by Daniel Silva
“Do you know how to reach him?”
“Who?”
“The man who produced this painting without so much as a photograph to guide his hand. The man whose name should be right there.”
Gabriel tapped pause. “I had breakfast with my prime minister this morning and told him in no uncertain terms that I want nothing to do with this.”
“And what did your prime minister say?”
“He asked me to reconsider.” Gabriel returned the BlackBerry to his pocket. “Send a message to your friend, Sarah. Choose your words carefully to protect my identity.”
Sarah removed her iPhone from her handbag and typed the message. A moment later the device pinged.
“Well?”
“Khalid wants to see us tonight.”
“Where?”
Sarah posed the question. When the response arrived, she handed the phone to Gabriel.
He stared gloomily at the screen. “I was afraid he was going to say that.”
9
Nejd, Saudi Arabia
The plane that delivered Sarah Bancroft to Israel was a Gulfstream G550, a ninety-six-foot aircraft with a cruising speed of 561 miles per hour. Gabriel replaced the flight crew with two retired IAF combat pilots, and the cabin crew with four Office bodyguards. They departed Ben Gurion Airport shortly after seven p.m. and streaked down the Gulf of Aqaba with the transponder switched off. To their right, ablaze in the fiery orange light of the setting sun, was the Sinai Peninsula, a virtual safe haven for several violent Islamic militias, including a branch of ISIS. To their left was Saudi Arabia.
They crossed the Saudi coastline at Sharma and headed eastward over the Hejaz Mountains to the Nejd. It was there, in the early eighteenth century, that an obscure desert preacher named Muhammad Abdul Wahhab came to believe that Islam had strayed dangerously from the ways of the Prophet and the al salaf al salih, the earliest generations of Muslims. During his travels throughout Arabia, he was horrified to see Muslims smoking, drinking wine, and dancing to music while dressed in opulent clothing. Worse still was their veneration of trees and rocks and caves linked to holy men, a practice Wahhab condemned as polytheism, or shirk.
Determined to return Islam to its roots, Wahhab and his zealous band of followers, the muwahhidoon, launched a violent campaign to cleanse the Nejd of anything not sanctioned by the Koran. He found an important ally in a Nejdi tribe called the Al Saud. The pact they formed in 1744 became the basis of the modern Saudi state. The Al Saud held earthly power, but matters of faith they left in the hands of the doctrinal descendants of Muhammad Abdul Wahhab—men who despised the West, Christianity, Jews, and Shiite Muslims, whom they regarded as apostates and heretics. Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda shared their view. So, too, did the Taliban and the holy warriors of ISIS and every other Sunni jihadist terrorist group. The toppled skyscrapers in Manhattan, the bombs in Western European train stations, the beheadings and the shattered markets in Baghdad: all of it could be traced back to the covenant reached more than two and a half centuries ago in the Nejd.
The city of Ha’il was the region’s capital. It had several palaces, a museum, shopping malls, public gardens, and a Royal Saudi Air Force base, where the Gulfstream landed shortly after eight. The pilot taxied toward a quartet of black Range Rovers waiting at the edge of the tarmac. Surrounding the vehicles were uniformed security men, all armed with automatic weapons.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” murmured Gabriel.
“Khalid assured me you would be safe,” replied Sarah.
“Did he? And what if one those nice Saudi security guards is loyal to another faction of the royal family? Or better yet, what if he’s a secret member of al-Qaeda?”
Sarah’s phone pinged with an incoming message.
“Who’s it from?”
“Who do you think?”
“Is he in one of those Range Rovers?”
“No.”
“So who are they?”
“Our ride, apparently. Khalid says one of them is an old friend of yours.”
“I don’t have any Saudi friends,” said Gabriel. “Not anymore.”
“Maybe I should go first.”
“An unveiled American blonde? It might send the wrong message.”
