by Ward Larsen
“Yes. Many of the parts are spares from the squadron’s inventory, but a few I had to machine myself. Tell me about the demonstration … did everything work as planned?”
“As far as I could tell, perfectly.”
“Did the gauge on the main canister go to zero?”
“Yes, it discharged fully.”
Nazir smiled for a moment, then fell more somber. “And the agent? Was it effective?”
“As we expected.” Sensing Nazir’s discomfort, Sultan thought it best to not mention the number of victims or how they’d apparently suffered. Nazir, he knew, had a sensitive side. He’d always been the boy who rescued stray dogs, brought meals to infirm neighbors. Indeed, the same compassion, he supposed, that had caused him to befriend an outcast cripple.
“And what have we here?” Sultan asked, turning to the second device in the trunk. It was a drone larger than any he’d seen before, taking up half the compartment. The body of the aircraft was relatively small, but the two-foot-square framework around it supported eight propellers.
“I purchased three others like it,” Nazir said.
Sultan regarded his friend quizzically.
“I gave considerable thought to how it might be done,” Nazir expanded. “An attack with one drone would have a marginal chance of success. But if others acted as decoys, or swarmed in a mass attack—the chances of success would increase.”
He nodded slowly.
Nazir went on, “This model can run autonomously, fly a preprogrammed course. That denies one of the best defenses against such attacks, which is to jam the standard control frequencies around the site being guarded.”
“You have done your homework.”
Nazir closed the trunk. “The drones will do what we need them to do. Would you like to see the apartment as well?”
“No, I think not. It is best we don’t draw attention to the place. You gave me the address, and I saw a satellite view. It seems ideally located with respect to our target.” Sultan deftly avoided the true reason he didn’t want to go near the apartment: he knew it would eventually be searched, and very thoroughly. He wanted no chance of leaving any trace that he’d been there. No hair, no fingerprint, no captured image. DNA was a particular concern. His genetic profile was not recorded in anyone’s database, but it could be linked to another that was well known by certain intelligence agencies. In time that would work in his favor, but it was vital that he control the release of that association.
Nazir said, “I chose the apartment with the most direct line of sight. The complex is the closest available, but well outside the security perimeter.”
“You did well to acquire a friend in the military police unit—having inside knowledge of the protection plan could prove vital.”
“Thankfully, he enjoys cheap bourbon.” Nazir began moving toward the driver’s side. “I will take you to view our objective. But understand, we cannot go near—security has already been heightened for the event. An official vehicle like this might get us to the entrance, but you would have to show ID to get inside. There are also cameras throughout the building.”
“You are right, it can’t be risked.”
“There is a pad not far away reserved for military vehicles—I can take you there with no trouble.”
They got into the car, and Nazir set out over an oil-black road. Sultan mused how fitting it was—the Saudis had so much crude they were using it to pave their streets. The road bore them westward, toward the site of their impending attack. Nazir waxed nostalgic as they drove, talking about their shared childhood: the pranks, the girls, the memorable teachers.
In the beginning his reminisces struck Sultan as intended, recollections of happier times. Yet as reality descended—where they were heading, and for what purpose—he fell more reticent. His gaze cooled and he diverted to the window.
The past is the past, he thought.
And the future? That will be very different for both of us.
FORTY-EIGHT
It was a thirty-minute drive to Jeddah Economic City, although as such conveyances went it was not unpleasant. The road was good and the traffic modest, and the air conditioner in the car blew like a Siberian wind. As promised, Nazir diverted for a drive-by of King Abdullah Air Base.
“That is where I work,” he said, gesturing toward a large hangar in the distance. Roughly ten large transport aircraft lay on the tarmac beyond, lined up in tight formation.
“Where are the aircraft you maintain?” Sultan asked.
“You can just see one there, beneath the shelter.”
In the distance Sultan saw a sleek jet under a shed of sorts. It had a distinctive green and white paint job, and was surrounded by support equipment.
“They are BAE Hawks,” Nazir said. “The Air Force uses them primarily as advanced trainers. The jets in my squadron, of course, are specially modified.”
“And this is not your permanent base?”
“No, our unit is on a temporary deployment. We are normally based in Tabuk.”
Sultan watched the air base until it fell out of sight, and soon the city itself began to fade in the usual urban manner. Stoic bank buildings gave way to lesser commercial edifices, and these ceded to industrial areas and warehouses. Beyond that residential areas bloomed on the outer fringes. It was here, at the end of the outer urban orbit, that their objective appeared like a mirage. Rounding a bend, a vast tract of desert sprawled before them, mile after endless mile of featureless terrain. Which only made their target stand out all the more: in the distance, rising like a giant marker from the heavens, was the tribute that would forever be central to Jeddah Economic City.
Sultan had viewed countless pictures of the structure, but now, presented in all its scale and glory, and in a nearly finished state, he had to admit it was breathtaking. Over eight years in the making, Jeddah Tower rose from the table-flat desert with all the drama of a mountain rising from the sea, which was befitting for its singular purpose—to give the Saudi Kingdom claim to the tallest building in the world.
