Countdown to Mecca (32 page)

“Mr. Hatfield, a pleasure to meet you,” said the man in the middle of the delegation sent to escort them. He wore a sport coat over his robe, and his headdress was tied with a braided robe. “We are extremely honored by your presence.”

“I am the one who is honored,” said Jack, falling right into the niceties. It was like a sporting event or a rumble between gangs. The combatants or rivals were extremely polite to each other, even though they clutched razor sharp knives behind their backs.

“We have some brief necessities,” said the greeter, gesturing behind them. “I am so sorry to inconvenience you.”

“It's not an inconvenience at all,” said Jack, knowing he was referring to a security check.

The corridor they walked along bordered the glass wall of the tower. It was impossible not to stare at the city and the rising haze of the desert heat in the distance. The sun shimmered the landscape before them. Though they were barely halfway up in the tower, Jack felt as if he were standing on the top of the world. He wondered if having an office here might not make the prince think the same.

Their escort led them to a large, empty room just around the next corner of the building. Two men with submachine guns were standing at the doorway. Inside, six guards, all with identical weapons, flanked a millimeter-wave scanning machine similar to those used in airports—only far more advanced and fashionably styled. The guards were dressed in Saudi full dress military uniforms. All had a significant number of ribbons on their chests. A short Asian man with a nervous look on his face darted out from behind them. He was the machine's operator.

“Pulling out all the stops,” murmured Doc. “Those are MP5 submachine guns, by the way. A little old-school, but you can't argue with the choice. Battle-proven.”

“This model or these particular weapons, I wonder,” Jack said.

“From the wear on the grips, I'd say both.”

Jack had done a show on the dangers of backscatter X-ray devices, once in common use by the TSA. These were different, more effective machines, working with low-powered radio waves. Supposedly, they posed no health hazard, though Jack was somewhat suspicious of those assertions. The real problem with the machines came from their false alarms—they were said to give false positives about twenty-five percent of the time. He motioned for Doc to go first. Doc nodded, smiled at the guards, then casually pulled the Glock automatic from a shoulder holster under his jacket, and politely handed it to the nearest security officer. Jack raised his eyebrows, but no one else was fazed.

“Please treat it well,” Doc said to the security man holding it between two fingers. “It has great sentimental value.” Indeed. Jack knew it had been used on at least one Russian.

“Of course, sir,” said the escort, who was apparently nonplussed by the incident. His English had a very proper British accent to it, something very likely picked up at Cambridge or Oxford, if not earlier at prep school. “Mr. Hatfield, do you have a similar declaration?”

“No, I'm fine.”

“I assume your associate has a permit.”

“Of course, sir,” Jack echoed in kind.

The man smiled. The digicam and Jack's notepad was carefully hand-checked. “Very good, very good,” he said. “Gentlemen please, this way.”

He swept them back out into the hall, leading them to another elevator around the corner, where two men dressed in robes and jackets stood in front of the elevator. The men had MP5 submachine guns slung in front of their chests and were dressed in long robes.

Like executioners,
Jack thought, thinking back to images he had seen of public beheadings.

Their guide led them to the elevator door, which he opened with a key. Once they were inside, he took a step out. “Gentlemen, a pleasure. You may collect your things on the way out.”

“A lot of security for a guy who watches the weather,” Doc commented after the elevator started up.

“That is least of his portfolio,” Jack replied just as diffidently. “Control the weather and you control the world.” He smiled thinly at the concave mirror in the corner of the elevator ceiling.

“Control the woman who controls that man and you've really got a lock on it,” Doc observed.

More men in robes with submachine guns were waiting when the door opened. Their stares were aggressive and menacing, but they were silent, and when Jack stepped forward, they parted.

The floor was completely open, unobstructed by interior walls or even pillars. It wasn't the top, but must have been very close. The view was even more stunning than the one Jack had seen below. The glass windows had electrochromic devices that reduced the glare, so that it was possible to look directly at the sun—now about a quarter of the way up in the sky, shining directly into the eastern windows.

