Regarding Khalila’s cover, nothing had changed. She was a translator contracted to Bluestone Security and other companies in need of a Middle Eastern or South/Central Asian linguist. Her supposed employment by a CIA-owned company was crucial to her cover, since she often stopped by Langley without any attempt to conceal her visits. During their trip to Syria a few months earlier, Khalila had explained that her ties to the CIA were highlighted instead of hidden.
Many of Khalila’s contacts in the Middle East lived in societies that considered women property. In some of those countries, women weren’t even allowed to drive and needed a man’s permission to get married, travel abroad, apply for a passport, or even to open a bank account. As an ordinary woman in those societies, she’d have no chance of attending the high-level meetings necessary to obtain the sensitive information the CIA desired.
Working for the CIA opened doors for Khalila. She had valuable information — insight into who the CIA sources were, both prisoners and agents, and what information had been divulged. That made her a valuable asset for numerous Middle Eastern organizations and governments. Of course, the information she was allowed to divulge was carefully selected by the Directorate of Analysis; enough to prove her bona fides without jeopardizing American interests.
Harrison had found Khalila’s explanation both interesting and alarming. She had essentially admitted that she was a double agent, feeding sensitive information to both sides. Although the CIA believed her allegiance was to the U.S., how did they know for sure? When it really mattered, would Khalila protect America or enable a devastating terrorist plot against it?
As Harrison finished reviewing his alias and background material, he wondered what the plan was this time once they landed in Kuwait. Unlike in Damascus, they weren’t attempting to track down a weapon procurement Mixell had made, where Harrison’s weapon expertise might help. They were searching for information about a prisoner taken from the Abbottabad compound years ago. How, exactly, was he supposed to assist?
Khalila was far from the friendliest woman he had met, but she had been unusually quiet since they had been assigned to the Kuwait mission, barely saying a word to him since they left the conference room at Langley. During their flight to Damascus a few months ago, Khalila had explained the plan. On this flight, however, she hadn’t spoken to him at all, even though she was sitting beside him in the window seat.
Harrison decided to strike up a conversation, find out what was going on.
“What’s the plan once we land in Kuwait?”
“I have a contact with ties to Kuwaiti intelligence,” Khalila answered, “which is part of the country’s security service. I’d rather not deal directly with the Kuwait Security Service, because if they have the information we’re looking for, they’re not going to provide it to two CIA agents poking around. A query for information this sensitive could spark a draconian response — to eliminate those asking the question.”
Harrison wondered if that was the issue — the risky nature of this assignment. But that didn’t seem to fit Khalila’s personality. He had learned in Syria that she was fearless to a fault, an adrenaline junkie when it came to danger. However, there was one way to find out, and he chose his words pointedly.
“So, that’s what you’re worried about? You’re afraid we might get killed? In my previous line of work, that was a given. You should get used to it.”
Khalila’s eyes flashed in anger. When she replied, there was a hard edge to her words.
“I’m not afraid. I’m angry.”
“About what?”
“I’ve been forced to let you tag along on this mission. Unlike Damascus, you’re not an asset this time. I need to have sensitive conversations with people who won’t speak in your presence, no matter how much I vouch for you. I’d rather leave you at the hotel the whole time, and I just might.”
“You spoke to Rolow about this?”
“I did. He said we’re a team and to stop bitching about it.”
“Maybe he wants me to tag along to keep you out of trouble.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said. “Now I’ve also got to babysit you.”
Harrison smiled. “Let’s see where the leads take us before you conclude I’m a liability.”
Khalila didn’t respond, turning away instead to stare out the Falcon’s window as the aircraft dropped below the clouds toward their destination.
With her eyes still gazing out the window, she said, “We’ll talk more once we check into our hotel in Kuwait City.”
35
KUWAIT CITY
The Dassault Falcon completed its descent, landing at Kuwait International Airport, ten miles south of Kuwait’s capital. As the jet taxied toward the terminal under the midday sun, Harrison reviewed what he had learned while reading the third packet Durrani had provided — his cover as a Bluestone Security executive visiting Kuwait to arrange a procurement of untraceable weapons.
Ruled by the Al-Sabah royal family since the eighteenth century, Kuwait was one of the smallest countries in the world. Located at the tip of the Persian Gulf, it encompassed only 330 square miles, with only 4.7 million inhabitants. However, it contained the world’s sixth-largest oil reserves.
Its neighbors to the north and south, Iraq and Saudi Arabia, respectively, had often aimed to conquer the tiny but rich emirate, with Saddam Hussein’s 1990 invasion the latest attempt. Not having armed forces capable of repulsing attacks from its much larger neighbors, Kuwait had relied on alliances with more powerful countries, particularly the U.S., France, and Great Britain, and had been a British protectorate from 1899 until its independence in 1961.
Following the first Gulf War, the U.S. and Kuwait signed a formal defense cooperation agreement. The small country was subsequently designated as a United States major non-NATO ally, and it now contained the largest U.S. military presence in the Middle East. The alliance included a close collaboration in the intelligence sector, with American forces using Kuwaiti military bases for logistical support, training activities, and staging points for regional military and anti-terrorism operations.
The Falcon coasted to a halt not far from a man leaning against a black sedan. Harrison, Khalila, and Durrani descended the steps to the tarmac where they met Nizar Mussan, a CIA officer serving as an executive assistant for Bluestone Security, who had also met them in Syria. After placing their luggage in the trunk and joining Mussan in the car, they pulled away from the Falcon as its engines spun down to a stop.
Kuwait City was only a few miles away, and shortly after entering the city, Mussan stopped by a side street. Durrani pulled two thick envelopes of money from his briefcase and handed them to Khalila, then informed her and Harrison that he’d be only a phone call away to provide any assistance they needed. He stepped from the vehicle and disappeared into an alley as Mussan pulled back into traffic.
A short while later, Mussan stopped near a small boutique hotel in the center of the city. Harrison and Khalila entered the hotel lobby while Mussan waited in the car, since Khalila had informed him their first meeting was in less than an hour. They were greeted at the lobby counter by an elderly Arab who appeared to be meeting Khalila and Harrison for the first time, although Harrison noticed a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes when he addressed Khalila.
The hotel was a small establishment with only a dozen rooms, arranged in a square surrounding a central courtyard, with the hotel offices and lobby facing the street. They were given keys to a room on the second floor, which contained a terrace overlooking the courtyard.
“Welcome to Kuwait City, Mr. Connolly and Ms. Dufour,” he said. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”