The palace walls were built to impress, not to intimidate. Inside, the air was cool and scented faintly of oud, muffling the desert heat beyond the gates.
John Osemwingie's footsteps echoed on the polished marble as a silent aide guided him through a corridor lined with gilt-framed portraits of past kings. At the end stood a tall set of carved wooden doors.
They opened directly into the Crown Prince's private office.
The room was large but not ostentatious—muted cream walls, a few pieces of calligraphy, a massive desk of dark walnut. The Prince rose from his chair, dressed in a bisht that caught the light, his expression one of measured warmth.
"Dr. Osemwingie," he said, extending a hand. "I have heard much about you."
John inclined his head. "Your Highness, it's an honor."
They sat. No aides remained inside. Only a pot of steaming qahwa and a crystal dish of dates sat between them.
"I understand," the Prince began, "you have little interest in public exposure."
"I prefer my investments to speak for themselves," John replied evenly. "Headlines invite questions. Questions invite interference."
The Prince smiled faintly. "A useful philosophy."
For a moment, neither spoke. The Prince poured coffee for them both, then leaned forward. "You know our situation in Yemen. The Houthis will not stop. Iran arms them; we have relied too long on imports from the Americans and Europeans. They come with conditions… politics." His tone hardened slightly. "I want Saudi manufacturing. Small arms, munitions, drones. Controlled here, in the Kingdom."
John rested his elbows on the armrests. "That requires more than factories. It requires supply chains, design licensing, materials procurement from jurisdictions that won't answer Washington's phone calls. It also requires deniability."
"You can arrange this?" the Prince asked.
"I can arrange the people who can," John said. "Engineers from Eastern Europe, machining contracts in Southeast Asia, rare metal routes through Africa. You'll get a product line that can rival Iranian distribution—and the discretion of Swiss banking."
The Prince's gaze sharpened. "Distribution?"
John smiled slightly. "If you want influence, you must think beyond Yemen. You'll need channels into East Africa, the Horn, even discreet supplies for factions in Central Asia. Weapons are not only for wars—they are for friendships."
The Prince sat back, considering him. "And in return?"
"Equity," John replied. "A stake in the manufacturing consortium. Preferential investment rights when you privatize certain assets under Vision 2030. And access to your sovereign wealth fund for co-investments in infrastructure and finance."
There was a long pause. The Prince's eyes didn't leave him. "You are not a man who asks for little."
"I'm not a man who delivers little," John said.
The Prince's lips curved into a slow, almost predatory smile. "Very well. We will begin with a facility outside Riyadh. I want the first prototypes in nine months."
John reached for his coffee, his expression calm, though in his mind the pieces were already moving—contacts to call in Belgrade, a quiet trip to Jakarta, a meeting with an old acquaintance in Khartoum.
This was not a deal for the newspapers.
This was the kind of work that moved nations.