Spy for Hire (21 page)

“Well, Ms. Harman, I think that’s all. Thank you for your time. Have a wonderful day.”

She studied him for a moment, with a confused expression on her face. “And you, Mr. Sava.” She held up the paper he’d given her. “And thank you for this.”

Mark called Val Rosten on the way back to Manama. He told him that he’d agreed to turn Muhammad over first thing the next morning, and that he’d tried to give the CIA credit for helping to get the kid back.

So things were on track. No worries.

Rosten didn’t thank Mark, but he didn’t seem displeased either. More than anything, he seemed distracted.

“There’s just one other thing,” said Mark.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“I got a name I was hoping you could have the Bahrain station run.”

“Ah, and what name would that be?”

Mark told Rosten what he’d learned about Kalila Safi.

“What’s the end game here, Sava? The kid’s a royal, he belongs with the royal family. So what if they’re lying about some nanny? That’s their business. Tell me you’re not thinking of holding up the transfer.”

“No.” Mark wasn’t about to tell Rosten the truth. “I just sense a potential leverage point. Might not be leverage we want to use now, but if it’s worth it to the Bahrainis to lie to us about this nanny, it’s worth it to us to figure out why they’d want to lie. I’m throwing you a bone here, Val.”

Rosten took a moment to respond. “I’ll make a few inquiries.”

38

Mina Salman, a huge seaport on the eastern edge of Manama, was owned and operated by the Bahrainis, but the US Navy leased a large portion of it and had recently signed a deal to lease a larger portion still; as a result, Rear Admiral Jeffrey Garver spent a lot of time shuttling back and forth between the port and the landlocked US naval base nearby.

At present, Garver was in uniform—his service dress blues—driving down the main half-mile-long pier, en route to meet the DEPCOMNAVCENT, the deputy commander, US Naval Forces Central Command. They had been scheduled to inspect the nearly completed personnel barracks and then review progress on a bridge that was being built to connect the port of Mina Salman with the US naval base; instead they were going to meet aboard a guided missile destroyer that was moored in Manama Bay, for the purpose of discussing what to do when and if Bahrain descended into chaos.

Garver had just passed a sign that read
RESTRICTED AREA
when his cell phone rang. It was Val Rosten, the deputy director of the CIA’s Near East Division. Garver knew him well; as the head of naval intelligence in Bahrain, he often coordinated with the CIA.

Rosten explained that he needed information about a woman named Kalila Safi; she either worked for, or was a member of, the royal family. “You work with more of the royals than I do. Any chance you can ask around about her without making waves? She might be employed as a nanny.”

“Does this have anything to do with—”

“It might.”

“I’ll see what I can come up with.”

Garver knew dozens of royals—he’d worked with many of them for years on the expansion of the port at Mina Salman—but he didn’t bother trying to call any.

Instead he called Saeed al Yami, a high-ranking officer in the Saudi General Intelligence Presidency, the Saudi equivalent of the CIA. As a function of his job as director of naval intelligence, Garver had been working with Saeed and Saudi intelligence for the better part of five years now—although never as much as over the past four days.

When Saeed picked up, Garver explained what Rosten wanted.

“Do you know this Kalila Safi?” asked Garver.

“I do,” said Saeed.

“Who is she?”

“No one you need to worry about.”

“Does this have anything to do with the boy?”

“It does.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No. The information you provided us with yesterday has allowed us to develop a contingency plan to ensure the delivery of the child. I’m ordering that contingency plan activated as of now.”

“Don’t screw this up, Saeed.”

39

Delhi, India

Monkeys!

Rad opened his eyes and knew instantly that that was what had woken him up. He looked at the digital clock on the end table next to the bed. It read two thirty p.m. He’d only been asleep for an hour.

He could hear those dirty cocksuckers in the back garden, chattering, screeching, scurrying up walls like demonic rats, racing after each other across electrical wires…

The back door. He had to close it.

Rad sprang out bed and walked quickly to the door. Before closing it, he listened for a moment, surprised by the silence that had suddenly descended. Just as he was wondering where the monkeys had gone, a black figure crashed through the screen door and plowed into him, knocking him to the floor.

