Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) by George Wallace (different ereaders .txt) 📕

I will tell you what you need to know when we meet in my home. Continuing to investigate me will result in immediate termination of our relationship.”

There was also the fact that Khalid was Starling-Rothbert’s biggest customer. By far.

The guide shoved Rothbert toward the dilapidated pickup, impatiently signaling that he should climb into the ripped and patched passenger seat.

“There is always the possibility of poor weather,” the guide growled, his English perfect. “And not even the power of nature is tolerated by my boss.”

Rothbert was no more than seated before the vehicle lurched forward, barreling wildly up a narrow, winding goat path of a road, spouting blue smoke and water vapor. The village fell away rapidly in the side mirror and was soon lost from sight. The banker clutched desperately to an overhead strap, averting his eyes from the drop-off just beyond his side window. The guide nonchalantly lit a foul-smelling cigarette as he drove deeper into the mountains, one gnarled hand loosely holding the jerking steering wheel, oblivious to the instant death inches beyond the right side of the truck. The man’s expression never changed as they alternated speeding through brilliant sunshine and impenetrable fog.

Rothbert had long since lost track of time when what passed for a rutted road abruptly ended at the edge of a sheer drop directly ahead and rock walls nearby on either side of the vehicle. The guide slid the Toyota to a skewing stop and signaled the banker that he should get out. Rothbert strained to look up the solid rock, vainly searching for anything approaching a path. Nothing but smooth, vertical granite. No visible way out of this cul-de-sac except the barely visible roadway that they had just climbed. Or the endless drop dead ahead.

Without a word, the guide gunned the truck’s engine, spun the vehicle around, and disappeared in a cloud of oil smoke back down the trail. Norman Rothbert stood there, shivering, alone at the edge of the world.

Just then, a rope plopped at Rothbert’s feet, immediately followed by a small, wiry man rappelling down to where he stood. The man said nothing as he quickly wrapped the banker in a web harness attached to a pair of ropes that had dropped from somewhere up the rock face. In a horrifying second, Rothbert felt himself being lifted and swung out over the chasm. There was nothing beneath him except thousands of feet of thin air, nothing above but a couple of spindly ropes that seemed to vanish into the clouds and mist.

Then he was being hoisted upward until he was pulled onto a ledge that extended from a relatively level plateau. Several other men, identical to the one who had dropped down next to him, quickly untangled him from the harness. And there, smiling broadly, was a bearded bear of a man, of indeterminate age but well north of sixty, dressed in the Pashtun traditional partug, kamiz, and waskat, his hand extended in a friendly-enough gesture.

“Welcome to my little mountain home, Mr. Rothbert.” The clipped Oxford English was a little disconcerting. Almost as much as suddenly being hauled up the mountain face. Still off balance, Rothbert shook the extended hand, and the man bowed with a flourish. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Shaikh Babar Khalid. But while you are here in this place, I will be known to you as Nabiin, the Prophet.”

Nabiin waved Rothbert toward a small door inset in the solid granite mountainside, one that might not be noticed at all if not the object of a search. It was certainly invisible from above or from the end of the road below.

“I don’t exactly…” Rothbert started.

Nabiin interrupted with an upraised hand. “I will tell you what you need to know in due time. Come in and sit. There is much we must discuss, and time is of some importance. Wheels are turning, my friend. Wheels are turning.”

The door opened into a large anteroom carved out of virgin rock. Passageways headed off in several directions toward more cave rooms further back. Music wafted out quietly from somewhere back there. So did the aroma of food.

“Please step into my office,” the man said, indicating that Rothbert should settle onto a pile of cushions arrayed on the tiled floor in the first room to the right. The Prophet fell back onto another pile.

Rothbert looked about. The walls were rock with no windows. There were elaborate textiles hanging about but no furniture. Just the piles of cushions. A silver samovar sat steaming on a silver tray between them.

“Allow me to pour you a cup of tea,” Nabiin commented as he fussed with the samovar. He waved toward a tray of sweets. “You must be hungry. Try the kahk, or the ma’amoul mad, or the qatayef. I have the pastries brought in from my favorite bakery in Jeddah every week. Freshness is so important to the taste of such treats, don’t you think?”

Rothbert hesitated, then took one of each of the baked sweets and the offered cup of tea. They were delicious. He had simply forgotten how hungry he was.

Nabiin leaned back and sighed as he chewed quietly for a moment, clearly content. Then he suddenly sat up, his lined face all business behind the unkempt beard.

“Now, to why I asked you to come visit me here. I have a mission for you, Mr. Rothbert. Some transactions of the highest order, but they require the utmost secrecy and must be completed quickly and precisely as ordered. I need for your bank to very quietly and discreetly move considerable assets between several of my hulafa’. Are you familiar with the term hulafa’? It is Arabic for allies or friends. Really, they are al mu’min, the leaders of