The Secret Soldier (47 page)

“I know in my heart that this is a good man,” she said. “He’s suffered, too. They killed his granddaughter two weeks ago. Graham liked him. Graham believed in diplomacy. Graham wouldn’t have wanted war.”

Graham wouldn’t have wanted war.
The whispered words were played over and over. A week after the funeral, only twenty-seven percent of Americans wanted to invade. The Saudis did their part, too, arresting dozens of men, and making sure that every arrest was reported. “We won’t rest until all these criminals are in prison or dead,” Mansour said. “We’ll do whatever’s necessary to prove we’re a faithful ally.”

THE ROLE WELLS AND
Gaffan had played was never disclosed. Officially, a Saudi task force had tracked down Kurland with the help of tips from Saudis appalled by the kidnapping. Off the record, Duto told his favorite scribblers at the
Times
and the
Post
that the CIA and NSA had provided crucial tips. Duto explained that the rescue had failed because the first man into the underground cell in Mecca, a Saudi Special Forces soldier named Jalal, fell as he entered and didn’t get a clean shot at Ahmad Bakr. The agency trusted the Saudi account of the rescue, because CIA operatives had interviewed Jalal and found him credible. His story also matched the physical evidence, Duto said.

Internally, the CIA and White House had a much darker view, of course. Once Bakr was identified, rolling up the remains of his network was easy. Finding his bosses proved more difficult. After four days of tracing bank accounts and wire transfers, the NSA and Treasury Department discovered Bakr’s paymaster: Walid Ibrahim, a previously unknown brigadier general in the Saudi National Guard. The real question was whether Ibrahim had acted on his own or on the orders of someone more senior. The even more real question was what the United States should do if a top royal was involved.

Despite the public’s anger, for once the CIA and Pentagon and State Department and White House were in agreement. A full-scale invasion was impossible. The sight of American soldiers occupying Mecca and Medina would infuriate Muslims everywhere. If the Saudis blew their oil fields, oil would go to at least two hundred dollars a barrel. And the princes had ruled their country so tightly that a viable opposition party didn’t exist. If they fell, Saudi Arabia would fall into the hands of radical Islamists—or into outright anarchy.

But allowing the perpetrators to escape was equally unacceptable. After two days of meetings, the president issued a secret finding that anyone who had supported Bakr’s group would be considered an “unlawful enemy combatant” subject to arrest and extradition. The finding continued: “If judicial remedies are found to be impossible to apply, I hereby authorize extrajudicial measures to penalize any and all conspirators. Such penalties shall apply whether conspirators had prior awareness of all Bakr’s plans.”

In plain English, anyone included would have to give himself up or face assassination, even if he didn’t know that Bakr had planned to kidnap Kurland. But the money trail stopped at Walid Ibrahim, and the NSA couldn’t find any intercepts connecting Ibrahim or Bakr to senior royals. Under interrogation, lower-ranking members of Bakr’s group admitted that Bakr had said his money had come from within the Saudi government. But he’d never mentioned specific princes. In fact, Bakr had regularly expressed his hate of the House of Saud.

Walid Ibrahim could have definitively answered the question. But Ibrahim had put a bullet in his brain two days after Kurland’s death, even before the United States learned who he was. The Saudis told the White House that Ibrahim must have known he’d be caught and wanted to spare his family the embarrassment of a trial. No one in Washington believed them, but since Ibrahim’s body had been cremated, the story was impossible to challenge.

A week into their investigation, the agency and the White House had more or less come around to Wells’s theory. Senior princes, probably Saeed and Mansour, had supported Bakr, using him as a chip in their succession struggle with Abdullah. At some point, Bakr decided on his own to attack Kurland, hoping to provoke a war between the United States and Saudi Arabia.

The theory fit the available evidence. But a theory, even a plausible one, wasn’t the same as proof. What if another prince had funded Bakr? What if Ibrahim had somehow run the group by himself? The United States simply didn’t have enough evidence to arrest Saeed or Mansour, much less assassinate them.

