Charon's Landing (12 page)

The twenty or so men around the long table got to their feet, tossing crumpled linen napkins on their chairs and generating a polite wave of laughter from their wives and girlfriends at their parting comments. The Oil Minister of Ajman had to be levered up from the table by two brawny escorts. Hasaan bin-Rufti weighed five hundred pounds at least, his body a shapeless, bulging mass. His neck was hidden by layers of fat that hung from his chin like the dewlap of an ox. His hands resembled surgical gloves that had been inflated to the bursting point, and despite his Semitic complexion, Rufti’s skin was whitened by the internal pressure of adipose tissue. The sweat and fat on his body gave him a maggoty sheen, and his white suit looked almost as large as the tent. As he labored across the loose sand, his body quivered like some gelatinous dessert.

Khalid noted that Rufti’s pet psychopath, Abu Alam, wasn’t present. His sources had told him that Alam had been out of the country for some time. Because Khalid’s spy network was strongest in Europe and they couldn’t find the French-born Algerian who tried to pass himself off as a Muslim fanatic, he suspected that Alam was somewhere in the United States.

As the men approached, Rufti taking up the rear as he wheezed across the desert, Khalid held up a hand to stop them about fifteen yards away. Any closer and they would distract his falcon.

Sahara was an eyas, a bird taken young and raised by hand, long before she had gone through her first molt and learned to fly. Khalid had several birds that he hunted, most of them haggards, falcons taken as adults and thus more difficult to train, but Sahara was his favorite, not only for her brave heart and unbounded loyalty but also because she was the first bird Khalid had trained after his return from school. Though she was getting old, almost too old for the hunt, she still possessed a special place in his heart.

One hundred yards farther out in the desert, in the thin shadow of a desiccated tree, two assistants waited by a large plastic and steel cage. Inside was a bustard, a huge game bird with a gray body and black tiger stripes across its broad back. It was a European bird, especially brought to the Middle East for the hunt. It was much larger than the indigenous birds of the Gulf, with nearly a seven-foot wingspan.

“Just so you’ll know what to expect,” Khalid addressed his guests in English since several Westerners were present as well as UAE citizens, “when I signal my clansmen at the cage, they will release the prey and it will fly straight for us. Don’t be alarmed by its size — it will never reach us. Are you ready?”

They nodded eagerly. They might have lost some of their heritage, but the spark of their ancestors’ way of life still burned within them. It could be seen in their eyes and the alert carriages of their heads and shoulders. Wealth had not quite wiped clean the slate that hundreds of generations of desert living had etched onto their spirits.

Khalid shifted his gaze and saw that Hasaan Rufti looked bored, his piggy eyes darting back to the food left on the table.

No one saw the hand signal — it was just a discreet wrist flick — but all at once the cage opened and a massive shape flew from it, lifting itself off the desert on huge outspread wings. Its flight kicked up dust until it reached a height of about fifteen feet. Despite its size, everyone knew immediately that the hunt wouldn’t be a contest, for the falcon’s speed was legendary and the bustard was merely lumbering through the air like an overloaded cargo plane.

The bird did not see the motionless men, or chose to ignore them in its desire to get away from the cage. It flew directly toward Khalid and the small falcon perched on his arm. Khalid had devised a system to unhood his falcon and slip the jesses in one motion so he could marvel at the swiftness with which she acquired her target and lifted to give chase. Faster than any human could react, Sahara saw the bustard and was gone, her lunge aloft pushing Khalid’s arm to his side.

Khalid had timed the intercept perfectly. The bustard wheeled in the air as soon as it saw the falcon, its ungainly body seemingly turning inside out in its desperate attempt to flee as Sahara rocketed toward it. The birds were thirty yards from the men, who were tensing for the inevitable collision with morbid fascination. A couple of them actually cringed when they saw the two bodies meet in midair. But there was no strike.

Like owls and other birds that had been the prey of falcons, the bustard had a few moves left, and just as Sahara torqued her body to strike with her talons, the bustard flipped itself in the air, twisting and lifting just the few inches it needed to ensure that the raptor missed. Like a combat pilot, the bustard began driving for altitude, pounding the air fiercely. Sahara turned the instant she realized that the bustard was still in the air and started her pursuit.

