Smoke and noise choked the board room.
While thick clouds of were the norm, animated, buzzing conversation was rather unusual. Anyone passing outside the room would have known that something extraordinary was happening, but at this late hour no one but this group was in the building.
Tatsuya violently sucked on his cigarette, pulling the smoke deeply into his lungs as the tobacco rapidly burned down to his nicotine-stained fingers. He crushed the butt into a loaded ashtray as he abruptly rose to his feet, and then banged his fist on the table. The room fell instantly silent. His two assistants, Masuyama and Miyahata watched him expectantly, like two students awaiting the words of their sensei. The other members of the group, representatives of various Japanese industrial groups, also waited in silence.
"Gentlemen," he said, "A matter of urgency has arisen. As you know, yesterday we signed a very important building and real-estate development contract. Today we have received disturbing news from our gaijin consultant in Vancouver. This man claims that we have been stung. There is, he says, a slope stability problem with our parcel of land. The mountain on which we intend to build could fail entirely at any time."
Evening of October 20th, The meeting ends abruptly. No 9
"Yes, of course." the Wali swore, "Wallah billah, I have followed the rules of secrecy, and we are ready to escort you to the location according to plan."
Smiling inwardly, he was confident his discrete breach of the secrecy surrounding this mission would be just enough to gain some status in the eyes of his own people. The Wali bent slightly at the waist to indicate his understanding. Ignoring the condescension that tainted the Leader's face, the Wali ordered: "Bis millah, let's go visit the location."
The Wali turned to reach for the head of his camel. At that moment, out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed an unnatural motion. He twisted back just in time to see his men falling from their mounts one after another, as if they were being kicked off their saddles by some giant invisible foot, their eyes full of surprise, pain, and disbelief. In a few seconds all eight men were on the ground, chests torn and bleeding, puddles of blood staining the sand. Not one had even had time to scream. They died quickly, silently.
The Wali turned to meet the gaze of the Leader. Cold and inexpressive, the Leader's eyes were devoid of emotion. Immediately the Wali understood. His fate was sealed. He knew his betrayal of this man was to be paid for with his men's lives -and his own. In sign of resignation and submission to the Leader, who was now clearly superior to him by the design of Allah, the Wali let his eyes fall to the ground. He waited to die. His last thought was for Razziah and for the fruit of the seed he may have planted in her during that first night. “Mekhtub”, he prayed, “it is written”. The bullet shattered his chest, and he felt his body fall from his camel. He heard the thud of his flesh on the dirt, then nothing more.
The Leader turned toward Ahmed, his loyal assistant, whose bullets had ended the Wali's life. "Na uzo billah, na uzo billah," he whispered, the chant-like expression registering a traditional response to unpleasantness. "Here ends the life of a good Wali that could not shut-up! Remember, Ahmed, our allies have asked us to eliminate all the possible sources of leaks. It is terrible to have to kill our brothers; because of this imbecile many more shall die. But our allies are too important for our cause. We need them -at least for the moment.
Ahmed. Take a dozen of the best men. Go to the Wali's village and destroy it. No one, I insist, no one, male, female, child, or infant may escape alive. Destroy everything. Go. Do your duty in the name of Allah."
Smiling inwardly, he was confident his discrete breach of the secrecy surrounding this mission would be just enough to gain some status in the eyes of his own people. The Wali bent slightly at the waist to indicate his understanding. Ignoring the condescension that tainted the Leader's face, the Wali ordered: "Bis millah, let's go visit the location."
The Wali turned to reach for the head of his camel. At that moment, out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed an unnatural motion. He twisted back just in time to see his men falling from their mounts one after another, as if they were being kicked off their saddles by some giant invisible foot, their eyes full of surprise, pain, and disbelief. In a few seconds all eight men were on the ground, chests torn and bleeding, puddles of blood staining the sand. Not one had even had time to scream. They died quickly, silently.
