Free Hunter Killer by Patrick Robinson Page B

of fact, yes, I did. I was twenty years old. She was only fifteen. I had to wait for her to grow up.”
    “She waited for you,” said the General. “Nine years, according to that photograph.”
    “You don’t miss much, sir, I’ll say that.”
    “In our business, Jacques, we can’t afford to, eh?”
    “You have that right, General.”
    Both men smiled, almost shyly, that most fleeting sign of camaraderie among combat soldiers.
    “Now perhaps you should explain to me why you have traced me to my mountain lair.”
    “I will let Gaston outline for you the background to our visit. It involves a foreign country, and indeed the President of France…”
    And for the next ten minutes the Secret Service Chief outlined the interior problems of Saudi Arabia, the prolific spending of the royal family, the monumental cost of that family, the deep unrest within the kingdom, the savage cuts in every family’s income from the oil, the offensive ties to the United States of America, the loss of the true Islamic religion in favor of the ideals of a different, godless world to the West.
    Jacques Gamoudi nodded. One of four million Muslims resident in France, he still tried to obey the laws of the Koran, although it was difficult to attend a mosque up there in the mountains. But his parents had been devout in the teachings of the Prophet, and there was no question in the mind of Colonel Gamoudi: There is only one God. Allah is great.
    On their twice-yearly trips to Paris—one at Christmas with the boys—Jacques always took Giselle to the great Moorish-style Paris Mosque, with its towering minaret, almost one hundred feet high, located directly opposite the Natural History Museum in the Jardin des Plantes. This was the home of the Grand Imam, and it was extremely important to Jacques that he attend the mosque whenever he reasonably could.
    Years of military service in North Africa had kept his religious upbringing alive, and he understood implicitly what so many millions of Saudi Arabians felt about their ruling family. He could not imagine life without the Koran and its teachings, but he could imagine the desolation any Muslim might feel watching the systematic erosion of religion in the day-to-day life of a country like Saudi Arabia.
    “There are many great problems in Saudi Arabia,” he said. “But I am at a loss to understand why they should concern me, and why you have journeyed here to see me.”
    “Well, Jacques,” said Savary. “One month ago, the President of France had a private visit from one of the most senior princes of the Saudi royal family. And he has asked us for our help in overthrowing the present regime and returning the Saudis to their pure Bedouin roots. And now General Jobert will explain to you what has happened, and what we intend to do to help them.”
    The following ten minutes were, possibly, the most astounding in Colonel Gamoudi’s not uneventful life. He listened wide-eyed to the plan for the Navy to knock out the entire Saudi oil industry, bringing that vast and fabulously wealthy country financially to its knees.
    He nodded in general understanding of the plan to hit the air base at King Khalid when the Saudi armed forces’ morale was at its lowest possible ebb. And he indicated his general acceptance of the need to take Riyadh, and for the people to rise up and perhaps storm the palace. All in the moments before the Crown Prince appeared on television to announce he had taken command of the country and that the old King, one of his one hundred-odd uncles, was dead.
    He also understood that these two men were here in his home seeking his advice.
    But when General Jobert coolly told him that he, Col. Jacques Gamoudi, was the man chosen by the French Army to command the operation in Riyadh, he almost shot hot, scalding coffee straight up his nose.
    “ME!” he shouted. “YOU WANT ME TO CAPTURE THE CITY OF RIYADH? You have to be dreaming!”
    To tell the truth, stated like that, Gaston Savary