Far below the surface, he rubbed his fingertips together until the last scarlet traces disappeared in the murky water. He’d find blood enough in the days to come.
Meshaal went below again, curled up, slept. Wells let him. Eventually the interrogators in Guantánamo would take another pop at him, but Wells didn’t think they would hear much more. He’d gotten what the kid had to give.
For now he tried to think through the questions the kid’s story raised. The answers were disturbing. Why did Aziz need to move the ventilation equipment? Because he’d built another cell in Saudi Arabia, and he didn’t want to buy more gear because he feared it could be traced. Why did he need an underground cell? For a captive. For a kidnapping. The obvious target was a Saudi royal. But Aziz had told his men that they’d be fighting American soldiers. Maybe he’d said that to motivate them. Maybe he was aiming at a Western housing compound, as Meshaal thought. The compounds had private American security forces along with official Saudi protection.
Or maybe… maybe Aziz thought he could get at the ambassador. But Wells couldn’t see how. The ambassador rarely left the American embassy, and when he did, a small army protected him. But Aziz had close to sixty men, a small army of his own. Their training wasn’t up to American standards. But their willingness to use suicide attacks was a huge tactical advantage.
Now the United States had to send a team to search what was left of the camp — and quickly, before Hezbollah decided to demolish it and the evidence it held. Raiding the camp now would be easy. Even so, a raid might not happen quickly. Before it could, the most powerful officials in Washington — Duto and the secretary of state and the national security adviser — would have to admit that they should have hit the camp already instead of leaving the attack to Wells. Then they would have to reach the obvious conclusion: The United States needed to go in now. And if Hezbollah and the Lebanese government didn’t agree, Langley would have to commit a CIA team with enough backup firepower from the Deltas to convince the militia to stand down.
Wells hoped Duto and the other big names — they liked to call themselves “principals”—would move quickly. Even so, Wells couldn’t see how a raid could happen in under forty-eight or seventy-two hours, which was already too long. If Aziz had been dismantling the camp for a month, he had to be close to striking. And the Saudis weren’t going to stop him, though they might be surprised when they saw his target.
Wells wished for a sat phone. But wishing was useless. They simply had to wait for darkness and then ease their way into the coast. The Cranchi could run in very shallow water, more proof of its speedboat roots. They didn’t need a harbor, just a quiet beach far enough from a village that they could ditch the boat and wade in. They’d sleep on the ground, and in the morning buy a phone or an Internet connection and get to Nicosia.
They could even leave Meshaal if he slowed them down. They’d get him back. He didn’t speak Greek and didn’t have a passport. He wasn’t getting off Cyprus on his own. Their first priority had to be making contact and getting to a safe house before the Cyprus cops found them and started asking unpleasant questions.
AFTER SUNSET, THE SEA glowed, streaks of white and black mating with every wave. They were ten miles south of the southwestern tip of Cyprus. The island glowed faintly through the night’s humid haze. “Land ho,” Gaffan said.
“Bring us in, then.”
“Aye-aye, cap’n.” Gaffan was trying for an English accent, not very well. “We’ll drink a pint o’ grog, have our pick of the lassies.”
Suddenly, Wells realized that they weren’t speaking Arabic. Hunger and heat and fatigue were making them sloppy.
“What are you saying?” Meshaal yelled.
Wells grabbed Meshaal’s skinny biceps, dug his fingers in tightly enough to feel the tendons flex. “Quiet.”
Cyprus wasn’t quite the cradle of civilization, but it was close. People had lived on the island for at least five thousand years. In other words, the coast didn’t have a lot of empty beachfront left for a landing. Hotels and villages speckled the shoreline, their lights glimmering. A mile out, Gaffan cut the engines. They floated silently, listening to cars on the coast road and a party at a hotel that sat behind a wide beach.
“Now what?” Gaffan said.
“Maybe we ought to find a slip, a real harbor, and dock there and walk away. Dare somebody to stop us.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But if they see us wade in like we’re crossing the Rio Grande to pick peppers, how’s that gonna look?”