The Wali turned to meet the gaze of the Leader. Cold and inexpressive, the Leader's eyes were devoid of emotion. Immediately the Wali understood. His fate was sealed. He knew his betrayal of this man was to be paid for with his men's lives -and his own. In sign of resignation and submission to the Leader, who was now clearly superior to him by the design of Allah, the Wali let his eyes fall to the ground. He waited to die. His last thought was for Razziah and for the fruit of the seed he may have planted in her during that first night. “Mekhtub”, he prayed, “it is written”. The bullet shattered his chest, and he felt his body fall from his camel. He heard the thud of his flesh on the dirt, then nothing more.
The Leader turned toward Ahmed, his loyal assistant, whose bullets had ended the Wali's life. "Na uzo billah, na uzo billah," he whispered, the chant-like expression registering a traditional response to unpleasantness. "Here ends the life of a good Wali that could not shut-up! Remember, Ahmed, our allies have asked us to eliminate all the possible sources of leaks. It is terrible to have to kill our brothers; because of this imbecile many more shall die. But our allies are too important for our cause. We need them -at least for the moment.
Ahmed. Take a dozen of the best men. Go to the Wali's village and destroy it. No one, I insist, no one, male, female, child, or infant may escape alive. Destroy everything. Go. Do your duty in the name of Allah."
Evening of October 20th, The Wali and the Leader meet, No 8
Suddenly the glare of headlights scraped across the hills, and a convoy of heavy trucks rumbled into view from behind the nearest ridge. The engine noise swelled to a roar. Twelve trucks advanced upon the Wali and his men, who stood their ground, fingers on triggers. Uncertain, yet defiant, the Wali's men leveled their weapons at the oncoming snake of massive vehicles.
With a tremendous squeal and hissing of brakes, the lead truck came to rest in a cloud of dust, stopping all the other in the convoy. The driver of the first truck jumped out of the cab, shouting and clutching an automatic rifle. In the yellow glow of the headlights, the Wali could see the driver's face was covered with dust. Lines of evaporated perspiration traced the tension in his forehead and jaw. Other cabs opened, and a chorus of voices permeated the dusk. At first the calls were harsh. Then laughing, joking and backslapping began, and cigarettes were lit. The Wali and his men waited motionless in stony silence, only the muscles in their jaws flinching.
Within moments, a second group of trucks and jeeps, which had been hidden in the cloud raised by the first convoy, sped into view. The Wali recognized the Leader himself behind a dusty windscreen in the front seat of the lead 4x4 as it pulled to a stop. As he alighted from the vehicle, the friendly banter among the truck drivers died. Cigarettes rapidly disappeared.
Even though the Wali had met the Leader only once before, he was immediately struck by the strength of the man's expression -and by the instant subservience of his men. Deep inside, the Wali too felt a sudden deference as an aura of authority emanated from the charismatic figure before him. This impulse was checked, however, by an immediate rush of resentment and jealousy flooding his brain. How could this man command such respect? How could he hold the attention of the crowds and of men like these -sons of the desert like himself?
"Your fiery promises of freedom and respect have bought your position," thought the Wali, "...but can you keep your word? If you cannot, you will burn. I would like to see you burn, Leader, so long as I am not burning beside you."
As the Wali savored the thought, the Leader quickly and efficiently organized the heavily-armed men. Trucks were moved, a secure perimeter was established around the vehicles, sentries were posted, and camp was struck. Everything progressed with speed and precision. The Leader's jeep had been escorted by six vehicles, and while the shift from camels to cars detracted from the natural majesty of the Hagaris, the weapons carried by the Leader's entourage went a long way in restoring a measure of tribal respect. Of traditional dress, only the dish-dash, the long, pale blue robe, and the gleaming silver, curved knife remained. Tribal garb was now augmented by grenade belts, double bandoleers of ammunition worn from each shoulder down to the waist, and well-maintained firearms.
