The Secret Soldier (34 page)

Meshaal stood at the edge of the water, his mouth open. He’d surely never seen a naked woman before, much less anything like this. Wells waved him over. He picked up the shoe box and walked to them with his feet dragging like a dog on its way to the vet.

Wells dropped two wet stacks of hundred-euro notes on the sand. When they dried, they’d be worth more than the Kia. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We have to go.”

 

 

“THEY’LL BE ALL RIGHT,”
Wells said fifteen minutes later. They were on the A6, heading east to Nicosia, the Kia’s heater on high to dry them out.

“Best night of their lives. They’ll tell the grandkids.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“You’re always so sure. Must be nice.”

They reached Nicosia an hour later, ditched the Kia, and walked though the town’s quiet streets to the hostel where Wells had stayed a week before. Then Wells found an Internet café and called Shafer, who got Wells into the American embassy so they could talk on a secure line.

“It’s gonna be messy,” Shafer said, when Wells was done explaining. “And you’re right. It may take a couple days to sort out.”

“Not too long.”

“If the cops get close, call me back. I’ll do my best to get you out.”

“That’s not it, Ellis. You didn’t see the camp. These guys have big plans.”

“MY BROTHER SAYS I’M DYING. IS HE A PROPHET? DOES HE SEE THE
future? What a gift it must be. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even Saeed. To see your own death. And then what do you do? Sit in your bed and count down the days? And your wives and your children and your children’s children? Shall you watch them die, too? Better to gouge your eyes and live in darkness than see all that.”

Abdullah’s rant began even before Kurland reached his chair, the Arabic pouring out of him as Rana struggled to keep up with the translation. They were in Abdullah’s massive palace in the desert just north of Riyadh. The king had summoned Kurland that morning, telling him only that they needed to meet immediately.

Abdullah finished his speech and coughed into his hand as if he’d just run a marathon. Kurland settled himself in his chair, a leather recliner that didn’t match the room’s eighteenth-century French furniture. He wondered what he was meant to say. When they’d met at Abdullah’s desert ranch, Abdullah had shown Kurland the spotless cages that housed his prize falcons, proud, long-feathered birds. The king had been smiling, almost playful. He’d laughed when a big brown camel—an ill-tempered beast that had won two races in Dubai—nipped at Kurland.

Abdullah was still alive, but the smiling man from the ranch was gone. The king’s face had melted into itself, crumpled like crushed wax paper. His body was heavier, and yet he seemed smaller and weaker. Kurland thought of Humpty Dumpty.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men . . .
And the biggest surprise of all, he was alone, though two guards and two translators waited in the gilded corridor outside. Abdullah must have forbidden them.

Kurland tried to deflect the king’s rant with a joke. “I don’t know any prophets. Maybe I need new friends.”

“Are you asking me to smile? After what’s happened to my granddaughter?”

“I’m asking—I’m thanking you for giving me the chance to offer my country’s condolences about Alia’s death.”

“Is that why you think you’re here?”

“I’m here because you wanted to see me, King.”

“You’re here because of my brother. The prophet. King Saeed. Abdullah is dead and long live Saeed. Did you bow to him? Did you kiss his hand? Kneel before him to tie his shoes?”

Kurland thought back to his conversation with Saeed. Saeed had implied that Abdullah was too ill to govern. Though he hadn’t explicitly said that he planned to take over even before Abdullah died, the implication was clear. The Kingdom had gone through similar transitions before. Abdullah himself had governed as crown prince after King Fahad suffered a stroke in 1996.

Kurland wanted to reassure Abdullah. But he couldn’t choose a side in this battle. Two days before, he’d received instructions from Washington: The United States would take no position on succession in the House of Saud. Not officially, not unofficially. “You’re still king,” he said. “That’s how I see you, and that’s how America sees you.”

Abdullah ignored Kurland’s watery words, set off on another journey in Arabic. “I must be jealous of Saeed. He lives in the future, I don’t even see the past anymore. Did he flood the room with tears when he told you of my fate? Did he tell you the throne would be his? That he would mount it like a whore even before my corpse cools?”

“The United States respects the process by which your kingdom picks its leaders,” Kurland said. “We expect that other nations won’t interfere with our elections. Similarly, we don’t interfere with yours.”

