His notoriety as a newsman who knew no equal—a status that had earned him his “Prince Story” title—had also been the thing that allowed him to operate in relative privacy and seclusion. These were things Khalidi prized above all else, the power to determine his own destiny and control what information he would release to people while withholding the juiciest tidbits for himself.
Juicy and profitable, he reminded himself.
Still, it had not been about the money as much as the power. This was why his slaving operation in America had grown to such massive proportions, an operation so large that it defied conventional belief. Khalidi had his hand in a very big pie. The teen children of the American dogs were ripe for the harvest and brought a most handsome price on the international trafficking market. None of the so-called white slaves moved in or out of the country without Khalidi knowing about it. Sure, there were a few operations here and there, but they were mostly run by hoodlums and two-bit thugs. These individuals didn’t believe in quality of their work while Khalidi staked his personal reputation on it. And what had it yielded him in return? Greedy underlings who were so incompetent it bordered on pulp fiction cliché. That kind of mishandling could also expose his newspaper corporation, Abd-el-Aziz, to inquiry by the local government as well as international law-enforcement scrutiny.
The half-million-dollar ransom he’d lost, thanks to the pair of bunglers he’d now ordered his American contacts to find and terminate, wasn’t any issue. They still had the young girl and boy in question and his network could get them out of the country in the next twenty-four hours. Barring any other foul-ups, Khalidi figured this would blow over in a short time.
And what was the death of a congressman and a senator? The Americans didn’t generally like their elected officials anyway, conspiring to assassinate or expose them to public ridicule at every turn.
No, Khalidi figured he shouldn’t let this bother him in the least.
He decided to cheer up by having a long lunch at his favorite local establishment, a restaurant that served a fabulous array of traditional Arabic dishes, before taking the remainder of the afternoon off in favor of a long drive along the Moroccan coastline. Khalidi navigated the A5 out of Casablanca, top down on his Mercedes Benz SL-Class convertible, and drove south. He’d decided to change his usual northern route—one that often ended with a trip by ferry into the coastal Spanish city of Tarifa—in favor of a trip to the Doukkala-Abda region capital city of Safi. While most had a problem entering Spain from Morocco due to the intense narcotics trafficking out of his country, the real enterprise behind Khalidi’s empire, the newspaper mogul moved with autonomy.
Any customs officials on either side who didn’t want to play ball, and they were few indeed, were usually dealt with in swift and direct fashion.
Among the pottery markets in Safi, Khalidi would seek out one of his regular women and lavish her with an evening of new clothes and fine dining. This did wonders in warming up the young lady lucky enough to be chosen and then Khalidi would satisfy all of his natural urges. Unlike some of his less staid brothers, Khalidi maintained his dedication to the pure faith and neither drank alcohol, nor participated in the perversion of homosexuality. He stuck to females and all of them seemed to understand the relationship was one of convenience.
Abbas el Khalidi never let a woman get too close to him. He had only ever heard from one woman again. She had tried to set him up by claiming she was pregnant with his child. Khalidi had only needed to make a phone call and the girl disappeared, never to be seen again. Khalidi smiled when he thought about that fact. Of course, he had verified with certainty that she was lying before he had disposed of her, since he never would have permitted harm to come to any of his children. However, this girl had been the only one to make such claims and whether by reputation or merely plain good fortune, Khalidi had never been extorted by another. It wasn’t really all that surprising since rumors of such things at least got around in close-knit communities like those in Safi.
Lights came visible, twinkling as he rounded the road of the coastline heading into the city. Safi had a population of less than 300,000 people, while the surrounding communities brought the aggregate total to about a million, all told. Khalidi enjoyed this city above so many others in his country because most of it was sparsely populated, thereby setting the stage for a generally poor community that made most of its money from tourism and sales of handcrafted pottery. In fact, Moroccan pottery and rugs from this region were world-famous, although most of the citizens hardly made a dime from their sales.
Mostly, it was the exporters who took the majority of the profits, and they paid a significant kickback to Khalidi. Not only did pottery cross the transnational boundaries, but drugs did, as well. Yes, Khalidi had built his entire fortune on this type of trade. He had a mind for it, he happened to be very good at it, in fact, and he tended to hire others with a mind for it, as well.
It was dark by the time Khalidi reached the downtown area but still early enough that most shops in the marketplace were open, and people coming home from work crammed the streets shopping for food or other items. Tomorrow was Saturday—while most everyone would go to work it tended to be later in the day because of morning prayers and meetings at mosques throughout the entire Doukkala-Abda region. Khalidi roamed the streets for a while until he found a nicer shop filled with a variety of jewelry.
Khalidi stepped into the building and knew immediately the shopkeeper was doing well. The store had full electrical service and also ran an air-conditioning system. Khalidi nodded at the man and perused the shop for about an hour until he found the perfect trinket. He paid cash, adding a little extra when the proprietor moaned about his large family.
He could empathize with the old man, who did not look to be too healthy. After all, Khalidi had been there once—he was a businessman, not a monster.
Khalidi proceeded directly from the shop to the central marketplace, where he eventually found what he’d been searching for: Jasmina. Yes, a most excellent choice for the mood he was in. Not only was she a beautiful young woman, elegant and graceful for a commoner, but she’d also proved very accommodating to just about anything Khalidi suggested. Willing to please, with skin like bronzed gold and dark, sensuous eyes. He’d not seen her in some time but it only took a moment before the flicker of recognition crossed her features.
She greeted him with a warm smile, her dark eyes sparkling. The light reflected back from the rattan shades drawn over the marketplace that were strung between the buildings to provide shade to shoppers in the brutal heat of the day. They were doubly useful by reflecting the firelight in the evening and reducing the demands for electric lighting. In some parts of the city the local government would still cut power to conserve electricity.
“Good evening, Jasmina,” Khalidi said.
She inclined her head in a bow of respect and replied, “Good evening, Master el Khalidi.”
“Come, come, there is no reason to be so formal.”
“If I seem too formal it is only out of respect and not to offend you.”
“Are you not glad to see me?”
Jasmina nodded with enthusiasm. “I am most glad to see you, Abbas, but your arrival here and at this time took me unaware.”
“Come and have dinner with me,” Khalidi said, moving close and tracing the smooth skin of her arm with the back of his hand. “I am most interested to hear of how you have been.”
“And perhaps interested in something else?” she asked with a knowing expression.
“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “Perhaps, no...definitely more.”
“It will be my pleasure to serve you, Abbas.”
Khalidi couldn’t ignore the sudden swell in his groin. “And mine.”
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“NO QUESTION ABOUT IT, lady and gents,” Lyons told his colleagues at the Farm. “This is one nasty outfit we’re dealing with. The intelligence