The Secret Soldier

“Something to look forward to. When you’re done buying the phone, e-mail me your number. I’ll call you when I can.”

“You don’t seriously think someone’s monitoring my phone.”

“Possible. And getting more possible.”

“Anyone else, I’d be calling a shrink about now.” She paused. “I’ll get the phone. Tell me you miss me.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” Click.

THE DAY PASSED WITH no call from Shafer. Wells wanted to move but had no place to go. He fought the urge to book a flight for Karachi or Cairo, motion for motion’s sake.

He prayed that night, properly, for the first time in weeks. Perhaps if this mission went off, he’d have the chance to see the Kaaba. The thought cheered him more than he would have expected. When he closed his eyes, he could see the great black cube, imagine walking around it. He supposed talking to Miteb had stirred him. The old man’s acceptance of Allah’s judgment and death’s inevitability felt like wisdom.

In the morning, he sent the concierge for more clothes and a bag. Wherever he went, he’d be well dressed. The passports arrived, courtesy of FedEx. And just before noon, the phone trilled.

“Ellis?”

“Hold for Prince Miteb,” a man said. A moment later: “Princess Alia is dead. A suicide bomb in Jeddah.”

“Slow down, Prince—”

“This is Abdullah’s granddaughter. His favorite. If the others are involved—”

Miteb fell silent. But Wells understood. Suicide bombers had gone after the royal family before. But if Miteb and Abdullah were right, this wasn’t just another suicide bombing. The king’s own brother might have ordered this attack.

Wells wondered how Abdullah would respond. Under normal circumstances, Saeed and Mansour had the edge. They had the secret police. But in a war, Abdullah’s National Guard could reduce the muk to rubble. Except that open war would be desperately risky for both sides. The regular army would get involved, pick a side. Or its midlevel officers might try to overthrow the royal family entirely, take the country’s oil for themselves. Saeed and Mansour couldn’t take that chance. They had to believe that Abdullah wouldn’t order the Guard into action, or that if he tried, the order would backfire because it would make him look unhinged. In other words, they had to believe their conspiracy was airtight.

Assuming they were involved at all, and that Wells hadn’t simply fallen for the ramblings of two old men.

“What happened?” Wells said.

“She was speaking. An audience of women. At a hotel in Jeddah. It was a man dressed as a woman.”

“How many dead?”

“Too many.” Miteb’s voice was steady but weak, his age showing.

“I’m sorry, Prince.”

“I must go. Our jet—”

“Before you do. I need money.”

“A fee? Of course, of course—”

Wells was embarrassed. “Not a fee. For things I need to buy.” Plane tickets. Kevlar. Sniper scopes.

“How much?”

“More is better. And one other thing—” Wells explained.

“I think that’s possible. Have you found anything yet, Mr. Wells?”

“I’m still working.”

“Please try. My brother, you understand, he’s very angry.”

“When I get something, how can I reach you?”

“Call Pierre. He can pass along the message, even if Saeed’s men are listening.”

“All right. Please tell your brother I’m sorry.”

“Your sorrow won’t help him. Only revenge.”

And not even that, Wells thought. As Miteb no doubt knew. “Safe journeys, Prince.”

“Safe journeys. Inshallah.”

THE KNOCK CAME THIRTY minutes later. A valet handed over a black leather briefcase. When Wells popped the latches he found it stuffed with one-hundred- and five-hundred-euro notes and hundred-dollar bills, new and crisp and held in pale blue paper bands that read “Banque Privat — Credit Suisse.” Wells didn’t bother counting them. Miteb had sent over millions of dollars. In a briefcase that he hadn’t even locked. A reminder of the men Wells was dealing with. As if he needed one.

Atop the money, a pistol in a clear plastic bag. Wells’s second request. A Beretta 9-millimeter, from one of Miteb’s bodyguards. Given the choice, Wells would have preferred a Glock. But he knew that the guys who worried the most about muzzle velocity and trigger pressure were the guys who’d never shot to kill. Up close, a pistol was a pistol. Past forty feet, the Glock was superior. But if he was shooting from that far away, he was already in trouble.

Wells popped the clip, racked the slide to be certain the chamber was empty, squeezed the trigger. The Beretta’s previous owner had taken good care of it. It was freshly oiled, its action smooth. It would do. He reloaded it, slipped it into the briefcase.

The phone trilled again. “Mr. Wells?” A woman with a rich Irish brogue. “I’m Sandra McCord. With the American Express private client division. Mr. Azari asked me to call you.”

“I don’t know that name.”

“He works for the prince.” Her voice fell to a whisper, as if even saying the title was blasphemy. “He said you would need a credit card.”

“Then I’d better get one.”

Sandra agreed to messenger over two cards, one in Wells’s name, the other under the pseudonym Tom Ellison, matching his Canadian passport. Both would be basic AmEx green cards, less likely to attract attention than fancier varieties.

“How soon can you get them to me?”

“Two hours. We have an office in Nice.”

“Of course you do.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell you what. I’ll pick them up in an hour. And what’s the limit?”

“A half-million euros. That’s our standing agreement with Mr. Azari. I hope it’s acceptable.”

Miteb had supplied two of the four essential tools of the trade, money and a weapon. Wells still needed a clean passport and an untraceable phone, but those could wait. He had to move. He took the briefcase and folded his expensive new clothes in his expensive new bag and left. No reason to check out. Let the front desk believe he was staying another day.

AT THE TRAIN STATION, Wells bought a disposable cell and a handful of SIM cards and a first-class ticket for a Eurostar to Milan. He wanted to head east. And to avoid airports as long as he could. Train passengers could pay cash, and passports weren’t checked within the European Union’s borders.

He arrived in Milan five hours later, just as the evening rush was starting. The station had opened in 1931 and was a creature of its era, enormous stone blocks and vaulted arches. Mussolini had no doubt been proud. Near the entrance, Wells glimpsed an Italian news channel reporting on the bombing in Jeddah: “Terrorismo nell’Arabia Saudita.” He stopped to watch, but the report lasted only a few seconds. Just another bombing in the Middle East. It had killed a member of the Saudi royal family, but Alia wasn’t exactly Princess Di.

Outside the station, Wells found a grimy two-star pensione and slipped a hundred-euro note to the clerk for a room, no passport or registration needed. He flipped on the television for background noise and called Shafer. “Tell me something.”