Spy for Hire (20 page)

Hoping that Abdullah hadn’t been lying when he’d mentioned that Muhammad had been taking English lessons, Mark clicked on the Staff icon at the top of the school’s website. It was a small, prohibitively expensive school; there appeared to be only one teacher per grade. The kindergarten teacher, who also taught preschool English, was a woman named Jean Harman.

Today was a Saturday, the last day of the Muslim weekend, so Mark knew it was a near certainty that the school would be closed. He’d have to track Jean Harman down elsewhere.

He googled
Bahrain phonebook
and wound up on the website for Batelco, the main telecommunications company in Bahrain. Typing in the name
Jean Harman
brought up a listing for
Jean and Victor Harman
, beneath which was an address.

36

Bahrain

The bathroom in Rear Admiral Jeffrey Garver’s spacious three-bedroom apartment was large enough to accommodate a wide double sink, above which hung an equally wide mirror. Both Garver and his wife Miriam were standing in front of this mirror, staring at their respective reflections.

Garver—who was the director of intelligence for US Naval Forces Central Command in Bahrain—was partially dressed in white boxer shorts and a white undershirt; he had only just gotten around to shaving because he’d spent a sleepless night and then morning videoconferencing with Central Command headquarters in Tampa, Florida. His wife, wearing a pea-green ankle-length skirt and long-sleeve yellow blouse, was applying her makeup, getting ready for an afternoon meeting of the Bahrain Officer Spouses’ Club. Their apartment was on the sixth floor of a high-rise located on the west side of Manama, less than a quarter mile away from the US naval base.

Through the bathroom window, Garver could just see the building where he worked, and a green baseball field. Past the base, in Manama Bay, he could make out two guided missile destroyers.

God willing, he thought, pulling his razor carefully down his cheek, this view wasn’t going to change much in the years to come. The Fifth Fleet was responsible for patrolling the Persian Gulf, that narrow body of water through which twenty percent of the world’s oil passed. Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Iraq, Iran, Qatar,
and the United Arab Emirates all touched its waters. Take away the fleet, and all hell might break loose.

“I spoke with Jason last night,” said Miriam, referring to their youngest son. “He sends his best.”

Garver forced himself to smile. “Decent of him.”

“He seemed busy. Fitting in all right, I guess.”

“Who?”

“Your son, are you even listening to me?”

The Garvers’ youngest son had just joined their oldest at the US Naval Academy, which was also Jeffrey Garver’s alma mater.

“I’m sure he doesn’t miss us a bit,” said Garver. He ran his razor under hot water, rinsing off the shaving gel and stubble, then brought the blade to the underside of his chin.

Three more had died today.

It amazed him that his wife could be so oblivious—indeed that so many Bahrainis could still be so oblivious—to what was happening. People really did live in a fantasy world. Not for long, though. If the news didn’t break today, it would tomorrow.

Moments later, as she applied eyeliner, Miriam said, “Reema came yesterday.”

A fifty-eight-year-old Bahraini mother of four, Reema came twice a week to clean, do the laundry, and occasionally buy groceries.

“I saw.”

“She was on time, I’ll give her that.”

Garver cleaned his razor off again, leaned in closer to the mirror, and began carefully shaving under his nose.

“She asked,” added Miriam, “whether instead of taking off the first week of December, she might take off the second. Something about the date of her nephew’s wedding getting changed due to—”

“Miri—” That was Garver’s nickname for his wife. “You know I don’t want to hear it.”

He spoke sharply.

“I know, dear. I know.”

“These people always have reasons a mile long, and it always has something to do with their damn second cousin, younger brother, aunt, or whatever. At some point, you have to decide between trying to please every last person in your family and doing your job. I know that sounds harsh, but…”

“Don’t be mean, dear.”

“Fair is not mean. What did you tell her?”

“That I would ask you, but that you were a navy man, and that navy men didn’t like changing the schedule after it was set.”

Garver shook his head. With everything else that was crashing down around him, this was the last thing he needed to deal with.

“She should know that by now. How many times do I have to tell these—”

“Now, Admiral, you know I don’t like to hear those words.”

Heeding his wife’s warning, Garver stopped himself from saying what he’d been thinking. But he’d be damned if he was going to let the housekeeper walk all over him.

“No. No, she can’t change the date. She made a commitment and I expect her to honor it. We don’t do ourselves or her any good by tolerating bad behavior.”

No doubt, thought Garver, that ruling would earn him a few nasty looks the next time he saw the housekeeper. She’d fault him, try to make him out to be the bad guy, just because she, like so many other Arabs, refused to plan her own life properly. That was the problem with this whole region.

For the hundredth time, Garver thought of the catastrophe that had hit the island, and of the boy and the failed mission to retrieve him, and of what he’d been forced to do as a result of that failure—at great risk to his career and his family. If only Miri knew…

The Bahrainis had failed to protect the boy, and the Saudis had failed to retrieve him. Damn incompetents. Garver was sick to hell of it.

37

The town of Al Jasra, where Muhammad’s schoolteacher lived, lay ten miles west of Manama.

Though the houses there were much smaller than those in Riffa, many still sat behind high walls, some of which had been topped with shards of glass. The schoolteacher’s home was encircled by such a wall, but the front gate had been left open, and two boys were playing soccer in the driveway.