Even to him the words sounded dry, mechanical. No surprise. But when he’d practiced them on the ride up, he hadn’t expected them to be so misaligned with the king’s mood. Abdullah was unfurling an epic of tragedy and betrayal. Kurland was reading from a position paper drafted by GS-15s in Foggy Bottom.

“Say what you mean. Whether I’m king or Saeed or someone else, the United States doesn’t care.”

“Of course we care. But our relationship with the Kingdom is long-standing, and whoever is king, we will respect Saudi interests.” Whoever had written these words should be flogged, Kurland thought. He quickly added, “King, I don’t know what’s passed between you and Saeed, but for what it’s worth, your brother didn’t say you were dying.”

“No?”

“He said you weren’t well. And that whoever ruled Saudi Arabia, the Kingdom would be a great friend to the United States.”

“‘A great friend to the United States.’” Abdullah’s voice was steady now, the madness in his eyes gone. “He’s as honest as a snake, my brother. Did he tell you about his other great friends? The clerics who preach jihad every Friday. The men who blow themselves up in Iraq and Afghanistan. Does that sound like a friend?”

“Is Saeed funding the insurgencies?”

“He’s too keen for that. He closes his eyes while imams shovel money to these men who kill your soldiers.”

“You don’t stop him?”

“You think I haven’t tried.”

Abdullah closed his eyes, slumped in his overstuffed chair. Rana reached for him, but Kurland shook his head and they waited in silence. After a minute, the king opened his eyes. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you like some coffee? Or juice?”

“If you’re having something.”

Abdullah picked up the handset of the antique phone beside him. Almost before he’d hung up, his steward emerged with a tray of coffee, orange juice, and French pastries. Kurland sensed that the king needed a few minutes to gather his strength.

“What do you think of my country, Mr. Ambassador?”

Hardworking
would be too obvious a lie, as would
friendly,
Kurland thought
.

“I haven’t seen as much of it as I would have liked. The security situation. But the people I’ve met, they’re polite, thoughtful. Hospitable. Pious, I suppose. Like certain Americans. Mainly Southerners.”

“You think you understand Saudi Arabia?”

“No, sir. I wouldn’t say so. Sometimes I don’t even think I understand America.”

“America’s easy to understand. America is on the surface. Here everything is buried. You don’t have any idea what’s happening.”

“Tell me, then.”

To Kurland’s surprise, Abdullah did. About his plans to make his son king, the fury he had stirred in Saeed and Mansour. About the split in the family he caused.

“This has been going on since last year and we haven’t heard of it?”

“You do need new friends, Mr. Ambassador. But most of the princes feel it’s in their interest to hold their tongues. Once they’ve made a decision, they’ll want a strong king, and that will be impossible if the world knows our house is divided.”

“But you’ve broken that secrecy. You’ve told me.”

“My reasons don’t matter.”

“Even so, I’d like to know them.”

Abdullah didn’t answer. The silence stretched, and Kurland sat back and waited. Pressing the king to speak would be a terrible mistake, he thought. Beside him, he sensed Rana’s breathing change, heard Rana’s fingertips drum against his legs. Kurland tilted his head fractionally, trying to catch Rana’s eyes and convey the message:
Not a word. Not a sigh. He’s got to talk on his own. And if you screw this up—

“When they attacked Alia, they went too far,” Abdullah said suddenly.

Kurland needed a moment to parse the words. “You think your brother was behind the bombing in Jeddah?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“What would he gain?”

“
Look at me!”
The words were a plea as much as a command. Abdullah lifted his right hand and watched it quiver. “If Saeed sees my death, he’s not far wrong. He’s stronger than I am. More ruthless.”

Abdullah squeezed his fingers together to hide their trembling and rested his hand on his lap. “Saeed is more ruthless than I am, and more ruthless than you could ever be, and he’s going to win. And there’s nothing you or I can do about it.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.

“Can you prove he was involved? Because if you can—”

“Of course I can’t.”

“But she was his grandniece, too—”

“Americans always believe in kindness. When you leave here, drive back to that prison you call an embassy, take a detour. Drive into the desert. Tell me what kindnesses you see there, Mr. Ambassador.”