This was the type of hunt that all falconers dreamed of, the hunt that had thrilled countless ages of men who had watched their birds spiral upward, circling their slower prey so as to overtake without drifting away from their masters. As he watched Sahara dissolve into the sky, Khalid felt a special kinship not only to his ancestors but to the bird itself.

The falcon quickly caught up with the fleeing bustard and continued beyond, flying upward until she was invisible from the ground. At the apex of her spiraling parabola, Sahara winged over and stooped, tucking herself into a deadly bomb aimed at the lumbering bustard, special flaps in her nostrils protecting her lungs from the 180 mph force of her fall. She was one-fifth the size of her target, rocketing downward with the courage that was her breed.

The strike was inaudible, but those on the ground saw it happen. Sahara knifed into the bustard, breaking its back so surely that its wings folded completely in on themselves. The large bird began to fall, cartwheeling to the earth in an untidy pile of shattered bones, blood, and feathers.

Khalid didn’t need the lure in the pouch around his waist to bring Sahara back to his arm; she flew to him even as the bustard was falling, alighting on his arm gently, dissimulating the power and fury she had just shown. He slipped the hood back over her head and reattached the jesses as soon as she’d finished rearranging the long feathers on her wings.

The men burst into applause, and behind them, the women added their acclamation. Sahara preened and called quietly, as if she knew the ovation was for her.

“I will be a while. Why don’t you all rejoin the ladies and start off to my house at the Al-Ain oasis. I shouldn’t be more than half an hour,” Khalid called to his guests.

The entertainment was over, so the men were now anxious to leave. None of them offered to stay and assist Khalid while he finished his work with the falcon. This was the new way, he supposed, the way taught to them in America and Europe, instant gratification coupled with attention spans shorter than young children’s.

“Minister Rufti,” he said, his gaze locked on the corpulent minister from Ajman, the smallest of the Emirates. “Why don’t you walk with me?”

Hasaan bin-Rufti realized that Khalid’s invitation was more of an order than a request, but he tried to demure anyway. “No thank you, my friend.” The pressure of fat against his vocal cords made his voice unnaturally high. “In fact, I must take my leave now and depart for Ajman. There is an important meeting tomorrow with our Crown Prince that requires my attendance. I must decline your gracious hospitality.”

“Walk with me.” Khalid’s voice cracked like a whip.

“Of course, of course.” Rufti struggled miserably.

Khalid considered the majority of the people attending this outing to be friends or at least business acquaintances, with the sole exception of Hasaan bin-Rufti. No man represented more of what Khalid hated about what had become of his country. Rufti was slovenly, greedy, and ambitious to the point of fault. It was Rufti’s greed that prompted Khalid to invite him along. This little informal chat was the whole reason for the weekend hunt.

He waited for Rufti to waddle to his side and then turned and walked farther out into the desert, near where the two assistants were waiting by the cage that had held the bustard. As if sensing a tension in the hot air, Sahara constantly craned her head around. Though she was blinded by the hood, she seemed to be scanning the horizon for new prey.

“That bird of yours is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like that before.” There was a nervous edge to Rufti’s voice as he tried to dispel the heavy silence with words.

Khalid was withdrawn until they’d joined his assistants, not even turning to acknowledge the struggling figure beside him. From a smaller cage that had been hidden from view, one of the robed aides retrieved a large gray pigeon, the type found in city parks all over the world. The bird was not so big as it was fat, its breast almost sagging and its head movements sluggish.

“I thought that you would appreciate another demonstration of my falcon, one not so genteel as the earlier hunt.” Khalid turned to Rufti with a knowing smile. “What you saw earlier was toned down because of the ladies, but we are both men, yes? I think you will enjoy this rather more… graphic hunting style.”

Rufti relaxed at the words. Tension ran out of his shoulders so that an avalanche of fatty tissue seemed to roll down his arms and back. He laughed nervously but tried to act worldly when he responded, “I knew that falconry was a true blood sport and that you had held back.”

Khalid laughed with him, sharing a moment between mutual men of the world. “How would you like to release the pigeon?” He saw the look of distaste on Rufti’s face, so he added quickly, “It’s an honor, you know.”

