Countdown to Mecca (24 page)

Jimmy grinned. He was missing a tooth at the front. “My brother, Doc—he says you need translator. I am best terp around.”

“You are, huh?” Jack said dubiously.

“Ask SEALs,” Jimmy told him. Jack looked at Doc, who nodded.

“If Doc says you're good, that's good enough for me.” Jack checked his watch, and started toward the airport terminal exit. “Let's go.”

“Wait.” Jimmy took hold of his arm and held him back. “Let me go first. My brother says you have trouble. You don't take chances. I go first.”

The translator began walking. Jack looked at Doc, his face impressed.

“I think he's going to work out pretty well,” Jack decided.

Jimmy led them to a big, light tan Toyota Sequoia SUV.

“Isn't that a little obtrusive?” Jack wondered.

“We'll be going all over the place,” Doc reminded him. “Best to be ready for anything.”

“You wanted unobtrusive?” Jimmy asked, beaming as he opened the back hatch with the key fob. “I was offered a Hyundai first. I got this for same money.”

“Did you bribe the salesman?” Jack asked as he went around to the passenger seat while Doc stretched out in back.

“No, no. Not a place for bribes,” said Jimmy. “I just say I get good car or I cut his balls off. Easier than bribe. Where to?”

“We're on a tight schedule.” Jack said. “We have to get to the port before the
Flower of Asia
docks.”

“Good idea,” said Doc. “But I think we have enough time to make one stop first.” Jack looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “You sure?”

Doc nodded solemnly. “I'm sure.”

Jimmy nodded, started the engine, and made their way out of the airport. Jack, who had never been to Riyadh before, found it interesting, to say the least.

“What's the giant bottle opener?” he asked, crooking his thumb at the big building in the center of the city.

“The Kingdom Centre,” Jimmy informed him. “Biggest skyscraper in Riyadh. Third tallest building with a hole in it in the world.”

“With an A-hole in it?” shot back Doc. “I find that hard to believe.”

Jimmy laughed. He might not understand all of the subtleties of English, but he had a good command of curse words and off-color humor, thanks to the SEALs.

He was also a good driver, navigating Riyadh's streets with ease. The traffic was far sparser than Jack had imagined—lighter even than the financial district in San Francisco on a Saturday afternoon in February. Jimmy made his way to a residential section on the eastern side of the city where the narrow, tangled roads made it easier to make sure they weren't being followed.

Then he scouted Doc's directions to a faded yellow house about midway down a block of clay-brick buildings. It was in a dim corner of the city, south of the Ad Dar Al Baida district. Two kids were playing with a soccer ball in the dusty front yard. Their faces were smeared with sweat, but they wore brand-new Reeboks and shiny basketball shorts in the latest U.S. style.

“I need Ahab,” Doc told them in English.

Jimmy started to translate, but the kids had already heard what they needed to hear. They darted into the house. Less than thirty seconds later, a thin man with a grizzled face came out. At least two decades older than Doc, which was saying something, his shoulders were stooped and his leg dragged. He held a small gym bag like a football against his side. Doc went over and hugged him. They said a few words that Jack couldn't hear. Doc reached into his pocket and pressed a wad of American money into Ahab's hand. Ahab nodded, and handed off the bag.

“
Acchay
,” said Doc. “Thanks, and good-bye.”

He went swiftly back to the car. “Go,” he told Jimmy.

Doc opened the bag as Jimmy drove. There were two pistols, both .45 caliber Glock 21s, along with six filled magazines. There were also fake passports and other documents.

“Just in case,” Doc explained as he divvied up the contents.

Jack told Doc to give Jimmy the pistol. “I'm sure he's a better shot than I am.”

Doc quickly agreed. “What, you think these were for you?” he joked. “There are licenses for the guns in the paperwork that each one of us has,” Doc noted, “but you have to be careful. If you're carrying them in a mosque or a government building, the penalty is only slightly better than getting caught with one in New York City.”

“What penalty?” asked Jimmy.

“They'll chop off your hand,” said Doc.

Jimmy laughed. “No, no, actual penalty here is eighty-thousand-dollar fine and a month in jail,” he corrected, then shrugged. “But life in Saudi prison? Losing your hand might be better.”

