was happy that he was going to get some face time with his benefactor. They had only met twice before, both times in Dubai. He said, “Very well, I’ll look forward to having my worries allayed.”
“I’ll contact you when I land,” Tarik said, and then the line went dead.
Rudolf Spangler was no fool; he had worked out the fact that his benefactor was from the United Arab Emirates and not Israel. He was likely a Muslim, a Sunni, and no doubt the man had some relationship with the Signals Intelligence Agency, UAE’s American-supported spy shop. The UAE would be just one of many Sunni countries terrified of Shia expansion around the world, and it was one of only a few nations with the assets to try to do something about it.
He could have made some inquiries, but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Tarik wanted to play his cards close to his vest, that was fine with Spangler, as long as the wire transfers came in on time.
The sixty-six-year-old German swigged the last of his orange juice and rushed for the door of Charlotte & Fritz, his four Israeli security men racing to get into position around him.
TWENTY-SIX
The man who had adopted the code name Tarik landed at Hamad International Airport in Doha, Qatar, just west of his own homeland of the UAE, on an Airbus Citation executive jet owned by his father. He and his four personal security men, all men with significant combat experience, easily passed through customs on a diplomatic passport, and then they were met by a driver outside the VIP arrivals lounge.
The doors to the silver Bentley were open, and the five men climbed in, along with the driver.
The Bentley rolled down B Ring Road, its chrome radiating the noonday Doha sun. The temperature was already one hundred six degrees, and not a single cloud provided any coverage over the city.
Sultan al-Habsi rode in the backseat, his mind shifting between his operation in Berlin and the events that would transpire here in the next hour. If he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that, with all the dangers and risk of failure and the ticking clocks of Berlin, he was more frightened about Doha right now.
His trepidation only increased when the Bentley made a right off B Ring, and more so when it made another right onto Al Khudri Street. And by the time the sleek silver vehicle pulled into the parking garage of the Apollo Cancer Center, Doha, al-Habsi could feel his heart pound while rivulets of perspiration ran down his temples past his ears.
He was led into a private VIP hospital entrance by doctors who met the Bentley in the garage, and then he was taken, surrounded by the doctors and his assemblage of bodyguards, directly to the sixth floor, where he was express-laned past two dozen other people waiting to see patients in the ICU.
Outside a door he was handed a mask and given brief but detailed instructions, going over what was about to happen. He listened distractedly, took slow and measured breaths to control his anxiety, and then closed his eyes to steady his brain an instant.
He opened them, nodded resolutely to the doctors, and a door slid open. The small entourage walked down a hall, past examination rooms, and then finally to the door of the cancer ward’s ICU.
Al-Habsi moved more slowly with each step; he had to will himself into the room indicated by the doctor with the mask over his face.
Inside, an old man lay on a hospital bed, a catheter reservoir hanging from the side. There was an oxygen tube in his nose, an IV PICC line in his arm, and various medicines and other chemicals dripping into him. His eyes were open and alert; he looked towards Sultan, but no expression could be discerned from the white-bearded man’s face.
Sultan stepped in closer, all the doctors and bodyguards waited outside, and the door was pulled shut behind him.
The younger man spoke first. “Waladi.” My father.
The old man regarded him for a time, no real excitement or emotion to speak of, and then he said, “My son.”
“How are they treating you?”
Sultan’s father coughed, and heavy congestion was evident in his chest. When he recovered, he just shrugged a little and said, “They’re Qataris,” as if that said it all.
The son came closer still, marveling that all the color had left his father’s face, and his previously jaundiced eyes