that you mention it, no, they didn’t,” Brognola said.
“The camp’s definitely the way to go,” Tokaido called, staring at his monitor. “Kassem will have to wait for another day. According to what I’ve got here, he’s out of the country on business.”
“Any idea where?” Brognola asked.
Tokaido nodded. “He’s in the Orient.”
CHAPTER SIX
Hong Kong
Nasrallah Kassem was in his midsixties but felt twenty years younger and had doled out a fortune on plastic surgery in hopes of proving it. The results were dubious. Yes, he’d rid himself of a few worry lines as well as some flab below his chin, but one too many facelifts had drawn his olive skin so taut that it looked almost as if the next time he shaved he’d find himself scraping raw bone. Skull-faced beneath a crop of thick, well-coiffed hair dyed the color of charcoal, the vain financier cradled a snifter of cognac in his manicured hand as he held court with the two men seated across from him on the terrace of his high-rise penthouse overlooking the maritime bustle of Victoria Harbour. The lavish quarters was just one of eight furnished residences Kassem maintained around the globe. All but two were in the Middle East or along the Pacific Rim; another was in Libya and the last, a twenty-two-million dollar ocean-view estate overseen by his daughter, Sana, was in the Cayman Islands.
The two men with Kassem were Gohn Len, a tall, lanky Intelligence Bureau chief for the People’s Liberation Army, and Pasha Yarad, Iran’s balding, stoop-shouldered Deputy Minister of Defense. The three men had all been in proximity to Hong Kong when they’d received the news regarding Ahmet’s escape during his extradition to California and had agreed to meet on short notice to discuss the ramifications. They were speaking in French, the one language with which they all had at least a passing familiarity.
“While it’s fortunate that Ahmet eluded the Americans, the fact that he’s in the States empty-handed is a setback, without question,” Kassem said. “I’m confident, however, that we can secure alternative firepower for the mission in Los Angeles. We have other sources, after all.”
“I have no doubt that we have the connections to get other weapons,” Yarad told the Lebanese businessman as he helped himself to another few grapes from a sumptuous fruit platter set on the table along with a basket of fresh-baked pastries and croissants. The fifty-year-old Iranian was in his element on the topic of munitions and glad for the chance to speak from a position of authority. “And while the Blindicides were convenient enough, any number of LAWs would serve our purposes just as well. AT-4s, RPGs—”
“Agreed,” Kassem said, tactfully cutting off Yarad. “But the thought was that it would be more expedient than other options to smuggle LAWs into the States from Mexico.”
“Somebody obviously thought wrong,” Len retorted, his sallow face contorted into a look that lay somewhere between contempt and annoyance.
“Yes,” Kassem conceded, “obviously Ahmet’s connections in La Paz should have been better scrutinized. He relied on the wrong people. But you know his track record. Dozens of missions, all carried out like clockwork.”
“Perhaps,” Len said, “but apparently this time he did a poor job of setting his clock.”
Kassem knew Len was baiting him. Of the nineteen leaders comprising the New Dawn Rising coalition, the Chinese officer was, hands-down, the most contentious and uncompromising, and Kassem wasn’t the only member concerned that Len’s positions were dictated by Beijing’s conceit that, given time, they would be able to achieve most of their objectives without the help of others. Kassem was determined not to allow Len’s recalcitrance govern the impromptu meeting. Rather than rise to the PLA officer’s bait, the elderly businessman paused and quietly sipped his cognac, savoring its cloying warmth on his tongue before swallowing. Then, reaching into the pocket of a tailored silk suit he’d purchased just days before in Hong Kong’s garment district, Kassem casually withdrew a filigreed silver cigarette case and helped himself to an unfiltered Pall Mall. When he held out the case to his colleagues, both Len and Yarad shook their heads. Kassem shrugged and lit his cigarette. When he spoke, it was with a nonchalance as calculated as the way in which he’d convinced the others to meet on his home turf.
“What’s done is done,” he told Len simply.
“Placing Ahmet in charge of this operation was your idea,” the intelligence chief persisted.
“I accept responsibility,” Kassem countered evenly. “Does that satisfy you?”
The intelligence officer’s face flushed. He was about to respond but thought better of it. Jaw clenched, Len instead clamped his long, coarse fingers around a ceramic teacup filled with green tea and brought it to his lips. It was all he could do to keep his hand from trembling with anger.
The youngest of three men, Len looked uncomfortable, not only with the situation, but also with being trapped inside his ill-fitting brown suit. Kassem was sure the Asian would have preferred to show up in his medal-encrusted PLA uniform so as to give an appearance of greater cache, but such attire would have drawn unwanted attention in this, an apartment building leased out primarily to business executives. Holding the meeting here had been Kassem’s suggestion, and seeing to it that Len came dressed in civilian attire had been but another of the many small ploys the Lebanese entrepreneur had relied upon to place himself at a tactical advantage over his colleagues.
Just as he’d compromised Len by putting him in a suit, Kassem’s insistence that they speak in French came at the expense of Yarad, easily the least fluent of the three and therefore forced to ask the others to repeat themselves and speak in rudimentary sentences. And, when they’d first come out to sit on the terrace, Kassem had been shrewd enough to take a seat placing his back to the harbor, forcing the other two men to contend with the glare of the late-afternoon sun whenever they looked his way.
It was Pasha Yarad who finally broke the uneasy silence.
“This is not the time for second-guessing,” he said, siding with Kassem for the moment. “We came here to settle on a course of action and pass it along to the others. I suggest we focus our efforts there and leave the hindsight for another day.”
The ball was in Len’s court. He set down his cup and crossed his arms across his chest. “Very well,” he said gruffly. “I’m listening.”
Kassem was more amused than put off by Len’s petulance. Rather than fuel it, he left the floor to Yarad.
“Our main concern should be verifying that our teams are in place and still ready to carry out the operation,” the Iranian said.
Kassem assured Yarad, “Ahmet was in constant contact with the teams up to the time of his arrest. Things were proceeding on schedule. I also made a few calls to the States before you arrived. There have been no other problems aside from those involving Ahmet.”
“But Ahmet masterminded this whole plot,” Len countered, quick to resume the role of devil’s advocate. “He’s the go-between for all the groups we have in place in California. Can we really be sure all these different teams will be able to carry things out without his supervision?”
“Your point is well taken,” Kassem conceded, feeling it best to throw Len this one small bone. “And yes, it would be for the best if Ahmet were available to oversee things. God willing, he’ll elude capture and meet up with one of the teams shortly. But at the