Jack steered the subject to something that intrigued him. “Who's Ahab?”

“Fellow merc,” Doc told them. “Originally from Delhi.”

“Yes, yes,” Jimmy piped up. “You say good-bye to him in Hindu, yes?”

“Yes,” Doc continued. “Ahab had been a cook for one of the larger mercenary outfits in Iraq, but was kicked out after he voiced suspicions about a young boy on his crew. The young boy was apparently a ‘special friend' of the local supervisor. Week later, the kid walks into the mess tent, and blows himself up. Kills about two dozen locals, and two U.S. servicemen. Turned out the whole thing was an Al Qaeda setup.”

“Let me guess,” Jack interjected sourly. “The supervisor remained in place. Firing him would have been ‘politically incorrect.'”

“I would do more than fire him,” said Jimmy.

“Someone did,” said Doc. “Not a week later they found him hanging from a rope. His face was battered and two ribs were broken, fingers, too. They called it suicide. I guess they were right in a way.”

They stayed silent for a time as Jimmy drove to Abi Bakr As Siddiq Road, one of the main arterials in the city. This was a broad highway that took them from the business area to a section of sand-strewn lots that reminded Jack they were in the middle of a desert.

“Reminds me of Baghdad,” said Doc as they passed a large expanse of open sand.

“No checkpoints,” said Doc.

“No IEDs, either,” said Jimmy.

The buildings they passed were mostly new, and if you made allowances for the Arabic lettering, would have fit in the suburbs of any southwestern U.S. city—low-slung offices interrupted by the occasional condo complex and a smattering of stores. A more crowded residential zone lay to the west as they found King Fahd Road, but at least from the distance it didn't look anything like the poor, crowded urban area Jack had envisioned. Riyadh was, in fact, a far cry from Baghdad, which Jack had visited twice as a cable host. Far more modern and far less crowded, it was as different from the Iraqi capital as the countries were.

Part of the difference, Jack knew, had to do with oil revenue; Saudi Arabia had been blessed with massive oil reserves that made the gas cheap and the Kingdom better off than many other countries in the region. But it was not simply that; it was education and a willingness to accept some aspects of modernity. What might other countries achieve if they weren't blinded by hate?

And what might Saudi Arabia achieve if it weren't hamstrung by medieval attitudes toward religion and society? There were no women drivers, and Jack was well aware that business and even everyday life was hamstrung by strictures that had become self-defeating hundreds of years before. But he wasn't here to change the world. Just, hopefully, save it.

“Come on, Jimmy, step on it,” he said. “We got a boat to catch.”

Jimmy's reaction took Jack completely by surprise. The driver made a sharp U-turn across seven lanes and headed back toward the intersection. None of the other cars on the road beeped or even moved out of the way.

Jack turned to look at Doc, but Matson was intently talking on his phone. Then, to Jack's increased agitation, Jimmy floored the accelerator and directed the Sequoia right back to where they started: the airport.

 

32

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

The Gulfstream was refueled and waiting for them.

“The port city of Yanbu' al Bahr, five hundred and fifty miles to the west,” Jimmy explained, pointing as they headed for the G650's door. “Six hundred and seventy miles via highway.”

“Almost a ten-hour drive,” said Doc. “Minimum.”

Jack looked at Jimmy in surprise. “Couldn't you do it faster than that?”

“Me?” he said, pointing at himself and smiling. “Yes. With you in car?” He pointed at Jack and Doc. “No.” He shook his head. “Not a good idea.”

Jack looked to Doc in confusion. “This place has one of the highest accident rates in the world,” Doc explained, checking the new flight plan manifest that the pilots needed to negotiate once they had landed. “And if a foreigner is involved in one, they'd be dropped into a legal system that would make both Kafka and Escher blanch.” Doc handed the clipboard back to the pilot. “Driving, ten hours or so. Flying? About an hour. Welcome aboard, Jimmy.” Doc let their interpreter enter first.

Unlike Jack, Jimmy was ebullient with his appreciation of the private jet's amenities. Even so, they managed to get him belted in before they took off. The desert spread around them as they flew north, and within a few moments it was all Jack could see—open brown space—a harsh environment where even the smallest patch of green seemed a miracle. Farming was out of the question.