It had originally been named Mile-High Tower, but that ambition had been truncated by failings of geology—as it turned out, the layers of porous limestone so perfectly adept at sourcing crude oil were less suitable when it came to supporting five-thousand-foot skyscrapers. Even so, at 3,281 feet, Jeddah Tower would be at its dedication the tallest building on earth, more than double the height of the Empire State Building, and comfortably above the behemoths on the north shores of the Saudi Peninsula—yesterday’s monuments to excess in Kuwait and Dubai. In a matter of days, a new champion would be crowned.
The tower’s triangular footprint was evident from a distance, keeping the effects of wind to a minimum—needed to preclude nausea for the upper floor residents. As envisioned by the architects, the massive tower would one day be ringed by canals and a harbor connecting to the sea, and a new city would evolve around it. Shopping, conference centers, the world’s finest restaurants. Like the tower itself, the biggest and the best. Sultan had seen the brochures, a dream in high-gloss print.
Nazir pulled the car into a parking area thick with military vehicles. There were sedans like their own, but also more tactically oriented models. Presently, all were empty, their occupants pulling duty nearby.
Nazir said, “The military and National Guard are working feverishly on their precautions. The king himself will preside at the event, and every important prince will be there, along with the rulers of many of the Gulf States.”
“I am not surprised; the crown prince would never miss such a chance to gloat.” The guest list had never been secret. Kings, emirs, sheiks—every leading Arab from across the region would be present for the tower’s dedication.
They got out of the car and stood by the hood, marveling at the massive structure. Nazir pointed two-thirds of the way up. “You can see the observation deck.”
Sultan studied intently. This was the first, and certainly only, time he would see it with his own eyes. The platform jutted out from one
side of the tower, a great concrete tongue sticking out at the world. It was expansive enough to hold three tennis courts. He couldn’t appreciate the view from where he stood, yet Sultan had seen photographs taken from the rail. From twenty-two hundred feet above the desert floor, it offered a panoramic vista of the entire Red Sea. A view fit for a king. Or in two days, he thought, three kings, twenty-two princes, six emirs, and ten heads of state. A rare concentration of Arab leadership.
Sultan forced himself to turn away from the spectacle. Roughly one mile in the opposite direction, he saw the apartment complex. “Which unit?” he asked.
Nazir followed his gaze. “Second building from the right, center unit, top floor.”
“A direct line of sight.”
“Yes … it is perfectly situated.”
“Which will make it even more convincing.” He reached beneath his robe and retrieved three Ziploc bags containing what was left of the material the maid in Khartoum had collected. He gave it to Nazir.
“Do you have any questions about how to distribute it?” Sultan asked.
“No. I remember everything.”
“Good.”
They talked for another ten minutes, discussing the details of how the agent would be dispersed, the angle from which the attack would commence. At the end, Nazir confided his plan for escaping Saudi Arabia in the aftermath.
On this last point, the Fifth Rashidun averted his gaze despairingly. Quite out of character, he said a prayer for his friend, petitioning that Allah, the most gracious and merciful, would watch over Nazir to the end.
FORTY-NINE
Night fell quickly, the high clouds holding fast to blot out the last traces of daylight. From a distance, the five weary shadows behind a donkey drew an image more befitting a scene from The Nativity than a CIA-run extraction op. Or so Slaton hoped.
Leading the tiny caravan westward, he wished he still had his night optic—it had ended up in the charred rubble of the Ural outside Chez Salma. He didn’t beat himself up over it. The last five days had been busy, thousands of minor decisions made. It was only natural that he’d made a few mistakes.
Conveniently, his phone came with a “tactical flashlight” application that emitted red light—the best wavelength for retaining night vision, and less evident from a distance than white light. He’d paused every half hour to plot the phone-derived GPS position on the map, always including Achmed to cross-check his work. They’d performed the most recent update minutes earlier, and decided a slight adjustment to the north was required. Once the course was set, Slaton picked out a point on the horizon—a red light on a hilltop radio tower that was certainly in Lebanon—and used it as a reference. It was accurate enough, and allowed him to avoid constant use of the phone. These days in the field, the conservation of battery power was second only to ammunition.
“Where will I live?” a voice asked.
Slaton cast a glance back and saw Ludmilla. Since being freed from the hidden compartment she’d been walking with Salma and Naji.
“You mean once you get to the States?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. The CIA has a relocation program for people who need to disappear.”
“Petrov’s SVR has a program to find those people.”
“So I’ve heard,” Slaton said.
“Have you ever known anyone who’s gone into hiding like that?”
A hesitation. “Yes.”
“Was it successful?”
“So far. As to where you end up, it’s pretty much up to the agency. Small towns are probably best. But if you have a request … they might listen. Wherever you go, you’ll have an advantage because your English is good.”
She was silent for a time, then said, “I wonder if I have done the right thing.”
“In defecting?”
She nodded.
“Given what happened to the other interpreter, I don’t think you had much choice.”
“I suppose not, but still it seems so … unfaithful.”
“I don’t think you’re being unfaithful. I think Petrov and his oligarch friends are turning their backs on Russia.”
