The Secret Soldier jw-5

by Alex Berenson

  Wells told Gaffan what Kowalski and Shafer had said, their legal limbo.

  “You think it would get this messy?” Gaffan said.

  “Truth. I wouldn’t have gotten you involved if I had. I thought we’d be okay, even without Abdullah. Or without the agency. Didn’t count on us losing both. Guess I’m too used to having janitors.”

  “So we’re looking at murder charges dogging us forever?”

  “I don’t think so. In the end, Duto’ll thank us for hitting these guys.” Wells wished he was as certain as he sounded.

  “I’ll have to make space in my cabinet for all the medals we get.”

  “Exactly. But it may take a couple days. And I don’t think we want to be stuck here while we wait.”

  The next question was where to go. And how to get there. Wells could use his last clean passport to fly out. But Gaffan and Meshaal couldn’t count on clearing airport security. Their best answer looked like another cruise. At noon on their second day in Cyprus, they went shopping. Money wasn’t a problem. They still had the million dollars that Wells had left for Gaffan in the safe-deposit box, and Cypriot boat dealers were as friendly as the Lebanese to cash buyers.

  For three hundred thousand dollars, they picked a forty-nine-foot cruiser with all the trimmings, satellite television and phone, a fancy autopilot, and enough fuel tanks to get them to Cape Verde and then across the Atlantic. The boat was new, so they didn’t have to worry about the air-conditioning. It even had three cabins, so they wouldn’t have to share.

  The Saudi money greased everything. By late afternoon, the cruiser was fueled, insured, titled, and ready to go. It even had a name inked on its hull in six-inch black letters: Judge Wapner. Gaffan had insisted. Wells could almost hear the announcer’s stern warning: Don’t take the law into your own hands….

  “Very nice,” Meshaal said, as they boarded.

  “Glad you approve.”

  “Are we going to Gaza? Finally?”

  “Maybe not right away.” Wells could not imagine what the kid had made of the last seventy-two hours.

  They headed south, toward the Suez Canal, at a steady twenty knots. They couldn’t get through the canal until morning, so they had no need to speed. The cruiser more or less steered itself. As the Cyprus coast disappeared behind them, Wells decided to take another look at the stuff he’d found at the farmhouse. He spread the passport and manuals and notebook on a teak table in the rear of the cabin. He and Gaffan read in silence. Meshaal joined them a few minutes later. “What’s this?”

  “From your camp. Any of it look familiar?”

  Meshaal flipped through the passports. “We had to give them in. Is mine here?”

  “Yes. I’ve got it. For safekeeping. What about this?” Wells held up the green notebook from Talib’s bedroom. Meshaal shook his head. “Does the phrase forty-two Aziz three mean anything? Some kind of code?”

  “Not to me.”

  “But your leader called himself Aziz.”

  “But the way you say it, it sounds more like an address. In Buraydah, the town near where I grew up, there’s King Abdul-Aziz Boulevard.”

  The kid might have just paid his freight. Wells had been thinking of the phrase as a code. But every village in the Kingdom must have had a road named after Aziz. “Do you know where it might be?”

  “The three at the end… Some Saudi cities have a system where the numbers start again in each district. Or it could be a city with three different roads named after Aziz. Or even a building with three floors.”

  “That’s good. Thank you, Meshaal.”

  They leafed through the papers as the boat chugged south but found nothing more of consequence. Around midnight, Gaffan and Meshaal headed to their bunks. Wells turned out the cabin lights and called Anne. They hadn’t spoken in a week, since he left Cyprus for Lebanon.

  “John.”

  “Lovely lady.”

  “‘Lovely Rita, meter maid.’”

  “You’re way too young for that song.”

  “I’m on a Beatles kick. Very retro. Though to be honest, I don’t get why everybody thought they were so great.”

  “Once upon a time, they were bigger than Jesus. John Lennon said so himself.”

  “We’ll find out in a couple thousand years. I don’t even think they’re bigger than The National anymore.”

  “The who?”

  “Not The Who, either. Those guys fill stadiums.”