“They didn’t teach this at the Farm?”
“They did, but I forgot.”
“Too bad. Would have come in handy.”
At least Gaffan got the cosmic absurdity. They’d successfully raided a terrorist training camp. Now they couldn’t figure out how to ditch a speedboat without getting caught. Wells pictured stepping off the Cranchi, walking through a sleepy village. If they were dressed better or spoke Greek or didn’t have the kid, maybe they could pull it off. But not this way.
“Find a stretch where the houses look empty, and we’ll just have to go for it.”
Gaffan chugged slowly east. Then they caught a break. The lights disappeared as the coast road swung behind a hilly ridge covered with scrub and cypress. The ridge sharpened into low bluffs too steep for houses. A wide white sand beach lay between the bluffs and the sea.
“We’re not going to do better than this,” Gaffan said. “Protected, no houses, smooth water.”
Wells looked at Meshaal. “We’re going to land there, and then we’re all getting out. You’re going to have to walk through the water.”
“Is this Gaza?”
“You’ve got Gaza on the brain. Forget Gaza. This is Cyprus.”
“You said—”
“We’re stopping here first. Then Gaza. Quiet, now.”
GAFFAN CUT THE ENGINES to just above idle and swung the ship toward the shore. The sea slopped against the hull, and the inboards grumbled. They closed to five hundred yards, four hundred—
And then heard the unmistakable sound of a woman in full cry, moaning as if all the world couldn’t contain her pleasure.
“We’re not the only ones looking for a romantic hideway,” Gaffan said.
Now Wells saw them — or to be more accurate, him — a few hundred feet west, where the beach was narrower and the bluffs made a sort of natural amphitheater. They must have had a blanket or an air mattress. A battered Kia 4x4 was parked on a narrow track along the side of the hill. The Kia gave Wells an idea. The idea wasn’t very nice. But it shouldn’t hurt anyone, and it might give him a chance to talk to Shafer before the end of the workday in Washington, six hours behind.
“Go. Get as close as you can. Fast.”
“That’s what she said.” Gaffan pushed the throttle, and the boat surged ahead.
Wells ran below and pulled the shoe box out of the duffel bag, left everything else. He emerged to see that they were about one hundred yards from the shore. The guy was still pumping away, but now he wagged a finger at them in warning. The water was nearly still, and the bottom rose smoothly and steadily, just fifteen feet deep, ten—
The moans stopped. The guy stood, his erection obvious. The woman sat up, her breasts full, nipples visible even from the boat. The guy said something to her, and she pulled on her top. The guy pulled on his shorts and shouted at them in Greek. Wells didn’t understand a word, but the meaning was clear enough. The guy was short, swarthy, muscular, late twenties, more hair on his chest than on his head. He was swimming in enough testosterone to fight rather than run. A mistake.
Wells grabbed the siderail as the boat scraped bottom and dug itself in. He jumped off the side. The water was only four feet deep and the sand firm. He ran for shore, pushing himself through the low waves. Gaffan followed him over. The Cypriot looked at them in shock. Wells came out of the water and dropped the shoe box and ran toward him. Suddenly, the guy seemed to realize that Wells might be dangerous. He sai
d something to the woman. She stood and pulled on her panties and reached for her skirt. Before she could pick it up, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the Kia.
But though Wells wouldn’t see forty again, he still moved like the linebacker he’d once been, eating ground with powerful strides. The woman screamed, and Wells knew what he had to do. “Take him down,” he yelled back to Gaffan.
The guy tried to cut him off, but Wells spun around him and went for the woman instead. He wrapped her up and covered her mouth with his arm, muting her screams. She bucked and kicked, but Wells held her tight. Her boyfriend punched wildly, but Wells swung the woman around to put her between them. No points for chivalry. He just wanted to get through this without getting any more seriously hurt. Gaffan reached them and punched the guy low in the stomach with a solid right and doubled him over and hit him again in the jaw. The guy went down hard, and Gaffan jumped him and rolled him over and sat on him.