Ludmilla seemed to think about it for a long time, then said, “You have a child.”
Slaton looked at her inquiringly. It hadn’t been posed as a question.
“I see how you look at Naji,” she said. “You have a father’s eyes.”
“I have a son, a little younger than him. And a wife.”
“You must miss them terribly.”
“I do.”
“Can I ask, then … why do you do this kind of work?”
Slaton kept his eyes ahead, scanning the distant terrain. “I’ve been asking myself that question for a long time.”
* * *
Sultan left Jeddah chasing a splendid sunset, a paint-by-numbers canvas of red and orange that beckoned like paradise. He watched it until the last strands of color were swallowed by the night.
He had reconnected with his driver near a mosque on the north side of the city, the man waiting just as he’d been that morning. His silence, too, was unchanged. The entire course ran in reverse: an hours-long car ride, a walk through low dunes, the young fisherman waiting with the dhow.
They set sail for Africa under a cloak of darkness, a fresh offshore breeze adding a push. Sultan was perfectly happy to see the Saudi kingdom recede into the shadowed marine haze. He tried, but failed, to shake his final image of Nazir. He’d embraced his old friend on parting, but only now did he recognize the gesture for what it was: not a show of affection, but one of remorse. He had put his friend in an impossible situation.
With the land of Mecca receding astern, Sultan forced it all away. It was time to embrace his new beginning. He sat down on a bench at the bow, his feet kicking for space amid piles of mackerel—the young man had indeed not wasted the day. Sultan wondered idly if he would ever set foot on the peninsula again. It wasn’t out of the question—not given the anarchy he was about to set off—but returning here was not his goal. He was determined to seize his legacy, the one written in the blood of his father. Do that, and God could sort out what was rightly included.
The Saudis, the Emiratis, the Russians—yes, even the Russians—were helpless to stop him now. Everything was in place, moving forward by a clock that could not be stopped. When the vital hour came, Sultan would be in place. It was time to go home now, and there fulfill his birthright.
Finally, home.
* * *
Two black Chevy Suburbans rumbled over hardpan earth, their suspension groaning with every rut. Both vehicles displayed diplomatic license plates, although there was nothing to suggest which particular mission they might be tied to. Collectively, the Suburbans carried four men and two women. All were employees of the CIA’s Beirut station, and all were armed. The team had of course been given strict rules of engagement—they were only to engage threats as a matter of self-defense. It was the kind of order, everyone knew, that was far easier to give than to decipher in high-stress situations.
The run from the Beirut embassy had so far been uneventful, two hours of road-trip boredom through rolling hills. Their mission tonight was highly unusual, although straightforward on its face. They were to rendezvous with between two and four individuals at the Syrian border, and deliver them as quickly as possible to a waiting jet at Hariri International Airport on the south side of Beirut.
All good on paper.
The first complication turned out to be the terrain. The exact spot of the expected rendezvous was far off the beaten path. Actually, far off any path. Chevrolet Suburbans, as a rule, were designed for modest off-road travel. The two in question, unfortunately, were less capable than most owing to an extra two thousand pounds of armor plating, bullet-proof windows, and self-sealing run-flat tires.
The terrain seemed to get worse as they went. The drivers did their best, but half a mile from the meeting point, with everyone tumbling around like dice in a cup, the team leader ordered a cessation
of the hostilities. After a brief discussion, the consensus view was that one of the SUVs was going to get hung up soon—a differential on a rock or a wheel in a rut. Because they were getting close, it wasn’t an insurmountable complication. Four members of the team dismounted, collected their gear from the trunk, and set out on foot.
They reached the rendezvous point fifteen minutes later, and the first thing they did was double-check the grid coordinates. Satisfied, two members lifted night optic devices and began scouting for patrols. They primarily looked across the border into Syria, but took an occasional sweep behind. When it came to Lebanon, one never knew.
With no one in sight, including their prospective charges, everyone settled in and tried to get comfortable. It had the makings of a long night.
FIFTY
By one o’clock that morning Slaton knew they were getting close. There was a temptation to move quickly, to dash the last two miles before they could be seen. He knew it would be a mistake. This was the highest threat area, and there would certainly be border patrols. Some units would be active, searching and deterring. Yet according to Achmed, who was the local area expert, Syrian patrols here often remained static, concealing themselves to watch common crossing points.
The cloud deck overhead was breaking, moonlight filtering through the gaps. Slaton brought the procession to a stop. He looked back and saw Naji atop the cart, his legs dangling over the side, feet bicycling in the air. A vision of Davy on their boat came to mind: sitting on Sirius’ beam and kicking at waves. With practiced discipline, he forced the image away.
Achmed came to his side and pointed ahead. “There are two hills, low but very distinct—almost twins.”
Slaton picked them out in the dim light. “Okay, I see them. Maybe two miles.”
“Even less. They are directly on the border. Split them, and the meeting point is just beyond.”
Slaton didn’t need to check the topo map—he’d already memorized the terrain at the finish line. He did a slow 360, taking in the horizon in every direction. It was apparently contagious—in the periphery he saw the others doing the same. Nerves were on edge. Everyone knew they were close.