The Secret Soldier (40 page)

“Ellis. If we find him—”

“You have carte blanche. And assume no backup. There’s two Delta squads in Riyadh, but they’re confined to the embassy. If that changes, I’ll let you know.”

 

 

NOW THEY WERE STUCK
in limbo at Abdullah’s palace. Wells wondered if they’d been betrayed even before they arrived, if Saeed’s hold over Abdullah ran this deeply. But surely Abdullah controlled his own palace security.

An hour passed. The front door of the house was locked from the outside. The back door had a push-bar alarm like those that blocked fire stairs in office buildings. They could get out, but they’d be stuck on the palace grounds, with no car or weapons or identification. Wells figured they were better off waiting. His handset required a line-of-sight connection to the satellite, and the house had no windows. So they watched Al Jazeera, which had nothing new to report.

“This is Saudi Arabia,” Meshaal said. “Why did you bring me here? You’re not from Sheikh bin Laden.”

“True.”

“Let me out of here.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I need to use the bathroom.” Meshaal ran for the back door. Wells vaulted over the couch, grabbed him, dragged him back.

“You have my word, Meshaal. No one will hurt you.”

“Why would I believe you? You only lie to me.”

“If we wanted to hurt you, we would have. But we’re going to go very soon, and you’re going to wait here and do what you’re told. Yes?”

“I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

“No.”

Another half hour passed before the door swung open and Gharib walked in. “He stays,” the colonel said, nodding at Meshaal. “You come.”

Gharib led them to an unmarked two-story building, unlocked a door, waved them into an empty office. Gowns and leather sandals were spread across a table. A smaller table held their passports, two cell phones, a paper bag stacked with riyals, and car keys. Glock pistols, two M-16s, bullet-resistant vests, and extra ammunition filled an open gun cabinet.

“Take what you need,” Gharib said. “There’s a Jeep outside. It’s clean. Civilian registration. Once you leave, you won’t be allowed back.” He handed them two identity cards. “These say you’re Egyptian, not Saudi. That seemed safer. They’ll work for hotels and police checkpoints.” He nodded at the phones. “Those have my numbers pre-programmed. If you bump into Guard soldiers and there’s trouble, have them call me. The
muk,
too, though that’ll take longer to get sorted out.”

“And if we run into trouble with the other side?”

“Then I guess you’ll be making videos, too. Anything else you need?”

“Silencers. Handcuffs or flex-cuffs. A bunch of plastic bags, just simple ones from grocery stores or places like that. A roll of electrical tape. And maps of Jeddah and Mecca.”

“The Jeep has a GPS.”

“I’m not sure how accurately I can program it in Arabic.” Wells also wasn’t sure he wanted the National Guard to know where he and Gaffan were going.

“Most of my maps are in Arabic.”

“Even so.”

Gharib disappeared, returned with everything Wells had asked for.

“What about Meshaal?” Wells said.

“He’s our problem now.”

“Go easy on him. He doesn’t know anything.”

“We’ll take care of him.” Gharib’s hard, black eyes weren’t reassuring. He could have meant almost anything, and Wells didn’t have time to ask.

“Thank you for your help.”

“You’re Muslim, Mr. Wells.”

“Yes, colonel.”

“Then God be with you. I hope you can see the Kaaba when all this is done.”

AFTER KURLAND MADE THE VIDEO, THE KIDNAPPER LET HIM PISS IN
a bowl and then cuffed him to the chair and left. Kurland thought about his speech. The demands were too outlandish to be meaningful. This was political theater, meant to lead inexorably to a bullet in his head. Or worse, a knife to his neck.

His hands were locked together behind his back. He shrugged his shoulders and squeezed his hands together, trying to loosen the cuffs. After five minutes, he gave up. He’d done nothing but pull a muscle in his forearm. The cuffs around his ankles were even tighter. But he was no escape artist. He was a sixty-two-year-old man who shot ninety from the middle tees on a good day. Maybe when they moved him,
if
they moved him . . . He wasn’t being defeatist. He wasn’t resigned to his own death. More than anything, he wanted to get out of this room alive. But he couldn’t, not on his own.

Kurland had always grounded himself in reality, one reason that his company had avoided the worst of the housing bust. During the bubble, his competitors marched west on I-88 into Kane County and even De Kalb, bidding wildly for Illinois farmland. Their land costs doubled and tripled, and they found themselves having to charge three and then four hundred thousand dollars for houses that a few years before had cost half as much. Kurland asked himself,
when the three-percent-down loans stop, who’s going to buy these prairie palaces?
In 2005, he’d cut way back on new land purchases. His managers had howled. No new lots meant no new houses. They were putting themselves out of business. But he’d been right. Since the crash, Kurland Construction had picked up plenty of cheap land at bankruptcy auctions. The business was just waiting for him to come home.

If he ever did.

Enough. He didn’t want to think about his own doom. He wasn’t very religious, never had been, but he appreciated the Serenity Prayer. Cheesy but effective.
The wisdom to know the difference.
He closed his eyes and saw his wife playing tennis, her long brown legs under her skirt. She smiled sideways at him as he walked across the court for a kiss and a coffee. If he could keep her beside him, he’d be all right, whatever they did to him.

 

 

ABDULLAH RESTED ON HIS
bed, propped up against overstuffed pillows, his swollen stomach ballooning out of a white silk robe. He couldn’t keep his temperature right anymore. Hour by hour, his flesh was ignoring his protests and leading him away.

But not yet. Not until this abomination was settled.