  Wells smiled in the dark. He’d missed talking to her. “Who’s on first.”

  “They came to see me, John.”

  “I hate to start this again, but who?”

  “They said they were FBI, but I’m not sure. They wanted to know if I’d heard from you, if I knew where you were.”

  “I hope you told them the truth. On both counts.”

  “I did. Yes and no.”

  “Then it’s fine. If they’re agency or FBI, they can’t hurt you as long as you’re honest.”

  “I wish I could see you.”

  “I wish I could see you, too. I wish you were here. You’d be having fun with this.” Parts of it, anyway, Wells didn’t say. Maybe not the part where I killed the six guys.

  “Are you in trouble, John?”

  “The usual.”

  “These guys said you were in serious trouble.”

  “I’d call it the usual. Maybe a little more. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Pulled over a drunk on Main Street two nights ago—”

  “You’re never going to let me live that down—”

  “No, wait. And I swear, by the time I got him in the back of the cruiser, he told me I looked great in the uniform, and that if there were more girls in the bar like me he wouldn’t have gotten himself arrested, because he’d still be there.”

  “Sounds like a real charmer. You give him your number?”

  “I tried, but I couldn’t remember it. I have so many phones now. He was cute, though.”

  “I’d better get home soon.”

  “You’d better.”

  BY SIX A.M. THEY had docked at Port Said, the northern entrance to the Suez Canal. While Egyptian land surrounded the canal on both sides, they didn’t need Egyptian visas to pass through it. According to international law, the Suez was open to vessels of any nationality, even during wartime — a rule meant to discourage any country from blockading or bombing it.

  Normally, boats had to wait at Port Said for at least twenty-four hours, but thanks to a liberal application of Saudi cash, the Judge Wapner avoided the usual delays and hitched onto the morning’s southbound convoy. An Egyptian pilot came aboard to steer them behind a half-dozen ships stacked high with containers. The canal had no locks. But to keep the big ships from damaging its banks, the convoy crawled along at eight knots. Traveling a hundred twenty miles would take fourteen hours. They would reach Suez, the city that marked the southern end of the canal, around midnight.

  The pilot spent his time sipping tea and smoking. He asked no questions about them or what they were doing, and Wells didn’t volunteer. The canal was as flat as a lake and smelled stale, almost fetid. Desert spread endlessly on both sides, its monotony broken only by low concrete pillboxes on the west side, defenses against the increasingly unlikely possibility of an Israeli attack. Egyptian soldiers popped out to wave as the cruiser passed.

  “They don’t see too many ships like this?” Wells said.

  “No.”

  Just after sunset, the desert fading from gold to black, the Egyptian’s cell phone beeped. He listened for a moment, hung up. “Turn on the television,” he said. “There’s been a big terrorist attack in Saudi Arabia. The president of the United States is talking.”

  They watched the press conference in silence until it ended. Wells didn’t understand why Shafer hadn’t called already, until he remembered Shafer didn’t have his new phone.

  Wells motioned for Gaffan to go downstairs.

  “We have to go in.”

  “To Cairo? The embassy?
”

  “Jeddah. The Kingdom. If Abdullah helps us, we can get in without the Defense Ministry knowing. The agency will give us stuff they won’t give the Saudis.”

  “How can you be sure they’ll work with us at all?”

  Because when a crisis hits this hard, guys like Duto know they have to try everything to fix it. Or at least look like they’re trying. If that means bailing us out of a few murder charges, they will. Especially since they should have already.

  Aloud, Wells said only: “I know. Trust me.”

  “It’s worked great so far.”

  Wells called Shafer.

  “Where are you?”

  “The Suez Canal. Heading for Jeddah.” Unfortunately, Jeddah was seven hundred miles south of the southern end of the canal. With the ship at full throttle, they’d arrive sometime the next afternoon.

  “The Saudis have closed their borders.”

  “I think we can get in. Abdullah has a palace on the Red Sea.”

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “Did the NSA find anything that matches forty-two Aziz three?”

  “No.”

  “Have them run it again. And the NGA, too. This time for a street address.” Wells explained what Meshaal had said.

