Even so, the card monitoring wasn’t foolproof. The NSA couldn’t always get access to data lines, especially in China and Russia. It estimated that it caught fewer than half of all credit card purchases worldwide. And the feeds were encrypted, so after it stole the data, the NSA had to decode it.
Nor were credit cards the only concern. The NSA monitored phone calls, e-mails, instant messages, Facebook updates, a digital tidal wave. Tens of billions of messages, open and encrypted, were sent every day. The NSA spent massive energy just figuring out which ones to try to crack. At any time, one-third of its computers were deciding what the other two-thirds should do. Inevitably, credit card transactions didn’t get much attention. The vast majority were routine purchases.
But they couldn’t be entirely ignored, because both the NSA and CIA believed that terrorists now had to have credit cards to pull off major attacks on American soil. Since September 11, living a cashonly existence had gotten tricky. Paying cash to fly set off automatic red flags in airline and Homeland Security databases. Car-rental agencies wouldn’t rent to drivers who didn’t have cards. Trying to buy industrial chemicals or lab equipment with cash raised even louder alarms.
So NSA hadn’t given up on credit cards, especially from banks based in places like Egypt and Pakistan. The CIA’s analysts believed that jihadis would avoid multinationals like Citibank. Local banks would be more willing to open accounts and issue cards, and fervent Muslims might stay away from Western banks on principle.
So if the credit card number Wells had found came from a bank in Lebanon or Turkey or Pakistan. and if the NSA had tapped the connection to that bank’s servers. and if its software algorithms had decided that the feed was worth trying to crack. and if the bank hadn’t installed the most advanced 256-bit security on its feed.
Then maybe the NSA would have a card in its database that matched the number Wells had found. Complete with name, address, and purchase data. The name and address could be faked, but the purchase information couldn’t. If Wells was supremely lucky, the NSA might even be able to link the card with others still in use. All this from nineteen digits on five Saudi one-riyal notes.
So Wells knew he had no choice but to ask Shafer’s help. But he didn’t like it.
AFTER SHAFER, WELLS CALLED Anne, asked her to FedEx an envelope from their bedside table. The envelope held two passports, one American, one Canadian, both with his photo, neither with his name. Both should work anywhere in the world. Unless the CIA had shut them down. Which was unlikely. Duto and Shafer probably wanted him to use passports they could track. Even if the agency hadn’t been paying attention to him before, he’d put himself on its radar by asking for help. He seemed to be playing under Hotel California rules. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.
“What’s in the envelope?”
“See for yourself.”
The envelope rustled open. “Are these real?”
“Depends on what you mean by reality.”
“Cool.”
“Never admitted that before, but yeah. I guess they are.”
“I guess this means you’re not coming home anytime soon.”
“Looking that way. Listen. Will you do something else for me?”
“Depends.”
“An honest answer.”
“I’m an honest girl.”
“Buy a disposable cell phone. Pay cash. Set up a new e-mail account. Not from the house. I’ll set one up, too. Mine will be the name of the mountain where we met, followed by the name of the bar we went that first night, followed by the drink you bought for me. No underscores. Got it?”
“Mountain, bar, drink. Got it.”
“Don’t say it.”
“Like Rainier-redlion-cosmo.”
“You have me drinking cosmopolitans?”
“You can be a little bit girly, John. I like that about you.”
“How’s that again?”
“Tell you next time I see you.”
“Something to look forward to. When you’re done buying the phone, e-mail me your number. I’ll call you when I can.”
“You don’t seriously think someone’s monitoring my phone.”
“Possible. And getting more possible.”
“Anyone else, I’d be calling a shrink about now.” She paused. “I’ll get the phone. Tell me you miss me.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.” Click.
THE DAY PASSED WITH no call from Shafer. Wells wanted to move but had no place to go. He fought the urge to book a flight for Karachi or Cairo, motion for motion’s sake.