The floors were covered with silk Persian rugs so that only a few strips of the sleek marble beneath them were visible. A pair of settees had been placed in the middle of the room; they were the only pieces of furniture.

Prince Riad al-Saud was sitting on one. Jack had already briefed himself on the prince's background, but he was surprised to find the man looked at least ten years younger than his resume indicated. There was no question that it was he—he had the same dimple in his chin, his eyes flashed with life, and there was even the slight touch of gray at the temples and in his beard. But the photos hadn't done justice to the man's vibrant energy.

He rose as Jack approached. The prince may not have heard what Jack said as he went, since he hardly moved his lips, but Doc did as he brought the digicam up.

“We're live.”

 

43

Jack extended his hand to meet the fair, small hand of the prince. “Your Excellency.”

“Mr. Hatfield, a pleasure to have you with us.” The prince placed Jack's hand between both of his. His eyes held Jack's, and he smiled broadly. “You are hungry, I hope.”

“We are,” admitted Jack, “but I never eat on duty. I hope you understand.”

“Ah, well, perhaps we will tempt you with something besides.” The prince raised his hand.

Jack expected him to click his fingers, but he did nothing so gauche; he quickly lowered his hand. Moments later, two men entered from a door next to the elevator carrying two trays of pastries. A third trailed a few steps behind with coffee and tea. The prince was playing a game Jack knew very well. It was difficult to be hard-hitting with a croissant hanging out of your mouth. Jack passed on the pastries, even though they looked and smelled as if they had just come from the kitchen of a master baker. The prince, however, chose a few while complimenting Jack on his cable show.

“I was particularly taken with the one on the effects of depleted uranium,” he said, “which included stock footage of the war to liberate Kuwait.” He snuggled back in his seat like Jack had seen Eddie do on the boat. “It's an issue not many people face, yet you addressed it in a comprehensive manner.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, concentrating on appearing just as easy-going as the prince. He wanted the man to feel that he had the upper hand, to be comfortable, but he reminded himself that was just what Riad was—a man. They were boxing—more than boxing, really. An interview like this was an elaborate dance.

“You have been to Riyadh before?” asked the prince.

“Briefly,” said Jack. “I'm afraid I've never been here long enough to really enjoy the city.”

“But I did not know this.” The prince looked as if he were surprised. “I should have had a guide meet you at the airport, and given you a tour.”

“That would have been wonderful,” Jack answered honestly. “But I'm here on business and my schedule is tight. As I'm sure yours is as well.”

“Of course, of course.” The prince reached over and took a pineapple tart from the tray. Jack noted that the delicacies even included the sugar-free, low-fat, no-dairy baked goods that he favored. Hardly a coincidence, he was sure. The prince must've had a research team that put Jack's to shame—even at the height of his success on
Truth Tellers
.

“I want to say, before we begin, that I appreciate that you took this time for me,” said Jack. “You've been so generous.”

It was a nod to propriety that he begin with a compliment. The prince acknowledged this with a slight, grateful nod. But Jack was not finished. He wanted to know how seriously this guy took himself.

“Though I have not seen much of your country,” he went on, “I cannot imagine anything more splendid than this residence. The building itself is a treasure.”

The prince appeared to be suddenly, very slightly on guard. Two compliments when one would have sufficed? His smile belied any suspicion he might have as to Jack's motives.

“Yes, it is quite majestic.” The prince leaned forward conspiratorially. “Much nicer than the ministry offices.” The prince smiled. He seemed to be mocking himself—
a tactic,
Jack thought, to make him appear more humble and therefore likable.
So he's suspicious of suck-ups,
Jack thought. He might not be as easy to manipulate as Jack had hoped.

Doc knew what Jack was doing and his mouth twisted as if to say, “You're wasting time.” The prince put down his tea, signaling it was go time.

“So, you are here to talk about nuclear weapons in the Middle East.

“Weapons of mass destruction,” Jack clarified.

“Ah,” said the prince. “I assume that you are against them.”

“I'm neither for nor against, to be honest.”

