anything!?”
“Friend, I only wonder have you thought this thing through? Many of the best men have tried, and all of them failed. There are too many countermeasures, too much security. Everyone who has tried it has ultimately failed. And I’m sorry to say this, but it is my objective judgment that you will fail, too.”
The old man thought a moment, then softened. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“But why not?” al-Rahman prodded eagerly. He wanted to believe him. He really did.
“Because we are patient,” the old man explained. “Because we invest in the future. We don’t demand results right now. Because we know it will take time, maybe ten or twelve years. Maybe more. But trust me al-Rahman, we will succeed. By then I will be old, I will be a dying old man, but I will live to see it. I will live to see our success.” The old man sipped at his coffee, then took a deep breath and leaned forward again. “ I will live to see the burning glory ,” he smirked sarcastically.
Al-Rahman shook his head. He couldn’t help smile. “The burning glory,” he repeated, almost laughing. “Yes, that’s good!”
The old man laughed with him and then turned serious again. “Take care of our man in Pakistan,” he commanded. “That is your only job. And you must learn to be patient. This will take many years. But the payoff will be worth it, I assure you of that.”
A little more than three weeks later, Prince al-Rahman made his way to Karachi, Pakistan. For five days he explored the city, traveling anonymously, moving through the slums and markets, staying in a classic yet modest hotel. He was an oil supply businessman from Riyadh hoping to land a $500,000 dollar deal. He camped out at the Hotel Karachi, an old brick-and-marble structure that dated back to the colonial era, one of the very few centers of international commerce in Pakistan. He brought with him only four bodyguards, and he never talked to them or acknowledged them in any way, though he noticed them around him from time to time as he walked.
It was the first time he had ever been in Karachi and he found it nearly as despicable as he had been told. It was noisy. It was hot. It was the murder capital of the world. The men and women relieved themselves in the open, right out in the street, squatting over rusted holes drilled into the sidewalks before moving on. The children looked hungry and thin, and everything smelled; the food, his hotel room, the taxis and streets, there was a permanent odor of humans, animal feces, garlic and sweat in the air. Standing beside his bed, he sniffed at his suit. He would have it burned the second he got back to Saudi Arabia. He looked out on the street at the poverty below. How in the world did these people develop the technology to build a nuclear weapon? It was an incredible irony he could not understand!
But they had. And he hadn’t. And so he was here.
For five days, he moved around Karachi, feigning low-level business meetings, looking and watching, wondering when it would come. He knew the other party was watching him, testing his patience while making certain he wasn’t being trailed. So he waited, passing the time as convincingly as he could. By the third day he was growing impatient. By the fifth day he was furious. Who did this old man think that he was? Didn’t he know with whom he was dealing? Didn’t he have any sense?
He had been told they would make contact and until that time, there wasn’t a thing he could do. He was completely at their mercy. But the whole thing made him furious and he raged like a chained bull inside.
Then, on the evening of the fifth night, Prince al-Rahman was sitting alone in a small bar in the back of the hotel. It was quiet and growing late when a small, mustached gentleman approached his table and nodded to him. “Come with me,” he commanded without introduction.
Al-Rahman glanced around. Two of his security people sat and talked at the bar. He caught one by the