“You’re lucky. The card hit. Where are you?”
“Milan.”
“Who’d you meet in Nice?”
“Friend of a friend. This thing in Jeddah—”
“It’s bad.”
“Incisive analysis, Ellis.”
“Thank you.”
“What happened over there?”
“Nobody knows. We offered to send a forensics team, but they turned us down. They’re not in a caring and sharing mood. But they had real security at the hotel. Metal detectors, bomb dogs. They’re saying the bomber was dressed as a woman. Which would make it easier, but still.”
“AQ?”
“I don’t know, and I couldn’t tell you over this phone if I did. But we think no. Who gave you that credit card, John?”
“It’s from a guy the Saudis picked up last month in Riyadh.” An explanation that wasn’t quite true and evaded rather than answered the question, in any case.
“He’s connected to this?”
“They think so.”
“They still have him?”
“He’s dead now. They found a body, no ID. They wanted help in making him.”
“And came to you?”
“Some people think I’m helpful. What’s on that card, Ellis?”
“Tell me again how you got involved in this.”
Wells had no choice but to lift his skirt. A little. “The Saudis are worried about their security and thought I could help. They wanted somebody who isn’t connected to them.”
“Who?”
“Can’t say.”
“Inside the family or out?”
“Inside.”
Shafer was silent. Then: “The card was activated four months ago. First used at an electronics store in Beirut. Based on the size of the purchase, probably for cell phones. Then for flights from Beirut. On Middle East Airlines. The Lebanese carrier. One to Jeddah, two to Riyadh. Only one was round-trip. Then hotels in Riyadh. A rental car. Restaurants. Nothing exciting.”
“What’s the name on the card and the plane tickets?”
“Not until you give me more and not on this line. But I have a bonus for you. We think there’s a connected card. Used in the same store for more phones. Still active. Somebody’s been buying gasoline with it. Something from a gas station, anyway.”
“In Beirut.”
“No. A town called Qaa. In the northern Bekaa Valley. The plane tickets were bought on an Internet connection from the same place.”
The Bekaa. Hezbollah country. Wells didn’t get it. Miteb and Abdullah seemed certain that Saeed was behind the bombings. But what if Iranians were orchestrating all these attacks, trying to destabilize the Saudi monarchy?
“You should find an embassy so we can talk on a secure line.”
“Not now.”
“John. Who’d you meet in Nice?”
“I’m getting a feeling you already know. Who’s having this conversation, Ellis? You and me? Or is Vinny on speaker?”
“I’ll help you, but you’ve got to play, John. It can’t go one way.”
“Answer one question. You guys have anybody on me?”
“Truth. I’m not sure. But I don’t think so. You popped up too fast for that. Can I give you some advice?”
“Can I stop you?”
“Leave this one alone. Let us handle it. These Saudis, they’ll use you and toss you.”
“Lucky I can count on you, then.” Wells hung up, pulled the SIM card out of the phone, and flushed it away. A roach dropped from the showerhead, crawled along the tub. As if it knew it was in Milan, the creature was strangely stylish, black with brown stripes. Even so, Wells decided to move on.
HE SAT AT A coffee bar just inside the train station’s center entrance and considered his next move. The conversation had gone too easily. Shafer hadn’t just given him a tip. He’d answered every question Wells had asked and demanded next to nothing in return.
Wells wanted to believe he’d outsmarted Shafer. Or that Shafer was helping him from respect for their history. But he knew better.
The ugly part was that Duto was probably right. Even worse, Wells couldn’t be sure Duto would come through if he asked for help. After all, Wells didn’t work for the CIA anymore. He was on private business. Getting used by two countries at once.
So be it. At least he understood the game. And he was fairly sure that Shafer had wanted him to see how he was being played. Which was a minor comfort.
WELLS DIDN’T THINK THE agency had put anyone on him in the last twenty-four hours. But he needed to be certain. Even on MATO — monitor and track only — orders, watchers would make trouble.
At these moments, Wells always remembered Guy Raviv, the CIA operative who’d trained him in countersurveillance at the Farm. Near the end of training, Raviv brought Wells to the Washington Monument. An agency team was watching them, Raviv said. Wells had thirty minutes to lose them and report back. He had to stay within one block of the Mall.
“These are the pros,” Raviv said. “Not the schlubs we use down in Virginia. I had to beg them to waste an hour on you. Told them you were the class stud. Every class has a stud, you know. Most of you make damn poor ops. You fall in love with the moves and forget the rhythm.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“If you’re lucky, one day you will. Now go.”
Wells wandered east, toward the Capitol. The day was sunny, warm, not too humid, a treat for D.C. in July. Thousands of families and students and twentysomethings hung out, playing Frisbee on the lush, green lawn and picnicking under the trees. Wells couldn’t figure who was on him. The heavy woman in a too-tight T-shirt and a red Cardinals hat? The two Asian students kicking a soccer ball past each other?
Wells bought a ticket to the National Air and Space Museum, took the big escalator upstairs, jogged down. The soccer players drifted in his direction. He walked east, found himself standing at the foot of the Capitol, looking up at its great white dome. Two joggers were making suspiciously slow loops. Or maybe they were just slow. The woman in the Cardinals hat huffed toward him. Any of them could have been watching, or all of them. He had no idea how he could lose this team under these conditions. The mission was impossible. Maybe that was the point. Raviv was always making a point.