As the Leader and his men approached, the Wali observed them very carefully, trying to determine the origin of their weapons. Certainly not original Russian or American, the guns were probably from Afghanistan. The Wali had never seen these models, and carefully made a mental snapshot of them. When he got back to his village, Insh' Allah, God willing, he would try to acquire the same weapons for his men. After all, he was the Wali, and despite his promises, this Leader had no official position.
Position or not, the Leader now stood before the Wali and his men who still blocked the road in silence, weapons at the ready. "Salaam wha aleikum, Wali." The Leader offered the Islamic greeting appropriate for the Wali's honoured rank. "Aleikum salaam." answered the Wali dryly. "You are at least two hours early."
"Well, it has been easier than foreseen -no escort to get in the way. Did you make sure that the area is clear, Wali, that no one followed you, and no one knows where you are?"
With a tremendous squeal and hissing of brakes, the lead truck came to rest in a cloud of dust, stopping all the other in the convoy. The driver of the first truck jumped out of the cab, shouting and clutching an automatic rifle. In the yellow glow of the headlights, the Wali could see the driver's face was covered with dust. Lines of evaporated perspiration traced the tension in his forehead and jaw. Other cabs opened, and a chorus of voices permeated the dusk. At first the calls were harsh. Then laughing, joking and backslapping began, and cigarettes were lit. The Wali and his men waited motionless in stony silence, only the muscles in their jaws flinching.
Within moments, a second group of trucks and jeeps, which had been hidden in the cloud raised by the first convoy, sped into view. The Wali recognized the Leader himself behind a dusty windscreen in the front seat of the lead 4x4 as it pulled to a stop. As he alighted from the vehicle, the friendly banter among the truck drivers died. Cigarettes rapidly disappeared.
Even though the Wali had met the Leader only once before, he was immediately struck by the strength of the man's expression -and by the instant subservience of his men. Deep inside, the Wali too felt a sudden deference as an aura of authority emanated from the charismatic figure before him. This impulse was checked, however, by an immediate rush of resentment and jealousy flooding his brain. How could this man command such respect? How could he hold the attention of the crowds and of men like these -sons of the desert like himself?
"Your fiery promises of freedom and respect have bought your position," thought the Wali, "...but can you keep your word? If you cannot, you will burn. I would like to see you burn, Leader, so long as I am not burning beside you."
As the Wali savored the thought, the Leader quickly and efficiently organized the heavily-armed men. Trucks were moved, a secure perimeter was established around the vehicles, sentries were posted, and camp was struck. Everything progressed with speed and precision. The Leader's jeep had been escorted by six vehicles, and while the shift from camels to cars detracted from the natural majesty of the Hagaris, the weapons carried by the Leader's entourage went a long way in restoring a measure of tribal respect. Of traditional dress, only the dish-dash, the long, pale blue robe, and the gleaming silver, curved knife remained. Tribal garb was now augmented by grenade belts, double bandoleers of ammunition worn from each shoulder down to the waist, and well-maintained firearms.
As the Leader and his men approached, the Wali observed them very carefully, trying to determine the origin of their weapons. Certainly not original Russian or American, the guns were probably from Afghanistan. The Wali had never seen these models, and carefully made a mental snapshot of them. When he got back to his village, Insh' Allah, God willing, he would try to acquire the same weapons for his men. After all, he was the Wali, and despite his promises, this Leader had no official position.
Position or not, the Leader now stood before the Wali and his men who still blocked the road in silence, weapons at the ready. "Salaam wha aleikum, Wali." The Leader offered the Islamic greeting appropriate for the Wali's honoured rank. "Aleikum salaam." answered the Wali dryly. "You are at least two hours early."
"Well, it has been easier than foreseen -no escort to get in the way. Did you make sure that the area is clear, Wali, that no one followed you, and no one knows where you are?"
