“Is this Gaza?”
“You’ve got Gaza on the brain. Forget Gaza. This is Cyprus.”
“You said—”
“We’re stopping here first. Then Gaza. Quiet, now.”
GAFFAN CUT THE ENGINES to just above idle and swung the ship toward the shore. The sea slopped against the hull, and the inboards grumbled. They closed to five hundred yards, four hundred—
And then heard the unmistakable sound of a woman in full cry, moaning as if all the world couldn’t contain her pleasure.
“We’re not the only ones looking for a romantic hideway,” Gaffan said.
Now Wells saw them — or to be more accurate, him — a few hundred feet west, where the beach was narrower and the bluffs made a sort of natural amphitheater. They must have had a blanket or an air mattress. A battered Kia 4x4 was parked on a narrow track along the side of the hill. The Kia gave Wells an idea. The idea wasn’t very nice. But it shouldn’t hurt anyone, and it might give him a chance to talk to Shafer before the end of the workday in Washington, six hours behind.
“Go. Get as close as you can. Fast.”
“That’s what she said.” Gaffan pushed the throttle, and the boat surged ahead.
Wells ran below and pulled the shoe box out of the duffel bag, left everything else. He emerged to see that they were about one hundred yards from the shore. The guy was still pumping away, but now he wagged a finger at them in warning. The water was nearly still, and the bottom rose smoothly and steadily, just fifteen feet deep, ten—
The moans stopped. The guy stood, his erection obvious. The woman sat up, her breasts full, nipples visible even from the boat. The guy said something to her, and she pulled on her top. The guy pulled on his shorts and shouted at them in Greek. Wells didn’t understand a word, but the meaning was clear enough. The guy was short, swarthy, muscular, late twenties, more hair on his chest than on his head. He was swimming in enough testosterone to fight rather than run. A mistake.
Wells grabbed the siderail as the boat scraped bottom and dug itself in. He jumped off the side. The water was only four feet deep and the sand firm. He ran for shore, pushing himself through the low waves. Gaffan followed him over. The Cypriot looked at them in shock. Wells came out of the water and dropped the shoe box and ran toward him. Suddenly, the guy seemed to realize that Wells might be dangerous. He said something to the woman. She stood and pulled on her panties and reached for her skirt. Before she could pick it up, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the Kia.
But though Wells wouldn’t see forty again, he still moved like the linebacker he’d once been, eating ground with powerful strides. The woman screamed, and Wells knew what he had to do. “Take him down,” he yelled back to Gaffan.
The guy tried to cut him off, but Wells spun around him and went for the woman instead. He wrapped her up and covered her mouth with his arm, muting her screams. She bucked and kicked, but Wells held her tight. Her boyfriend punched wildly, but Wells swung the woman around to put her between them. No points for chivalry. He just wanted to get through this without getting any more seriously hurt. Gaffan reached them and punched the guy low in the stomach with a solid right and doubled him over and hit him again in the jaw. The guy went down hard, and Gaffan jumped him and rolled him over and sat on him.
Wells pulled the electrical tape from his cargo pants and wiped it dry and tore a foot-long piece and slapped it over the woman’s mouth. He flex-cuffed her wrists and pushed her down. Then he and Gaffan repeated the process with the guy. Their eyes were wide and terrified.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” Wells said. “Just your car.” They shook their heads in bewilderment. Wells reached into the guy’s pants and found a cheap black leather wallet and two condoms and the keys to the Kia. Somehow the condoms made Wells feel worse than anything else. He’d ruined their fun tonight.
Meshaal stood at the edge of the water, his mouth open. He’d surely never seen a naked woman before, much less anything like this. Wells waved him over. He picked up the shoe box and walked to them with his feet dragging like a dog on its way to the vet.
Wells dropped two wet stacks of hundred-euro notes on the sand. When they dried, they’d be worth more than the Kia. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We have to go.”
“THEY’LL BE ALL RIGHT,” Wells said fifteen minutes later. They were on the A6, heading east to Nicosia, the Kia’s heater on high to dry them out.
“Best night of their lives. They’ll tell the grandkids.”
“They’ll be fine.”
“You’re always so sure. Must be nice.”
They reached Nicosia an hour later, ditched the Kia, and walked though the town’s quiet streets to the hostel where Wells had stayed a week before. Then Wells found an Internet cafe and called Shafer, who got Wells into the American embassy so they could talk on a secure line.
“It’s gonna be messy,” Shafer said, when Wells was done explaining. “And you’re right. It may take a couple days to sort out.”
“Not too long.”
“If the cops get close, call me back. I’ll do my best to get you out.”
“That’s not it, Ellis. You didn’t see the camp. These guys have big plans.”
PART THREE
CHAPTER 18
“MY BROTHER SAYS I’M DYING. IS HE A PROPHET? DOES HE SEE THE future? What a gift it must be. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even Saeed. To see your own death. And then what do you do? Sit in your bed and count down the days? And your wives and your children and your children’s children? Shall you watch them die, too? Better to gouge your eyes and live in darkness than see all that.”
Abdullah’s rant began even before Kurland reached his chair, the Arabic pouring out of him as Rana struggled to keep up with the translation. They were in Abdullah’s massive palace in the desert just north of Riyadh. The king had summoned Kurland that morning, telling him only that they needed to meet immediately.
Abdullah finished his speech and coughed into his hand as if he’d just run a marathon. Kurland settled himself in his chair, a leather recliner that didn’t match the room’s eighteenth-century French furniture. He wondered what he was meant to say. When they’d met at Abdullah’s desert ranch, Abdullah had shown Kurland the spotless cages that housed his prize falcons, proud, long-feathered birds. The king had been smiling, almost playful. He’d laughed when a big brown camel — an ill-tempered beast that had won two races in Dubai — nipped at Kurland.
Abdullah was still alive, but the smiling man from the ranch was gone. The king’s face had melted into itself, crumpled like crushed wax paper. His body was heavier, and yet he seemed smaller and weaker. Kurland thought of Humpty Dumpty.
Kurland tried to deflect the king’s rant with a joke. “I don’t know any prophets. Maybe I need new friends.”
“Are you asking me to smile? After what’s happened to my granddaughter?”
“I’m asking — I’m thanking you for giving me the chance to offer my country’s condolences about Alia’s