 

 

WHICH LEFT WELLS. BUT
Wells preferred to keep his own counsel. “He’s not talking while the flavor lasts,” Shafer told Duto, stealing a line from an old gum ad. “Says he’s already told you as much as he can.”

“Unacceptable.”

“You should tell him so. Want to guess what he’ll say? If I were in his position, I’d tell you I’d be glad to talk—first to you, then CNN. He probably won’t be that subtle, though. He’ll probably just tell you to come and get him.”

“He ought to
want
us to get these guys.”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth, Vinny. I realize that’s so far from your personal experience that you can’t even imagine it, but it is technically possible. Maybe he doesn’t know anything else. Or maybe he thinks we’ll blow it. Our record isn’t so great lately.”

“Neither is his.”

“Be sure to tell him so when you guys chat.”

 

 

TWO WEEKS AFTER KURLAND’S
death, the White House press secretary announced that Walid Ibrahim, a Saudi general who was a prime suspect as a funder of the network that kidnapped Kurland, had committed suicide. The United States so far had not found proof that the conspiracy extended past Ibrahim, but the investigation was continuing. The press secretary added that the White House was “extremely disappointed” that the Saudi government hadn’t arrested Ibrahim before his suicide.

The same night, the secretary of state flew to Riyadh for a secret meeting with Abdullah and Saeed. Security wasn’t a problem. She never left her jet. Her speech to the brothers was straightforward.

“I came here to tell you the United States will not accept you”—she looked at Saeed—“or your sons as king. Not as Abdullah’s successor, or ever. And you, Saeed, will resign as defense minister, and your son will give up the
mukhabarat
.”

“You dare interfere in our family’s offices?”

“Should I tell you why we dare? Could be an unpleasant conversation. The consensus in Washington is that you’re getting off easy.”

“What proof do I have that you’ll stick to this bargain?”

“This isn’t a bargain. It doesn’t guarantee anything. It’s a minimum penalty, not a maximum. Do we understand each other?”

“You know,” Abdullah said. “You know what’s happened, everything. You know you know. And so does he, and so do I, and we all sit here knowing and not knowing at the same time. It makes my mind ache.”

“My brother’s become a philosopher in his old age,” Saeed said.

 

 

SAEED LOOKED AT HIS
brother and at the secretary, that foolish woman. He had no choice. “All right,” he said. But still in his head he heard the voice, defiant, maddening:
Mine. Mine. Mine.

 

 

ALIA’S SPEECH IN JEDDAH
had been taped. Against Miteb’s advice, Abdullah had watched. The video didn’t end when the bomb blew. A dozen times, Abdullah had seen his granddaughter bleed to death. Now, in the secretary’s jet, Alia visited him. She asked him how Saeed and Mansour could escape so easily. The United States hadn’t demanded their exile. They would live untouched in their palaces.

Abdullah knew he could bring Saeed and Mansour to justice simply by telling the Americans what Saeed had said on the night after Kurland was kidnapped. The words were as good as a confession. Yet Abdullah couldn’t make himself speak. To speak was to condemn his brother and nephew to death. To stay silent was to allow them their murders. And either course might jeopardize his nation. He couldn’t decide what to do, couldn’t even imagine how to make a choice. The Americans, with all their toys and tools. Why couldn’t they find proof on their own? Why did they need him? And if they couldn’t or wouldn’t act, should he try to reach out to Wells? Plot his own revenge? He no longer cared if Khalid succeeded him. He simply wanted justice, but he knew that his own decisions had torn justice from him, put it on the other side of the sun.

Every night Abdullah looked for answers and found none. And every night before his eyes closed, he prayed for an honorable escape from his dilemma. He prayed to die. Yet he felt stronger than he had in years. Allah’s final joke. Abdullah wouldn’t be allowed death’s easy escape from these decisions.

