by David Lender
“That and you’ve got a bunch of terrorist nuts running all over the globe, funded by the richest oil nation in the world.” Tom squeezed his palms together under the table.
“Wouldn’t be the last Muslim nation to go. Turkey would be next, I’m sure. Perhaps even Pakistan.”
“Not to mention what Ari’s afraid of,” Tom said. He remembered seeing Ari’s face the first time he met him, at the ‘72 Olympics as one of the follow-up team after the Arabs murdered seven Israeli Olympic team members. He turned to look at Nigel. “You sure Sasha and Ibrahim are coming tonight?”
“Absolutely. Ibrahim wouldn’t miss this big a party. I’m becoming quite the rage this season, old boy,” Nigel said. He raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure she’ll be here.”
“Good. Then I can set up a chance to make our pitch.”
Tom was thinking about another cigar, but decided against it, his mouth stale after four Havanas in one day. He was sitting on a deck chair at 2:00 a.m., watching the party still throbbing around him. Last time he spied Nigel he was still wearing the tie with the offending double dimple. Now watching Sasha, her not acknowledging him after they’d set up lunch for tomorrow. It had been easy after her fight with Ibrahim, them going on at each other in Arabic with nobody paying much attention. Her sitting stiffly by herself. She’s ready.
His work was done for tonight, but he was still watching, now just for sport. Sasha had earlier glided from group to group, all the sudden tonight letting herself look available—she must be really pissed about what Ibrahim said to her—then seemed to tire of dodging guys who didn’t know better to lay off her, didn’t know what they were messing with. Still, Ibrahim had acted like the loudmouthed jerk he could be with too much scotch in him. Now she was rubbing it in again, sitting with some pasty-faced Italian in black leather pants and a white silk shirt open to his chest hairs. Careful, girl. Don’t get yourself thrown out of here. Then I’m back to square one. Sasha looked strained in her smile, like she’d bite her lip if she were inclined to show her feelings that much. He started to feel sorry for her. Then she made it worse by meeting eyes with him with that “help me” look, buried beneath the I’d-be-bored-with-it-all-if-only-I-weren’t-having-so-goddamn-much-fun glaze of sophistication, the facade he recognized well.
Yeah, she’s ready.
Tom continued watching Sasha, saw her body move inside that silk dress, all that youth and energy. He had a grungy feeling. Usually the people he recruited were shady sleazeballs, out for their own profit. The ones like this girl, just a kid, the ones who did it out of commitment, those were tough. And this was as shitty as it got. He tried to feel better about it, telling himself she was a whore, and probably rich from it. But watching her now he felt soulless.
It made him revisit their other possibilities. Try Yassar again through government channels? Not much hope. And that wouldn’t get them inside the al-Mujari. If Ibrahim was inside, Sasha could get them enough to slow down, even cripple the entire organization.
But what about using some of the other girls they thought of? This Nafta? He immediately rejected that, as they had earlier. Nafta wasn’t as close to Ibrahim. And this kid Sasha had nerve. Brains. They needed her. They’d have to get her to do it. And then he remembered her file. Some life. Screwed over by the Drug Queen and the Prince himself. How the hell was she still so close to Yassar?
Yeah, they needed her and he’d go through with it. But he’d handle her himself, not pass her off to one of the other guys who ran agents for him. He’d do that much for her.
August, Twenty-One Years Ago. Nice, France. Tom and Sasha were seated atop the retaining wall along the Promenade des Anglais, the central street of Nice. A simple lunch of cheese, bread and wine was laid out between them. Cars chugged relentlessly past them in the traffic-jammed center. The midday sun had warmed the stone on which they sat and already softened the cheese to produce oily stains on the paper wrappings. They sipped burgundy from paper cups.
“I see you and Ibrahim had another fight last night.”
“Yes, it’s getting to be de rigueur.” Sasha was feeling like raw nerves today. A little afraid to be so open around Tom, unsure where this conversation was going, but knowing he was finally going to surface his agenda. But then he was open now, too. He had a warmth today that made her start to trust him. And a gentleness beneath the rugged exterior.