“Yes, of course,” Rufti agreed despite his reluctance. “What should I do?”

The assistant placed the pigeon in Rufti’s hands, making sure that his sausage-sized fingers were wrapped securely around the fat bird. The pigeon’s body was pulpy, so soft that his fingers sank deeply before meeting the resistance of bone. Khalid pulled the hood from Sahara but kept the restraining jesses in place. The raptor locked its depthless black eyes on the pigeon, its gaze hammering the bird like a physical blow.

“Pigeons are actually intelligent birds.” Khalid wasn’t looking at Rufti as he spoke, but his voice was as riveting as the falcon’s eyes. “They eat only as much as they need to survive. Occasionally a bird will glut itself if a supply is available, and there are no predators in the area. We actually had to force-feed this one. Obesity seems to be a trait found only in humans.”

A pallor crept into Rufti’s face. He had been nervous when he had agreed to join Khalid, and now he was terrified. He had made the connection between himself and the bird as soon as his host had started to speak, but there was nothing he could do. The last of the limousines had pulled away a moment ago, taking with it his only chance of escape. All that remained were the two large trucks that would bring Khalid and his aides to the party he was throwing at Al-Ain.

“I think that—”

“Not a word.” Khalid whirled so that he faced Rufti, the falcon nearly losing her perch on his arm. “It is time for the hunt. I believe the poor creature can still fly, but we shall see.”

Rufti looked unsure, scared. He pulled the fat bird close to his chest as if its survival meant his own. “I don’t think I want to see this.”

“Release!”

Without thinking, Rufti did. The pigeon rose sluggishly from his hands, heaving itself into flight with sheer force of will. Khalid immediately loosed the jesses, and Sahara took to the wing.

The normal technique of a hunting falcon is to gain altitude and use its devastating dive to take down its prey, but Sahara ignored her instinct. The pigeon was so slow and lethargic that she came at it from behind, her amazing speed closing the distance in only a few beats of her wings. The pigeon didn’t have the strength or the ability to alter its course as it felt the falcon closing in for the kill.

Sahara raked her legs forward, drawing her talons up so she struck with her claws. At the instant of impact, she twisted slightly, tearing the pigeon into two bloody halves that she dropped immediately, contemptuously. The chase had taken seven yards. Three and a half seconds.

The two globs that had been the pigeon landed on the desert with a dull thud, spraying bright blood that soaked into the parched sand. Sahara fell onto the dead bird, tearing at it with beak and talon, stuffing her crop with strips of flesh as quickly as she ripped them from the carcass. Khalid ignored her, letting her eat her fill. He turned to Rufti, who was visibly shaken by the slaughter.

“Even a man of your limited intelligence should see significance in this situation. There are no witnesses right now; my assistants are members of my clan and would say nothing of what occurs here. Don’t think that I won’t kill you where you stand.

“I may be new to my job, Rufti, but I take my responsibilities far more seriously than you can imagine. I’ve taken the time to learn every facet of the UAE’s oil business. I’ve met hundreds of employees, from the managing directors down to the derrickmen in the field. I see all and I’m beginning to know all as well. I’ve been getting reports recently, disturbing reports of money being funneled into this country in the form of oil exploration grants, yet no work is ever done. I’ve seen entry and exit visas for men who do not exist, and I’ve heard rumors about a compound in your native Ajman, deep in the desert where no man has a reason to be.”

Khalid watched Rufti carefully and he noticed a spark of defiance burning behind the fat man’s eyes. His true character could be seen in that spark, for though he looked the fool there was true strength at the heart of that fleshy body. Maybe not now, not under these circumstances, but Hasaan Rufti was a very dangerous man.

“Eleven months ago, just a short time after the American President’s announcement, you were seen in Istanbul meeting with a man named Ivan Kerikov, a former high-ranking member of the KGB. Not long after that, money started flowing through Ajman’s Oil Ministry as if you’d just struck it rich. We both know that Ajman has no oil, but your department now has a budget of thirty million dollars in untraceable funds. Where did that money come from, Hasaan? You are too stupid to think an original thought, so I want to know who is bankrolling whatever it is you’re doing.”