The Secret Soldier

Wells’s phone rang.

“You saw?” Shafer said.

“I saw.”

“Believe it or not, I have good news. The NSA may have a hit on forty-two Aziz three. They say it could be an address in southern Jeddah.”

Thank you, Meshaal. “Why?”

“They checked every address matching forty-two Aziz, looking for phone or e-mail contact between the numbers that you gave them as well as other numbers and e-mail addresses they’ve developed. They said there’s a suspicious pattern between cell tower sites around an Aziz street in south Jeddah. Also an Internet node there. But before you get too excited—”

“Yes?”

“The pattern is weak. The house numbers are messy, and they estimate only a forty percent probability of a match. But nowhere else in the country is even close to that.”

“‘Messy’?”

“Their word.”

“We land in four hours. We’ll take a look.”

“I’ll call you when I get more.”

“Ellis. If we find him—”

“You have carte blanche. And assume no backup. There’s two Delta squads in Riyadh, but they’re confined to the embassy. If that changes, I’ll let you know.”

NOW THEY WERE STUCK in limbo at Abdullah’s palace. Wells wondered if they’d been betrayed even before they arrived, if Saeed’s hold over Abdullah ran this deeply. But surely Abdullah controlled his own palace security.

An hour passed. The front door of the house was locked from the outside. The back door had a push-bar alarm like those that blocked fire stairs in office buildings. They could get out, but they’d be stuck on the palace grounds, with no car or weapons or identification. Wells figured they were better off waiting. His handset required a line-of-sight connection to the satellite, and the house had no windows. So they watched Al Jazeera, which had nothing new to report.

“This is Saudi Arabia,” Meshaal said. “Why did you bring me here? You’re not from Sheikh bin Laden.”

“True.”

“Let me out of here.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I need to use the bathroom.” Meshaal ran for the back door. Wells vaulted over the couch, grabbed him, dragged him back.

“You have my word, Meshaal. No one will hurt you.”

“Why would I believe you? You only lie to me.”

“If we wanted to hurt you, we would have. But we’re going to go very soon, and you’re going to wait here and do what you’re told. Yes?”

“I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

“No.”

Another half hour passed before the door swung open and Gharib walked in. “He stays,” the colonel said, nodding at Meshaal. “You come.”

Gharib led them to an unmarked two-story building, unlocked a door, waved them into an empty office. Gowns and leather sandals were spread across a table. A smaller table held their passports, two cell phones, a paper bag stacked with riyals, and car keys. Glock pistols, two M-16s, bullet-resistant vests, and extra ammunition filled an open gun cabinet.

“Take what you need,” Gharib said. “There’s a Jeep outside. It’s clean. Civilian registration. Once you leave, you won’t be allowed back.” He handed them two identity cards. “These say you’re Egyptian, not Saudi. That seemed safer. They’ll work for hotels and police checkpoints.” He nodded at the phones. “Those have my numbers pre-programmed. If you bump into Guard soldiers and there’s trouble, have them call me. The muk, too, though that’ll take longer to get sorted out.”

“And if we run into trouble with the other side?”

“Then I guess you’ll be making videos, too. Anything else you need?”

“Silencers. Handcuffs or flex-cuffs. A bunch of plastic bags, just simple ones from grocery stores or places like that. A roll of electrical tape. And maps of Jeddah and Mecca.”

“The Jeep has a GPS.”

“I’m not sure how accurately I can program it in Arabic.” Wells also wasn’t sure he wanted the National Guard to know where he and Gaffan were going.

“Most of my maps are in Arabic.”

“Even so.”

Gharib disappeared, returned with everything Wells had asked for.

“What about Meshaal?” Wells said.

“He’s our problem now.”

“Go easy on him. He doesn’t know anything.”

“We’ll take care of him.” Gharib’s hard, black eyes weren’t reassuring. He could have meant almost anything, and Wells didn’t have time to ask.

“Thank you for your help.”

“You’re Muslim, Mr. Wells.”

“Yes, colonel.”

“Then God be with you. I hope you can see the Kaaba when all this is done.”

“Inshallah.”

“Inshallah.”

CHAPTER 21

AFTER KURLAND MADE THE VIDEO, THE KIDNAPPER LET HIM PISS IN a bowl and then cuffed him to the chair and left. Kurland thought about his speech. The demands were too outlandish to be meaningful. This was political theater, meant to lead inexorably to a bullet in his head. Or worse, a knife to his neck.

His hands were locked together behind his back. He shrugged his shoulders and squeezed his hands together, trying to loosen the cuffs. After five minutes, he gave up. He’d done nothing but pull a muscle in his forearm. The cuffs around his ankles were even tighter. But he was no escape artist. He was a sixty-two-year-old man who shot ninety from the middle tees on a good day. Maybe when they moved him, if they moved him. He wasn’t being defeatist. He wasn’t resigned to his own death. More than anything, he wanted to get out of this room alive. But he couldn’t, not on his own.

Kurland had always grounded himself in reality, one reason that his company had avoided the worst of the housing bust. During the bubble, his competitors marched west on I-88 into Kane County and even De Kalb, bidding wildly for Illinois farmland. Their land costs doubled and tripled, and they found themselves having to charge three and then four hundred thousand dollars for houses that a few years before had cost half as much. Kurland asked himself, when the three-percent-down loans stop, who’s going to buy these prairie palaces? In 2005, he’d cut way back on new land purchases. His managers had howled. No new lots meant no new houses. They were putting themselves out of business. But he’d been right. Since the crash, Kurland Construction had picked up plenty of cheap land at bankruptcy auctions. The business was just waiting for him to come home.

If he ever did.

Enough. He didn’t want to think about his own doom. He wasn’t very religious, never had been, but he appreciated the Serenity Prayer. Cheesy but effective. The wisdom to know the