“You okay?” he asked. She liked the quiet way he said it.
“Yes, thanks.”
He looked at the cheese like it was some new species. She couldn’t tell if he was delighted or astonished.
“Explorateur.”
“Oh. Amazing,” he said. She smiled. She decided she liked him. The aw shucks facade that wasn’t always a facade.
“So, not that I wouldn’t be flattered, but you obviously didn’t invite me out to try to seduce me.”
She saw him look at her like he was trying to think of a snappy response, then a smile, then his face turned serious. “No. As Nigel said, we’ve been watching these guys hanging around Ibrahim for some time.”
Sasha was silent. She felt her heart rise, hoping he would plunge right into it. But now he was hesitating, just looking at her, seemingly thinking. “Go on,” she urged.
“They’re dangerous. And we think you can help us.”
“How?”
“Like Nigel said. Watch and listen. Tell us what happens. We’ll do the rest.”
“Who are you?”
“CIA. Nigel’s British Secret Service. There’s another one of us you haven’t met yet, Ari Verchik. He’s Israeli Mossad.”
“I thought so.” She felt a surge of blood to her face, a sense of minor triumph at having her suspicions confirmed, then a tingle of fear. “Who are these people Abdul and Waleed?”
“They’re part of an organization called the al-Mujari, a Muslim fundamentalist group based in Saudi Arabia. Led by a cleric named Sheik bin Abdur. They’re talking about overthrowing the Saudi government and returning it to the Saudi people. Of course, led by themselves.”
“And Ibrahim? How does he figure into it?” She felt she was hearing too much too quickly, but was still greedily compelled to absorb more.
“I guess they figure if they can turn him, they’ll use him as an example for others. Plus I guess it gives them someone on the inside in the family so they know what’s going on.”
“They’ve already turned him.” She felt like someone was pushing on her stomach and saw Tom looking at her, watching, not blinking his eyes.
“How so?” Now she was seized by concern. How did she know who Tom was? Or Nigel? Tom must have seen her face change because he asked: “What’s wrong?”
“I now realize I have only your word as to who you are.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t exactly carry IDs.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a State Department business card with the words: Thomas A. Goddard—Deputy Assistant Ambassador. “Here. Call the embassy in Riyadh. Better yet, call information and get the number yourself so you know it’s not a phony card. Give them your name. They’ll be expecting your call. Then the embassy will patch you into CIA headquarters at Langley. Will that do it?”
Sasha nodded. It struck her that she was getting herself involved in something much more serious than she’d imagined.
“What? What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
She liked that. Concerned about her. And that gentleness again. Yes, she liked him. He was contemplative, thoughtful, like Yassar. She imagined Yassar would like him too. “Nothing.” She looked back up at him. “Just that one doesn’t start a life of—spying every day.” She laughed nervously. “So, back to business, I guess. So what’s going on?”
“I told you. Their plans are to take over. Throw out the royal family, and they’re recruiting Ibrahim.”
“Like you’re recruiting me.”
“Yeah.”
“Sticky business.”
“Yeah.” He was again watching her without blinking.
; “I’m wondering why I don’t just run away from the whole thing. Leave.”
“And?”
“I think you know. I’ll bet you know a lot about me. You’re careful, thoughtful. I’m sure you know how close to Yassar I am.”
“Yeah.” He looked down at the ground for a moment, then back up at her. Was he ashamed?
“So you know…” Her voice trailed off. She realized he probably knew everything about her. Christina. Her relationship with Yassar. Her life with Ibrahim, her role as a concubine. She remembered thinking that before, anticipating encountering someone from her prior life, and had just as quickly decided she’d never been ashamed of herself before and wasn’t going to start now. Not then, not now. So what? “So you know I’d be worried about Yassar.”
“So are we,” he said gravely.
She looked up at him, her mind spinning. “You said these people want to…you used the word overthrow.”
Tom was silent, giving his answer some thought. Observing her. Now Sasha’s brain flashed with panic. She’d never allowed herself to think it through. But now it made sense. It meant that Yassar might actually be in danger.
