“You’re going to feel…” Mark took a few deep breaths. “… a bump.” He tried to lower Fahd gently into the cart.
It was more than a bump — more like a big bag-of-concrete-hitting-the-ground flop — because Mark lost control at the end, but he managed to get Fahd into the cart and cover him up with several clean towels that had been folded and stacked on a nearby linen shelf.
Mark rolled the cart down the hall toward the elevators. No one was in the elevator, nor in the main fourth-floor hallway. Directly across from the bank of elevators was a large framed photograph of the king of Bahrain. Mark pushed the cart over to it, slipped his hand behind the frame, and felt along the bottom edge. Near the left-hand corner, an electronic key card had been taped to the frame.
Bowlan had come through for him.
Relieved, Mark pulled off the key card. Written on the tape that was affixed to it was the number 432. He wheeled the cart to that room and inserted the key. The lock opened. Though he could have used his master key, that might have left an electronic record.
Bowlan’s standard room was far more cramped than the luxurious corner-room executive suites on the fifth floor. Two small chairs were arranged in a corner around a low circular table. Two twin beds took up most of the remaining floor space; between them was an enormous red suitcase.
Mark stripped the sheets from one of the beds, draped the fitted bottom sheet over one of the chairs, moved the chair so that it stood in front of the one window in the room, then hung the top sheet over the heavy curtains that covered the window.
“I’m going to move you,” he warned Fahd. He slowly tipped the linen cart over, dragged Fahd out of it, and pulled him up onto the chair.
A reading light was mounted on the wall between the beds; Mark turned it on, pulled out his iPod, set it to camera mode, and stood behind Fahd. “Now I’m going to remove the pillowcase from your head. Look directly in front of you. Don’t turn around.”
Mark was careful to stand directly behind Fahd.
After removing the pillowcase, Mark extended his iPod in front of Fahd’s face, and snapped a quick picture.
“Who are you?” whispered Fahd. “Why is this happening?”
Mark inspected the image. As he’d hoped, the white sheets had masked any distinguishing features of the hotel room.
Fahd added, “I can pay you myself. I am a wealthy man.”
“It’s not about money and it’s not about anything you did or didn’t do. The only reason you’re here is because of your connection to the Saudi royal family. But again, if you do as I say, you’ll be released unharmed tomorrow. If you don’t, then you’ll have problems.”
Mark set the iPod to video mode. Without warning, he reached his right arm around Fahd’s face and dug his fingers deep into the soft spot between the Saudi’s skull and neck, just below the ear, where there was a sensitive cluster of nerves.
Fahd let out an involuntary yelp accompanied by a spasmed tilt of the head. Mark whipped his right hand away and, with his left hand, recorded a two second clip of Fahd writhing.
Then he put a hand over Fahd’s mouth and spoke in his ear.
“Easy there. I had to hit you with that. No one’s going to take this kidnapping seriously if they think that you’re living it up, getting room service, and being treated like royalty. If you cooperate from here on out, though, I promise that will be the end of the pain. Be thankful I didn’t shoot you in the leg, or the shoulder, and record that. Because sometimes, that’s how it’s done. And no more talking. No more crying out. Just face forward, and listen.”
Mark stepped back, grabbed a glass from the table behind him, and pulled a small plastic bag out of his pocket. The bag was filled with a white powder — eight 50mg Benadryl tablets that he’d bought and crushed up on the way from Exhibitions Avenue to the Golden Tulip, because sleeping pills weren’t sold over the counter in Bahrain. He dumped the powder into the glass, opened the bottle of scotch, poured out a healthy amount onto the powder, and mixed everything up.
Fahd was hyperventilating.
“Now’s the fun part.” Mark gently swirled the alcohol in the glass as he spoke. “It’ll be better for both of us if you’re relaxed. So I want you to drink some scotch. Enough to help you forget what a lousy time you’re having tonight. I’m going to put a glass to your mouth, and I want you to take a big drink. We’re going to do this once a minute until I think you’ve had enough.”
Mark first showed Fahd the bottle of Laphroaig, then put the glass up to Fahd’s lips. The Saudi smelled it, then took a big thirsty slug of it, almost too much.
“Easy there. Don’t have so much that you throw up.”
After Mark had fed Fahd what he gauged was the equivalent of around eight shots, he put the bottle down.
“That’s enough. From here on out, I expect total silence and minimal movement. Don’t panic and everything will be OK. I’ll be here throughout the night and tomorrow, keeping an eye on you. Try to sleep.”
He left Fahd gagged, blindfolded, and strapped to a chair in the bathroom. Taking the giant red suitcase that Bowlan had placed between the beds, he stuffed it full of blankets and sheets and pillows so that it was bulging. Then he closed the door to the bathroom and turned on the television set in the main room — not so loud that it might trigger complaints, but loud enough to drown out minor noise.
On the elevator ride down to the lobby, he uploaded the two-second video of Fahd to YouTube, using one of his Gmail accounts to do so. He saved the web address in his Contacts folder.
From the moment he exited the elevator, he walked slowly, as though the suitcase he was wheeling behind him was extremely heavy and he was struggling with the load.
He passed the receptionist in the main lobby. A uniformed doorman opened the glass exit door for him.
“Do you need help with your bag, sir? Or a taxi?”
“No, thank you.”
Idling in the circular drop-off area in front of the hotel was a burgundy Lincoln sedan. A tall, white-haired man wearing a blue blazer, a white oxford shirt, and thick black-rimmed glasses that might have been considered fashionable in 1962, stepped out of the car. He had big ears, and his face was creased with smoker’s wrinkles, making him look older than his seventy-one years. But he moved quickly and surprisingly fluidly as he exited the car and popped open the trunk.
“Good to see you, Larry.”
“Sava.”
They shook hands. Bowlan’s grip was firm.
“Give me a hand getting this suitcase into the trunk. It’s supposed to be heavy, so act as if it is. You’re on stage. You grab one end, I’ll grab the other.”
“How heavy?”
“About the weight of an average-sized Saudi.”
Together they made a show of bending down, lifting with their legs, and muscling the suitcase into the trunk. After it was in, Larry made a show of breathing heavily, hands on his hips.
“Don’t overdo it,” said Mark.
The air had cooled, and there was a slight breeze. The city was quiet all around them. Bowlan slipped into the driver’s seat, and Mark got in beside him.
“Where to?” asked Bowlan. He was glancing in his rearview and sideview mirrors in a way that might have appeared normal to a casual observer, but Mark could tell Bowlan was in that hyperalert zone. Mark was there himself.
“Manama fish market.”
“I know it.”
When considering the best place to meet Admiral Garver, Mark had remembered reading once that the fish market in Manama was a huge daily affair, renowned throughout the region. He figured people would be there even in the middle of the night, getting ready for the market to open before dawn. It was neutral territory, and only a short drive away.