  “So it could be anywhere in the country? That narrows it down.”

  “Do it, Ellis.”

  “All right.”

  “What’s happening back there?”

  “Nothing good. They’re moving two Ranger companies from Baghdad to Kuwait tomorrow. On your side, there’s an Airborne battalion on its way to Incirlik”—an air base in Turkey.

  “A battalion, Ellis?” An Airborne battalion meant seven hundred soldiers and armored vehicles delivered by parachute. An Airborne battalion meant an invasion, more or less.

  “The feeling is that if we have to go in, we better go in hard.”

  “Please tell me you’re sending in a team to check out the camp. Even if it is three days late.”

  “Yes. But remember Kurland only got hit six hours ago. We’re sorting through a lot of moving parts. We can’t even be a hundred percent sure it’s the same guys. Not yet.”

  “You’re right, Ellis. This has nothing to do with the terrorists Gaffan and I just found. Another highly trained jihadi squad just started operating inside the KSA. A coincidence.”

  “All I’m saying is the stakes are too high not to check everything.”

  “While you’re checking everything, how about you and the NSA run the names and passport numbers I’m about to give you, see if they go anywhere?” Wells read off the names from the camp.

  “We will,” Shafer said. “There is one problem with your theory that the guys from the camp are behind this. Especially if Saeed is funding them. It makes no sense. It’s suicide for the Sauds if we connect them to the kidnappers.”

  “I think the jihadis took Saeed money and got ambitious. The camp looked like it was running pretty much on its own. And if I’m right, and this is a rogue op, Saeed isn’t in control. If you were playing Red Team”—the enemy force—“how would you cause maximum chaos?”

  A long pause. Then Shafer said, “I think I’d take my hostage to a place where trying to rescue him would start a religious war.”

  “Mecca.”

  The theoretical ban on non-Muslims in Saudi Arabia was real in Mecca. The Saudi government enforced an exclusion zone that extended past the city’s borders. Driving from Riyadh to Jeddah, non-Muslims had to take a highway around the city.

  “Or Medina”—which had a similar ban—“but especially Mecca, sure.”

  “The kid we captured, he told me that some men in the camp went to Mecca.”

  “But how would they get Kurland past the roadblocks?”

  “Helicopter. They fly him in tonight, low, the Saudis will think it’s one of their own patrols.”

  “Clever, John. We’re picking up a lot of confusion right now, lot of birds in the air. And then, if I were playing Red Team, I’d make it ugly. Do something terrible to Kurland. Unforgivable. The Staties say he’s a nice guy, by the way. Maybe I’d even make it clear he’s in Mecca. Almost dare the United States to come after him.”

  Wells thought of the way that the man called Aziz had tortured Meshaal’s friend. Imagining him doing something unforgivable to an American ambassador was easy.

  “So we’re heading for Jeddah. If Abdullah okays it, we’ll land at his palace. If Kurland is in Mecca, we’ve got as good a chance of finding him as anyone. We can blend, speak the language, and Mecca’s only forty miles away.”

  “Let us pick you up, chopper you in, save you some time.”

  “I’d rather get in quietly.”

  “Your choice. By the way, Duto said your problem with those murder charges, it’s solved. Out of the goodness of his heart, he said.”

  “Nice of him. You hear anything, let me know. Otherwise, we’ll call you from Jeddah.”

  * * *

  WELLS HUNG UP, CALLED the number that Kowalski had given him for Miteb. The phone was silent for several seconds, beeped as if it were being forwarded, fell silent. Wells was about to hang up when a man answered.

  “Hello.” The voice unmistakably Miteb’s.

  “Prince. This is John Wells.”

  “Mr. Wells. Thanks be to God that you called. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened to this man. I met him twice, you know—”

  Wells needed to keep the old man focused. “Prince. I’m arriving tomorrow in Jeddah. With another American. It’s important your brother send someone to meet us so that we can dock at his palace and come into the Kingdom directly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want Prince Saeed to know we’re here.”

  “Right. Of course.” Miteb coughed, the sound as faint as a bare branch creaking.

