Countdown to Mecca by Michael Savage

more. He knew, from experience, that once innocent blood was spilled, it was hard to stem it.
    He found his forefinger was pressing the CALL button like a knife. The handsome female attendant was beside his chair in seconds.
    â€œYes, General?”
    â€œPlease ask my event coordinator to join me,” he instructed congenially. “The blond gentleman in the business suit, Peter Andrews.”
    He watched her walk away with appreciation. He sat back, tried to find something more than his lost youth in the clouds.
    â€œYes, General?” came a smooth, soft, lightly accented voice to his right. Brooks glanced over as a curtain of understated dark blue pinstripe moved past his eyes, and then Peter Andrews, aka Pyotr Ansky, sat in the luxurious swivel chair opposite him. With the suit, olive shirt, and maroon tie, he looked entirely at home in the private jet.
    â€œWe are landing soon in the Bay area,” the general reminded him in flat, hushed tones.
    â€œYes,” Pyotr said. “We will tie up the loose ends there.”
    Brooks regarded the man as he would study a map of treacherous terrain to be conquered. If a shark could walk, talk, and wear a suit, it would probably look like his “event coordinator.” He had been called from the field and collected for this assignment.
    â€œYou’ve had a chance to review the footage. What are my options?”
    Pyotr frowned and shrugged slightly. “The girl was in a panic, but the men—they were not as scared as mere neighbors should have been.”
    â€œI know that,” Brooks said. “I asked what we’re going to do.”
    â€œI will not know that until I am on the ground,” the mercenary replied. “Meanwhile, what of our good Herr? He is in the news too much.”
    â€œYes, his narcissism is annoying,” Brooks said. “But we need him going forward and he’s insisting on being paid in person.”
    â€œAnd in cash?” Pyotr stated.
    â€œOf course, which could be quite a problem,” Brooks admitted, thinking back to the televised press conference. “A reporter tried to talk to him about some technology transfers. He shut the man down but that doesn’t mean he’ll give up, whoever he is.”
    â€œExcuse me, gentlemen.” The two looked around to see the attendant standing demurely beside them. “Please fasten your seat belts. We are starting our descent.”
    Pyotr nodded, grinning inside. He had actually started his descent years before, when he had tried to extort Brooks during the collapse of the Soviet Union. The general was made of tougher stuff than most of his lustful, greedy peers, but he also knew a good dog when he saw it. Their relationship had started with some small, off-the-record favors, then grew into a solid collaboration that rescued Pyotr from a life of pointless crime and senseless addictions. Brooks was the hand on the gun. Pyotr was the bullet.
    He stood smoothly. “I will see who I can find, and what I can find out, about the girl and her rescuers,” he told the general as the attendant retreated.
    Brooks looked up at him. “Is everything arranged for my inspection tour in Riyadh? There are a few people I want to say good-bye to as my command winds down. I only have a few days, after all.”
    Pyotr smiled indulgently down at his commanding officer. “The Saudi Arabian coordination is proceeding smoothly.”
    Brooks nodded. “Thank you.”
    Brooks watched Pyotr head for his seat with far less enthusiasm than he had for the attendant. The event coordinator was a very dangerous, yet loyal and surprisingly talented, associate. He had a gift for languages and logical thinking, but he also had a hair trigger. Brooks had no doubt that when Peter Andrews said that the Saudi Arabian visit would proceed smoothly, it would, indeed, proceed smoothly.
    All of this, the entire operation, went back to the decision to relieve the