At first Rad thought it was a crazed monkey. He began to fight it off with his hands, kicking and punching blindly. However, when he tried to scream, a human hand closed over his mouth. He bit the hand, but then felt a stab of pain that felt as though someone had stuck a needle into his thigh. Twisting as hard as he could, he tried to shake his leg free.

A boot came down on his shinbone, and he heard a loud crack. Seconds later, a woozy feeling washed over him and he passed out.

40

Bahrain

Mark was in a taxi, speeding into Manama on King Faisal Highway when Rosten called.

“I got some intel on the nanny.”

“I’m listening,” said Mark.

“She’s fifty-six years old. We tapped her credit card history. Lots of purchases in Riffa. Then three days ago we have one purchase at an airport coffee shop in Dubai. Two days ago, a purchase at a clothing store in Dubai. After that, nothing.”

“Can you call Dubai station, ask them to track her down?”

“This was a highly compartmentalized op. Dubai station isn’t in the loop.”

“You can’t ask them just to track a name?”

“Not without getting permission from the DNCS, and I doubt he’d give it.” The DNCS was the director of the National Clandestine Service, which was the division of the CIA that did the actual spying.

“What else?”

“Nothing for now. I have a call in to naval intelligence here in Bahrain, though. They’ve been in on this from the beginning—”

“Oh, great.”

As chief of station/Azerbaijan, Mark had sometimes worked with military intelligence officers. To a man, they’d been decent and earnest. But often it was just a case of too many cooks in the kitchen.

“Frankly,” said Rosten, “with all the construction jobs the navy’s been bidding out to the Bahrainis, naval intelligence has got far better contacts with the royals than we do. I’ll let you know when and if I hear anything more. Have you moved your people in place to transfer the kid?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Don’t screw me on this, Sava.”

Mark clicked off his prepaid phone.
Can’t even run the name of Kalila Safi by Dubai station.
We’ll see about that.

Mark was fast approaching the skyscrapers of downtown Manama. To his right, a road construction project was underway on what used to be the site of a three-hundred-foot monument that paid homage to Bahrain’s ancient pearl-fishing industry—a monument the government tore down after it became a rallying point for Shia protests. To his left lay the Persian Gulf.

As traffic slowed where an onramp joined the highway, a dark blue Chevy tried to cut in front of them. Shaking his fist, the taxi driver muttered some curse in Arabic and wouldn’t give way.

Mark pulled out his iPod and searched his Contacts folder for the name of someone he used to work with at the CIA—Larry Bowlan. Bowlan, he recalled, worked at the consulate in Dubai. He might be able to track down Kalila Safi.

Suddenly a red Ford Taurus cut in front of him. Glancing at the Taurus’s rearview mirror, Mark locked eyes with the driver for a brief moment and realized he had a problem. Because he was ninety percent sure that the guy behind the wheel of the Taurus was the older of the two Saudis who’d tried to kidnap Muhammad back in Kyrgyzstan.

Mark had assumed the Bahrainis had been tracking him ever since his visit to Riffa. But unless he backed out of delivering Muhammad the next day, he’d figured they wouldn’t bother him. He doubted, though, that he’d get the same hands-off treatment from the Saudi in the Taurus.

He looked behind him. The Chevy sedan that had tried to cut him off was now tailgating.

Mark pocketed his iPod. They were approaching an exit off to the right. When they’d almost passed it, he leaned over and yanked hard on the steering wheel, sending the taxi screeching off the highway onto the exit ramp.

The driver fought for control of the steering wheel, which Mark released as soon as they were on the exit ramp.

Yelling at him in Arabic, the cabbie pulled to a stop.

Mark pointed behind him. “Problem!” he said, speaking English.

The guy in the Chevy sedan behind them hadn’t been able to react fast enough to make the exit ramp, but he was now backing up on the shoulder of the highway.

Mark fished a twenty-dinar note out of his front pocket. “Go,” he said, handing the money over. “Government Avenue.”