Day of Wrath

Entirely surrounded by a low rock wall, Ibrahim’s estate was almost a small town in its own right. Marble from Italy, wood from Turkey, and coral from the Red Sea merged in a series of buildings that were more than a mansion but less than a palace Outbuildings for the servants and security staff, a garage for a small fleet of luxury automobiles, a helicopter pad and hangar, and a private mosque all surrounded the central residence.

Ibrahim al Saud knelt in the mosque now, facing northwest, toward Mecca. His entire staff, save only the security guards actually on duty, knelt and prayed beside and behind him. By Islamic law, only the noon prayers on Friday required attendance at a mosque, but Ibrahim carefully cultivated his public image as a man of deep religious faith.

As a member of the vast Saudi royal family, he felt it important to maintain the proper appearances in this intensely conservative Islamic land. His various business and other enterprises ran smoother without attracting the unwelcome attention of the Kingdom’s fanatical religious monitors.

He finished the rakat — the cycle of prayer — and stood. Tall and slim, Ibrahim’s dark hair and complexion framed a pair of even darker, penetrating eyes. None of his staff liked to attract his attention, because that meant being pierced by those eyes, searched for flaws, and studied as an object to be used — or discarded.

Barefoot like the rest of the worshippers, the prince turned and watched his staff quickly disperse. He moved toward the door outside, retrieved his own sandals, and walked the fifty meters to the south wing of his residence.

The mansion’s white marble walls reflected the fierce sun, but stepping into the shady portico that surrounded the singlestory building brought instant relief from the glare and the noonday heat. Ibrahim sat down at a small table facing an immaculately landscaped garden — a fantastic mix of flowers and shade trees that would never have survived the Arabian peninsula’s harsh climate without massive irrigation and constant care.

He had never asked how much maintaining this garden cost.

Whether a hundred thousand or a million dollars, the figure was immaterial — a tiny droplet from the boundless sea of his personal fortune.

Like all the Saudi princes, Ibrahim had been born to wealth.

And like them, he had been well educated, schooled first in Cairo, then in Oxford, and finally at Harvard. Unlike most of his royal peers, however, he had demonstrated an uncommon flair for organization and finance.

Over the past thirty years, he had painstakingly built an international business empire that now ranked second to none in Saudi Arabia — Caraco.

Most of the corrupt and foolish members of the Saudi royal family had only parlayed their vast oil wealth into still vaster debts — mortgaging their kingdom to the West for fancy automobiles, aircraft, showcase cities, and other baubles.

But Ibrahim and his allies had carefully diversified their own holdings before the worldwide slump in oil prices. Now Caraco’s yellow-and-black corporate logo flew over banks, engineering firms, transportation companies, and import-export enterprises around the globe.

By blood, he was merely one of several thousand princes — a minor member of Saudi Arabia’s sprawling elite. But when money and personal power were thrown into the equation, Ibrahim al Saud could walk as proudly as any of the great kings of antiquity.

A servant appeared with lunch followed by Hashemi, his personal secretary, bearing the usual thick sheaf of faxes and phone messages.

Ibrahim studied the first and most important: “Mr. Lahoud of the Persian Gulf Environmental Trust will arrive in Taif at one o’clock this afternoon. He requests the honor of an appointment with Prince Ibrahim al Saud — at the prince’s convenience.”

Ibrahim looked up at Hashemi. “Arrange for Mr. Lahoud to be brought to the estate as soon as he arrives in Taif. I will meet with him as soon as he has refreshed himself.”

“You have appointments at two and three this afternoon, Highness,” the other man gently reminded him.

“Reschedule them,” Ibrahim said.

Hashemi nodded silently and glided away to obey his orders.

Ibrahim was still at work an hour later when Hashemi reappeared.

“Mr. Massif Lahoud,” the secretary announced.

The prince rose to greet his visitor, a shorter, darkerskinned, and older man. He noted the armed guards hovering in the background and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Their presence was customary when he met men who were not members of his personal household, but he would dispense with custom whenever it interfered with operational security.

Ibrahim smiled thinly. He trusted no one absolutely, but he considered Lahoud levelheaded and discreet.