Below they could see that the highway traffic was mostly tractor trailers. Even though the jet cut their travel time enormously, there was still almost an hour to sit. Rather than worry, Jack let his reporter instincts lead him. He turned to Jimmy.

“How did you start working for the SEALs?” he asked.

“Didn't know they were SEALs,” the man answered, eyes still looking out the window. “Working for army. One day sergeant asked if I wanted to make more money. I said yes.” He gave Jack a big grin.

“Don't be so modest,” said Doc, turning to Jack. “He was always more than a terp.” He turned back to Jimmy. “Tell him about the smugglers.”

“Oh, nothing big,” said Jimmy. When he stayed humbly silent, Doc took up the story. “There were these black-market guys, hijacking trucks north of Baghdad,” Doc told Jack. “Jimmy was an interpreter with an Army MP unit. One day they went to make an arrest and no one was there. The captain was pissed. Jimmy told him if he wanted to catch some bad guys, he should go to this market north of town. They got there around midnight, just as the operation was in full swing. The smugglers, who, as far as Jimmy knew, weren't actually terrorists, just criminals, were unloading their latest prizes—a pair of tractor trailers loaded with cigarettes and booze. The MPs pulled up in a pair of Humvees, and immediately came under fire.”

Doc looked at Jimmy encouragingly, but the man just kept looking out the jet window.

“The sergeant Jimmy was with went down, shot in the leg,” said Doc. “Jimmy grabbed the guy's MP4 and ran at the bad guys, blazing away, so others could come and drag the sergeant to safety.”

Finally Jimmy spoke. “Stupid move,” he said without turning from the window.

“Killed two bandits,” said Doc. “The rest ran away.” Doc glanced at Jimmy again, but the man wouldn't take the bait. Jack realized that Jimmy wasn't about to toot his own horn. That would be arrogant and unseemly. That only made him more impressive in Jack's eyes.

“After that,” Doc continued, “the MPs loved him. He went on all their tough patrols. Two months later, when the SEALs needed a terp to go on missions, the MPs recommended him. Interpreters weren't supposed to be armed, but Jimmy always seemed to have a weapon with him. He'd ended up becoming one of the SEALs' most valuable assets, passed from unit to unit as the Americans rotated in and out of Iraq. Several men credited him with saving their lives.”

“Maybe I save someone there,” Jimmy quietly admitted, as if convincing himself. “Explain to people SEALs only look for bad guy. People excited, worried. They don't know what is going on. I warn. I help.”

“As a rule, interpreters stayed in the back of the ‘train,'” Doc went on. Jack knew that the “train” was an informal term soldiers used to describe the lineup of men who made the first entrance into a terrorist's house or stronghold. “Jimmy always managed to be near the front. His work earned him enough respect with the SEALs that the terrorists honored him by putting a price on his head—ten thousand American dollars.”

“I think sometime I turn myself in for that,” Jimmy said, silently chuckling. Then Jack noticed that, while his head didn't move, his face grew dark. “Okay, you make Jimmy big hero,” he said quietly. “Now you tell him the rest.”

Doc's smile also stopped when he remembered the rest. “His family had been moved for their safety,” he said, even as Jack knew what was coming. “They had a safe house in a very quiet area of Baghdad.…”

“Quiet street,” Jimmy echoed hollowly. “Safe, they said. The bad guys, they kill my wife and daughter if they find them.” Jimmy shook his head. “They don't find them. Not on purpose. They killed by car bomb at market, with twenty others. Accident, not assassination.”

“Murder, by any name,” Jack said grimly. He glanced at the reflection in the jet window to see Jimmy's face. It was pained, his eyes narrow slits. But he didn't cry. Jack guessed he had no more tears left.

“Jimmy kept working,” said Doc. “Another year. Two. A couple of attempts on his life. He kept going out on missions. The SEALs tried getting him a visa to come to the States. They knew it was just a matter of time before somebody got him. No luck. But they kept finding ways to move him around the Middle East. It's our good fortune that Sol got him assigned to us.…”

“Look,” Jimmy declared, pointing. “We close now.”

Jack looked out the other window to see the same green-spotted expanse of dark brown and tan countryside, only this time knifed in the center by a swath of dark blue and light green-blue.