Tariq made a right-hand turn for the final approach to the Emir’s country home, and Tariq thought of it. It was far more comfortable than the caves of Western Pakistan, much to Tariq’s personal pleasure, and that of the remainder of the staff, Allah be praised. He slowed and flipped his turn signal to turn left. He and his colleagues obeyed every law that they knew of in America.
“This is it?”
“Yes,” Tariq confirmed.
He’d chosen well, Hadi didn’t say. The Emir might have chosen a better-defended dwelling, but that might well have attracted the interest of his neighbors, and been counterproductive in this age of helicopters and bomb-laden aircraft. On the approach to Las Vegas, the pilot had called attention to a large U.S. Air Force base just north of the city. Another clever move on his friend’s part, to settle close to a major American military installation-on the face of it, not a good idea, but brilliant for that very reason. His desire to live in the Infidel West but writ large, Hadi thought in admiration. How long had he planned it? How had he arranged it? Well, that was why he’d come to lead the organization: his ability to see that which others could not see. He’d earned his place in the world, and in that place he had the ability-the right-to have his way with men… and women, according to the man behind the wheel. All men have their needs, and their weaknesses, Hadi told himself. That one wasn’t particularly disabling. For his part, Hadi had partaken in some of the joys of Rome. Often enough that he felt no guilt for it. So his friend did the same. No surprise there.
The car pulled into the garage. One space was empty, he noted. So did he have another servant? He got out of his car, fetched his bag from the trunk, and walked toward the door.
“Hadi!” boomed the voice from the door to the house. The garage doors were already coming down.
“Effendi,” Hadi called in return. The men embraced and kissed in the manner of their culture.
“How was your flight?”
“All four were fine but tiring.” Hadi took the time to look him in the face. The voice made him more recognizable. The face did not. Saif Rahman Yasin was transformed. The nose, the hair, even the eyes somewhat-Or were they? he asked himself. Only the expression in them. Clearly he was pleased to see his childhood friend, and the mirth they contained was so different from his formal face seen on TV and in the newspapers. “You are well, my friend,” Hadi said.
“It is a gentle, comfortable life I live here,” the Emir explained with a rare smile. “Praise Allah, we have no hills to climb. There is much happiness in living under their noses, as they say.”
“When I learned of this, I thought you mad, but now I can see your wisdom.”
“Thank you.” The Emir pulled him into the house. “You choose to travel as a Jew, do you not? That is well. There are many of them here.”
“Is this city as corrupt as they say?”
“Much more so. The population is very transient. People here do not recognize anyone, except perhaps their closest friends; it is as Lebanon used to be.”
“Or Bahrain still is?”
“That is far too close to home.” He didn’t have to explain. Many Saudis drove there in their chauffeured cars to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, but too many of them might recognize his voice, if not his new face. The Saudi royal family wanted him as dead as the Americans did. Indeed, they’d set up viewing stands in Chop Chop Square in Riyadh for the infidels to see his last minutes with their mini-cams and other recording systems. There were many prices on his head… And the American one was not nearly the highest. “Come. Let us find you a proper bed.”
And Hadi followed him through the kitchen and into the house, thence left toward the bedroom wing.
“You are secure here?” Hadi asked.
“Yes, but in a few minutes I can be away. It is not perfect, but it is the best a man can arrange.”
“Do you test your escape route?”
“Weekly.”
“So it is for me in Italy.”
“Rest!” the Emir said, opening the door to the bedroom. “Do you require anything?”
Hadi shook his head. “I could eat, but I need sleep. I will see you in the morning.”
“Good night, my friend.” A shake of the shoulder, and the Emir closed the door. The man had flown almost six thousand miles. He’d earned the right to be exhausted.
51
BELL AND GRANGER were waiting in Hendley’s office when Jack and Clark walked in. “Washed out in Chicago,” Clark told them, falling into a swivel chair. “He flew as far as Las Vegas. After that, who can say? McCarran has flights to everywhere. Maybe L.A., San Francisco, hell, back to the East Coast, maybe.”
“His traveling name?” Bell asked.
“Joel Klein. Jewish, would you believe? Makes sense, I suppose. I suppose we can surf the computers to see if he booked a flight on from there, but who’s to say he doesn’t have numerous other identities?”
“Already being checked,” Granger assured him. “No hits yet. I’m fresh out of ideas.”
“If I had to bet, I’d say he’s bedded down somewhere, maybe scheduled to continue his travel regimen tomorrow. Not enough manpower, Rick. We need more bodies and more eyes to do this.”
“We got what we got,” Bell said.
“Yeah.”
“There is another possibility,” Jack said. “What if Las Vegas was his destination? Then what?”
“Damned scary thought,” Granger replied. “It means we’ve got an operational URC cell here.”
Tell us about Peshawar,” Hendley said a few minutes later.
Clark dug into his carry-on and laid Masood’s drive on the desk. He gave the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the trip. “Why they didn’t toss the house I don’t know,” he said. “According to Masood, he copied everything he did for the URC. Have to assume the guy who helped them move was the Emir.”
“For now we will.” Hendley nodded to Bell. “Rick, can you get that down to Gavin? Have him send up the contents asap?” To Clark: “You want to call Mary Pat?”
“Already did. She’s on her way.”
Hendley picked up the phone and called the lobby. “Ernie, Gerry here. Got a visitor coming. Mary Pat Foley. Right, thanks.”
Mary Pat appeared in Hendley’s doorway forty minutes later. “Nice digs,” she said. “Looks like I’m in the wrong business.” She walked across the carpet and shook Hendley’s hand. “Good to see you again, Gerry.”
“You too, Mary Pat. This is Rick Bell and Sam Granger. And I think you know Jack Ryan.” More handshakes, and a surprised look from Mary Pat. “Keeping up the family legacy?” she asked Jack.
“It’s early days yet, ma’am.”
“Mary Pat.”
Hendley said, “Have a seat.” She took the chair next to Clark. “You look tired, John.”
“I always look this way. It’s the lighting.”
“Let’s get on the same page,” Hendley said.
Clark gave Mary Pat the same recap. When he was done, she let out a low whistle. “A mover. That tells us something. You don’t need somebody like Masood unless you’re leaving the region.”
Granger said, “We should have the hard drive contents shortly.”
“It’s not going to tell us where he is,” Mary Pat predicted. “The Emir’s too slippery for that. Probably used more than one mover. Used them to hopscotch himself somewhere he could drop off the radar. Best we’re going to get is close.”