He prayed that night, properly, for the first time in weeks. Perhaps if this mission went off, he’d have the chance to see the Kaaba. The thought cheered him more than he would have expected. When he closed his eyes, he could see the great black cube, imagine walking around it. He supposed talking to Miteb had stirred him. The old man’s acceptance of Allah’s judgment and death’s inevitability felt like wisdom.
In the morning, he sent the concierge for more clothes and a bag. Wherever he went, he’d be well dressed. The passports arrived, courtesy of FedEx. And just before noon, the phone trilled.
“Ellis?”
“Hold for Prince Miteb,” a man said. A moment later: “Princess Alia is dead. A suicide bomb in Jeddah.”
“Slow down, Prince—”
“This is Abdullah’s granddaughter. His favorite. If the others are involved—”
Miteb fell silent. But Wells understood. Suicide bombers had gone after the royal family before. But if Miteb and Abdullah were right, this wasn’t just another suicide bombing. The king’s own brother might have ordered this attack.
Wells wondered how Abdullah would respond. Under normal circumstances, Saeed and Mansour had the edge. They had the secret police. But in a war, Abdullah’s National Guard could reduce the muk to rubble. Except that open war would be desperately risky for both sides. The regular army would get involved, pick a side. Or its midlevel officers might try to overthrow the royal family entirely, take the country’s oil for themselves. Saeed and Mansour couldn’t take that chance. They had to believe that Abdullah wouldn’t order the Guard into action, or that if he tried, the order would backfire because it would make him look unhinged. In other words, they had to believe their conspiracy was airtight.
Assuming they were involved at all, and that Wells hadn’t simply fallen for the ramblings of two old men.
“What happened?” Wells said.
“She was speaking. An audience of women. At a hotel in Jeddah. It was a man dressed as a woman.”
“How many dead?”
“Too many.” Miteb’s voice was steady but weak, his age showing.
“I’m sorry, Prince.”
“I must go. Our jet—”
“Before you do. I need money.”
“A fee? Of course, of course—”
Wells was embarrassed. “Not a fee. For things I need to buy.” Plane tickets. Kevlar. Sniper scopes.
“How much?”
“More is better. And one other thing—” Wells explained.
“I think that’s possible. Have you found anything yet, Mr. Wells?”
“I’m still working.”
“Please try. My brother, you understand, he’s very angry.”
“When I get something, how can I reach you?”
“Call Pierre. He can pass along the message, even if Saeed’s men are listening.”
“All right. Please tell your brother I’m sorry.”
“Your sorrow won’t help him. Only revenge.”
And not even that, Wells thought. As Miteb no doubt knew. “Safe journeys, Prince.”
“Safe journeys. Inshallah.”
THE KNOCK CAME THIRTY minutes later. A valet handed over a black leather briefcase. When Wells popped the latches he found it stuffed with one-hundred- and five-hundred-euro notes and hundred-dollar bills, new and crisp and held in pale blue paper bands that read “Banque Privat — Cr
edit Suisse.” Wells didn’t bother counting them. Miteb had sent over millions of dollars. In a briefcase that he hadn’t even locked. A reminder of the men Wells was dealing with. As if he needed one.
Atop the money, a pistol in a clear plastic bag. Wells’s second request. A Beretta 9-millimeter, from one of Miteb’s bodyguards. Given the choice, Wells would have preferred a Glock. But he knew that the guys who worried the most about muzzle velocity and trigger pressure were the guys who’d never shot to kill. Up close, a pistol was a pistol. Past forty feet, the Glock was superior. But if he was shooting from that far away, he was already in trouble.
Wells popped the clip, racked the slide to be certain the chamber was empty, squeezed the trigger. The Beretta’s previous owner had taken good care of it. It was freshly oiled, its action smooth. It would do. He reloaded it, slipped it into the briefcase.
The phone trilled again. “Mr. Wells?” A woman with a rich Irish brogue. “I’m Sandra McCord. With the American Express private client division. Mr. Azari asked me to call you.”
