“Would you have access to general entry records?”
“Yes, but the searches are tracked. If I do an unauthorized search and it’s questioned — which it will be — I’ll lose my job. You ever hear of privacy regulations, Sava?”
“This is important. And we have history.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what you said last time you called. And I delivered for you because of that history. I figure now we’re even.”
“Larry.”
“I could lose my job, Mark. Granted, it’s a crap job, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”
Behind him, Mark heard the sound of a pot clanging as it hit the floor. A second later, a bearded twentysomething guy with a cell phone pushed past a waiter who’d been heading toward the kitchen to investigate the sound.
The bearded guy eyed Mark, then spoke into his cell phone.
“Damn, Larry, I gotta blow. I’ll call you right back. Stay at this number.”
Mark hung up on Bowlan and stood up, prepared to run, but the bearded guy pocketed his cell phone with one hand and pulled out a gun with the other.
“Stop!”
The bearded guy pulled a badge out of his back pocket and held it up not only for Mark to see, but for the surrounding spectators as well. The badge identified him as a member of the Bahraini National Security Agency. Mark knew them as the mukhabarat, or secret police. “You’re coming with us.”
Us? thought Mark. He glanced behind him. Two more guys had just run up.
The Saudi who’d tried to abduct Muhammad in Kyrgyzstan had a pistol drawn. Mark stared at him.
As if reading Mark’s mind, the Saudi said in Turkish, “Down here, we Bahrainis and Saudis all work together.”
Mark raised his hands in the air. “All right then. Let’s get this done.”
42
Mark was marched out through the Bab al-Bahrain, an old arched gateway that led from the shopping district to Government Avenue. Five armed men encircled him, one of whom held his elbow.
The blue Chevy was parked in a nearby roundabout behind a line of taxis. Mark was stuffed into the back seat, next to another armed man.
They drove west out of the city along King Faisal Highway, then south through a chaos of broken roads and graffiti-scarred buildings, then through Riffa. Mark thought maybe he was going to be taken back to the house of the old man who’d claimed to be Muhammad’s great uncle, but when the turnoff came they kept driving.
Riffa was on a bit of a plateau — fifty feet or so above sea level — which was high ground for Bahrain. So when they exited the city, Mark could see the bleak southern desert sprawled out below them in the hazy distance.
He could also see, right on the edge of the desert, what looked like a golf club.
The Royal Golf Club wasn’t actually limited to royalty.
Mark discovered that upon entering the place and observing all the well-dressed pasty-white Westerners milling around. Nor, however, was it open to the public — that much was also clear. There was too much marble and reflective glass, too many leather couches, pleasant vistas, and objets d’art for that. A private country club, he concluded — with membership fees set high enough to keep the undesirables at bay.
He was led by one of his abductors into a nearly empty dining area that looked out over the golf course. The contrast between the edge of the southern desert — where little grew other than occasional patches of sad scrub brush — and the brilliant green fairways was striking. All the more so because a breeze was blowing, lifting up sand from the desert and swirling it around in a haze that reminded Mark of 1930s dust-bowl photos.
Seated at a table near a window was a man Mark guessed to be in his early sixties. He wore a dark gray suit with a forest-green tie, though he’d removed his suit jacket. His skin was olive toned and his dark hair was flecked with gray, as was his goatee. He had a cup of coffee and an unopened menu in front of him.
He gestured to the chair opposite his own with an open palm. “Please.”
Mark took a seat.
The man took a sip of his coffee, used the napkin on his lap to wipe his mouth, then said, “You may call me Saeed.”
Mark didn’t respond.
Saeed continued, “And you, I believe, are Mark Sava.” He spoke English, but with a heavy Arab accent. His voice was deep, his tone serious.
“What do you want?”
“I’m with Saudi intelligence.” Saeed spoke flatly. “What I want is for you to do what you have already promised to do. To hand over the child.”
At first, because Saeed was seated, Mark hadn’t noticed what a big man he was. But he did now. Saeed’s arms were remarkably long, his shoulders unusually wide. Not in a muscular way, or Mark would have noticed right away; it was simply as though a normal deskbound person had been enlarged by fifty percent.
Saeed added, “We’re working with the Bahrainis on this.”
“I’ve already arranged to hand over the child tomorrow. First thing in the morning. My men are retrieving him and bringing him to Bishkek as we speak.”
“So I’ve heard. And I have also heard that you have promised as much to your friends at the CIA. But I’m not convinced you intend to meet your obligation.”
“Now why would you think that?”
“Because I have observed that you have been going to places you shouldn’t be going, and asking questions you shouldn’t be asking, rather than making plans for this transfer in Bishkek.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Mark turned his gaze to the row of windows that looked out over a nearby fairway. A man in Bermuda shorts was swinging a driver as his golf partner and a caddie waited behind him. It made Mark think of the band that kept playing while the Titanic was sinking.
This place, he thought.
Saeed said, “I brought you here to give you an opportunity.”
“An opportunity.”
“To expedite the return of the child.” Saeed gestured to a menu that lay on the table. “You make whatever calls you need to make, we eat a civilized meal while waiting for the transfer to occur between our respective associates. After it does, you leave to live your life as you wish.”
Choosing his words carefully, Mark said, “While I thank you for that opportunity, as I said, I have already given the authorization for the child to be brought to Bishkek. At this point, the process cannot be expedited.”
Saeed folded his hands carefully in his lap and leaned forward in his chair. He did so in a way that said, I’m going to pretend to be pleasant to you now, little man, but we both know I could crush you like a bug and I will do so if I need to.
“Let me explain something about the Middle East to you, Mr. Sava. It’s not like in the United States. Here, allegiance is not to country. It is to family and tribe.”
Mark had read enough briefings on the Middle East over the years to know that Saeed was grossly oversimplifying the matter. Iranians and Egyptians were plenty patriotic. And the urban young in the Middle East seemed to care a great deal more about getting a decent job than they did about upholding ancient notions of tribal fidelity.
But it was true enough that the ruling families of many Persian Gulf states were still influenced by tribal values that prized familial bonds above many Western notions of right and wrong. Nepotism here wasn’t a sign of corruption — it was a sign of commitment to family.
Saeed continued, “I don’t think you understand that. I don’t think you understand how arrogant you appear when you meet with this boy’s uncle, and you listen to him state that he has been responsible for the care of the boy and that he wishes to continue to care for the boy, and instead of making arrangements to give the boy to him, you question his sincerity. It is not your place to question.”