The Gulfstream’s forward cabin door had a built-in airstair. Gabriel lowered it and, trailed by the four bodyguards, descended to the tarmac. A few seconds later the door of one of the Range Rovers opened and a single figure emerged. Dressed in a plain olive-drab uniform, he was tall and angular, with small dark eyes and an aquiline nose that gave him the appearance of a bird of prey. Gabriel recognized him. The man worked for the Mabahith, the secret police division of the Saudi Interior Ministry. Gabriel had once spent a month at the Mabahith’s central interrogation facility in Riyadh. The man with the bird-of-prey face had handled the questioning. He was not a friend, but nor was he an enemy.
“Welcome to Saudi Arabia, Director Allon. Or should I say welcome back? You’re looking much better than when I saw you last.” He grasped Gabriel’s hand tightly. “I trust your wound healed well?”
“It only hurts when I laugh.”
“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“A man in my position needs one.”
“Mine, too. Business is quite brisk, as you might imagine.” The Saudi glanced at Gabriel’s bodyguards. “Are they armed?”
“Heavily.”
“Please instruct them to return to the aircraft. Don’t worry, Director Allon. My men will take very good care of you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The bodyguards reluctantly complied with Gabriel’s order. A moment later Sarah appeared in the cabin door, her blond hair moving in the desert wind.
The Saudi frowned. “I don’t suppose she has a veil.”
“She left it in New York.”
“Not to worry. We brought one, just in case.”
The highway was smooth as glass and black as an old vinyl record album. Gabriel had only the vaguest idea of its direction; the throwaway phone he had slipped into his pocket before leaving Tel Aviv read no service. After leaving the air base, they had passed through miles of wheat fields—Ha’il was the breadbasket of Saudi Arabia. Now the land was harsh and unforgiving, like the brand of Islam practiced by Wahhab and his intolerant followers. Surely, thought Gabriel, it was no accident. The cruelty of the desert had influenced the faith.
From his vantage point in the Range Rover’s rear passenger-side seat he could see the speedometer. They were traveling in excess of one hundred miles per hour. The driver was from the Mabahith, as was the man seated next to him. One Range Rover was in front of them, the other two were trailing. It had been a long time since Gabriel had seen another car or truck. He supposed the road had been closed.
“I can’t breathe. I actually think I’m beginning to lose consciousness.”
Gabriel looked across the backseat toward the black lump that was Sarah Bancroft. She was cloaked in the heavy black abaya that the senior Mabahith man had tossed over her a few seconds after her feet touched Saudi soil.
“The last time I wore one of these things was the night the Zizi operation fell apart. Do you remember, Gabriel?”
“Like it was yesterday.”
“I don’t know how Saudi women wear these things when it’s a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade.” She was fanning herself. “Khalid once showed me a photograph from the sixties of unveiled Saudi women walking around Riyadh in skirts.”
“It was like that all over the Arab world. Everything changed after 1979.”
“That’s exactly what Khalid says.”
“Is that right?”
“The Soviets invaded Afghanistan, and Khomeini seized power in Iran. And then there was Mecca. A group of Saudi militants stormed the Grand Mosque and demanded the Al Saud give up power. They had to bring in a team of French commandos to end the siege.”
“Yes, I remember.”
&nb
sp; “The Al Saud felt threatened,” said Sarah, “so they trimmed their sails accordingly. They promoted the spread of Wahhabism to counter the influence of the Shiite Iranians and allowed hard-liners at home to enforce religious edicts strictly.”
“That’s a rather charitable view, don’t you think?”
“Khalid is the first to admit mistakes were made.”
“How magnanimous of him.”
The Range Rovers turned onto an unpaved track and followed it into the desert. Eventually, they came to a checkpoint, through which they passed without slowing. The camp appeared a moment later, several large tents standing at the foot of a towering rock formation.
Sarah unconsciously straightened her abaya as the Range Rover drew to a stop. “How do I look?”
“Never better.”
