“All right.” Gaffan tucked the key into his pocket. “I’m in.”

Near Zygi, in the center of the south coast, Wells stopped at a fishing village that hadn’t gentrified, probably because of the cement factory on the hill above town. Two hundred run-down houses with red-tiled roofs clustered around a narrow harbor. The ships were small, their hulls rusty. Except for one, a sleek white cruiser, seventy feet long, at the end of the pier in the center of the harbor.

Wells parked next to a man scraping barnacles from the hull of a trawler that looked barely seaworthy. “Speak English?”

“A little.”

Wells nodded at the cruiser. “Whose is that?”

The man went back to scraping. They walked up the pier, slimy with fish guts, kelp, and jellyfish. Up close, the ship was impressive, low and fast, with big twin engines. A shirtless, burly man, early forties, shoulders covered by dull green tattoos, sat in a folding chair by the gangplank. A knife dangled from a leather scabbard on his hip. He looked at Wells and yawned. Wells couldn’t remember the last time someone had yawned at him. The gesture seemed particularly disrespectful.

“We want to talk to your captain.”

“I am captain.”

“No, you’re not.”

“He’s busy. No tourists on this boat.”

“We’re not tourists.”

The guy shooed them away, closed his eyes. Wells stepped forward and, before the guy could reach for the knife, grabbed his arms and tugged him out of the chair and onto the deck. Gaffan grabbed his legs.

“On three—”

They swung him sideways and pitched him into the oily water behind the cruiser. He came up sputtering and shouting in Greek—

And then Wells heard the unmistakable ch-chock of a shotgun being pumped. He turned slowly, hands raised, to see a small man with curly black hair standing at the back of the cruiser, pointing a sawed-off at them. “You are looking for the captain?”

WELLS AND GAFFAN FOLLOWED the man into a spotless cafe and up a narrow set of stairs to a terrace overlooking the harbor. In the corner, a gray-haired man drank coffee and studied what looked like People magazine. As Wells got closer, he saw that the magazine was, in fact, People.

“Sit, please,” the gray-haired man said. They sat. “Is this your first time in Cyprus?” His English was excellent. Wells nodded. “And you’re American. What’s your name?”

“Jim.”

“Jim. I’m Nicholas. It’s a beautiful day here,” the man said. “Why would you disturb it? Throw my friend in the harbor.”

“I need a ride to Lebanon. I look at your boat, I see a man who does business.”

“MEA flies nonstop.”

“Flying makes me nervous.”

“Strangers make me nervous.”

“I need to carry some supplies. The kind that don’t fly well.”

“Most of the time, those supplies leave Lebanon. Not the other way.”

“I mean the kind that go boom.”

“What, specifically?”

“Two pistols. Two silencers. Two AKs. Four hundred rounds. Two grenades. Two pairs of handcuffs.”

“That’s a lot of supplies.”

“I have a lot of money.”

“Stand up, both of you.”

They did. Nicholas carefully patted down Wells and Gaffan. “Who do you work for?”

“Does it matter?”

“This is a very stupid request. Yet you don’t look like stupid men.”

Wells took the People and jotted down a cell number on Celine Dion’s face. Then pulled ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket. He laid the money on the magazine like an open-faced sandwich and slid it to Nicholas. “Thanks for listening,” he said. “You want to do business, let me know. But decide soon.”

“How much will you pay?”

“You tell me.”

NICHOLAS CALLED THE NEXT afternoon. He would provide the weapons and carry Wells to Lebanon. Gaffan wouldn’t be on the boat. He would fly into Beirut instead, insurance against Nicholas changing his mind halfway across and dumping Wells overboard.

“How much?”

“A hundred twenty thousand.”

His greed impressed Wells. The trip would take less than eight hours each way. And one hundred twenty thousand dollars was probably more than the boat was worth. Wells had to haggle a little bit, if only to prove that he wasn’t a complete sucker. “For that I can buy my own boat and ditch it.”

“You told me name the price.”

“Make it eighty thousand.”

“One hundred. Last offer.”

Wells couldn’t waste more time. “Done. But it has to be tonight.”

“Then tonight it will be. Nine p.m. Be sure to wear black. Shoes, gloves, jacket, pants.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

WHEN WELLS ARRIVED AT 8:55, Nicholas stood waiting beside his ship. Wells walked up the pier, picking his way through the fish guts and trash, and saluted Nicholas. Nicholas saluted back. And without a word, Wells stepped on board.

CHAPTER 12

RIYADH

IN THE DAYS AFTER PRINCESS ALIA’S ASSASSINATION, LIFE BEHIND the walls of the U.S. embassy seemed unchanged. The consular officers rejected visa requests. The cultural affairs secretary moved ahead with his long-shot plan for a visit to Riyadh by four lesser-known American Idol finalists. Barbara Kurland played tennis with Roberto, whose shorts were as short as ever.

But the facade of normality went only so far. A permanent scowl twisted the lips of Dwayne Maggs, the embassy’s head of security. And Graham Kurland, the ambassador, understood why. Kurland had grown only too familiar with the acronyms in the CIA’s internal cables.

The OPFOR, opposing force, was probably not AQAP — Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. No, the OPFOR was UNK, unknown. But it appeared HT/HC, highly trained and capable. The SIM, Saudi Interior Ministry, had not asked for TECH/LOG, technical or logistical help. The CIA and NSA judged that the SIM was not close to catching the OPFOR.

The reports made Kurland’s HH, head hurt. But no acronym was needed for the last bit of bad news, which landed two days after Alia’s death. “MORE ATTACKS JUDGED HIGHLY LIKELY. RECOMMEND MAX SECURITY POSTURE.”

“Thought we were at max posture already,” Kurland said.

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