Evening of October 20th, The Wali has reached the meeting point, No 7
Promises and strong leaders. These were things to be respected. In the eyes of the Wali and many other influential tribal personalities in the Wilayats of the southern regions, the present ruler of Oman, Sultan al Quebun, who had slowly and cautiously shifted his desert kingdom towards a representative democracy, symbolized a weakening of the culture.
The Wali had trouble concentrating. He thought again of Razziah, imagined her warm skin pressed against his, her young eyes now knowing, her mouth like an open flower. He spurred his camel onwards. Yes, it was good to be free. Independent desert people did not easily accept decisions made in remote Muscat, the capital of the Sultanate. Muscat, to the north, facing Iran at the entrance of the Strait of Ormuz did not even follow the traditional ways. The Hagari frequently found themselves offended by the so-called “modern attitudes” of the central government.
After a long day of riding, the Wali and his men reached the southern slopes of the high mountains that separate the Omani desert from the northern coast. There they dismounted by the side of a dirt road, and waited in a grove of date palms. As the sun fell, the shadows deepened, and evening birds began to call, filling the air with their exotic songs.
Sometimes a few foreigners were found in this area, tourists who came to visit the ancient falaj, the underground water distribution systems built by the Persians several thousand years ago, the remarkable wells had been drilled as a series of vertical shafts linked to each other by a tunnel, sometimes many kilometers long. Although there were many types of falaj, this region was famous for the tunneled ones, the Dawudi or Iddi. A wonder, truly.
"And so were the tourists a wonder," thought the Wali bitterly, a deep hatred stirring in his bowels. "Another sign of the so-called 'freedom' brought to the country in the last decade or so." The Wali prayed that Oman would never allow the ungodly liberalism experienced by some of the neighboring countries. Their reformed practices had brought planes full of Russian tourists, many of them with disreputable and disrespectful women -women who wandered around with their breasts exposed, hanging down like half-empty, leather water bags. Naked or clothed, these foreigners were ridiculous abominations. They had no place in the desert. He spat on the sand.
The Wali quickly freed his thoughts from the tourists as the wind carried faint rumblings to his ears. Distant thunder? Or guns? His men glanced around, then silently goaded the resting camels off their knees. Mounted again on protesting beasts, they fingered their rifles and waited. Gradually, the indistinct noise resolved itself into the sounds of powerful engines. The Wali and his men surveyed the horizon, searching for the source of the disturbance. The surrounding hills projected long shadows into the valley. In a very short time, night would fall. The birds abruptly stopped singing. Tension grew in palpable waves as the Wali and his men awaited the Leader's imminent arrival
The Wali had trouble concentrating. He thought again of Razziah, imagined her warm skin pressed against his, her young eyes now knowing, her mouth like an open flower. He spurred his camel onwards. Yes, it was good to be free. Independent desert people did not easily accept decisions made in remote Muscat, the capital of the Sultanate. Muscat, to the north, facing Iran at the entrance of the Strait of Ormuz did not even follow the traditional ways. The Hagari frequently found themselves offended by the so-called “modern attitudes” of the central government.
After a long day of riding, the Wali and his men reached the southern slopes of the high mountains that separate the Omani desert from the northern coast. There they dismounted by the side of a dirt road, and waited in a grove of date palms. As the sun fell, the shadows deepened, and evening birds began to call, filling the air with their exotic songs.
Sometimes a few foreigners were found in this area, tourists who came to visit the ancient falaj, the underground water distribution systems built by the Persians several thousand years ago, the remarkable wells had been drilled as a series of vertical shafts linked to each other by a tunnel, sometimes many kilometers long. Although there were many types of falaj, this region was famous for the tunneled ones, the Dawudi or Iddi. A wonder, truly.
