The Secret Soldier

“We are.”

“They want us to put up a force field?”

Maggs didn’t smile. “The women who visit your wife are going to have to take off their burqas before the marines go near them.”

“We’ll get them a tent or something.”

Along with the warnings, the State Department, CIA, and White House kept asking the same questions: What’s happening? Why these targets? Is Abdullah still in charge? Kurland was short on answers. Abdullah and Saeed responded to his condolence messages with brief thank-yous sent through their offices. Even Prince Turki, a thirdgeneration royal who was pro-reform and friendly to the United States, had stopped returning Kurland’s calls.

At least the folks in Washington were too polite to ask What’s the mood on the ground? What’s the average Saudi thinking? They knew full well that Kurland didn’t have a clue. On the fourth night after the bombing, Kurland found himself venting to his wife. They were watching television in bed, a day game at Wrigley, nine hours behind. Barbara was snuggled in the crook of his arm, eyes closed, her face covered in the white wrinkle cream that he’d learned not to joke about.

“You know, for all the good we’re doing, we might as well be there.”

“Where?”

“There. Chicago.”

Her eyes blinked open. “I told you, I’m not going home.”

“I don’t mean you. I mean us. Useless as tits on a bull.”

“You know I hate that expression.”

“Sorry. But we’re stuck in this cage, pretending we have some idea what’s happening here. When we go home, everybody asks, ‘What’s it like? What are they really like?’ I hope those ladies are giving you some idea, Barb. I know they’re not a representative sample, but they’re something. ’Cause I don’t have a clue.”

“You’re doing the best you can, Graham. Not like you can drive through Riyadh in the back of a convertible, dressed like Uncle Sam and waving the flag.”

Kurland had to smile. “Wouldn’t that be great? Bring in a Sting Ray and a fire truck and some cheerleaders and have a real parade. Wave our pom-poms on the way through Justice Square”—also known as Chop-Chop Square, the courtyard in downtown Riyadh where public executions were carried out.

“That’s a wonderful idea.” She closed her eyes, nestled into the gray hair that covered his chest. “Good night, sweetheart.”

“Good night.”

That night Kurland imagined his Memorial Day parade. But the dream turned into a nightmare. Instead of a convertible, he stood on an old tanker that leaked Saudi crude into the desert. The cheerleaders and firefighters disappeared, and he was alone. Except for Barbara. She was driving. But when he called out to her, she didn’t answer.

He woke tired, ready to dress down his staff just to clear his throat. As he was showering, his phone rang. It was Clint Rana, Kurland’s personal aide. “Mr. Ambassador. Prince Saeed’s office called. He’d like a meeting.”

“When?”

“Today. Didn’t say why.”

Even so, the call lightened Kurland’s mood. At least he’d have something to tell D.C.

* * *

THE MEETING WAS SET for 12:30 at the prince’s offices in the Defense Ministry, in the center of Riyadh, two miles from the embassy. A fiveminute drive. Even so, Maggs insisted on a “hard armored” convoy — two vans and three Suburbans, all retrofitted to survive ambushes. Their doors had been replaced with inch-thick steel plate, their windows swapped for smoked Plexiglas that could stop a.50-caliber sniper round. To protect them from roadside bombs, their chassis had been reinforced and raised three inches. Not all the modifications were defensive. The welders had cut narrow ports in the skin of their armor to allow the marines inside to fire out without opening windows or doors.

Four Marine guards traveled in each van, three in each Suburban. In all, the convoy had seventeen marines, locked and loaded with enough firepower to level a village. Kurland, Maggs, and Rana rode in the lead Suburban, while the convoy’s communications officer and the marine captain in charge of the squad followed in the second.

At 12:15, the convoy cleared the north exit gate from the Diplomatic Quarter. Two Saudi police cars and an unmarked Mercedes waited just outside. Lights flashing, the eight vehicles rolled south, then made a quick left onto a six-lane divided highway that ran through the center of Riyadh.

Outside, the muezzins were calling midday prayers. Riyadh had thousands of mosques, ranging from one- room boxes to giant shrines. It needed even more. Through the Suburban’s smoked-glass windows, Kurland glimpsed men bowing to the west, toward Mecca, in a parking lot. They looked African, with dark black skin. “Why are they praying outside?”

Rana glanced over. “Immigrants. Probably don’t have a mosque.”

Immigrants in Saudi Arabia couldn’t become citizens and were generally considered disposable. Employers often confiscated their passports and travel documents, and the police jailed them for being in the country illegally if they complained. If they were caught selling or using drugs, they faced the death penalty. Saudi Arabia chopped off an average of one hundred heads a year, and more than half of the executed were noncitizens. American and European workers avoided the worst harassment, but even they were monitored. If they failed to renew their visas, they found their ATM cards blocked, a good way to ensure that they didn’t overstay their welcome.

“Nasty place, isn’t it?” Kurland said. It wasn’t a question.

“Like they say in West Texas, there’s no oil in paradise.”

THE DEFENSE MINISTRY WAS housed inside Riyadh’s strangest building, an oval office tower, widest at its midsection with a relatively narrow base and roof. At night, the building was lit a faint yellow. Saudis and foreigners alike called it the egg.

Kurland had visited the egg once before, for his welcome-to-Saudi round of introductions. He’d listened to Saeed mouth platitudes about the importance of the Saudi relationship with the United States. Saeed was a small man with heavy jowls, bulging eyes, and a trim mustache that looked to Kurland like it belonged on a Colombian cartel chief. Though, to be fair, many Saudis favored mustaches.

Unlike King Abdullah, Saeed had been distinctly cool to Kurland. Despite his age and infirmities, Abdullah had talked for hours and invited Kurland and his wife to see his stable of camels and his prize falcons. Saeed had stayed precisely thirty minutes and then checked his watch. “I must go, Mr. Ambassador,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

Back at the compound, Kurland asked Rana if he’d somehow offended the prince. “That’s just how he is,” Rana said. “Plays it close.” And makes sure we know who’s a child of Allah and who’s an infidel visitor, Kurland thought.

Now, as the high steel gates to the ministry compound opened and the upside-down building loomed, Kurland wondered why Saeed had asked for him — and whether the king knew of the meeting.

Saeed’s top-floor office looked north and west to the two skyscrapers that dominated downtown Riyadh, the Kingdom Tower and the Faisalia Tower. He and his son Mansour, the head of the mukhabarat, stood at the window as Kurland and Rana walked in.

Saeed wore a crisp white ghutra and a smooth golden thobe. He smiled at Kurland as though they were best friends. They settled themselves, and after greetings and offers of tea, Saeed leaned in and grasped Kurland’s arm. “These are difficult times for our kingdom, Ambassador. These terrorists have dealt us a great blow.”

“America is prepared to provide whatever assistance you need,” Kurland said in English, as Rana translated.

“And we thank you. But our security forces are capable of handling the situation. We have a photo of the assassin, as you know. He was traveling under a Jordanian passport. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his real name. But the Jordanian GID”—General Intelligence Directorate—“is working with us to trace him.”

“Is your assumption that he was Jordanian? Or Saudi?”