Behind the boys, a small, white stucco house lay nestled amid acacia trees and pomegranate bushes. It was eleven thirty in the morning.

“Hey there!” Mark called, as he stepped through the gate. His new leather briefcase hung from his shoulder.

The boys stopped their game and turned to him, suspicious. Mark was glad he’d shaved and showered. In the friendliest voice he could muster, he said, “Sorry to interrupt your game, guys, but I’m looking for Mrs. Jean Harman?” He smiled as best he could. “I don’t suppose she would be the mother of one of you boys?”

The taller of the two eyed Mark for another moment, then turned toward the house and yelled in a British accent, “Mum, someone here for you!”

Mark gave a little wave of his hand. “Hey, thanks so much.”

No one appeared though. After a minute of just standing there, the boy yelled again, this time as loud as he could. When that didn’t produce a response, he finally trudged up to the front door, opened it, and yelled some more.

This time, a woman around Mark’s own age, with dirty-blond hair and bangs, did appear. She wore a yellow sundress that came down to her shins.

Mark smiled meekly and walked up the driveway toward her.

It wasn’t a nice thing he intended to do, but then, many of the things he’d done over the course of his long career as a spy hadn’t been nice. The reason he’d done them was that he’d believed the alternatives to be worse.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I’m looking for a Mrs. Jean Harman?”

She flashed him a wary but not unwelcoming smile. “You’ve found her.”

“I’m with the American embassy in Manama.”

Mark produced his old embassy ID back from when he used to be the CIA’s station chief in Baku, introducing himself as Mark Sava as he handed it to her. She took the ID reluctantly and examined it.

“Counselor for political affairs,” she read. And then, “But this is for an embassy in Azerbaijan.”

“It is. I was just transferred.” He added, “Because of the troubles.”

“Oh, I see.” She handed back the ID card.

“I’m here at the request of the Bahraini government. Now, I understand you teach at the elementary school in Riffa?”

“I do.”

Mark reached into his briefcase and searched through some of the manila folders and legal pads he’d purchased on the drive out from Manama.

He pulled out one of the pads and dragged his finger across a list of names he’d written down. “And a young royal, a two-year-old boy named Muhammad, is one of your preschool English students?” Mark studied his legal pad. “He attends your Sunday class, if I’m not mistaken?”

“I’m sorry, but were you going to tell me what this is about?”

When training to be a CIA officer, Mark had read of a study where someone had sent hundreds of Christmas cards to random people in the phone book; many had sent Christmas cards back, just out of a sense of obligation—you get a card, you give a card. The need to reciprocate was a common human impulse.

It was also an impulse that any good spy, or con artist, knew how to exploit. Which is why, before Mark tried to pry information out of someone, he often tried to give them something first. It didn’t matter if they didn’t want what they’d been given. Most people would still feel the need to give something in return anyway.

With that in mind, he said, “I’m here, Ms. Harman, because I’ve been told there’s a custody battle going on at the moment, one that involves your student, Muhammad. Now, I don’t mean to alarm you, but as the child’s teacher, you have a relationship with Muhammad that I’m told some of the royals who want custody of him may seek to…” Mark paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “… to abuse.”

Jean Harman brought her hand up to her mouth. “But I hardly know the boy.”

“Be that as it may, I’ve been authorized to offer you the assistance of the US government should you ever feel you need it. If you should ever feel any undue pressure, by all means—”

“Pressure? Why would anyone want to pressure me?”

“If you were called to testify, I assume.”

“Testify about what?”

“The boy’s well-being, I suppose.”

“I would hardly know about that, would I?”

“Maybe not. But if you should feel pressure from either side at any point, please don’t hesitate to call either of the two numbers I’m going to leave with you. The first is my direct number, the second is for the department at the US embassy that’s handling this matter.”

Mark wrote down two phone numbers. He ripped the sheet of paper off his legal pad and handed it to Jean Harman.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” she said, looking confused. “I’m still not sure—” She paused, sounding hesitant. “I guess I still don’t understand why the US embassy is involved in this?”

“All I know is that we received a request from the Bahraini interior minister and we decided to honor it. I suspect they don’t trust their own people in this matter.”

“Good lord.”

“Now, there are a few things you might be able to help with. There’s some concern that Muhammad’s caretaker, a woman named”—Mark read from his legal pad—“Anna… I’m sorry, I’m transliterating from the Arabic, and that’s not my specialty, am I getting that right?”

“No, I don’t think you are. The woman who always brought Muhammad to class was named Kalila.”

“Hmm…” Mark scanned his paper.

“Kalila Safi.”

“OK, I have her. There’s some concern regarding her whereabouts. She’s disappeared, and the concern is she’s taken Muhammad with her.”

Jean Harman gave him an odd look. “Well, why wouldn’t she?”

“I don’t know. It’s clear I don’t know as much about the situation as you do. What’s Kalila’s relationship to the royal family?”

Jean Harman looked uncomfortable with the question. “Really, if you don’t know already…”

“Maybe I’m focused on the wrong person. I’ve also been told about another one of Muhammad’s caretakers named Hasini Ahmed. Is there anything you can tell me about her?”

“I’ve never heard the name.”

Mark observed the awkward expression on Jean Harman’s face. He sensed she didn’t want to tell him to bug off, but that she would if he pushed her any further.