as always.
He would take his here.
As he admired her, Hassani’s cell phone rang. His attention was so complete, he barely heard it. He looked at the display, disappointed that it was a call he had to take. “I’m sorry.” He sighed sadly. “I’ll need you to wait outside.”
He took the call, imagining the thought of running his hands underneath her robe. Hearing her cry out for the first time. Having her many times, until he dumped her back in her remote village, where she would be looked at as a whore.
“Hello,” Hassani said, lifting the phone and staring across the bay at the majestic Dubai skyline.
“Just letting you know,” the caller said in code, “that that matter of an old debt has been finally taken care of. But I fear there’s another issue. The two bondholders have left.”
“Left?”
“Another interested party, perhaps. Perhaps in London…”
“London,” Hassani said sadly. That would be a shame. He loved that lad like a son.
“See if they make contact,” the Bahraini said. “If they do, let me know.”
Maybe the time had come to close up the loose ends.
It was a complicated time. You had to see things many ways. It was written in the book: destruction first before renewal.
His entertainment would have to wait.
Hassani looked at his watch. A Breguet masterpiece. One of a kind. This little problem had to be shared. With the next level. There were others involved. It was six P.M.—morning in New York. He should just be catching him at his desk.
He pressed the speed dial and waited.
“Hanni,” his contact said when he picked up, six thousand miles across the globe.
Peter Simons. The CEO of Reynolds Reid.
T
hey arrived at Heathrow midday Saturday.
This time Naomi had alerted a contact with Scotland Yard that she wanted to speak with a Saudi residing in London about his involvement in a case she was working on. The official asked if she needed any support while she was there and she said she would advise. She also registered her firearm with the authorities. The last people she wanted to piss off were the British government. They weren’t in Serbia anymore.
She and Hauck booked rooms in a boutique hotel in Kensington called Number 29, a reconverted row of town houses that Naomi had stayed in before. On the way, they had their taxi pass by Marty al-Bashir’s home—a stately town house on Chesterfield Mews in Mayfair amid a quiet row of Georgian homes.
“There’s number sixty there,” the driver said, pointing out a three-story white façade with a roof terrace and coffered red door.
“Not exactly shabby,” Hauck remarked as they passed. It looked as impressive as any on the street.
“Ought not to be,” Naomi said. “This guy runs the largest investment fund in the world.”
Leaving, they had to wind through the maze of one-way streets of charming, tree-lined homes, embassies, and hotels to get back to Knightsbridge, the main thoroughfare back to the hotel. They checked in. Naomi went upstairs to shower and call her boss. Hauck turned on the news and unpacked his Dopp kit and went into the bathroom to shave. He thought about calling Annie. He’d left only a single message on her machine from Novi Pazar to tell her he was okay. He checked the time and thought maybe she’d still be sleeping. Friday nights were always late ones at the café. He knew he had withheld quite a bit from her. About April, and why he was even here. There were things he’d have to answer to when he got back. He knew he was avoiding it.
The BBC news report talked about the fear of the world banking collapse. While they were in Serbia, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac had gone under. The Fed would have to step in to bail them out. The insurance giant AIG was also said to be reeling. Not to mention JP Morgan and Reynolds Reid. All were selling for a fraction of what they had two months before.
The mood was darkening.
Around two, he and Naomi met back in the lobby for a coffee. Naomi told him what she knew about al-Bashir. “He’s young. Smart. Western. Very media friendly. He’s got an MBA from the University of Chicago. Did stints at Reynolds and Blackstone. You may have seen him on CNBC.”
“I don’t watch CNBC,” Hauck said.
“Stick around. This afternoon may have a positive effect on you.”
Hauck smiled, took a sip of his black coffee. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”
Naomi nodded. “I talked to my boss. We’re prepared to offer him a deal. We’re going to take him in.”
“You think he’s really going to bite? People who live in homes like that usually don’t cave in to the government without a fight.”
“My guess is it’ll beat where his
next
home might end up being.” She put down her coffee and slung her case over her shoulder. “
Ready?
”
They took another cab back to Mayfair. Chesterfield Mews was a couple of blocks from Hyde Park. They got out a block away and waited on the street, keeping an eye on the posh white Georgian. Hauck looked around. It didn’t appear anyone else was watching the house. They agreed that if they didn’t see any signs of activity they would knock on the door.
It was important to catch al-Bashir off guard away from the office.
A short time later the front door opened. Naomi nudged Hauck to look. Two young boys stepped out onto the limestone landing. They had dark, Middle Eastern features and were maybe around seven and five. The older one had on a striped Manchester United soccer jersey. The younger one was in a David Beckham T-shirt and sneakers. They could have been kids from anywhere. Following after them was an attractive thirtysomething woman in jeans, a baseball cap, and a hooded cashmere sweater. An expensive purse was slung over her shoulder.
She waited at the red door, holding it open. Soon after, a man came out dressed in khakis, a red knit shirt, and leather driving moccasins. He had short, dark hair and wore wire-rim glasses. He held a soccer ball in one arm and the lead of a King Charles spaniel with the other.