Kurland knew he shouldn’t be angry at this half-mad man. But he couldn’t help hating Abdullah a little. “That’s what you called me here to say.”

“And to ask you a question.”

“Whatever you like.”

“Suppose I could prove that Saeed had killed my granddaughter. Would it matter? To the United States of America?”

“It would matter.”

“Would it?” the king said again. “Would it mean anything at all?”

“Yes.” Kurland hoped he was right.

 

 

“SO I GUESS WE’RE
not following the king’s advice?” Rana said, as the convoy swung south onto the highway that ran from the palace toward downtown Riyadh.

“Hmmm?” Kurland was still trying to understand what Abdullah had said about Saeed. Would the prince use terrorists to attack his own family? These men had everything to lose from a civil war, everything to gain from keeping the Kingdom stable. Maybe Kurland was naive, but he thought they’d be rational enough to make the compromises necessary for a peaceful transition.

“Going into the desert. His object lesson.”

In fact, they were heading back to Riyadh and the embassy. Kurland, Rana, and Maggs rode in the second Suburban, the third vehicle in the convoy. Maggs had moved Kurland out of the lead Suburban, explaining that he didn’t want to be predictable. Maggs and Kurland sat side by side in the middle seat. Rana and a marine corporal were in back, with two more marines up front. Two Saudi police cars cleared traffic ahead of the convoy, sirens screaming, while an armored Jeep from the king’s private security detail brought up the rear. Saudi drivers were famously aggressive, but even they stayed away from this rolling mass of iron.

“Yeah, we’ll skip the desert,” Kurland said. Though part of him wanted to see what the king had meant. Walk in the heat until he collapsed.

“I have to say attacking Alia was brilliant. Shows the princes nobody’s safe. And takes out a progressive voice, a woman, someone who can speak to America and Europe. And it’s pushing Abdullah over the edge at this moment when he’s fighting with Saeed for control. Three for the price of one.”

“Could Saeed have been involved?”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m not saying directly. But he’s the defense minister. He’s got intel on her protection. Maybe he or Mansour gave that to somebody who didn’t like her. When we saw him, he didn’t seem too upset she was gone.”

“Okay. Abdullah’s furious that Alia died. Wants someone to pay. He and his brother, they’re rivals, hate each other. And Abdullah’s blaming Saeed. But why would Saeed take that risk? I don’t see it. And I promise you that’s what Foggy Bottom will think. They’ll say this proves that Abdullah is too old and we can’t trust him anymore.”

“What if we’re looking at it backward?” Kurland said. “What if Saeed is just crazy? What if he’s waited forever to be king, and he can’t stand the idea that Abdullah wants to skip him?”

“You’re letting your dislike for Saeed color your thinking.”

“Maybe. But there’s something I don’t get. The family’s kept this to themselves. We didn’t have a clue.”

Rana hesitated. “True.”

“So Al Qaeda probably doesn’t know, either. Or Hezbollah. Unless they have better intel into what’s happening in the monarchy than we do.”

“Which is unlikely, sure.”

“And when was the last time the Sauds had this kind of internal struggle?”

“Not since the early sixties,” Rana said. “When King Saud was drinking himself to death and his brothers exiled him.”

“Almost fifty years ago. So
why now?
The other bombings, sure. But Alia? Like you said, that was a surgical strike at Abdullah. If the terrorists aren’t getting tipped from inside, how could they know exactly the right time and way to hit him?”

“Coincidence,” Rana said. “They’d planned awhile, and they had a chance at Princess Alia and they took it.”

“I hate coincidence.”

The convoy passed a massive construction project, hundreds of cranes working on half-finished apartments and office towers, part of the campus of Princess Noura University for Women. The royal family was spending more than eleven billion dollars on the school, part of its effort to funnel oil wealth into creating a sustainable society. Past the campus, northern Riyadh came into focus, concrete houses and mansions and mosques jumbled close behind high walls. In a city where summer temperatures topped one hundred twenty degrees, outdoor space was not a priority. The houses were built nearly to the edges of their lots. Kurland tried to imagine living inside one. He couldn’t.
“You think you understand Saudi Arabia?”
Abdullah had almost sneered when he said the words.
No,
Kurland thought. But maybe that was his own failure—