Wells pulled the electrical tape from his cargo pants and wiped it dry and tore a foot-long piece and slapped it over the woman’s mouth. He flex-cuffed her wrists and pushed her down. Then he and Gaffan repeated the process with the guy. Their eyes were wide and terrified.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” Wells said. “Just your car.” They shook their heads in bewilderment. Wells reached into the guy’s pants and found a cheap black leather wallet and two condoms and the keys to the Kia. Somehow the condoms made Wells feel worse than anything else. He’d ruined their fun tonight.
Meshaal stood at the edge of the water, his mouth open. He’d surely never seen a naked woman before, much less anything like this. Wells waved him over. He picked up the shoe box and walked to them with his feet dragging like a dog on its way to the vet.
Wells dropped two wet stacks of hundred-euro notes on the sand. When they dried, they’d be worth more than the Kia. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We have to go.”
“THEY’LL BE ALL RIGHT,” Wells said fifteen minutes later. They were on the A6, heading east to Nicosia, the Kia’s heater on high to dry them out.
“Best night of their lives. They’ll tell the grandkids.”
“They’ll be fine.”
“You’re always so sure. Must be nice.”
They reached Nicosia an hour later, ditched the Kia, and walked though the town’s quiet streets to the hostel where Wells had stayed a week before. Then Wells found an Internet café and called Shafer, who got Wells into the American embassy so they could talk on a secure line.
“It’s gonna be messy,” Shafer said, when Wells was done explaining. “And you’re right. It may take a couple days to sort out.”
“Not too long.”
“If the cops get close, call me back. I’ll do my best to get you out.”
“That’s not it, Ellis. You didn’t see the camp. These guys have big plans.”
PART THREE
CHAPTER 18
RIYADH
“MY BROTHER SAYS I’M DYING. IS HE A PROPHET? DOES HE SEE THE future? What a gift it must be. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even Saeed. To see your own death. And then what do you do? Sit in your bed and count down the days? And your wives and your children and your children’s children? Shall you watch them die, too? Better to gouge your eyes and live in darkness than see all that.”
Abdullah’s rant began even before Kurland reached his chair, the Arabic pouring out of him as Rana struggled to keep up with the translation. They were in Abdullah’s massive palace in the desert just north of Riyadh. The king had summoned Kurland that morning, telling him only that they needed to meet immediately.
Abdullah finished his speech and coughed into his hand as if he’d just run a marathon. Kurland settled himself in his chair, a leather recliner that didn’t match the room’s eighteenth-century French furniture. He wondered what he was meant to say. When they’d met at Abdullah’s desert ranch, Abdullah had shown Kurland the spotless cages that housed his prize falcons, proud, long-feathered birds. The king had been smiling, almost playful. He’d laughed when a big brown camel — an ill-tempered beast that had won two races in Dubai — nipped at Kurland.
Abdullah was still alive, but the smiling man from the ranch was gone. The king’s face had melted into itself, crumpled like crushed wax paper. His body was heavier, and yet he seemed smaller and weaker. Kurland thought of Humpty Dumpty. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men. And the biggest surprise of all, he was alone, though two guards and two translators waited in the gilded corridor outside. Abdullah must have forbidden them.
Kurland tried to deflect the king’s rant with a joke. “I don’t know any prophets. Maybe I need new friends.”
“Are you asking me to smile? After what’s happened to my granddaughter?”
“I’m asking — I’m thanking you for giving me the chance to offer my country’s condolences about Alia’s death.”
“Is that why you think you’re here?”
“I’m here because you wanted to see me, King.”
“You’re here because of my brother. The prophet. King Saeed. Abdullah is dead and long live Saeed. Did you bow to him? Did you kiss his hand? Kneel before him to tie his shoes?”
Kurland thought back to his conversation with Saeed. Saeed had implied that Abdullah was too ill to govern. Though he hadn’t explicitly said that he planned to take over even before Abdullah died, the implication was clear. The Kingdom had gone through similar transitions before. Abdullah himself had governed as crown prince after King Fahad suffered a stroke in 1996.
