The Secret Soldier

BUT THE AMBUSH DIDN’T end there, not for Kurland. Men grabbed him and pulled a hood over his head and threw him into the back of the Tahoe. He tried to scream, but the hood muffled his voice and he felt someone cutting at his suit and the creamy white shirt he’d worn to meet the king, a shirt Barbara had chosen for him, Brooks Brothers, one of her favorites. Barbara. Something jabbed into his arm, a pinprick at first and then deeper, an angry bite. Kurland yelped, but soon the pain faded and he felt the liquid warmth spreading up his arm and into his chest and neck, and though he tried to fight, he couldn’t.

As he slipped into twilight, he found himself back in Abdullah’s stateroom, and the king shook his head and said, “I warned you. Saeed, Saeed, Saeed”—the words sounding oddly clipped, as if the king were one of the Three Stooges, King Stooge, funny, the warmth spreading through him now like a blanket. And Kurland wondered idly who would report on the meeting. Who would tell Barbara what Abdullah had said? Because she needed to know. No, not Barbara, Barbara wasn’t his boss, Barbara was his wife, his boss was—

But he couldn’t remember. And so he slept.

CHAPTER 19

THE WORLD HAD PAID ONLY GLANCING ATTENTION TO THE ATTACKS in Bahrain and Riyadh. Even Princess Alia’s killing received just a few minutes on CNN.

Graham Kurland’s kidnapping provoked a very different reaction.

The ambush took place at two p.m. in Saudi Arabia, six a.m. in Washington. Within three hours, Arab news channels reported that terrorists had attacked a highway in Riyadh with multiple car bombs. Western news outlets rapidly picked up the story, though no video was available, only a few grainy photos from cell phones. Then, at eleven a.m., Bloomberg News sent a flash note to its terminals: “PENTAGON SOURCES CONFIRM AT LEAST TEN MARINES DEAD IN RIYADH ATTACK.” In three minutes, the price of oil rose two dollars a barrel and the Dow Jones Industrial Average dropped one hundred and fifty points.

At 11:20, the Associated Press reported that the attack had targeted an American embassy convoy. Just past noon, Fox News reported that Graham Kurland, the American ambassador to Saudi Arabia, was in the convoy. Asked for a statement, the White House declined comment but said the president would hold a press conference at one p.m. In two minutes, oil rose another five dollars a barrel, and the Dow dropped three hundred points more. Wall Street traders knew that presidents didn’t interrupt their schedules without good reason. And a good reason rarely meant good news.

OF COURSE, AS AMERICA and the world would learn at one p.m., the reality was even uglier than the rumors. Among the government officials who already knew, Vinny Duto summed up the prevailing sentiment: “The fuck just happened?”

The words both question and statement.

At the time, Duto was in his office with Ellis Shafer. Duto wasn’t surprised that Shafer and John Wells were smack in the middle of this mess. He knew he shouldn’t blame them, but he couldn’t help himself. They brought doom wherever they went. Like that old joke about how lawyers were like nuclear missiles.

“You know how lawyers are like nuclear missiles?”

“The other side has theirs, so you have to have yours. They sit in their silos, doing nothing all day except costing you money. And once you use them, they destroy the world.”

Typical of Shafer to step on the joke, not even let him tell it. “That’s you and Wells right there. A couple of lawyers.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Vinny. On any level—”

“Why did you get involved with this?”

“I remind you. Since it’s all in writing, anyway. Wells called me from Cyprus three days ago. Soon as I hung up with him, I called you. And gave you his strong recommendation that you put a team into Lebanon. You should have put it together, swallowed your pride, gotten everybody on board.”

“It would have been easier if he hadn’t hit the camp already under the orders and pay of the Saudi government.”

“Be sure to rehearse that speech before you give it to the inevitable congressional commission that investigates this nightmare, Vinny. Get it just right. Because you’re gonna be under oath. And your version is so far from the truth that even you may have a hard time selling it. Did you call me to help you prepare your defense? Early for that, methinks. Since we don’t even know if Graham Kurland is alive or dead.”

“I hope he’s dead. For his sake.”

“He’s not dead. They went to a lot of trouble to get him alive.”

Duto knew Shafer was right. Knew also that he needed to focus on the problem at hand and not the fallout, which was months, if not years, away. But he couldn’t let it go quite yet. His reflex for blame avoidance was too well developed.

“If State had used a chopper—”

“Black Hawks get shot down, too. Convoys are daytime protocol. As you know. Why don’t you stop wasting time and get me up to speed?”

So Duto choked down his considerable pride and told Shafer what he knew. At least fifty Americans, ten Saudi police officers and civilians, and fourteen terrorists were dead. Dwayne Maggs, the embassy’s head of security, had barely survived and was in surgery at a military hospital outside Riyadh. At best he would lose the use of his right arm.

Worst of all, Kurland was gone. Saudi cops were canvassing the homes and streets around the highway, on the off chance that he had escaped and was hiding. But more than six hours had passed since the ambush. No one believed they’d find him. He’d been kidnapped.

The secretary of state had already asked Saeed and Abdullah to let FBI into the Kingdom to aid the investigation. Neither man had responded yet, but the bureau was flying agents to Dubai on the assumption that the Saudis would soon agree. Meanwhile, the muk was providing hourly updates to the CIA station chief in Riyadh.

The muk reported that witnesses had seen Saudi cops drag a hooded man from Kurland’s Suburban into a police vehicle on the northbound side of the highway seven to eight minutes after the attack began. Cell phone photos confirmed the timing. The problem was that no Saudi officers had reached the Suburban for fourteen minutes. The obvious conclusion was that the cops who’d taken Kurland were fake.

But the Saudis had no cameras on the highway north of the ambush site. No one knew what had happened to the SUVs. The muk figured the kidnappers had stowed them and transferred Kurland to another vehicle. Muk officers and National Guard soldiers were setting up roadblocks across Riyadh and highways around the Kingdom. The checkpoints had created massive traffic jams, but the police hadn’t found anything yet. Riyadh had been placed under an eleven p.m. to five a.m. curfew that night, with the curfew to be widened to other major Saudi cities by the next night if Kurland wasn’t found.

“What about helicopters? The kid told Wells that there was a helicopter pilot at the base.”

“I think they’ve shut down civilian air traffic.” Duto punched a text message into his BlackBerry. “I’ll have Lecaine double-check.”

Meantime, the embassy was in lockdown, Duto said. Barbara Kurland, the ambassador’s wife, had tried to leave the compound — destination unknown — when she was told what had happened. She became hysterical when the marines stopped her. The embassy doctor had sedated her. She was resting in the infirmary for now. The president had spoken with her, promising to do everything he could to rescue Graham. He’d asked her to fly out so she could wait in Dubai or Berlin, but she’d refused. The president had ordered that she not be moved against her will.

The president had also ordered the army to transfer two Delta squads from Baghdad to the embassy. They would arrive by midnight. They didn’t need Saudi permission to enter the Kingdom, because they were technically coming in as a defensive replacement for the marines killed in the attacks. They wouldn’t be legally allowed off the embassy grounds. The White House counsel was trying to figure how many laws the squads would be breaking if