“We’re trying to stop them. Will you help us?”
“What’s your intention? Why not just go directly to the Saudi government? To Yassar?”
“We’ve already tried. They insist it’s a domestic issue. Private.” He leaned forward toward her, the way he had at her table at the Baron David, as she’d seen him lean forward to speak with Nigel. “Will you help us?” he asked again.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. Sasha felt the sense her decision would change her life in ways she couldn’t possibly imagine, then wondered if it hadn’t already irrevocably changed. Her relationship with Ibrahim would never be the same. She recalled how she’d had to steel herself to respond to Ibrahim’s advances the previous afternoon and yet realized she could get through it. And she thought of Yassar, felt her heart ache, and wondered if she had any choice. How could she leave if he was in danger?
CHAPTER 25
AUGUST, TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO. CAP Ferat, France. Sasha imagined they must look like a casual group, seated on the rear deck of the Staid Matron, four friends having a drink under a brilliant blue afternoon sky. But what was going on in Sasha’s mind told a different story. And she knew her body language—arms resting on the chair, both feet on the floor, as if poised to jump—gave off something of the vibrations generated by the turmoil in her mind. Tom, Nigel, and the new one, Ari something or other, the Israeli Mossad agent, sitting around her, positioned as if to set up a crossfire. The gentle rocking of the yacht added to her sense of uncertain footing.
“What did Ibrahim say?” Tom asked Sasha.
“He didn’t say anything. Are you satisfied?” She saw Tom watching her, knowing he sensed she was angry. And why shouldn’t she be? Invited out for a drink by Tom, knowing he’d be interested in following up on their chat, but ambushed by the three of them. She anticipated perhaps Nigel, but this Ari? She fired her gaze back at Tom to punctuate her last comment.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Tom said. “We wouldn’t expect him to step forward with any information to you.”
“He still talks to me. He still listens to me.”
“Sasha, it’s, uhm, not obvious to us that you’re ready for this. We don’t, uhm, uhm, think you want to hear it and all that.” Nigel waved his hands in the air. “But I’ll say it anyhow. Abdul and Waleed are in regular contact with the al-Mujari. We know they were trained in a terrorist camp in Sudan. And we know that they and their, uhm, Shiite extremist friends are serious about overthrowing the Saudi government. The Saudi royal family corrupted by its exposure to Western infidels. You know the story.” He paused.
What’s going on here? She looked at Tom. Yes, they were setting her up for a high-pressure sell.
“It’s worse than that, actually,” Ari said. “We’ve heard about assassination plots. Death squads.” He was watching her face for a reaction. “You’re close with Prince Yassar, too, aren’t you?”
Damn you if you’re playing with me! “Yes,” Sasha said guardedly. “I’m close with him.”
“The al-Mujari have been working on this for years,” Tom said. His tone was almost apologetic. “I’ve been telling you, you’re in danger.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’re convinced they’re trying to get inside the royal family,” Nigel said, “they’ve been working on Prince Ibrahim since he started college, trying to turn him to their cause.”
She looked at Tom as if to say they’d been through this before. But then they hadn’t, at least not all of it. It was news this Abdul and Waleed and whoever they were with had been working on Ibrahim for that long. “I already told you Ibrahim’s spouting their views,” she said to Tom. “But that’s hardly what I’d call getting inside. What do you mean?”
“We know that they’ve targeted the king and the crown prince for assassination,” Tom said. “But we thought you should know that Prince Yassar is also on their list.”
Sasha involuntarily threw her head back, as if she’d been slapped in the face. Her eyes showed anger, fear and outrage at the same time. How dare you manipulate me this way! She leaned forward in her chair. “Listen, gentlemen,” she said. “I don’t appreciate the hard sell!” She looked at Tom, into those blue eyes, and couldn’t conceal her feelings of betrayal. “Cheap tricks, shock tactics—whatever you people in your business call it.” She inhaled, trying to get her composure back. “First you take turns trying to get me off balance. So what comes next?”