The Bedouin were renowned for their hospitality. The desert was a foe more lethal than any man. So a tribesman’s tent was a place of peace, an escape from the sands. Centuries of custom dictated that hosts treat visitors with honor.
Only a dog snarls at a guest,
the tribesmen said. The fact that Kurland had been taken while traveling back from Abdullah’s palace made matters worse. When Miteb gave Abdullah the news, the king’s face flushed with shame.

Abdullah had spoken briefly to the president early that afternoon, expressing his condolences, promising that he and his men would do whatever they could to find Kurland. The two men agreed that the kidnappers’ demands didn’t bear discussion. But the conversation was strained. “Terrorism is a scourge of us all,” Abdullah said.

“Yes,” the president said, speaking through a translator. “Especially state-sponsored terrorism.” A warning, deliberately vague.

Neither man mentioned the camp in Lebanon. John Wells must have told the Americans about it, Abdullah thought. But he didn’t know if they’d raided the camp, or what evidence they’d found, if they’d tied the kidnappers to Saeed and Mansour. Abdullah couldn’t ask, and the president had no reason to say. No doubt he wanted to reveal as little as possible, keep his options open.

“The FBI director tells me that visas for all our agents will reach Dubai within the hour,” the president said.

“Yes. Dubai’s only two hours by air from Riyadh. They’ll be here before sunset.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s already taken too long. There can’t be any more delays. We’ll need full access to any evidence you develop. And we want the right to interrogate witnesses on our own if necessary.”

“I understand.”

“So can I count on your cooperation?”

“Yes.” Under other circumstances, Abdullah might have objected. But he was done helping Saeed and Mansour defend themselves from the Americans. If Saeed didn’t want these agents poking around on their own, he would have to tell the president himself. Most likely, Saeed would offer his full cooperation and then Mansour would make sure that the agents saw only what he wanted.

“Good. Please understand, whether you cooperate with us or not, we’re going to find the truth.”

“We have nothing to hide.” The king couldn’t remember the last time he’d told such an obvious lie. But it was for his country. He didn’t know what else to do.

“And when we capture these men, we intend to try them in the United States.”

Now Abdullah had to object. “If they’re Saudi citizens and they’re arrested here, they’re subject to our justice system. My own people died in these attacks, too. And believe me, we’re perfectly capable of enforcing our laws against these men.”

The president was silent for few seconds. “Let’s say that the issue of trials can wait until we capture these men.”

“Agreed. And now I have a request for you. Can you promise me that these soldiers in Kuwait and Turkey won’t be used in my nation?”

“They won’t be used against
you,
King. I can’t promise they won’t be used against the kidnappers.”

“That’s what those men want, Mr. President. For the world to see American soldiers marching through our cities, blowing up houses with tanks and helicopters.”

“It’ll be our last alternative.”

“At least tell me you won’t send them to Mecca or Medina. You must know—”

“I understand the sensitivities. So do our generals. We’ll do our very best to avoid unnecessary provocation.” The president had gone out of his way not to make any promises, Abdullah thought. “But
you
must know that we will do everything necessary to bring this man home alive.”

“So will we.”

“Good. Then we agree. I hope the next time we speak, the circumstances are happier.” Without waiting to hear Abdullah’s answer, the president hung up.

SINCE THEN, THE HOURS
had dragged interminably. Miteb reported that the
muk
had found two abandoned Chevy Tahoes painted with police logos northwest of here. They had traced the vehicles to a giant auto auction held east of Riyadh three months before. The name on their registrations corresponded to a man who had died a year before. Another dead end, for now.

Tomorrow the Guard would begin patrolling Riyadh and other major cities. But Abdullah knew better than to expect a miracle. The Guard was an army, not a police force. Unless its soldiers happened to see something unusual at a checkpoint or on patrol, they wouldn’t find Kurland on their own. So once again, Abdullah found himself dependent on Saeed and Mansour and the
mukhabarat.
He still hadn’t spoken with Saeed since the ambush. He dreaded the idea.

And as if Saeed were monitoring his very thoughts, at that moment his phone rang. “It’s time for us to talk. Alone.”

The brothers hadn’t been alone in the same room for eight years, since the other princes anointed Abdullah as King Fahad’s successor. Even two years ago, Abdullah would have relished this confrontation. But he was no longer sure he had the strength. “What do you want?”

“Not on this phone.”

“Come to my palace, then.”

Abdullah wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep. Instead he called Hamoud and asked for a pot of strong black coffee and his robes.

 

 

AN HOUR LATER, THEY
stood face-to-face in Abdullah’s study. Saeed and Abdullah, Abdullah and Saeed, the twin foundations of the House of Saud. The king forswore the kisses and hugs and greetings: “What have you done?”

“I didn’t order this, Abdullah.”

“These men belong to you.” Abdullah sat down heavily.

“I tell you I don’t know the men who did this. Attacking Americans, it’s suicide.”

“Mansour, then.”

“Mansour wants to be king. Not to live in a cave with Osama bin Laden.”

“Then who?”

“They acted on their own. But I have good news. Progress. We’ve found the name of the man in charge—”

“Of course you’ve found it. You were behind him all along.”

Saeed laughed, the sound tight and gravelly. As if the laugh had reminded him of his habits, he pulled a shiny red packet of Dunhills and a gold lighter from his pocket. He lit up a dose of cancer and sucked in deep.

“Don’t you know we’re the same, Abdullah?”

“Not even the same blood.”

“Fool yourself, then. Two old men who can never give way. If you hadn’t been so pigheaded, demanded Khalid as king, this would never have happened.”

“Is this why you came here? To blame me?”

“Don’t you want to hear where the investigation stands?”

“I want to hear that you’ve found this ambassador alive. Then we’ll figure out how to deal with the men who kidnapped him.”