“Probably,” she said.
CHAPTER 23
12 September Al-Hofuf
Win Palmer was fond of hammers and, as it turned out, prone to pull one out of his toolbox whenever he was given the opportunity. Quinn didn’t mind being a blunt instrument- pipe-hitters they called them in Iraq. Professional men who didn’t mind doing the dirty work. Deep down, no matter what sort of civilized mold his ex-wife tried to cram him into, Jericho knew he was born for the rough stuff. His heart never truly beat until it was going full bore. And he never felt so alive as when he was hunting evil men-or being hunted himself.
More than fifteen years earlier, shortly before Quinn’s first trip to the Middle East, his poli-sci professor at the Air Force Academy had read the class a quote from King Abdul Aziz bin Saud in 1930:
My Kingdom will survive only insofar as it remains a country difficult to access, where the foreigner will have no other aim, with his task fulfilled, but to get out.
Quinn’s task was to find out what Farooq had planned and then kill him-getting out was a secondary consideration.
Access to the Saudi Kingdom hadn’t grown any easier since the passing of King Abdul Aziz. It was no small miracle that roughly twenty-five hours after the call from his informant, Quinn found himself walking the stone pathways of King Faisal School of Veterinary and Equine Medicine in the oasis city of Al-Hofuf.
A tourist visa to Saudi Arabia on short notice was out of the question-with one exception. Arab member states belonging to the Gulf Cooperation Council, or GCC, were immune from the strict travel requirements. The country of Kuwait was a member of the GCC. Posing as Katib Al Dashti, a wealthy Arabian horse buyer from Kuwait, Quinn was able to forgo the red tape. A Kuwaiti official friendly to the U.S. let it be known that Mr. Al Dashti had money to burn and was in the market for a high-quality Saudi stud horse to take back to his farm near Kuwait City. The details were drummed out during Quinn’s flight to King Khaled International Airport in Riyadh and subsequent three-hour train ride east to Al-Hofuf.
A note was waiting when he checked in to the Intercontinental Hotel. Mr. Othman with the university stud farm had left his business card and an invitation to stop by the stables after Asr — the afternoon call to prayer.
Quinn had checked the times for the five daily calls to prayer before leaving the U.S. Everything in the world of Islam revolved around these times. Asr fell shortly after 2:30 P.M.
Quinn had grabbed a quick shower and changed into a fresh white dishdasha and simple white ghutra headdress. In the lobby, he’d heard the call to prayer from a nearby minaret and followed the lead of other men as they knelt toward Mecca. Even in the five-star hotel, the Mutawwa’in — Saudi religious police, more formally known as the Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice-kept a keen watch to see that no one shirked their duty when it came to prayer. Two bearded men with wooden canes had patrolled the opulent foyer, eyeing Quinn with the distrust they showed all under their domain. Both carried themselves with the haughty air of men given nearly unbridled government authority to prey on others-particularly those weaker than themselves. The will of Allah was to be strictly enforced, and as Quinn’s political science professor had pointed out so many years before: “Life in a police state is pretty good-if you are the state police.”
Though it would have been sweet indeed to spend a few quality moments alone with the two bullies, Quinn had only smiled, trying to conceal his disdain for the draconian measures the men represented.
The cabbie had negotiated a fair price for the quick trip from the Intercontinental Hotel to the university. He’d wanted to talk, but Quinn thought it best to play Mr. Al Dashti as a taciturn Kuwaiti who kept his thoughts to himself. In a country where impersonating a Muslim was against the law, getting caught spying could cost him his head.
Heat waves rippled up from the stone walkways as Quinn studied the concrete buildings, formulating plans as he went. The air was heavy, like the inside of an oven, but with a hint of humidity from the Persian Gulf less than a hundred kilometers to the east to make things even more uncomfortable. University students and staff were evidently wise enough to stay out of the afternoon heat and the walkways were all but deserted.
Quinn stood in the scant shade of one of the many date palms that lined the main paved road. Squinting against a low sun, he surveyed the empty campus, considering his options. Sparrows huddled and chirped in the shadowed fronds above him, unwilling to venture out in the blazing sun. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of both knees. He had no weapons-travel into the Kingdom was dangerous enough-but planned to use whatever was available when the time came. The odor of horse manure and sweet grass hay told him he was near the stables. Oddly enough, the smell had a calming effect. He knew horses-even Arabians-and had always felt better around them while growing up.
Farooq’s operation was somewhere nearby, he could smell that, too. It was the bitter smell of something secret-the copper scent of death. Quinn looked at his watch-eighteen hours until his plane left Riyadh for Kuwait City. It would be his first window of opportunity for exit. All he could do now was explore and hope he stumbled onto something.
The main stable was a sight to behold. Arabs held horses to be their greatest treasures and it showed in the ornate architecture of their barns.
Quinn passed from the blinding sun between thick pink columns supporting a matching stucco facade that rose three stories above the circular courtyard and made his way into the relative cool interior of the barn. He walked slowly down the wide, tiled breezeway keeping his shoulders relaxed, eyes ever on the lookout for danger.
The barn was empty but for a deaf-mute hired boy who shoveled manure into a wheelbarrow while he mouthed the words of a silent song to himself. Large ceiling fans whumped over head; water misters located up and down the ceiling beams sprayed a constant cloud that evaporated in midair. Detailed wrought-iron work decorated eight-foot-tall wooden gates and stall dividers. The scent of clean wood shavings wafted up from the floor of each spacious enclosure. An abundant supply of fresh hay and cool water filled built-in troughs on the walls. These horses lived more pampered lives than average Saudi citizens.
Quinn heard muffled voices as he passed beside the heavy wooden beams and rough, slip-proof concrete that formed the wash rack and shoeing area. A coiled garden hose hung on a peg in the shadows of the inside wall. The medicinal smell of soap and wet horse lingered in the thick air. He stopped next to a portable acetylene torch used for horseshoeing and strained his ears to listen. Angry voices drifted down from an upper-level hayloft that ran above the stalls almost half the length of the building.
Conflict, Quinn thought, as he heard the harsh sound of a slap on bare skin and a yelp of someone in anguish. Just where I belong. He moved forward, reminding himself to think in Arabic so he would remember to speak in Arabic.
He stopped at the base of a thick timber ladder leading up to the storage loft. Voices tumbled down the wooden steps with bits of dust and trampled hay. Again, he heard the cry of a woman. Closer now, Quinn could make out the words.
“Please, this is far from a Commission matter,” a female voice pleaded. “I assure you, we have done nothing wrong.”
The naive urgency in her words made Quinn scan the barn for a weapon. This was no lover’s spat. The strain in her terrified voice was heartbreaking.
“Child of Satan!” a male voice spat. “You will answer for your sins.”
“We have committed no sin but to talk with one another…” It was another male voice now, soft and quivering with fear.
Quinn heard the muffled whoof of air leaving someone’s lungs followed by a low moan.
“You will rot in prison for your impudence, boy,” a gruff voice said. “But first, you will feel the lash. Khulwa is a serious matter.”
Khulwa was socializing with an unrelated person of the opposite sex-going for a walk, or even having coffee. A university professor in Mecca had been sentenced to one hundred eighty lashes and eight months in jail for being
