The Secret Soldier

they left the grounds to rescue Kurland, but for now the consensus was that they should be used only as a last resort. If they killed Saudi civilians in an attempted rescue, they’d worsen the situation. And they had no armored vehicles and only one Black Hawk, so as a practical matter their range was limited to Riyadh.

The CIA and the other three-letter agencies were combing their databases for sigint, comint, humint, geoint, or just plain int that might lead to Kurland. But the kidnappers appeared to be operating independently of Al Qaeda and every other known terrorist group, and the attacks in the last month had come as a surprise. So no one expected much, not right away.

“We’ll find them,” Duto said. “It’s too big an operation to hide. Too many vehicles. Too many guys, and they didn’t all get blown up. Some of them will talk, whether they want to or not. Hopefully the bad guys will milk Kurland for a while, try to build the tension, work the press. Give us a chance to catch up.”

“I don’t think so. He’s a depreciating asset. They’re smart, they turn up the pressure quick. Make it ugly.”

Duto didn’t want to argue the point. They’d find out soon enough. “What about Wells?”

“Far as I know, he’s still in Cyprus.”

“He hasn’t called you?”

“I’ll remind you. He no longer works for us. And we’ve dealt with his efforts to work with us ham-handedly. By ‘we,’ I mean you. By ‘ham-handedly,’ I mean—”

“I know what you mean. We gave him the overheads, didn’t we?”

“And told him to use them at his own risk. And you’ve been stringing him and Gaffan along about covering them with the Lebanese. I wouldn’t be surprised if they made other plans before this happened. They may be in transit.”

“Find him, will you? Tell him the situation has changed, and if he’s got any intel on this we’d like it. And that of course we’ve got his back with the Lebanese.”

“Sure you don’t want me to threaten him? Tell him he’s been a bad boy and if he doesn’t help, he’ll get a warning letter?”

Duto wanted to reach across his desk and grab Shafer by his dandruff-specked collar. “I recognize the reality of the situation. You’re smart, you won’t rub my face in it. And if Wells won’t come in himself, at least have him drop off the kid somewhere — Meshaal, isn’t that his name? — so we can talk to him.”

“Yes, suh. Soon as possible, suh.”

“Prick.”

“Takes one to know one.”

THE PRESIDENT OF THE United States was congenitally unsuited to express anger. Enemies called him icy, friends calm. For better or worse, he kept his usual tone at the press conference. He could have been reading recipe ingredients:

A crime against not just the United States but all the nations of the world… We are working alongside the Saudi government to find him. The people of America will not rest until he is returned safely to his wife and family. We call on his kidnappers to release him unharmed…. No religion sanctions this violence, not Christianity, not Judaism, and certainly not Islam…. A man of peace, a diplomat, a husband, a father and grandfather. This evil and cowardly attack shall not stand…. These terrorists must know that any demands they make are pointless. The United States does not negotiate with murderers…. Let us all pray for his safe return.

He finished in twenty minutes and didn’t take questions.

SAEED WATCHED THE SPEECH from his giant palace in north Riyadh, a few kilometers from Abdullah’s. Islamic calligraphy covered the walls of his study. Rare eighteenth-century copies of the Quran filled its shelves. Saeed never forgot that the House of Saud was Islam’s ultimate protector. Besides, the clerics liked them.

When the president walked off the podium, Saeed stepped onto his terrace. He’d returned the president’s call a few minutes before, during the conference, knowing that the man would be unreachable. He wanted to delay talking to the Americans as long as possible, until he had some idea what they knew, and if Abdullah had told them about the camp in Lebanon. They would have to let in the FBI, but Saeed hoped to keep the team as small as possible. His men needed to find Kurland before he was killed — or, even worse, tortured for the world to see. Saeed could only imagine how the United States would react to that kind of provocation. Arabs paid a high price when they underestimated America, as Saddam Hussein had learned.

During the day, a white umbrella bloomed automatically from a flagpole on the terrace to ward off the sun. The Saudis had installed thousands of similar umbrellas at Mecca, to protect worshippers. Now the sun had set and the flagpole was naked, giving Saeed a clear view south, toward central Riyadh. A dozen police helicopters buzzed over the concrete city, noisy and irritating as wasps. Without a target, they were useless. But the Americans at the embassy were surely reporting to Washington every few minutes, and Saeed and Mansour wanted their men to seem busy.

The overnight curfew was equally hopeless. The kidnappers had gotten a three-hour head start before the muk pieced together what had happened, easily enough time to shift Kurland into a fresh vehicle. From there they could have driven him into the desert or one of the smaller towns in the Najd. Searching the desert would be impossible. Saudi Arabia was a vast country, nearly as big as the United States east of the Mississippi. And if Kurland was still in Riyadh, he was no doubt locked in a safe house.

Meanwhile, crews were scraping the highway clean of the ambush, taking the broken and burned vehicles on flatbeds to an army base near the airport. Tonight the road would be repaved and repainted. Saeed knew they might be destroying forensic evidence. He didn’t care. He wanted all trace of this madness gone. He wished he could erase it from his mind as easily. How had he allowed his son to lead him down this path? He didn’t even know the name of the man running the operation, the man who must have betrayed them. Greed and age had made him a fool. Now, too late, his mind was sharp. He was fully awake. If you don’t test the depth of the water before you dive, you won’t get to test it once you’ve drowned, the fishermen on the Red Sea said. He and Mansour were in deep now.

He heard steps and turned to see his son. An idiotic smile creased Mansour’s face, as though he still believed he could charm Saeed into accepting his reassurances. “Father. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be inside? We can sit—”

“Tell me the name of the man behind this.”

Mansour hesitated.

“Now.”

“Ahmad Bakr. He was a major in the National Guard. He was living in Suwaidi, but he’s gone.”

“You’re sure it was him and not Ibrahim.” This was General Walid Ibrahim, the man who had recruited Bakr and served as the cutout for Mansour.

“I think so.”

“You think so.”

“I’m sure.”

“Did you ever meet Bakr?”

“Of course not. I told Ibrahim what I wanted him to do, and Ibrahim told him.”

“It seems he didn’t listen. Where he’s from?”

“Tathlith. I’ve sent three men down to talk to his family. But they haven’t seen him in years. Ibrahim and I knew of two of his hideouts in Suwaidi, but we’ve raided them already, and they’re empty. Obviously, he’s planned this for a very long time.”

“Obviously. And your stupidity and your royal arrogance obviously blinded you to the obvious.” Saeed raised a hand, pinched his son’s cheek—

“Father—”

Pinched harder now, twisting and digging into the soft flesh until half-moons of blood boiled up. Mansour raised a hand to grab his father’s wrist but pulled back. When Saeed finally let go, Mansour bowed his head and licked his lips.

“Where’s he gone, this man Bakr?”