home.
Even so, he’d delivered the message, as he’d been told. He could add treason to his list of crimes. But he was still alive. For now.
10
The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia had deep connections to the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. Hundreds of thousands of Pakistani men worked in Saudi Arabia. Hundreds of thousands more visited Mecca every year for the Hajj, the sacred pilgrimage that all Muslims are supposed to perform at least once. Saudi charities built religious schools and mosques across Pakistan to spread Wahhabism, the conservative version of Islam practiced in the kingdom.
The Saudi embassy in Pakistan reflected the importance of the relationship. Set inside Islamabad’s diplomatic quarter, not far from the American embassy compound, the embassy was a handsome beige building, wide and solid. The kingdom’s green-and-white flag flapped from a half dozen poles around a fountain in the driveway. Hidden behind the embassy, a figure-eight-shaped pool allowed diplomats and their families to relax during Islamabad’s scorching summers.
To maintain security, the embassy had only two entrances. A small back gate was open only to employees and diplomats. Everyone else came through a guardhouse beside the front gate. The embassy opened to visitors at noon, but the line for entry formed hours before. Saudis were not known for their work ethic, and the kingdom’s bureaucracy meant that visas could require several visits. Now, at 11:30 a.m., six men stood outside the gatehouse, waiting for its windowless front door to open.
Wells was first in line. Patient and quiet. He wore a white
A few minutes after noon, the guardhouse door opened. A Saudi soldier motioned Wells inside. He passed through an X-ray machine and down a corridor that ended in a steel door and Plexiglas window. A Saudi man in a suit sat behind the glass.
“
“
“I’m here to see Mr. Naiz.”
“You will look up to the camera, please.” A security camera was mounted over the door. The security didn’t surprise Wells. Al-Qaeda hated Saudi Arabia as much as the United States.
Finally, the door clicked open. Inside, Wells found an office with cheap plastic chairs and a scratched wooden coffee table. The only reading material consisted of in-flight magazines from Saudi Arabian Airlines. The Saudis obviously preferred that visitors not be too comfortable. A narrow window at the back of the room offered a view of the fountain and the main embassy buildings.
A few minutes later, a black Land Rover with smoked-glass windows and diplomatic plates came down the drive and stopped outside the guardhouse. A tall Saudi in a tailored blue suit stepped out and walked into the office.
“
Wells followed Naiz to the Land Rover. A minute later, they’d left the embassy and were rolling through the manicured streets of the diplomatic quarter. They passed the military checkpoint that split the district from the rest of Islamabad. Finally, Naiz parked alongside a newly built two-story strip mall that included a bridal store and a flower shop. If the signs had been in English, the place could have passed for Los Angeles.
“I’m honored to meet you, Mr. Haq. I thought it best we speak outside the embassy. In the back, those are yours.” A briefcase and suitcase sat side by side in the backseat.
The briefcase was buttery black leather, slightly nicked. Inside, Wells found two envelopes. The first contained a Saudi passport and identification card, both in the name of Jalal Haq, both with Wells’s photograph. The second, a platinum AmEx card and two rubber bands of cash, ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, and twenty-five hundred in Saudi riyals. A BlackBerry. And a Quran, its green cover embossed with gold filigree.
“It was all the money I could get on such short notice. I hope it’s enough.”
“If it’s not, I’m doing something wrong.” Wells thumbed through the passport and found a proper Pakistani entry stamp. “It’s real?”
“It’s in our system. You could fly to Riyadh with it, no problem.” Naiz sounded almost offended.
“I hear Riyadh is nice this time of year.”
“Yes. The summer heat is done and it’s pleasant. Have you ever been?”
“Only Jeddah.” Wells looked over his identification card. It said he lived in Umm Khutut. “And where is Umm Khutut?”
“The northern Najd, the high desert. You’re the first son of the fourth wife of a tribal leader there.”
“First son, fourth wife. And my father, he’ll vouch for the story?” Though the odds that anyone would ask were extraordinarily slim. The men Wells planned to meet didn’t have spies inside Saudi Arabia.
“Of course.”
“Thank you for all this.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I have a guess who you are,” the Saudi said, switching to English.
Wells didn’t bite. “Tell me something,” he said, staying with Arabic. “Do I sound Saudi?”
“Maybe to these Pakistani peasants. Not to me.”
“I have my own question. You’re going into the mountains?”
“Balochistan.” Balochistan was a Pakistani province that stretched for hundreds of miles along the Afghan border. Its biggest city, Quetta, was just 125 miles southeast of Kandahar.
“And, I am imagining now, you will tell the men you meet there that you are a wealthy Saudi and want to donate money to a good cause?” The cause being jihad.
“Something like that.”
“I won’t ask why you’re doing this, but is there someone in particular you want to meet? You understand, sometimes our charitable organizations ask me about aid recipients. Will the Americans mind if they give to this village or that madrassa? Will they wind up on any unpleasant lists that will make it hard for them to put their children in school in New York?”
“Are those donors hoping you’ll say yes or no?”
“Depends on the donor.”
Wells wondered whether getting Naiz’s advice was worth the risk of the potential double cross, and decided it was. “I’m looking for a man called Amadullah Thuwani. He’s the leader of a Pashtun tribe that lives on both sides of the border. He’s hiding near a town called Muslim Bagh. Maybe a hundred kilometers northeast of Quetta.”
“The Thuwanis, yes. They’re definitely on the American lists, not that you need me to tell you.”
“Has any donor ever asked about Amadullah?” Wells couldn’t afford to meet real Saudis on this trip. They would almost surely see through his con.
“No.” Naiz reached for the suitcase. “I’ll show you the clothes and shoes I brought. They’re authentic.”
“I trust you.” Wells didn’t plan to wear the clothes. No Saudi in Balochistan would advertise his presence so overtly. But they’d aid his cover if the Thuwanis checked his bags. “Thank you for all this.”
“One more thing.” Naiz opened his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster. “I have one for you if you like.”
“I’m hoping these men will be happy to see me. And even happier to see my money.”
“Go with God, then. When you come back to Islamabad, look me up.”
“I’ll do that,