"And so were the tourists a wonder," thought the Wali bitterly, a deep hatred stirring in his bowels. "Another sign of the so-called 'freedom' brought to the country in the last decade or so." The Wali prayed that Oman would never allow the ungodly liberalism experienced by some of the neighboring countries. Their reformed practices had brought planes full of Russian tourists, many of them with disreputable and disrespectful women -women who wandered around with their breasts exposed, hanging down like half-empty, leather water bags. Naked or clothed, these foreigners were ridiculous abominations. They had no place in the desert. He spat on the sand.
The Wali quickly freed his thoughts from the tourists as the wind carried faint rumblings to his ears. Distant thunder? Or guns? His men glanced around, then silently goaded the resting camels off their knees. Mounted again on protesting beasts, they fingered their rifles and waited. Gradually, the indistinct noise resolved itself into the sounds of powerful engines. The Wali and his men surveyed the horizon, searching for the source of the disturbance. The surrounding hills projected long shadows into the valley. In a very short time, night would fall. The birds abruptly stopped singing. Tension grew in palpable waves as the Wali and his men awaited the Leader's imminent arrival
October 20th, Zuerich, Von Globus Bank Conference Room, No 6
The secretary led the two men into a conference room which was as dark as a confessional. Turning on soft lights, she then vanished, just as Konrad Streubli entered the room.
"Guete Hans, Bernard, wie goet's," Konrad's singsong voice was laced with an unmistakably optimistic intonation. Like well-trained schoolboys they responded automatically, not betraying their impatience, "Very well Konrad, thank you, and how are you?" That was it for social chit-chat.
Hans Weber immediately lowered his voice. "Can we speak freely?"
"Yes, of course" answered Konrad almost mechanically.
Ready for business, he peered at the two men in the dim light.
"Good," added Konrad. "Then what about our little Indian broker in London?"
"Well," answered Bernard suppressing a sneer, "Mr. Malhotra is clean. Our private detectives have checked out everything about our little friend. I do mean everything -including following him to the toilet, and putting a spy in his bed." He smiled thinly. "I can give you a detailed report on his preferred Kamasutra positions, if you wish."
"That won't be necessary, Bernard," snapped Streubli. "At this point, can we say that the whole deal is secure and there is no way anyone can find out?"
"Absolutely," answered Bernard. "Confidentiality is assured." Again, the thin smile played on his wide mouth. "We have paid and...ah...convinced...whenever and whomever necessary. In eight days we will begin act one of our little play, and without any doubt, by the end of November we will emerge victorious. No one will know. No one will even suspect what has happened. But we will, as they say in American movies, laugh all the way to the bank!" Bernard paused, for effect, pleased with his small joke. "Now. Can I interest you gentlemen in a bit of lunch?"
"Guete Hans, Bernard, wie goet's," Konrad's singsong voice was laced with an unmistakably optimistic intonation. Like well-trained schoolboys they responded automatically, not betraying their impatience, "Very well Konrad, thank you, and how are you?" That was it for social chit-chat.
Hans Weber immediately lowered his voice. "Can we speak freely?"
"Yes, of course" answered Konrad almost mechanically.
Ready for business, he peered at the two men in the dim light.
"Good," added Konrad. "Then what about our little Indian broker in London?"
"Well," answered Bernard suppressing a sneer, "Mr. Malhotra is clean. Our private detectives have checked out everything about our little friend. I do mean everything -including following him to the toilet, and putting a spy in his bed." He smiled thinly. "I can give you a detailed report on his preferred Kamasutra positions, if you wish."
"That won't be necessary, Bernard," snapped Streubli. "At this point, can we say that the whole deal is secure and there is no way anyone can find out?"
"Absolutely," answered Bernard. "Confidentiality is assured." Again, the thin smile played on his wide mouth. "We have paid and...ah...convinced...whenever and whomever necessary. In eight days we will begin act one of our little play, and without any doubt, by the end of November we will emerge victorious. No one will know. No one will even suspect what has happened. But we will, as they say in American movies, laugh all the way to the bank!" Bernard paused, for effect, pleased with his small joke. "Now. Can I interest you gentlemen in a bit of lunch?"