“Do try to keep that Israeli sarcasm of yours in check. Khalid doesn’t appreciate irony.”
“Most Saudis don’t.”
“And whatever you do, don’t argue with him. He doesn’t like to be challenged.”
“You’re forgetting one thing, Sarah.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s the one who needs my help, not the other way around.”
Sarah sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
10
Nejd, Saudi Arabia
In press interviews in the West, Prince Khalid bin Mohammed spoke often of his reverence for the desert. He loved nothing more, he said, than to slip anonymously from his palace in Riyadh and venture alone into the Arabian wilderness. There he would establish a crude camp and engage in several days of falconry, fasting, and prayer. He would also contemplate the future of the Kingdom that bore his family’s name. It was during one such sojourn, in the Sarawat Mountains, that he conceived The Way Forward, his ambitious plan to remake the Saudi economy for the post-petroleum age. He claimed to have hit upon the idea of granting women the right to drive while camping in the Empty Quarter. Alone amid the ever-shifting dunes, he was reminded that nothing is permanent, that even in a land like Saudi Arabia change is inevitable.
The truth about KBM’s desert adventures was far different. The tent into which Gabriel and Sarah were shown bore little resemblance to the camel-hair shelters in which Khalid’s Bedouin ancestors had dwelled. It was more like a temporary pavilion. Rich carpets covered the floor, crystal chandeliers burned brightly overhead. The news of the day played out on several large televisions—CNN International, the BBC, CNBC, and, of course, Al Jazeera, the Qatar-based network that Khalid was doing his best to destroy.
Gabriel had anticipated a private meeting with His Royal Highness, but the tent was occupied by KBM’s traveling court—the retinue of aides, functionaries, factotums, groupies, and general hangers-on who accompanied the future king everywhere he went. All wore the same clothing, a white thobe and a red-checkered ghutra held in place by a black agal. There were also several officers in uniform, a reminder that the young, untested prince was waging war on the other side of the Sarawat Mountains in Yemen.
Of the crown prince, however, there was no sign. One of the factotums deposited Gabriel and Sarah in a waiting area. It was furnished with overstuffed couches and chairs, like the lobby of a luxury hotel. Gabriel declined an offer of tea and sweets, but Sarah attempted to eat a honey-drenched Arab pastry while still wearing the abaya.
“How do they do it?”
“They don’t. They eat with other women.”
“I’m the only one—have you noticed? There isn’t another woman in this tent.”
“I’m too busy worrying about which one is planning to kill me.” Gabriel glanced at his wristwatch. “Where the hell is he?”
“Welcome to KBM time. It’s an hour and twenty minutes later than the rest of the world.”
“I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“He’s testing you.”
“He shouldn’t.”
“What are you going to do? Leave?”
Gabriel ran his palm over the silken fabric of the couch. “It’s not so crude, is it?”
“You didn’t really believe all that?”
“Of course not. I’m just wondering why he bothered to say it at all.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because men who tell one lie usually tell others.”
A sudden commotion erupted among the white-robed courtiers as Crown Prince Khalid bin Mohammed entered the tent. He was dressed traditionally in a thobe and ghutra, but unlike the other men he also wore a bisht, a brown ceremonial cloak trimmed in gold. He was holding it closed with his left hand. With his right he was pressing a mobile phone to his ear. The same phone, Gabriel assumed, that Unit 8200 had compromised. He could only wonder who else might be listening—the Americans and their partners in the Five Eyes, perhaps even the Russians or the Iranians.
Khalid terminated the call and stared at Gabriel as though astonished to see Israel’s avenging angel in the land of the Prophet. After a moment he crossed the richly carpeted floor, warily. So did four heavily armed bodyguards. Even when surrounded by his closest aides, thought Gabriel, KBM feared for his life.
“Director Allon.” The Saudi did not offer his hand, which was still clutching the phone. “It was good of you to come on such short notice.”
Gabriel nodded once but said nothing.
