the tires and turned off the crushed-rock runway of a privately owned

airport twenty kilometers south of Alexandria, Egypt.  Less than a

minute after it rolled to a halt beside a green Volvo with TAXI lettered

on the doors in English, the whine from the engines ceased and the

passenger door raised open.

The man that stepped to the ground was wearing a white suit with

matching tie over a dark blue shirt.  Slightly under six feet, with a

slim body, he paused a moment and dabbed a handkerchief around a

receding hairline, and then smugly brushed a large black mustache with

one forefinger.  His eyes were hidden by dark glasses and his hands

covered by white leather gloves.

Suleiman Aziz Ammar did not resemble in the slightest the pilot who had

boarded Flight 106 in London.

He walked over to the Volvo and greeted the short, muscular dxiver who

emerged from behind the wheel.  "Good morning, Ibn.  Find any problems

on your return?"

"Your affairs are in good order," Ibn replied, opening the rear door and

making no effort to conceal a pisto  shotgun in a shoulder holster.

"Take me to Yazid."

Ibn nodded silently as Ammar settled into the rear seat.

The exterior of the taxi was as deceptive as Ammar's many disguises. The

darkly tinted windows and body panels were bulletproof.  Inside, Ammar

sat in a low, comfortable leather chair in front of a compact desk

cabinet containing a compact array of electronics that included two

telephones, a computer, radio transmitter and TV monitor.  There were

also a bar and a rack with two automatic rifles.

As the car skirted the crowded central section of Alexandria and turned

onto the a1-Beach road, Annnar busied himself by monitoring his

far-flung investment operations.  His wealth, known only to him, was

enormous.  His financial success was accomplished more by ruthlessness

than shrewdness. If any corporate executive or government official stood

in Ammar's way on a profitable business deal, he was simply eliminated.

At the end of a twenty-kilometer drive, Ibn slowed the Volvo and stopped

at a gate leading up to a small villa squatting on a low hill

overlooking a wide sandy beach.

Ammar shut down the computer and stepped from the car. Four guards in

desert sand-colored fatigues surrounded him and efficiently searched his

clothing.  As a backup safeguard he was directed to walk through an

airport-type X-ray detector.

He was then led up a stone stairway to the villa past crudely built

concrete compounds manned by a small army of Yazid's elite bodyguards.

Ammar smiled as they bypassed the ornate front archway, open to honored

visitors, and entered through a small side door.  He brushed off the

insult, knowing it was Yazid's shallow-minded way of humbling those who

did his dirty work but were not accepted to his inner circle of fanatic

grovelers.

He was ushered into a stark and empty room furnished with only one

wooden stool and a large Persian Kashan carpet that hung from one wall.