Day of Wrath

He frowned. Despite the joy he felt when his enemies grieved, he could not hide a growing belief that the secret war he was waging was being lost.

The West had proved more resilient than he and those under his control had ever imagined. Over the past several years, terrorists had struck hard at Israel, the United States, and their allies — planting bombs in cars, buses, buildings, and airplanes around the world. And yet, already the scars were healing.

Ibrahim shook his head and took another sip of his water.

He had learned from his earlier failures. America could not be brought to its knees solely by plastic explosives, assault rifle bullets, or shoulder-launched missiles.

The limousine turned off onto the treelined private road leading to his estate — driving through a rippling sea of sunlight and shadow.

Five years ago, Ibrahim had purchased a substantial parcel of prime Virginia countryside. Since then, he’d lavished considerable sums on architects, interior decorators, and landscape designers to ensure that the house and its grounds reflected his intellect, his will, and his traditions. The Middleburg estate would never be more than one of several residences he owned around the world, but it pleased him to occupy ground so close to America’s political and military nerve center.

In total, the grounds covered thirty acres — all walled and patrolled.

Sturdy steel gates barred access to the estate propen-gates manned by armed guards belonging to his own private security force. None were American. All were fellow Arabs — veterans of Saudi Arabia’s Airborne Brigade released into his service by royal command. Their residence visas and weapons permits came courtesy of his intimate political ties to the current American administration.

The limousine stopped just inside the gates.

Ibrahim watched in satisfaction as two guards moved in on either side of the vehicle — carefully inspecting both driver and passenger to make sure they were who they claimed to be. A third man checked the trunk, exempting only his personal baggage from his search. Still another ran a handheld monitor over the car, scanning for any electronic eavesdropping devices that might have been planted while it sat at Dulles International Airport.

Prudence was the Saudi prince’s watchword in matters pertaining to personal safety. He believed himself unknown to his enemies. He saw no point, however, in staking his life and fortune and future on that belief.

Once the guards had finished their security sweep, the limousine pulled away — heading uphill toward the main house. The heavy steel gates swung shut behind it and latched. As a further security measure, a row of sharpened spikes whirred up from the pavement.

The house itself sprawled across one hilltop, almost reaching another nearby crest. Dazzling white walls, a red-tiled roof, and arched promenades gave it a Mediterranean appearance. Smaller outbuildings had the same design features. Flower gardens covered the lawns immediately surrounding the house. They not only suited his personal tastes, but served as better concealment for the battery of electronic warning devices that guarded the building.

The key members of Ibrahim’s household staff were lined up outside the main entrance — waiting to greet him. Two personal assistants, his majordomo, the groundskeeper, the head of his maintenance staff, his stable manager, and the estate’s security chief bowed in unison when he stepped out of the limousine.

Ibrahim coolly acknowledged their deferential greetings and then dismissed them. But two, the groundskeeper and the security chief, lingered.

The prince arched an eyebrow. Anything that needed his personal attention this quickly must be a problem, and a serious one at that.

He studied the two men for a moment.

The head of security, a tough, former Saudi paratroop captain named Talal, stood confidently — waiting for permission to speak.

From his body language, he evidently didn’t think himself to be in any trouble.

On the other hand, the groundskeeper, a young Egyptian, was clearly worried — almost frightened.

Ibrahim had seen nothing on the drive in that would imply the man had been derelict in his duties. The flowers were in bloom. The trees were trimmed. And the lawns were immaculate.

This problem must be a personnel matter. He summoned one of his assistants. The aide hurried back out from the house, took his briefcase, bowed deeply, and hurried away.

He turned back to the two men, still waiting silently for his commands.

“Very well. What is it?”

The groundskeeper stepped forward, moistening his lips.

“Highness, I am afraid that one of my workers, a Pakistani, tried to leave the compound last night.”

So it was a personnel matter.

Ibrahim turned to his security chief.

“The man was caught almost immediately,” Talal reported calmly. “Our security cameras spotted him leaving the dormitory area, and one of the dog patrols apprehended him before he could cross the wall.”

“You have questioned this man?” Ibrahim asked coldly.