The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

Sabah nodded. “He is. Upon his arrival, all the members of the consortium will be present. We should not keep them waiting.”

“And what of General Aziz, the Egyptian?” Jinn asked. “Does he continue to withhold the funds he’s promised?”

“He will speak with us three days from now,” Sabah said. “When it is a better time for him.”

Jinn al-Khalif took a deep breath, inhaling the pure desert air. Aziz had pledged many millions to the consortium on behalf of a cadre of Egyptian businessmen and the military, but he had yet to pay a cent.

“Aziz mocks us,” Jinn said.

“We will talk with him and bring him back in line,” Sabah insisted.

“No,” Jinn said. “He will continue to defy us because he can. Because he feels he is beyond our reach.”

Sabah looked at Jinn quizzically.

“It’s the answer to the riddle of life,” Jinn said. “What matters isn’t money or wealth or lust or even love. None of those things were enough to save me when the bandits took our camp. There is only one thing that matters, now just as it did then: power. Raw, overwhelming power. He who has it, rules. He who doesn’t, begs. Aziz has us begging, but I will soon turn the tables on him. I will soon attain a kind of power that has never been held by a man before.”

Sabah nodded slowly and a smile wrinkled his beard. “You have learned well, Jinn. Even better than I could have hoped. Truly, you surpass your teacher.”

Below them, the Humvees were slowing to a stop in front of the cave.

“You have been the pole star that guides me,” Jinn said. “That is why my father entrusted me to your care.”

Sabah bowed slightly. “I accept your words of kindness. Now, let us greet our guests.”

Minutes later they were inside the cavern, four levels below. The interior temperature was eighty-one degrees, a stark contrast to the one-hundred-and-five-degree winds beginning to blow outside.

Despite the primitive setting, the assembled guests sat in comfortable office chairs at a black conference table. The room around them had been engineered and carved from what was once an uneven chamber. It now resembled a great hall filled with modern decor.

Small screens lay recessed in the table in front of them. Computers lined the walls. Hidden rooms beyond this one held sleeping quarters and racks of weapons.

At great expense, Jinn had transformed this old Bedouin meeting place from a dusty fissure to a modern headquarters. It had proven a long and complicated process, much like the evolution of his family from a group of nomads who traded camels and traditional goods to a modern enterprise with its hands in technology, oil and shipping.

Long gone were the camels and the oasis that his family had claimed for centuries, traded away in exchange for small stakes in modern companies. All that remained were his father’s words: You must never have pity … And without the waters, we inherit only wandering and death.

Jinn had never forgotten this message or the need for utter ruthlessness in obeying it. With Sabah’s help and the funds from those who’d gathered in his cave, he was one step from making certain they would control the waters of half the world, like his father had controlled the oasis.

Mr. Xhou walked in along with his aides. Sabah greeted him and showed him to his seat. There were nine men of importance present. Mr. Xhou from China. Mustafa from Pakistan. Sheik Abin da-Alhrama from Saudi Arabia. Suthar had come from Iran, Attakari from Turkey and several lesser guests from North Africa, former Soviet republics and other Arab countries.

They were not government representatives but businessmen, men with an interest in Jinn’s plan.

“By the grace of Allah we are together again,” Jinn began.

“Please dispense with the religious pronouncements,” Mr. Xhou said. “And tell us of your progress. You have called us here to ask for more funding and we have yet to see the effects that you’ve already promised.”

Xhou’s bluntness rankled Jinn, but he was the biggest investor, both in funds given to Jinn and in money spent betting on the payoff Jinn had promised. Because of this, Xhou was impatient and had been from the beginning. He seemed most anxious to get past the investing phase and into the profiting phase. And with Aziz stiffing them, Jinn needed Xhou’s backing more than ever.

“As you know, General Aziz has been unable to release the assets he promised.”

“Perhaps wisely,” Xhou said. “So far, we’ve spent billions, with little to show for it. I now hold two million acres of worthless Mongolian desert. If your boasts do not come true soon, my patience will end.”

“I assure you,” Jinn responded, “the progress will soon become apparent.”

He clicked a remote, and the little screens in front of each guest lit up. A larger screen on the wall showed the same diagram, a color representation of the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean. Red, orange and yellow sectors displayed temperature gradients. Circulating arrows showed the direction and speed of the currents.

“This is the standard current pattern of the Indian Ocean based on the averages of the last thirty years,” Jinn said. “In winter and spring this pattern is from the east to the west, flowing counterclockwise, driven by cold, high-pressure dry winds from India and China. But in summer the pattern changes. The continent heats up faster than the sea. The air rises, drawing wind onshore. The current changes and flows in a clockwise pattern, and it brings the monsoon to India.”

Jinn clicked the remote to show the pattern changing.