He looked like any dad taking his wife and kids out on a Saturday-afternoon stroll.
Naomi nodded. “That’s him.”
T
he al-Bashirs walked a couple of blocks toward Park Lane. It looked like they were heading into the park. The dog pulled the dad along and the kids went ahead, the older one tossing the soccer ball.
Hauck and Naomi fell in behind them.
The mom taking her kids’ hands, they crossed Park Lane, which was bustling with traffic, and headed into Hyde Park, London’s largest. It was a beautiful weekend afternoon. The park was packed. Couples strolling or on blankets. Street musicians playing. Young couples with strollers. Kids kicking soccer balls around. Lots of dogs.
Al-Bashir and his family walked along the path. The older boy started to play keep-away with the soccer ball; the younger one whined. Their mom kept after them, urging them not to bother the pedestrians and take their game onto a field. Marty al-Bashir let the dog wander onto the grass, sniffing some others.
Hauck and Naomi followed about fifty yards behind.
At some point al-Bashir’s cell phone rang, and he handed the spaniel off to his wife. The call took only a couple of minutes.
When he hung up, Naomi said to Hauck, “Let’s go.”
They went up to him just as he was about to rejoin his wife. “Marty al-Bashir?”
Surprised, he looked at Naomi. “Yes.”
She took out her ID. “My name is Naomi Blum. I’m a federal agent with the U.S. Department of the Treasury. Would you mind if we talked?”
“Talked?
Here?
” He glanced at his wife, looking both confused and a little irritated. “It’s a Saturday, Ms. Blum. I’m with my family. Why don’t you call my office and—”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Naomi said. “I’m sorry about the interruption. But I think it will be worth your while.”
Hauck heard a bit of a tremor in her voice and knew Naomi had to be nervous. This was a big fish, and how she finessed the situation would mean everything.
“It concerns a friend of yours,” she said. “Hassan ibn Hassani.”
The annoyance in Marty al-Bashir’s expression suddenly shifted to concern.
“I can come Monday with an agent from the Exchequer, if you like. But I don’t see how that’s preferable…”
One of the kids called out, “Dad, c’mon, see if you can score…”
“I’ll just be a minute.” He waved back. “Start without me.”
His wife came over, a bit concerned. “Marty, is everything alright?”
“Of course everything’s alright. These people just need to ask me a few questions. I’ll be right along.”
They moved down the path to a small grove of cherry trees, the Wellington Arch behind them. “Alright.” He turned back, not hiding his annoyance. “You’ve got five minutes, Ms. Blum. What is it that couldn’t wait until Monday?”
“This is Ty Hauck,” she said. “He’s a partner in a security firm in Greenwich, Connecticut.”
Al-Bashir nodded dismissively, not offering his hand.
“Okay…”
When it became clear that that was about as formal a greeting as they were going to get, Naomi said, “You know Mr. Hassani, do you not?”
“I don’t know. I may. The name is familiar. What does it matter anyway?”
“To refresh your memory, Mr. Hassani is a native Bahraini who is a principal in a number of businesses. Among them a United Arab Emirates firm named Ascot Capital Partners. I believe you have some experience with them at your firm.”
“Yes, yes, I know the firm.” Al-Bashir rolled his hand impatiently, shifting his gaze back and forth from Hauck to Naomi, trying to read what was in their eyes. He glanced at his watch. “So what? Can’t this wait?”
“You should be used to this kind of interruption to your weekends, Mr. al-Bashir.” Naomi met his eyes. “It was on a Sunday, the eighth of February; you took a call from Mr. Hassani. From Dubai. The subject matter was all very vague, of course. Investment strategies, the worrisome market…” She opened her satchel. “I happen to have a transcript of that conversation if it will help.”
“I don’t need a transcript,” he snapped. “I still don’t see the point. Mr. Hassani and I shared a business conversation. A private conversation, to be exact. How in the world are you in possession of—”
“Mr. Hassani is a person of interest for several matters related to U.S. national security,” Naomi said, cutting him off and squinting at him. “And as such, unfortunately, Mr. al-Bashir, so are you.”
The Saudi’s eyes grew narrow. He took off his glasses. “I don’t understand…”
She stared at him unflinchingly. Hauck was impressed. “Did you know Mr. Hassani was a figure who had attracted the attention of the United States government, Mr. al-Bashir?”
“No.”
The Saudi shifted on his feet. “I did not. He is also a person who has helped facilitate a six-billion mezzanine financing tier from the king of Bahrain for one of your largest banks.”
“Mr. Hassani has also brokered sales of weapons from Chechnya that have found their way to the Taliban in Pakistan. He has siphoned money for the Islamic American Cultural Foundation, a sham organization that has set up madrassas that train terrorists all over the world, some right here in Britain, and is on the terrorist watch list.”
“Terrorist!”
The Saudi blinked nervously. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Al-Bashir’s wife moved closer. “Marty, is everything alright?”