“Here I thought you came all this way to ask me for a favor. Turns out you were looking out for me. Vinny Duto, King of the Jews.”
Before Duto could answer, Rudi’s eyes opened wide. He raised a hand to his mouth and began to cough, racking heaves that shook his body. Like if he coughed hard enough he would spit out the tumor. Duto rose from his chair, but Rudi shook his head, no no no. Duto ran into the bathroom for paper towels. By the time he came back, a film of bright red blood covered Rudi’s palm. He lifted it to Duto almost triumphantly.
“In case you were wondering whether I was faking.” Rudi mopped his hand. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I have to think about this, my friend.” Weariness had replaced the anger in his voice. “I’m not sure I’ll have anything even if I do decide to help.” He pushed himself up, his arms shaking. Duto rose, too, but Rudi flapped a hand at him. “No.”
“Let me, please—” Duto reached for him. Rudi grabbed his right index finger and twisted it back, the last trick of the weak against the strong.
“I’m serious. I’ll show myself out.”
6
NINE DAYS…
The first king of Saudi Arabia, Abdul-Aziz, had procreated with a stallion’s vigor. His progeny continued the tradition. Sixty years after Abdul-Aziz’s death, more than a thousand men and women could claim him as a grandfather.
But General Nawwaf bin Salman was more important than most. The eldest son of the Defense Minister, he commanded the Saudi missile arsenal, more than a thousand Chinese-made Dongfengs that could reach any target in Iran or Israel. And as part of his job, Nawwaf ran the Saudi nuclear program.
Though program was not quite the right word. The Saudis had given billions of dollars to Pakistan to help that country build a nuclear arsenal. In return, Pakistan’s generals had promised that if Iran built a nuke, they would hand over a half-dozen bombs. The result would be the Persian Gulf version of mutually assured destruction, two sworn enemies with the power to obliterate each other’s capital. Both Pakistan and the Kingdom denied the deal. We have enough trouble with the North-West Frontier, Pakistan’s Defense Minister told the Secretary of State. You think we want to take a chance on the Arabs, too? We give the Saudis a bomb and it winds up in Washington, we know you blame us.
Maybe. In June 2008, American satellites had spotted a massive construction project at a military base near the village of al-Watah, one hundred seventy miles west of Riyadh, the center of the Arabian desert. In summer, the area was one of the most unpleasant places on earth. Temperatures topped one hundred thirty degrees. Even Bedouins stayed away. Yet the Saudis had evidently decided the project couldn’t wait. Construction moved fast. After a few weeks, the satellites picked up the outlines of missile launchpads and fortified bunkers.
The Saudis already operated two other missile bases, but al-Watah attracted the attention of the CIA’s Near East analysts. Its bunkers were set fifteen meters deep into the desert’s stony soil. Their concrete walls were six meters thick. Putting so much effort into a storage site for conventional warheads made no sense, especially given the base’s inhospitable location.
The agency and the White House watched the site with alarm, waiting for the armored convoys and helicopter flights that would signal that Pakistan had made good on its promise. But they never came. In fact, after rushing to build al-Watah, the Saudis never used the base. Only seventy men lived in its garrison, guarding the perimeter and opening and closing the empty bunkers twice a day. The CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency had concluded that the base was a bluff of sorts. The Kingdom wanted to show the world that its military could handle nuclear weapons without actually committing to them.
Wells understood the reluctance. Nukes would be the ripest of targets for al-Qaeda’s jihadis. Plus the Saudis preferred to outsource their national defense to the United States. For seventy years, the Kingdom had depended on the American military to protect it, most notably when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait in 1990. The biggest Saudi oil fields were a short tank ride from the Kuwaiti border. Even so, the Kingdom’s primary contribution to the conflict had been teaming up with Kuwait to cut a $36 billion check to cover the majority of the cost of the war. Like the United States Army was nothing more than a for-hire force.
But Wells planned to let that bit of history be. He hadn’t come to the Kingdom to discuss Saudi-American codependency or ask for a guided tour of al-Watah. Instead, he hoped that General Nawwaf might lead him to the source of the highly enriched uranium. Given the Saudi interest in nuclear weapons, someone sitting on a private stockpile of HEU might have approached the Kingdom as a potential buyer before turning to Duberman.
The trip was a long shot. But Wells’s only alternative was to sit in Zurich while he waited for Kowalski to set up a meeting with Mikhail Buvchenko. Instead, as soon as Kowalski’s driver dropped him at the Zurich airport, Wells called a Riyadh number whose true owner was known to only eight people. It rang the personal mobile phone of His Majesty Abdullah bin Abdul-Aziz, Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques, Prime Minister and King of Saudi Arabia.
Years before, Abdullah had asked Wells to find a Saudi terrorist cell. The King feared he could not trust his own security forces because other members of the royal family supported the jihadis. After the mission, Abdullah promised Wells the Kingdom’s lifelong support. Wells had already called in the chit twice. He didn’t like asking again, but under the circumstances the chance seemed worth taking.
“As-salaam aleikum.” Abdullah answered this phone himself. As far as Wells could tell, he enjoyed having the chance to be a normal human being in this tiny way. He had a throaty smoker’s baritone, a Saudi Jack Nicholson. The vigor in his voice hid the fact that the King, born in 1924, had entered his tenth decade.
“Aleikum salaam, Your Majesty.”
A pause. Despite his age, Abdullah’s mind and memory were intact. Wells imagined him looking at the phone, sorting through possibilities.
“John Wells?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry to bother you—”
“No matter.”
Not quite the same as no bother. “With your permission, I wish to come to Riyadh. To put a question to one of your nephews. A general.” Wells spoke formally now, conscious of just how rough his Arabic sounded.
“I have more than one nephew who’s a general.”
“Nawwaf bin Salman, sir.”
Abdullah didn’t speak. Wells wondered if he’d overreached somehow.
“Where are you now?” the King finally said.
From Zurich, Wells flew to Rome, where he caught an overnight Saudi Arabian Airlines flight to Riyadh. Saudia — as the airline was known — had the quirks of the country it served. It was at once deeply religious and highly status-conscious. The 777 jet included two prayer rooms, one at the front of the plane for first-class passengers, one at the rear for everyone else.
The pilots were Saudi, but the flight attendants were Filipino women. Male Saudis considered working as cabin crew beneath their dignity, and no Saudi woman would ever be allowed a job where she could mix so closely with men. No alcohol was available, and every flight began with a prayer in Arabic: Bismi-Allah wa al-Hamduli-Allah… In the name of Allah, Praise be to Allah, Glory to Him who made this transport for us, as we could never have created it.