October 20th, Wali's patrol in the desert, No 5
The Wali was preoccupied; his newest marriage was no longer a priority. Since his first secret meeting with the Hagari man known as “the Leader”, the Wali's mind had been busy with sobering and important thoughts, with dreams of grandeur and future opportunities. He had become very serious of late, and in his current mood, sex - pleasurable as it was- had become a sort of unwanted distraction. Still he found himself dwelling on the behavior of his beautiful and enticing new wife and wondering what she would do once he left her for the Jihad -the Holy War. Was she with child from their first night? These were not thoughts the Wali had time for. More important issues were at hand. For the Wali and his people, the next few weeks would bring a leap into the future, a better future, where resurrected freedom and respect for their tribal heritage were to be found. Or so the Leader had promised his followers.
October 20th, ten years ago, Zuerich, Switzerland, No 4
They had been in these offices before.
As they trailed the secretary through a maze of thickly-carpeted corridors and hallways, Bolliger and Weber were oblivious to the magnificent woodwork and glass-lit shelves that supported a large collection of ceramics and crystals, ranging from antique porcelains to Lladrò. Unfortunately, all the items were displayed with the rigidity and lack of imagination that only their owner -a Swiss private banker- could achieve. Lack of creativity seemed to pervade the entire building. Located in the outrageously expensive Bahnhofstrasse in the heart of Zürich, Bank Von Globus was typically Swiss: precise, expensive, boring, but ready to engage in creative businesses if the reward was juicy enough.
As they trailed the secretary through a maze of thickly-carpeted corridors and hallways, Bolliger and Weber were oblivious to the magnificent woodwork and glass-lit shelves that supported a large collection of ceramics and crystals, ranging from antique porcelains to Lladrò. Unfortunately, all the items were displayed with the rigidity and lack of imagination that only their owner -a Swiss private banker- could achieve. Lack of creativity seemed to pervade the entire building. Located in the outrageously expensive Bahnhofstrasse in the heart of Zürich, Bank Von Globus was typically Swiss: precise, expensive, boring, but ready to engage in creative businesses if the reward was juicy enough.
Before the Wali departure from his village, No 3
Prepared by the older ones, bathed and perfumed, Razziah had been waiting in an atmosphere thick with incense for the first night with her husband.
It had been a night of passion and ecstasy, the woman-child obedient and submissive to all the desires of her man, as only a young Hagari female could be.
Still, the Wali had not enjoyed the young desert virgin wholeheartedly. In spite of the broad hints of his older uncles, who cheerfully advised that there was "nothing better to keep a man young and alive than young quivering meat", only reluctantly had he decided to take her as his fourth wife.
It had been a night of passion and ecstasy, the woman-child obedient and submissive to all the desires of her man, as only a young Hagari female could be.
Still, the Wali had not enjoyed the young desert virgin wholeheartedly. In spite of the broad hints of his older uncles, who cheerfully advised that there was "nothing better to keep a man young and alive than young quivering meat", only reluctantly had he decided to take her as his fourth wife.
October 20th, ten years ago, Zuerich, Switzerland, No 2
"Herr Bolliger,” The voice paused for effect, ”Herr Weber." She nodded with quiet Swiss efficiency as she beckoned the two men to follow. "Dr. Struebli will receive you now." Her eyes and face impassive, the statuesque secretary led them from the waiting room.
Mr. Bolliger and Mr Weber, representatives of ROTHIDA International Holdings AG, did as they were told, as was their habit. For ten years they had been doing as they were told by Dr. Konrad Struebli, director of North American Accounts for Von Globus Bank. And for ten years Von Globus had shuffled ROTHIDA's money around the world.
Mr. Bolliger and Mr Weber, representatives of ROTHIDA International Holdings AG, did as they were told, as was their habit. For ten years they had been doing as they were told by Dr. Konrad Struebli, director of North American Accounts for Von Globus Bank. And for ten years Von Globus had shuffled ROTHIDA's money around the world.