 

 

WELLS WATCHED ALL OF
this, and none of it, from North Conway. He and Gaffan had left Mecca a few hours after the failed rescue. Wells figured he’d leave the Grand Mosque and the Kaaba for another trip. A proper
hajj,
one that didn’t drench him in another man’s blood. The next day, he and Gaffan flew out on an air force jet, stopping briefly in Cyprus on their way to New York. They mostly slept, didn’t talk much.

Meshaal had come with them, too, Wells’s only request of Abdullah. The kid’s life expectancy in Saudi Arabia could be measured in weeks. Wells figured Meshaal had earned the chance to sort himself out in the United States. If he wasn’t happy, he could always go to Gaza.

When they landed in New York, Gaffan took his bag and the briefcase with what was left of his million dollars and gave Wells a manly half-hug. “It’s been real, it’s been fun,” Gaffan said. “You want to do it again, let me know.”

“I’ll do that,” Wells said. He didn’t know yet if he’d go after Saeed, or if Saeed would come after him. Though he had a feeling that their dance wasn’t finished.

 

 

HE’D THOUGHT A LOT
about Kurland’s last words.
“Tell her I fought.”
He had seen Barbara in Chicago the day before the funeral. She sat alone in her study, her eyes half closed, grief etched in her cheeks. Wells silently reached into his pocket, gave her the ring. It was in a plastic bag. He hadn’t wanted to touch it. It belonged to her, no one else. She shook it out and slipped it onto her finger beside her own wedding band. It was much too big. Its yellow gold caught the light as she twirled it loosely.

“He asked me to be sure you got it.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.” Wells didn’t know what to say next.
I tried? I wanted to save him? If I’d had just a few more seconds?
Like he’d been caught in traffic and missed his flight. “He wasn’t scared. At the end. He was lucid. And he wasn’t in pain. He asked me to tell you something.”

He told her. She listened and nodded, and then their conversation seemed to be over.

Wells wanted to go to the funeral, but someone might recognize him and wonder. There were too many unanswered questions already. So he stayed away.

 

 

HE DIDN’T TELL ANNE
about Abdullah and Saeed, or what had happened in Lebanon. But—two weeks on, the same night the secretary of state made her trip to Riyadh—he told her about Kurland. They sat in her kitchen, eating dinner, homemade lasagna. Tonka lay curled under his feet, chewing happily on a piece.

“I should have shot through the hatch. But I couldn’t see the setup inside—”

“The whole world was looking for him, and you almost saved him by yourself.”

“Only I didn’t.”

She didn’t say anything, just stood, walked behind him, wrapped her arms around him.

“Something else that’s bothering me.” He told her Kurland’s last words. “What I don’t understand, why wouldn’t he say he loved her instead? He did, too, even in those few seconds I could tell. And it was the same when I met her.”

“You really don’t see?”

He tilted his head so he was looking over his shoulder, into her eyes. “No.”

“Saying it would have dishonored what they had. He didn’t have to, John. She already knew.”

One problem with writing a book a year is that the acknowledgments can get stale. But the crew at Putnam never does. They’re as hardworking as ever. Thanks to Neil, Ivan, Leslie, Tom, Marilyn, and everyone else who makes these novels more than a Word file. Thanks to Heather and Matthew, agents extraordinaire. Thanks to Susan Buckley and Dev for watching my back. Thanks to Deirdre and Jess for those close first reads, and for not being afraid to say what doesn’t work, and what does. Thanks to my parents and brother for your support and suggestions. Most of all, thanks to Jackie, my wife, who always finds the time and energy to be a great friend and partner.

And—this part never gets stale either—thanks to everyone who took the time to read this far. Without you, John Wells would have retired a long time ago. I appreciate your feedback, and you can always reach me at [email protected] and follow me on Facebook and Twitter. I can’t promise to respond (though until now I’ve managed to write back to just about everyone), but I pledge to read every note I get.