The Secret Soldier

“I don’t know yet. He must have put together a new safe house, skimmed the money I sent to put this together.”

“How much money?”

“About eleven million dollars.”

“You gave this man eleven million dollars.”

“I thought Ibrahim was tracking it—”

“Forget it. Did Bakr know you were behind the orders?”

“No. I’m sure. Ibrahim never told him. And the money was untraceable. I tell you, father, we’ll be all right. We’ll find him.”

“You tell me?” Fury had come easily to Saeed his whole life. “I let you do this because I thought you were man enough. But Abdullah was right. You’re a child. I never should have let you play with men. You understand, if the United States sends in its army, it will be a catastrophe. For us and the Americans both. And if this man Bakr betrays us publicly, we’ll lose everything. If that happens, I’ll take you into the desert and shoot you in the head myself, leave your corpse to bake. Or perhaps Abdullah will pull the trigger. His last act as king. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now start again. Tell me what you know. Everything.”

But Mansour didn’t know enough. All along, his main concerns had been secrecy and deniability. He had never taken seriously the possibility that Bakr might betray them, that Bakr might have a will of his own. Classic royal arrogance. He knew the names of Bakr’s senior lieutenants, but he’d never met or spoken to any of them.

“Call Ibrahim. Tell him he’s needed tonight. And then have the Second Directorate pick up his family. His father, brothers, sons.”

“The Second Directorate.” The Second Directorate was the mukhabarat arm that dealt with internal subversion. Saudis sometimes called it the “Torture Directorate.” Though never loudly.

“Bring them to muk headquarters. I’ll tell Ibrahim where they are. Then he’ll give us the answers we need. If he has them.”

Mansour turned to leave. “There’s one last thing, father. The camp in the Bekaa that Bakr ran was attacked three days ago.” Mansour spoke quickly now, as if he feared another eruption. “I only learned about it this morning. I was going to tell you this afternoon, but then the ambush—”

“What happened?”

“Everyone in it was killed.”

Saeed tried to process this new disaster. “Could this man Bakr have done it himself? To cover his tracks?”

“It’s possible, but I don’t know why he would. He could have closed the camp himself, dismissed everyone quietly, if he didn’t need them. This attack made a lot of noise. The Lebanese police are investigating, and they have suspects. Two Americans.”

“John Wells.”

“I’m not sure, but one of the photos looks like him.”

“They haven’t released it publicly?”

“No. I think the Americans are pressing them to keep it quiet.”

“For the first time in my life, I’m glad I’m old,” Saeed said. “If I were young, I couldn’t keep myself from hurting you, Mansour. I warned you about Wells.”

“Yes, father.”

“Do you see what this means? If this man Bakr is as big a fool as you, the Americans may already have connected the camp to the attack on Kurland, and us to the camp. Or Bakr may be waiting to tell the world that we’re paying him. What would you like me to tell the president, then? Yes, we financed this bombing in Bahrain and assassinated the princess, but of course we didn’t attack your ambassador. We would never do that. Even though the same man is behind all the attacks. And he’s a former officer in our own army. Do you think the Americans will believe that?”

“I understand, father.” Mansour had called Saeed father more in the last ten minutes than he had in the last ten years.

“I’m so glad you do, my son.”

“What should—”

“Give me some time. Maybe I’ll find a solution. Anything else you’ve forgotten to tell me?”

Mansour shook his head.

“Call Ibrahim, then. And leave me. I need to think.”

BAKR’S HEZBOLLAH GENERAL HAD told him about the attack in Lebanon the morning after it happened. The news worried Bakr greatly, especially when he heard that Americans were involved. How had they found him? He wished he could go back to the Bekaa and see for himself what had happened, but he had no time.

He reminded himself that no one important was still in Lebanon, and that as far as he knew, he’d removed any information that might point to his safe houses in Saudi Arabia. The camp didn’t even have computers anymore. He communicated with Talib only by cell phone. When he learned of the attack, he switched to a new prepaid phone and made his men do the same.

Bakr figured he would be safe for a few days at a minimum, probably weeks or months. The Americans wouldn’t attack inside Saudi Arabia without asking permission, or at least telling the Saudi government in advance. He could count on General Ibrahim — and Ibrahim’s hidden masters — to warn him if the Americans got close. After all, until now he’d done everything they’d asked. And they had no idea of what he was planning next.

So he went ahead with his preparations for the ambush, positioning men and vehicles, finishing his safe house, making sure his lieutenants understood every detail. From his years in the National Guard, he had a good idea how the muk, the army, and the Guard would react. Since the terrorist attacks of 2003, the Sauds had invested tens of billions of dollars improving their police and Special Forces. They would begin by closing roads and imposing a curfew. Within a few days, they would be searching entire cities house to house.

Still, government bureaucracy and mutual distrust between the Interior Ministry and the National Guard would slow the initial response. Bakr figured they would need several hours before it shut the highways and airports. By then, he’d have Kurland hidden.

His enemies had a huge advantage, though. Mansour knew who he was, knew about the Bekaa and about the safe houses in Suwaidi. They would quickly track the vehicles and explosives and weapons he’d used in the ambush. They even knew the names of some of his men. And they would respond with overwhelming force. As carefully as he’d hidden his connection to the house he planned to use as a prison, as carefully as he’d built the cell inside, Bakr knew he wouldn’t have long before the muk found him.

But he didn’t plan to wait.

THE CALL FROM THE Diplomatic Quarter came sooner than Bakr had expected. He briefly wondered if he should let this chance go, wait until all the pieces were in place. But he realized that he’d be worse than foolish to pass up this opportunity. He might never have another. So he’d ordered his men into battle.

Thanks be to Allah, he’d succeeded. Of course, the attack hadn’t gone perfectly. Once they’d recovered from their initial shock, the Americans had fought hard. One of the ambassador’s guards had killed his best lieutenant. But the bombs had done their work, and Bakr would always remember the shock on the ambassador’s face as he realized that the police who’d come to save him weren’t police at all.

After he bundled the ambassador in the back of his Tahoe, he drove north from Riyadh. He’d passed the turnoff to the king’s palace and watched Jeeps and Humvees flood south onto the highway, sirens screaming. He couldn’t help but smile. All those reinforcements for a battle that had already ended. Two booms tore the air behind them, two pillars of black smoke reached the sky, the last of Bakr’s bombs, the two panel trucks that had blocked the road. They would add to the confusion.