October 20th, ten years ago: Somewhere in the Omani Desert, No 1
The first rays of the burning sun darted from the horizon; the day was going to be long.
Three days earlier, the Wali, left his village in the northernmost region of the Al Wusta, the central portion of Oman near the border with Ad Bakhdiyah.
The man, Governor of one of the fifty nine counties or Wilayat constituting the Sultanate of Oman, traveled with his personal guard of eight men, the standard complement for a routine ground-patrol of the Wilayat. In recent years ground-patrols had become rare events indeed, but this trip was quite extraordinary.
Their usual relaxed pace forgotten, the Wali and his escort rode hard from the moment they departed, heading their camels north, towards the mountains and their secret rendez-vous.
Even though sworn to confidence, the Wali nonetheless had revealed the real nature of his trip to a few members of his fiercely loyal Hagari tribe, the people of the South Omani desert. Proud knights, free men, rarely tolerating any kind of authority, the Hagari were known to be continually at war among themselves and with other Bedouins, fighting for tribal supremacy, territorial domination, and religious convictions.
As the men rode, hot desert winds buffeted their weathered faces, and the Wali's thoughts turned to the last night he had spent in his village. On his tongue he could still taste the roasted baby goat, dates, pistachios, and the black, hot coffee and cardamom, beverage of the sons of the desert. And as his strong arms and hands guided the camel's reins, the Wali remembered the silky smoothness of his newest and youngest wife Razziah.
Three days earlier, the Wali, left his village in the northernmost region of the Al Wusta, the central portion of Oman near the border with Ad Bakhdiyah.
The man, Governor of one of the fifty nine counties or Wilayat constituting the Sultanate of Oman, traveled with his personal guard of eight men, the standard complement for a routine ground-patrol of the Wilayat. In recent years ground-patrols had become rare events indeed, but this trip was quite extraordinary.
Their usual relaxed pace forgotten, the Wali and his escort rode hard from the moment they departed, heading their camels north, towards the mountains and their secret rendez-vous.
Even though sworn to confidence, the Wali nonetheless had revealed the real nature of his trip to a few members of his fiercely loyal Hagari tribe, the people of the South Omani desert. Proud knights, free men, rarely tolerating any kind of authority, the Hagari were known to be continually at war among themselves and with other Bedouins, fighting for tribal supremacy, territorial domination, and religious convictions.
As the men rode, hot desert winds buffeted their weathered faces, and the Wali's thoughts turned to the last night he had spent in his village. On his tongue he could still taste the roasted baby goat, dates, pistachios, and the black, hot coffee and cardamom, beverage of the sons of the desert. And as his strong arms and hands guided the camel's reins, the Wali remembered the silky smoothness of his newest and youngest wife Razziah.
The action starts on October 20th! No 0
Do not miss the riveting first posts of the story.
Action will start in the Omani desert and simultaneously in Zuerich, Switzerland.
The Wali (governor of a Wilayat, a county) will ride towards his destiny, meanwhile some very sleazy Swiss bankers will be putting a few final touches to the deal of their lives.
And then…
Just immerse yourself in the universe of intrigue awaiting to explode in Zeno’s and Carlo’s face.
Start thinking which character of the story best suits your inclinations.
More revelations soon.
Action will start in the Omani desert and simultaneously in Zuerich, Switzerland.
The Wali (governor of a Wilayat, a county) will ride towards his destiny, meanwhile some very sleazy Swiss bankers will be putting a few final touches to the deal of their lives.
And then…
Just immerse yourself in the universe of intrigue awaiting to explode in Zeno’s and Carlo’s face.
Start thinking which character of the story best suits your inclinations.
More revelations soon.
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Book One
The Santucci Brothers Trilogy, 1999, F. Oboni