“I don’t know that name.”
“He works for the prince.” Her voice fell to a whisper, as if even saying the title was blasphemy. “He said you would need a credit card.”
“Then I’d better get one.”
Sandra agreed to messenger over two cards, one in Wells’s name, the other under the pseudonym Tom Ellison, matching his Canadian passport. Both would be basic AmEx green cards, less likely to attract attention than fancier varieties.
“How soon can you get them to me?”
“Two hours. We have an office in Nice.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Tell you what. I’ll pick them up in an hour. And what’s the limit?”
“A half-million euros. That’s our standing agreement with Mr. Azari. I hope it’s acceptable.”
Miteb had supplied two of the four essential tools of the trade, money and a weapon. Wells still needed a clean passport and an untraceable phone, but those could wait. He had to move. He took the briefcase and folded his expensive new clothes in his expensive new bag and left. No reason to check out. Let the front desk believe he was staying another day.
AT THE TRAIN STATION, Wells bought a disposable cell and a handful of SIM cards and a first-class ticket for a Eurostar to Milan. He wanted to head east. And to avoid airports as long as he could. Train passengers could pay cash, and passports weren’t checked within the European Union’s borders.
He arrived in Milan five hours later, just as the evening rush was starting. The station had opened in 1931 and was a creature of its era, enormous stone blocks and vaulted arches. Mussolini had no doubt been proud. Near the entrance, Wells glimpsed an Italian news channel reporting on the bombing in Jeddah: “Terrorismo nell’Arabia Saudita.” He stopped to watch, but the report lasted only a few seconds. Just another bombing in the Middle East. It had killed a member of the Saudi royal family, but Alia wasn’t exactly Princess Di.
Outside the station, Wells found a grimy two-star pensione and slipped a hundred-euro note to the clerk for a room, no passport or registration needed. He flipped on the television for background noise and called Shafer. “Tell me something.”
“You’re lucky. The card hit. Where are you?”
“Milan.”
“Who’d you meet in Nice?”
“Friend of a friend. This thing in Jeddah—”
“It’s bad.”
“Incisive analysis, Ellis.”
“Thank you.”
“What happened over there?”
“Nobody knows. We offered to send a forensics team, but they turned us down. They’re not in a caring and sharing mood. But they had real security at the hotel. Metal detectors, bomb dogs. They’re saying the bomber was dressed as a woman. Which would make it easier, but still.”
“AQ?”
“I don’t know, and I couldn’t tell you over this phone if I did. But we think no. Who gave you that credit card, John?”
“It’s from a guy the Saudis picked up last month in Riyadh.” An explanation that wasn’t quite true and evaded rather than answered the question, in any case.
“He’s connected to this?”
“They think so.”
“They still have him?”
“He’s dead now. They found a body, no ID. They wanted help in making him.”
“And came to you?”
“Some people think I’m helpful. What’s on that card, Ellis?”
“Tell me again how you got involved in this.”
Wells had no choice but to lift his skirt. A little. “The Saudis are worried about their security and thought I could help. They wanted somebody who isn’t connected to them.”
“Who?”
“Can’t say.”
“Inside the family or out?”
“Inside.”
Shafer was silent. Then: “The card was activated four months ago. First used at an electronics store in Beirut. Based on the size of the purchase, probably for cell phones. Then for flights from Beirut. On Middle East Airlines. The Lebanese carrier. One to Jeddah, two to Riyadh. Only one was round-trip. Then hotels in Riyadh. A rental car. Restaurants. Nothing exciting.”
“What’s the name on the card and the plane tickets?”
“Not until you give me more and not on this line. But I have a bonus for you. We think there’s a connected card. Used in the same store for more phones. Still active. Somebody’s been buying gasoline with it. Something from a gas station, anyway.”
“In Beirut.”
“No. A town called Qaa. In the northern Bekaa Valley. The plane tickets were bought on an Internet connection from the same place.”