Khalid looked at Sarah. “Are you under there somewhere, Miss Bancroft?”
The black mound moved in the affirmative.
“Please remove your abaya.”
Sarah lifted the veil from her face and draped it over her head like a scarf, leaving a portion of her hair visible.
“Much better.” It was obvious that Khalid’s bodyguards did not agree. They quickly averted their eyes and fixed them coldly on Gabriel. “You must forgive my security men, Director Allon. They’re not accustomed to seeing Israelis on Saudi soil, especially one with a reputation like yours.”
“And what’s that?”
Khalid’s smile was brief and insincere. “I hope your flight was pleasant.”
“Quite.”
“And the drive wasn’t too arduous?”
“Not at all.”
“Something to eat or drink? You must be famished.”
“Actually, I would prefer to—”
“So would I, Director Allon. But I am bound by the traditions of the desert to show hospitality toward a visitor to my camp. Even if the visitor was once my enemy.”
“Sometimes,” said Gabriel, “the only person you can trust is your enemy.”
“Can I trust you?”
“I’m not sure you have much of a choice.” Gabriel glanced at the bodyguards. “Tell them to take a walk, they’re making me nervous. And give them that phone of yours. You never know who might be listening.”
“My experts tell me it’s totally secure.”
“Humor me, Khalid.”
The crown prince handed the phone to one of the bodyguards, and all four withdrew. “I assume Sarah told you why I wanted to see you.”
“She didn’t have to.”
“You knew?”
Gabriel nodded. “Has there been any contact from the kidnappers?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How much are they asking for?”
“If only it were that simple. The House of Saud is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a trillion and a half dollars. Money is not the issue.”
“If they don’t want money, what do they want?”
“Something I can’t possibly give them. Which is why I need you to find her.”
11
Nejd, Saudi Arabia
The ransom note was seven lines in length and rendered in English. It was accurately spelled and properly punctuated, with none of the awkward wording associated with translation software. It stated that His Royal Highness Prince Khalid bin Mohammed had ten days to abdicate and thus relinquish his claim to the throne of Saudi Arabia. Otherwise, his daughter, Princess Reema, would be pu
t to death. The note did not specify the manner of her execution, or whether it would be in accordance with Islamic law. In fact, there were no religious references at all, and none of the rhetorical flourishes common in communications from terrorist groups. On the whole, thought Gabriel, the tone was rather businesslike.
“When did you receive it?”
“Three days after Reema was taken. Long enough for the damage to be done. Unlike my father and his brothers, I have only one wife. Unfortunately, she cannot have another child. Reema is all we have.”
“Did you show it to the French?”
“No. I called you.”
They had left the encampment and were walking in the bed of a wadi, with Sarah between them and the bodyguards following. The stars were incandescent, the moon shone like a torch. Khalid was fussing with his bisht, a habit of Saudi men. In his native dress he looked at home in the emptiness of the desert. Gabriel’s Western suit and oxford shoes gave him the appearance of the interloper.
“How was the note delivered?”
“By courier.”
“Where?”
Khalid hesitated. “To our consulate in Istanbul.”
Gabriel’s eyes were on the rocky earth. He looked up sharply. “Istanbul?”
Khalid nodded.
“It sounds to me as though the kidnappers were trying to send you a message.”
“What sort of message?”
“Maybe they’re trying to punish you for killing Omar Nawwaf and chopping his body into pieces that could fit inside carry-on luggage.”
“It’s rather ironic, don’t you think? The great Gabriel Allon moralizing about a little wet work.”
“We engage in targeted killing operations against known terrorists and other threats to our national security, many of them funded and supported by elements from your country. But we don’t kill people who write nasty things about our prime minister. If that were the case, we’d be doing nothing else.”
“Omar Nawwaf is none of your concern.”
“Neither is your daughter. But you’ve asked me to find her, and I need to know whether there might be a link between her disappearance and Nawwaf’s murder.”