Nigel and Ari looked at Tom as if to say “you’ve got a handful here.” Tom motioned to the others with his head. “Let me talk to her,” he said. Nigel and Ari got up and left, Nigel making an awkward sort of bow. Tom sighed. “I’m sorry. We weren’t intending to gang up on you. We were trying to make sure you understood that Yassar’s in jeopardy. So if you call that a hard sell, maybe it was. It was my idea, so don’t blame them. We can stop this if you like.”
Sasha watched him with her hands clamped on the arms of the chair, guard still up, still angry. They knew she wasn’t likely to walk away from her concern for Yassar. “How do you know all this? About targeting Yassar?”
Tom had a look that exposed his vulnerability. “We can prove it,” he said softly. He was silent for a moment, giving it more thought. “What do you want to do?”
Sasha didn’t answer because she’d already been wondering that before he asked it. She still didn’t have anything to go to Yassar with but more unsubstantiated bits and pieces. And if she asked Tom to give her what he had, he might or might not. But probably not. Maybe she should play along with them for a while. Maybe she could trust Tom, at least, as long as he didn’t try to pressure her like this again.
“We do need your help,” Tom said. “I’ve thought this through carefully, thought of the other ways we could try. They won’t work. You’re our best shot.” He was speaking slowly, as if he were choosing his words carefully. He leaned forward in the chair again, which she now recognized was his way of underscoring an important comment. “If you agree to help, I’ll be your contact. Nobody else. All we’re asking is that you stay inside and report to us. Information, that’s all.”
Sasha felt herself nod, not wanting to commit herself, but wanting to find a way to work through this.
“You mind if I ask you something personal?” Tom asked.
“Okay.” She suddenly felt worn out, de-energized.
“Why are you so close to Yassar? I mean, after—everything?”
Sasha felt pain in her throat. “We always had a bond.” She looked off into the distance, over Tom’s shoulder. “I forgave him. And he showed me that he was sorry even before he apologized. It’s complex. Let’s leave it there.” She looked back at Tom. “I’ll consider your proposal. I’ll discuss it with Yassar, fly back specifically for that if I have to.”
Tom’s head rose, his eyes charged with
fervor. “You can’t. Yassar can’t know. I told you we tried that.”
“I can’t lie to him!” Sasha felt a slam of panic, only now beginning to understand what they were asking of her.
“Imagine how it looks—a gaggle of foreign secret services recruit you to watch his own son. Even if you say it’s to protect him. He just won’t buy it. There isn’t enough proof. That’s what we need you for.”
Sasha had the sense she was losing her balance, that the rocking of the boat was unbearable. A sense of nothingness, a complete absence of any emotion or concept of reality enveloped her, as if the only foundation she’d possessed had been removed from her. How could she do this without telling Yassar?
Sasha entered the duplex apartment she shared with Ibrahim, maintaining the same oddly vacant, emotionless state she’d experienced on the Staid Matron. She took in the apartment through trancelike eyes. Standing in the center of the room, she removed her shoes so she could feel the cool marble under her feet and offset the sense of groundlessness. Thank God Ibrahim wasn’t there. She wondered what her reaction to him would be in her zombie state.
Was it possible he knew these people were planning to kill his own father? Why not talk to Ibrahim? No. Absurd. There was no going back with him. No emotion, no trust.
And go to Yassar? She’d heard Tom. They’d already tried. No luck. And they must have more concrete information than she did. Yet, they were outsiders. She wasn’t. She could get Yassar to listen to the facts. But they weren’t about to divulge secret intelligence to some twenty-year-old concubine to the royal family. Certainly not Tom; he was too careful. These men were professionals. Could she agree to help them and then tell Yassar? Not until she had some hard information. And there was still the fundamental question: how could she possibly do it their way without telling Yassar?
Now she felt a surge of the anguish that must have been stored in her when she realized what they were asking her to do. She sensed that her deathlike state was a result of her inevitable estrangement from Yassar, the barrier she would erect by concealing her activities from him. She threw herself into a chair and her face collapsed into her hands. She might lose Yassar. Wherever it led, he might, probably would, find out eventually. This wasn’t all just going to go away. Not if what Tom and the others said was true.