The Secret Soldier

death.”

“Is that why you think you’re here?”

“I’m here because you wanted to see me, King.”

“You’re here because of my brother. The prophet. King Saeed. Abdullah is dead and long live Saeed. Did you bow to him? Did you kiss his hand? Kneel before him to tie his shoes?”

Kurland thought back to his conversation with Saeed. Saeed had implied that Abdullah was too ill to govern. Though he hadn’t explicitly said that he planned to take over even before Abdullah died, the implication was clear. The Kingdom had gone through similar transitions before. Abdullah himself had governed as crown prince after King Fahad suffered a stroke in 1996.

Kurland wanted to reassure Abdullah. But he couldn’t choose a side in this battle. Two days before, he’d received instructions from Washington: The United States would take no position on succession in the House of Saud. Not officially, not unofficially. “You’re still king,” he said. “That’s how I see you, and that’s how America sees you.”

Abdullah ignored Kurland’s watery words, set off on another journey in Arabic. “I must be jealous of Saeed. He lives in the future, I don’t even see the past anymore. Did he flood the room with tears when he told you of my fate? Did he tell you the throne would be his? That he would mount it like a whore even before my corpse cools?”

“The United States respects the process by which your kingdom picks its leaders,” Kurland said. “We expect that other nations won’t interfere with our elections. Similarly, we don’t interfere with yours.”

Even to him the words sounded dry, mechanical. No surprise. But when he’d practiced them on the ride up, he hadn’t expected them to be so misaligned with the king’s mood. Abdullah was unfurling an epic of tragedy and betrayal. Kurland was reading from a position paper drafted by GS-15s in Foggy Bottom.

“Say what you mean. Whether I’m king or Saeed or someone else, the United States doesn’t care.”

“Of course we care. But our relationship with the Kingdom is long-standing, and whoever is king, we will respect Saudi interests.” Whoever had written these words should be flogged, Kurland thought. He quickly added, “King, I don’t know what’s passed between you and Saeed, but for what it’s worth, your brother didn’t say you were dying.”

“No?”

“He said you weren’t well. And that whoever ruled Saudi Arabia, the Kingdom would be a great friend to the United States.”

“‘A great friend to the United States.’” Abdullah’s voice was steady now, the madness in his eyes gone. “He’s as honest as a snake, my brother. Did he tell you about his other great friends? The clerics who preach jihad every Friday. The men who blow themselves up in Iraq and Afghanistan. Does that sound like a friend?”

“Is Saeed funding the insurgencies?”

“He’s too keen for that. He closes his eyes while imams shovel money to these men who kill your soldiers.”

“You don’t stop him?”

“You think I haven’t tried.”

Abdullah closed his eyes, slumped in his overstuffed chair. Rana reached for him, but Kurland shook his head and they waited in silence. After a minute, the king opened his eyes. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you like some coffee? Or juice?”

“If you’re having something.”

Abdullah picked up the handset of the antique phone beside him. Almost before he’d hung up, his steward emerged with a tray of coffee, orange juice, and French pastries. Kurland sensed that the king needed a few minutes to gather his strength.

“What do you think of my country, Mr. Ambassador?”

Hardworking would be too obvious a lie, as would friendly, Kurland thought.

“I haven’t seen as much of it as I would have liked. The security situation. But the people I’ve met, they’re polite, thoughtful. Hospitable. Pious, I suppose. Like certain Americans. Mainly Southerners.”

“You think you understand Saudi Arabia?”

“No, sir. I wouldn’t say so. Sometimes I don’t even think I understand America.”

“America’s easy to understand. America is on the surface. Here everything is buried. You don’t have any idea what’s happening.”

“Tell me, then.”

To Kurland’s surprise, Abdullah did. About his plans to make his son king, the fury he had stirred in Saeed and Mansour. About the split in the family he caused.

“This has been going on since last year and we haven’t heard of it?”

“You do need new friends, Mr. Ambassador. But most of the princes feel it’s in their interest to hold their tongues. Once they’ve made a decision, they’ll want a strong king, and that will be impossible if the world knows our house is divided.”

“But you’ve broken that secrecy. You’ve told me.”

“My reasons don’t matter.”

“Even so, I’d like to know them.”

Abdullah didn’t answer. The silence stretched, and Kurland sat back and waited. Pressing the king to speak would be a terrible mistake, he thought. Beside him, he sensed Rana’s breathing change, heard Rana’s fingertips drum against his legs. Kurland tilted his head fractionally, trying to catch Rana’s eyes and convey the message: Not a word. Not a sigh. He’s got to talk on his own. And if you screw this up—

“When they attacked Alia, they went too far,” Abdullah said suddenly.

Kurland needed a moment to parse the words. “You think your brother was behind the bombing in Jeddah?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“What would he gain?”

“Look at me!” The words were a plea as much as a command. Abdullah lifted his right hand and watched it quiver. “If Saeed sees my death, he’s not far wrong. He’s stronger than I am. More ruthless.”

Abdullah squeezed his fingers together to hide their trembling and rested his hand on his lap. “Saeed is more ruthless than I am, and more ruthless than you could ever be, and he’s going to win. And there’s nothing you or I can do about it.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.

“Can you prove he was involved? Because if you can—”

“Of course I can’t.”

“But she was his grandniece, too—”

“Americans always believe in kindness. When you leave here, drive back to that prison you call an embassy, take a detour. Drive into the desert. Tell me what kindnesses you see there, Mr. Ambassador.”

Kurland knew he shouldn’t be angry at this half-mad man. But he couldn’t help hating Abdullah a little. “That’s what you called me here to say.”

“And to ask you a question.”

“Whatever you like.”

“Suppose I could prove that Saeed had killed my granddaughter. Would it matter? To the United States of America?”

“It would matter.”

“Would it?” the king said again. “Would it mean anything at all?”

“Yes.” Kurland hoped he was right.

“SO I GUESS WE’RE not following the king’s advice?” Rana said, as the convoy swung south onto the highway that ran from the palace toward downtown Riyadh.

“Hmmm?” Kurland was still trying to understand what Abdullah had said about Saeed. Would the prince use terrorists to attack his own family? These men had everything to lose from a civil war, everything to gain from keeping the Kingdom stable. Maybe Kurland was naive, but he thought they’d be rational enough to make the