  “Promise me you’ll do that.”

  “I promise. I’ll tell my brother.”

  “How is he?”

  “After Alia died, I thought he’d given up. Now he’s angry again. It’s Bedouin tradition”—Miteb coughed again, harder—“you open your tent to a stranger, and he’s safe. Always. Once he leaves, he can be your enemy, you fight, kill him, but while he’s inside, he’s a guest. Mr. Kurland was our guest.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  “Inshallah—”

  “Inshallah. But first you have to let us in. And arrange a car and weapons.”

  “Give me until tomorrow morning, and I will.”

  * * *

  AND MITEB HAD. WELLS didn’t know if Abdullah had ultimately okayed the decision to let them in — or even if Abdullah knew they were coming. Miteb hadn’t said. Wells wondered if he’d have the chance to speak with the old king again. Abdullah deserved a more dignified exit than the one he was facing, but then the men who’d kidnapped Kurland weren’t much interested in the king’s dignity.

  Just past noon, with the boat still one hundred fifty miles north of Jeddah, the voice of the Al Jazeera anchor quickened. “We’ve just learned that Ambassador Kurland’s kidnappers have released a video. We’re going to review it”—by which she meant make sure nobody’s chopped off his head—“and then screen it for you.”

  Less than a minute later, the screen cut to Kurland. “My name is Graham Kurland.” His face was pale, his voice weak. But he appeared unharmed. He sat on a wooden chair, his legs chained but his arms free. Behind him was a black banner with the Islamic creed, the shahada, embroidered in gold.

  “Until yesterday, I mistakenly believed I was the American ambassador to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I now understand that relations between the United States and the people of Arabia are impossible. My country is imperialist and filled with Zionists and infidels. It is time for the United States to free the people of the Arabian peninsula. I call on America to take five steps. First, it must ban its citizens from coming to Arabia, with the sole exception of Muslims completing the hajj. Second, it must no longer buy any product from Arabia, including oil. Th
ird, it must immediately withdraw its soldiers from Iraq, Afghanistan, and all other Muslim lands. Fourth, it must end all aid to Israel. And fifth, it must close the concentration camp at Guantánamo Bay. Only then can the United States reach a pure and lasting peace with Islam.”

  Kurland coughed, wiped his mouth. “An ambassador is supposed to understand the place he lives. I wasn’t a very good ambassador. I hid in my embassy. Now I see the true anger that the people of Arabia feel toward the United States. I wish I had known before.” He shook his head slightly, as though he wanted the world to know that he didn’t believe a word he’d said. “Barbara, I love you. Good-bye.” The camera closed on him, on his weary face and terrified eyes. We all know I’m going to die, they said. Let’s just make it quick.

  The screen faded to black and, after a moment, lit again. Kurland was gone. A masked man stood before the banner. “As you can see, the ambassador remains unhurt. We call on the United States and the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia to respond to all five of our requirements by noon tomorrow. If they do not, action will be taken.”

  WELLS MUTED THE TELEVISION. The kidnappers’ strategy was clear. Asking the United States to impose an embargo on Saudi Arabia and stop supporting Israel? The demands were deliberately absurd. If the kidnappers had asked — for example — that all Saudi prisoners be released from Guantánamo, a face-saving compromise might theoretically have been possible. But these conditions left no room for discussion.

  Of course, the kidnappers knew that. They didn’t want drawnout negotiations. They didn’t know how long they could hide Kurland. They would milk the situation for a few days, get as much publicity as possible, then murder him. After that, most likely, they’d say that they were acting on the orders of senior members of the House of Saud. And they’d have the evidence to prove it. How could the United States allow them to stay in power? It had attacked Iraq for much less.

  “It’s crap, isn’t it?” Gaffan said. “This is just an excuse for them to do what they want. What they’re going to do anyway. Cut him up.”

  Wells’s phone rang.

  “You saw?” Shafer said.

  “I saw.”

  “Believe it or not, I have good news. The NSA may have a hit on forty-two Aziz three. They say it could be an address in southern Jeddah.”