“They said they were your brothers, but they were traitors to the cause. That’s why they treated you so badly.”
Meshaal stepped back. “You know about that?”
“Of course. We’ve been watching.”
A unit this size had to have an outcast. Put twenty men together — whether at a frat house or a training camp — and group dynamics demanded a pariah. A zeta male. Meshaal fit the role perfectly.
“But you killed them.”
“We had to. We talked to them, but they wouldn’t listen. And this mission that they’re on, the sheikh doesn’t want it. Do you understand?”
Meshaal bobbed his head slowly.
“But you put me in the trunk. You put a hood on me!”
“There wasn’t time to explain then. We did this to free you. All of it. Now we have to go. And you’re coming. So you need to put on the pants and shoes we have for you”—the blue uniform pants and boots, which Wells hoped would fit—“and then you sit with us in the car. We’re going to the coast, and we have a ship to take us away. After that we’re going to have a lot of questions for you.”
“Then where are we going?” Meshaal was suddenly enthusiastic. He could choose to believe he was with two men who had killed everyone he trained with and were going to kill him, too — or two men who had rescued him from his misery at the orders of Osama bin Laden, the ultimate jihadi hero. Soon enough, the holes in the story would become too obvious for him to ignore. But for now he was rolling with it, and Wells wanted to encourage him.
“I’m not supposed to tell you that. But can I trust you?”
Meshaal nodded.
“Swear to Allah that I can trust you.”
“I swear to Allah. You can trust me.”
“We’re going to Gaza. A special mission.”
“Gaza.”
“Yes. Let’s go. But no more questions until we get out to sea. No talking at all.”
Without another word, Meshaal pulled on the boots and the pants, which were a size small and made him look even sillier than before. He slid in next to Gaffan. Between the three of them the Toyota smelled so bad that Wells could hardly breathe. But no matter. They lowered its windows and rolled down the hill toward the coast. Toward the sea. And escape.
CHAPTER 17
THE SUN GLOWED RED AND BELLY FLOPPED INTO THE SEA, FADING with a flourish that the drinkers seven thousand miles away at Margaritaville would have appreciated. Wells didn’t mind seeing it go. Gaffan had stocked the Cranchi with extra fuel and water, and even a few bags of dates. He’d forgotten sunscreen, and the motor for the Cranchi’s cockpit cover wasn’t working, a detail that the dealer in Beirut hadn’t mentioned. The glare off the water had burned Wells’s eyes and basted his brain.
But they’d had to stay off Cyprus until darkness came. Without a sat phone or Internet link, they couldn’t know if the Lebanese police had connected them to the camp. Wells was assuming the worst, that they were wanted from Beirut to Gibraltar. They needed to make contact with the agency before the Cyprus police found them. Their best bet was a night landing. Fortunately, their time at sea hadn’t been wasted. Thanks to Meshaal, Wells had plenty to tell Shafer.
FIFTEEN HOURS EARLIER, THE sky hinting at dawn, Wells sat beside Meshaal and offered him a handful of dates. Meshaal shook his head almost shyly. Wells reminded himself that the kid was only eighteen. If he pictured this trip as an adventure rather than an ordeal, he’d be more likely to talk. “Can you swim?”
“I’ve never even seen the ocean until now.”
“One day you’ll learn. Where did you grow up?”
“The Najd”—the high desert in the center of Saudi Arabia. “A village called Qusaibah. Maybe three hundred kilometers from Riyadh.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Not too much. Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Lebanon, but I trained in Afghanistan.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Lebanon.” Meshaal looked sidelong at Wells and then at the bubbly white wake behind the boat as though he wondered whether he could walk to shore. He was exhausted and scared, but he wasn’t going anywhere, and Wells figured that threats would shut him down.
“If my accent sounds funny, it’s because I spent a few years in Germany.”
“Where in Germany?”
“Hamburg.”
“My cousin went to Hamburg to study. He said the Germans drink too much alcohol and the women are immodest. But still he liked it. But he said the weather is bad.”
“It never gets hot like the Najd. But in the winter it snows. Have you ever seen snow, Meshaal?”
“No.”
They were silent for a few minutes as the sky lightened around them.
“Are you ready to tell me about the camp?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you should. The sheikh wants to know.” Wells still couldn’t believe he was using bin Laden’s name.
“Have you met him?”
“A long time ago,” Wells said truthfully. “He has to hide now. Because of the Americans, the drones. But he’s in charge. And he wants to know about the mission you were training for. He’s worried it will interfere with his plans.”
“I don’t believe you, but even if it’s true, you’re wasting your time, because I don’t know anything.” Meshaal let out a world-weary sigh, a sound that teenagers from London to Los Angeles would have recognized.
“You know more than you think. Start with something easy. How many men were at the camp?”
“It changed.”
“At the most.”
Meshaal counted slowly on his fingers, his lips moving. No wonder his fellow jihadis had picked on him. “Thirty-four,” he said finally. “Or thirty-five.”
“There were only thirty cots. Don’t lie, Meshaal. I won’t get mad at you, but you have to tell me the truth.”
“I
“And how many men in all passed through?” The finger counting began. Wells quickly added, “You don’t have to tell me exactly — just guess.”
“Fifty-five, maybe.”
“Who was in charge?”
“You don’t know? You told me you watched us.”
“But not all the time. So tell me.”
Meshaal seemed to realize that whatever his reservations, he had no choice but to talk. “He called himself Aziz. I don’t think that was his real name.”
“He was in the Saudi military.” Wells guessing now.
“I think so. He liked to be called Major.”
