“Oh, Christ.”
Ricin was a powerful poison, one that was widely available and relatively easy to produce since it came from castor beans. Mark recalled that the KGB used it during the Cold War. Saddam Hussein had produced a bunch of it. Various terrorists had tried to use it.
“Yeah, that was my reaction. A purified powder was dissolved and injected into the wine. Many of those who got sick have already died. The king is in a coma and on kidney dialysis. Given the damage to his liver and heart, it’s thought that he’ll die soon. Two of his adult sons died in the last couple of days, and another will likely die within hours if he hasn’t already. The people don’t know the extent of what’s happened, but rumors are flying on the street. The king’s uncle, the prime minister, was one of the few who didn’t drink at the party. He’s been doing everything he can to prevent the papers from reporting on the absence of the royal family, hoping the king will get better and take control, but he won’t be able to do that much longer — it’s unlikely the king will get better, and they won’t be able to hold off on the burials much longer. An announcement is going to be made no later than noon today. This island is a bomb that’s waiting to go off.”
Mark had known that some trouble was brewing, but this was infinitely worse than he’d imagined. He couldn’t help but think that if he’d been on his home turf, in some Turkic-speaking country, he’d have sensed more was wrong.
“Who did it?”
“Sunni extremists who hate the fact that the Sunni royal family drinks alcohol, and turns a blind eye to prostitution, and does business with the US Navy. One of them worked at the palace. He’s confessed. The irony is that it’s the Shias who will benefit. They’ll call for elections. And if that happens…” Garver shrugged as he stared out the front windshield. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t. A lot will depend on what happens to that boy you have in your possession.”
“He’s one of the king’s grandsons,” said Mark. Muhammad’s true parentage was one of the many things that Kalila Safi’s brother had revealed to Larry Bowlan.
“Yes, he is. And Muhammad’s father, the king’s second oldest son, died three days ago, as did his mother. Which means if the king dies, the boy is next in line for the throne. He won’t actually rule, of course, there would be a regent for that — probably the prime minister, who is next in line for the throne after the boy. But the boy could be the difference between the monarchy surviving and falling. The country wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of an old politician like the prime minister. No one likes him. But if the prime minister was just a placeholder for the grandson of the king? That could be another matter entirely.
“Unfortunately, the Shia political leadership in Bahrain also realize the importance of the boy. When Muhammad was brought to the hospital to be monitored for food poisoning, he was placed in the care of a doctor who was secretly a Shia partisan. This doctor knew what was happening to the royal family, and immediately grasped what it meant for the line of succession if the sick began to die. He was the conduit to the Shia leaders who decided to kidnap the child and blame it on the same zealots who had poisoned the royals.”
“Only the CIA found out about the plot.”
“Yes. They’ve infiltrated the Shias.”
“And instead of forcing the Shias to return the boy, the CIA cut a deal with them. They’d help hide the boy and then support elections in Bahrain, elections the Shias would win, if in return the Shias guaranteed that the Fifth Fleet could stay.”
“It was a deal with the devil,” said Garver, his voice rising. “What kind of human beings help to steal a two-year-old boy from his family? And mark my words — when and if the Shias ever take over this island, the Fifth Fleet’s days in Bahrain will be numbered. It won’t matter what deal the CIA has cut with them. Those Shia fools aren’t ready for democracy. This place will go to hell and then to Iran.”
Garver took a moment to collect himself, then continued, “I knew what the CIA was up to, I was kept in the loop. The only way to stop it was to tell the Saudis what was going on. So I did — I told them where to start looking for the boy. Then I told them you had the boy, and shared your file with them. And I’m glad I did. And now you need to let the Saudis bring that boy back to Bahrain and give him back to his family. Surely now you can see it’s the right thing to do?”
Mark didn’t answer. He doubted Garver knew about Kalila Safi. “I need to talk to Saeed,” he said.
“I already told him I was meeting with you. He said he suspected you would try to use me as a conduit to get to him but that he won’t talk to you. He just wants you to keep your end of the bargain.”
“Text him.”
It was five minutes till two. Mark assumed Saeed would be waiting for a confirmation that the boy had been delivered to the hotel.
Garver pulled his phone out of his front pocket, turned it on, and tapped on the touchscreen. “I’ll try. What do you want me to say?”
Mark spelled out the name Prince Bandar bin Fahd and then recited the YouTube address for the video clip of Fahd.
“That’s it?” asked Garver.
“That’s it.”
A few seconds later, Garver said, “OK, I sent it. What now?”
“Now we wait.”
“What does this Fahd guy have to do with anything?”
“Better you don’t know.”
“Can you really stop the CIA from investigating me?”
“Probably.” Mark would certainly try to hold Kaufman off. Garver’s actions had directly led to Rad’s being shot, but Mark had done plenty of things himself that had resulted in unintended consequences for innocents. Garver had just been doing what he thought was right — and in Mark’s book, that counted for something.
They didn’t have to wait long for Saeed’s response. Less than a minute after Garver had sent the text, the pickup truck that had pulled into the parking lot while Mark was walking in flipped on its high beams just as another car pulled up beside Garver’s car.
“I guess Saeed got the message,” said Mark. He stepped out of Garver’s car and into the glare of the approaching headlights. Behind him, at the edge of the parking lot, a low embankment rose up. Near the top, amid a cluster of palm trees, a man was standing with what looked to Mark like an M4 rifle.
Mark just stood there, bathed in a cold white light, waiting.
58
Saeed stepped out of the car to Mark’s left, exiting from the passenger side. Though he was still wearing the same dark gray suit as earlier, he’d removed his tie and his graying hair looked ruffled.
Guess we’re going to bargain after all, thought Mark.
Saeed approached quickly. His exceptional height — around six foot six, Mark guessed — combined with unconcealed anger, made him look dangerous. “Where is the prince?”
He sounded flustered. Mark had hoped Saeed would have some family or tribal relationship to Prince Bandar bin Fahd; almost everyone in a position of power in Saudi Arabia had some ties to the royal family. Fifty-fifty, he’d guessed. Now he put the odds at eighty-twenty, in his favor. Either way, Saeed wouldn’t be able to just ignore the fact that a Saudi prince had been kidnapped.
“This is the deal,” said Mark. “In a few seconds, I’m going to walk away. Your men aren’t going to follow me.”
“No.”
“After I’m gone, you’re going to arrange for my brother to be transported, while in the care of a physician, to Dubai International airport. He will be brought to the Executive Flight Services terminal, the one reserved for private flights. I’ll be there to collect him, either on the tarmac or just inside the terminal. Only then will I tell you the location of the prince.”