The Bekaa. Hezbollah country. Wells didn’t get it. Miteb and Abdullah seemed certain that Saeed was behind the bombings. But what if Iranians were orchestrating all these attacks, trying to destabilize the Saudi monarchy?
“You should find an embassy so we can talk on a secure line.”
“Not now.”
“John. Who’d you meet in Nice?”
“I’m getting a feeling you already know. Who’s having this conversation, Ellis? You and me? Or is Vinny on speaker?”
“I’ll help you, but you’ve got to play, John. It can’t go one way.”
“Answer one question. You guys have anybody on me?”
“Truth. I’m not sure. But I don’t think so. You popped up too fast for that. Can I give you some advice?”
“Can I stop you?”
“Leave this one alone. Let us handle it. These Saudis, they’ll use you and toss you.”
“Lucky I can count on you, then.” Wells hung up, pulled the SIM card out of the phone, and flushed it away. A roach dropped from the showerhead, crawled along the tub. As if it knew it was in Milan, the creature was strangely stylish, black with brown stripes. Even so, Wells decided to move on.
HE SAT AT A coffee bar just inside the train station’s center entrance and considered his next move. The conversation had gone too easily. Shafer hadn’t just given him a tip. He’d answered every question Wells had asked and demanded next to nothing in return.
Wells wanted to believe he’d outsmarted Shafer. Or that Shafer was helping him from respect for their history. But he knew better. Leave this one alone. Let us handle it. The truth was the opposite. Shafer and the agency wanted Wells to chase this lead. Because the CIA didn’t have sources it could trust in Saudi Arabia, certainly not at the top of the royal family. And it couldn’t commit operatives to the Bekaa without knowing more about what was on the other end. Vinny Duto couldn’t risk losing a team to Hezbollah. Duto wanted Wells to run recon until he decided what to do. He figured the agency could track Wells, and that even if Wells lost the watchers, he’d have to ask for help when he got in trouble.
The ugly part was that Duto was probably right. Even worse, Wells couldn’t be sure Duto would come through if he asked for help. After all, Wells didn’t work for the CIA anymore. He
was on private business. Getting used by two countries at once.
So be it. At least he understood the game. And he was fairly sure that Shafer had wanted him to see how he was being played. Which was a minor comfort.
WELLS DIDN’T THINK THE agency had put anyone on him in the last twenty-four hours. But he needed to be certain. Even on MATO — monitor and track only — orders, watchers would make trouble.
No need for fancy moves tonight, Wells thought. He had enough money and alternate routes to Lebanon to make tracing him a chore. He bought a first-class sleeper ticket for the train from Milan to Bari, on Italy’s southeastern coast, the back heel of the boot. The train left at 8:20 p.m. At 8:17, he headed for the platform, shouldering through the dwindling crowds of Milanese commuters on their way home to the suburbs. He didn’t run. Anyone or no one could have been trailing him.
At these moments, Wells always remembered Guy Raviv, the CIA operative who’d trained him in countersurveillance at the Farm. Near the end of training, Raviv brought Wells to the Washington Monument. An agency team was watching them, Raviv said. Wells had thirty minutes to lose them and report back. He had to stay within one block of the Mall.
“These are the pros,” Raviv said. “Not the schlubs we use down in Virginia. I had to beg them to waste an hour on you. Told them you were the class stud. Every class has a stud, you know. Most of you make damn poor ops. You fall in love with the moves and forget the rhythm.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“If you’re lucky, one day you will. Now go.”
Wells wandered east, toward the Capitol. The day was sunny, warm, not too humid, a treat for D.C. in July. Thousands of families and students and twentysomethings hung out, playing Frisbee on the lush, green lawn and picnicking under the trees. Wells couldn’t figure who was on him. The heavy woman in a too-tight T-shirt and a red Cardinals hat? The two Asian students kicking a soccer ball past each other?
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