The Secret Soldier

And we come to the real reason for your visit, Abdullah thought. Saeed sat beside Abdullah on a plush green silk couch. The brothers stared at each other in silence, the only sound Abdullah’s breathing, heavy as a steam engine.

“My brother,” Saeed said. “When you met with Kurland before he was attacked that day, what did you tell him?”

“Of you. What a snake you were. He didn’t need convincing. I told him I suspected you in the attack on Alia. Our own blood, and you slaughtered her.”

“I tell you I didn’t know Alia was going to die.”

Abdullah would have dealt whatever life he had left, months or years, for one day of strength. One day to squeeze the truth from his brother. But Allah didn’t offer such trades. “Sit beside me and lie to my face.”

“I need you to see our position.”

“I see. If we don’t save Kurland, we can’t survive.”

“And if we do save Kurland, what then? He’ll go home and tell them everything.”

“Good. The Americans can have you. And Mansour into the bargain.”

“And what happens then? You think the Americans say to the world, ‘Saeed bin Abdul-Aziz, he’s behind this. But his brother King Abdullah and the rest of the princes, the rest of these billionaires in their palaces, we love them. More than ever.’ No. We’re all together now, my brother.”

“You’ve brought this on us.”

“And I am trying to save us.”

Finally, Abdullah saw what Saeed was planning.

“You want to let Kurland die? Let the kidnappers kill him?”

“I want to find him.”

“But he’ll die in the rescue.”

“Along with the kidnappers.”

“Graham Kurland was my guest. Our guest.”

“These stupid rules. We don’t live in the desert anymore, Abdullah.”

Everything that Abdullah hated about Saeed in two sentences.

“Snake, scorpion, those words are too fair for you. There’s nothing living in you.”

“Insult me all you wish, Abdullah. The situation doesn’t change.”

“Even if I agreed with your plan. And I don’t. It’s too late. He probably called the secretary of state as soon as he got in his car.”

“No. He’d have waited to get back to the embassy. That kind of conversation, he would have wanted a secure line.”

“Even if you’re right, the Americans must know already. I told someone else.”

Saeed stubbed out his cigarette. “John Wells.”

How do you know about that? Abdullah almost said. But of course Saeed knew. He had moles everywhere, including in Abdullah’s security detail. His spies were the reason that Abdullah had gone to Wells in the first place.

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know.” Abdullah wondered if Saeed knew he was lying, if Saeed knew that Wells was inside the Kingdom. “But again, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure Wells told the Americans of my suspicions. He needed their help to attack that camp in Lebanon where your man trained his assassins.”

“I tell you he wasn’t my man—”

“One day to squeeze you,” Abdullah murmured.

“What?”

“You’ll kill Wells, too, then? If you come across him.”

Saeed shrugged, as if Wells’s fate was beneath his notice.

“You can’t control this, Saeed. That simpering son of yours left a trail a thousand feet wide. The Americans will find it. Even if Kurland and Wells are dead. Our only chance, God willing, is to find the ambassador and give him back and kill the terrorists. And plead for mercy.”

“No.”

And then Abdullah understood the final piece. Saeed knew he couldn’t escape if Kurland got out alive. This argument that Kurland could give them evidence they didn’t have was only half true. If Kurland lived, the Americans would be relieved. They might even be willing to take Saeed in payment for the kidnapping instead of demanding the entire family. But if Kurland died, it would be all or nothing. The family would have to stand as one and hope that the Americans couldn’t put together the evidence. Saeed was trying to expand his crime, make it so great that he couldn’t be brought to account without bringing down the entire House of Saud.

“You’d risk us all to protect yourself and Mansour. Three hundred years of our family.”

“It’s the only way.”

“And you expect me to abet your crime.”

“Make sure that if the National Guard finds the ambassador, my men are notified. Immediately.”

“Go, Saeed. Take your poison from my house.”

EVERY BALL BARBARA HIT went over the embassy wall. Kurland watched from the baseline. He told her to relax, but she wouldn’t listen, didn’t seem to hear him at all. And then Roberto began to instruct her, in Arabic, his voice low and guttural—

All at once Kurland realized where he was. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe an after-effect of the sedative they’d given him. Maybe sleep was the only sensible response to this place.

The light above clicked on. The hatch pulled back. Two men climbed down the metal rungs, both carrying bags, the second also holding a steel stepladder. The first was the one he’d seen before, the one who’d made him read the speech. The second had broad shoulders and deep-set unsmiling eyes and a nose that had been badly broken many years before. Kurland pegged him as a commander. Maybe the commander.

The second man said something in Arabic. “The major wants me to ask how you’re feeling,” the first man said.

“I’ve been better. Have you had any word about your demands?” Kurland figured he might as well humor these men, pretend they had a chance of getting what they’d asked for.

“I’m sorry to tell you that it appears they’ve been rejected.”

“Already?” You’re lying, Kurland thought. He didn’t have a good sense of time in here, but he knew he’d been asleep only four or five hours at most. He’d made the video an hour before he fell asleep. So a full day couldn’t have passed since the release of the video. And however insane the demands were, the White House wouldn’t reject them until the last moment of the deadline. Probably not even then. The president would delay as long as he could, to give the CIA and the Pentagon the most possible time to find him.

A bilious dread rose up Kurland’s throat. These men had only one reason to lie. And that was to justify — to themselves, to him, to Allah — whatever they were about to do.

The translator unzipped his bag, took out the tripod and camera he’d used earlier, along with another bottle of Coke. “Would you like?”

“No, thank you.”

“You should drink. You’ll need your strength.”

The fear crept out of Kurland’s throat and into his mouth, as real and bitter as month-old milk. He thought of Barbara sitting with him at Wrigley Field. She didn’t like baseball, but she humored him a couple of times a year, the same way he humored her at the Art Institute galas. She wouldn’t let him beg. He wouldn’t beg.

The translator set up the tripod and camera as the commander put the stepladder beside Kurland’s chair. Now that the ladder was next to him, Kurland noticed that it had some unusual features. Its feet were welded to heavy metal plates. And two notches were cut into its top step.

Despite, or because of, his fear, Kurland found himself semi-calmly puzzling over the ladder’s purpose. Its meaning. I’ll take Obscure Torture Devices for one thousand dollars, Mr. Trebek. Were