Executive Power by Vince Flynn Read Free Book Online Page A

sitting. “My prince, you are a man who understands value. My services do not come cheaply, and what I am about to embark on for you and my people will change the course of history.”
    â€œFive million.”
    David stood and joined the prince on the couch. With a sideways glance he noticed Chung moving closer in case he was needed. In a hushed voice, David said, “Prince Omar, what is the one thing in this whole world you would take the most pleasure in?”
    The prince’s eyes lit up at the question and David could tell he was going through a lengthy list. “My prince, think of the subject at hand. What we are about to embark on.”
    Omar smiled with a hateful lust in his eyes. “To see Israel destroyed.”
    â€œExactly, my prince. Ten million dollars is a pittance, and for it I will give you a front-row seat to the self-destruction of the Zionist state.”
    Omar grabbed David’s hand and squeezed it. “Half now and half when you are done. Tell Devon where you want the money wired and it will be done. Now, be on your way, and give me the gift I have waited a lifetime for.”

6
    T he silver-haired gentleman appeared to have his nose buried in the European edition of the London Times. A soft breeze blew across the water, seagulls played above and the lines slapped out their rhythmic notes on the tall mast of the sailboat. To all outward appearances, Alan Church looked to be enjoying retirement. First observations with such a man, though, were always a bit tricky. The seventy-one-year-old Brit had spent the majority of his years trying to give people the right first impression—or the wrong one, depending on how you looked at it.
    Alan was a mechanical engineer by training, but even that was only half true. He spent his twenties and thirties working for a large British energy conglomerate, and again this was only part of the story. During that time he traveled to the world’s smaller and poorer nations in an effort to bring them hydroelectric power. It seemed for those two decades that Alan could be found wherever things were the nastiest, usually in a country where the transition from one ruling group to another was taking place and not in a peaceful democratic way. Most of those halcyon days, as he now somewhat sarcastically called them, were spent on the continent of Africa.
    In truth, his time on the Dark Continent was anything but tranquil. He was robbed, shot at, kidnapped, twice caught malaria and once caught yellow fever. It was after the second bout of malaria that the powers back in London decided that it was time for Alan to take a new job in international finance. He’d spilled blood and toiled for the Crown, or more precisely, Her Majesty’s Secret Service, for almost two decades. He was placed, without having to interview for the position, at one of Britain’s finest banks where he eventually ended up keeping an eye on the financial comings and goings of The House of Saud.
    Officially, or unofficially, depending on how you looked at it, Alan Church never worked for MI6, Britain’s foreign intelligence service. To this day, if someone asked him the question he would laugh heartily and begin telling over-the-top tales of all the female spies he’d boffed in the service of the Crown. People who really knew him well, which weren’t many, knew that there was a half-truth in almost everything Alan Church said.
    Even now, as he sat on the deck of his sailboat, anchored just off the coast of the French Riviera, one had to look closely to see what Alan was really doing. At first glance he looked every bit the relaxed and retired gentleman casually perusing the newspaper as another day in paradise got under way, but upon closer inspection there were a few telltale signs that Alan had not entirely left the employ of his government. The first hint was a bit difficult to catch. It involved the unusual size of the radar dome that sat near the top