The prince leaned back with an expression of mild surprise that quickly shaded to appreciation.

“You are indeed an honest and very unique man,” he commented. “Certainly unique among Americans. What I have found is that those whose countries have weapons of mass destruction do not want them for others, and vice versa.”

Jack thought back to the days-ago discussion with Sol Minsky. “Power is not to be feared in the hands of one with integrity.”

The prince raised his hands as if in prayer. “You speak the truth.”

“Which brings me to this, Prince,” Jack went on. “Nuclear weapons are still a big deal around the world, yet nuclear power has lost favor in my country and many others. Nonetheless the Kingdom plans to build sixteen new nuclear reactors. Why is that?”

Prince Riad al-Saud smiled. “We have great, and growing, electrical needs—eight percent more each year. And there are some notable difficulties imposed by climate on other forms of power.”

“And what about nuclear weapons themselves? Are you, like Iran, publicly opposed and privately for their development?”

“The question has no relevance, since the reactors cannot produce material that creates weapons,” answered the prince.

“They could be adapted.”

“Not easily, as Tehran has learned at great cost. In our case, there are safeguards we have insisted upon, overseen by international inspectors.”

“So apart from the difficulty, there's no interest in developing a bomb or weapons of mass destruction?” asked Jack.

“None.”

“Even if Iran managed to build one?”

“Iran will not,” said the prince.

“But let's assume, for the sake of this discussion, that Iran did build a device of some kind. Would Saudi Arabia feel threatened?”

“No one really frightens us,” said the prince mildly. “We are not the West, Mr. Hatfield. I know what is going on in my realm. Do I look like a man who has fears?”

He was relaxed, and Jack knew that the Saudis had secret police, the Al-Mabahith, second to none.

“Of course,” the prince went on, “circumstances can change. If they do, we have an adequate military to deal with problems.”

“With American help.”

“If America is willing. Who can tell if you will always be willing?”

Touch
é
,
thought Jack. “How do you feel about Pakistan's repeated attempts to develop their own weapons?”

“Will you be running through each nation, Mr. Hatfield?”

“Sir, with your indulgence, Pakistan is a unique case,” Jack said. “There were loans from your Kingdom,” he said carefully. “It's said in some places that Saudi Arabia paid for the entire development of the weapons.”

The prince took a knowing sip of tea. “It is true.”

Jack seemed surprised. “You're admitting, Prince, that you funded Pakistan's program?”

The prince smiled. “Mr. Hatfield, I was merely referring to your comment, ‘It is said.' Nothing more.”

Jack smiled inwardly at the prince's theatrical timing. “If I may, it's also said that if there were a crisis, the Pakistanis would be obligated to give some of their weapons to the Saudis.”

“Our brothers in Islamabad may be generous,” the prince said mildly, reaching for another pineapple tart, “but I doubt that generous.”

“And so,” Jack quickly summarized, “if you'll forgive my pressing the matter, there does appear to be a need for Saudi Arabia to develop its own WMDs. Because of Iran, and the unreliability of allies. Including the United States.”

“There are many moving parts in your conclusion,” the prince said. “But I would agree that some people might believe that.”

“At the risk of pressing you on an issue you seem reluctant to discuss, are you one of them who believes that Saudi Arabia should have a bomb?”

“Candidly, Mr. Hatfield, I believe that Saudi Arabia should have at its disposal any means necessary to protect itself, just as every civilized nation should.”

“Sir, is there a Saudi program to develop a bomb?”

The prince was unfazed. Jack wasn't surprised. The question did not exactly come from left field.

“You Americans have no idea of the threat we face,” he said. His tone remained calm. He looked straight into the camera. “You see our country, you think sand and oil. Two things. We are faced with a Shia empire across our northern border, from Iran to the Mediterranean. You invaded Iraq. What is it now? A satellite of Iran. A new Persia. As you feared in one of your books written during Bush's mistake. And Syria—you start a war, the Iranians finish it. Now
they
seek a bomb. And what should we do? Sit here without defenses?”