Kurland wanted to reassure Abdullah. But he couldn’t choose a side in this battle. Two days before, he’d received instructions from Washington: The United States would take no position on succession in the House of Saud. Not officially, not unofficially. “You’re still king,” he said. “That’s how I see you, and that’s how America sees you.”
Abdullah ignored Kurland’s watery words, set off on another journey in Arabic. “I must be jealous of Saeed. He lives in the future, I don’t even see the past anymore. Did he flood the room with tears when he told you of my fate? Did he tell you the throne would be his? That he would mount it like a whore even before my corpse cools?”
“The United States respects the process by which your kingdom picks its leaders,” Kurland said. “We expect that other nations won’t interfere with our elections. Similarly, we don’t interfere with yours.”
Even to him the words sounded dry, mechanical. No surprise. But when he’d practiced them on the ride up, he hadn’t expected them to be so misaligned with the king’s mood. Abdullah was unfurling an epic of tragedy and betrayal. Kurland was reading from a position paper drafted by GS-15s in Foggy Bottom.
“Say what you mean. Whether I’m king or Saeed or someone else, the United States doesn’t care.”
“Of course we care. But our relationship with the Kingdom is long-standing, and whoever is king, we will respect Saudi interests.” Whoever had written these words should be flogged, Kurland thought. He quickly added, “King, I don’t know what’s passed between you and Saeed, but for what it’s worth, your brother didn’t say you were dying.”
“No?”
“He said you weren’t well. And that whoever ruled Saudi Arabia, the Kingdom would be a great friend to the United States.”
“‘A great friend to the United States.’” Abdullah’s voice was steady now, the madness in his eyes gone. “He’s as honest as a snake, my brother. Did he tell you about his other great friends? The clerics who preach jihad every Friday. The men who blow themselves up in Iraq and Afghanistan. Does that sound like a friend?”
“Is Saeed funding the insurgencies?”
“He’s too keen for that. He closes his eyes while imams shovel money to these men who kill your soldiers.”
“You don’t stop him?”
“You think I haven’t tried.”
Abdullah closed his eyes, slumped in his overstuffed chair. Rana reached for him, but Kurland shook his head and they waited in silence
. After a minute, the king opened his eyes. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you like some coffee? Or juice?”
“If you’re having something.”
Abdullah picked up the handset of the antique phone beside him. Almost before he’d hung up, his steward emerged with a tray of coffee, orange juice, and French pastries. Kurland sensed that the king needed a few minutes to gather his strength.
“What do you think of my country, Mr. Ambassador?”
Hardworking would be too obvious a lie, as would friendly, Kurland thought.
“I haven’t seen as much of it as I would have liked. The security situation. But the people I’ve met, they’re polite, thoughtful. Hospitable. Pious, I suppose. Like certain Americans. Mainly Southerners.”
“You think you understand Saudi Arabia?”
“No, sir. I wouldn’t say so. Sometimes I don’t even think I understand America.”
“America’s easy to understand. America is on the surface. Here everything is buried. You don’t have any idea what’s happening.”
“Tell me, then.”
To Kurland’s surprise, Abdullah did. About his plans to make his son king, the fury he had stirred in Saeed and Mansour. About the split in the family he caused.
“This has been going on since last year and we haven’t heard of it?”
“You do need new friends, Mr. Ambassador. But most of the princes feel it’s in their interest to hold their tongues. Once they’ve made a decision, they’ll want a strong king, and that will be impossible if the world knows our house is divided.”
“But you’ve broken that secrecy. You’ve told me.”
“My reasons don’t matter.”
“Even so, I’d like to know them.”
Abdullah didn’t answer. The silence stretched, and Kurland sat back and waited. Pressing the king to speak would be a terrible mistake, he thought. Beside him, he sensed Rana’s breathing change, heard Rana’s fingertips drum against his legs. Kurland tilted his head fractionally, trying to catch Rana’s eyes and convey the message: Not a word. Not a sigh. He’s got to talk on his own. And if you screw this up—
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