After carving through the downtown traffic, the Mercedes turned west onto an eight-lane highway that Saudis called the Mecca Road. The city’s sprawl seemed endless, an infinite loop of concrete towers, asphalt roads, and dirt lots. Beige and black and brown blurred together, as if Riyadh’s builders wanted the city to reflect the monochrome desert that surrounded it.
The limousine left the highway and turned south down Prince Turki Road, a six-lane boulevard. An oversize complex of buildings loomed to the left, with signs announcing “King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Centre” in English and Arabic.
“Best hospital in Saudi Arabia. World-class.” Ghaith spoke the last two words in English, with relish. “We’re almost there.”
The Mercedes turned right, into a crowded residential neighborhood, a mix of blocky apartment buildings and new houses. Then left, right, and left again, before squealing through an open gate watched by two guards. It stopped outside a three-story mansion.
“Twenty minutes exactly. Well done, Khalid.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“This is the small residence?” Wells said.
“Only one thousand square meters.” Ten thousand square feet. Ghaith stepped out, and Wells followed him into a foyer that had more marble than most churches. A gold-leaf chandelier hung overhead. The Saudis didn’t consider subtlety a virtue.
Ghaith pointed down a corridor. “Kitchen’s that way. There’s a chef if you’re hungry. Halal only, I’m afraid. Though I do believe there’s a liquor cabinet in the closet of the master bathroom.”
“I won’t ask how you know.”
“Also an indoor pool at the back of the house, an exercise room.”
“Who stays here, Colonel?”
“Mostly Western doctors working at the hospital.”
“Of course.” Abdullah would hardly mind spending a few million dollars on mansions to entice the best specialists to come to Riyadh to treat him and his family.
“I’ll be back at eight to pick you up, but my men will wait in front. If I can be of service, please call. Is there anything else you need, Mr. Wells?”
Wells thought of the mysterious Nissan. “Wouldn’t mind a pistol. If you have one to spare.”
“I assure you you’re safe here. These are some of the King’s best men.”
“No doubt. But I prefer to look after myself.”
“Al-Hamdu lillah.” Praise be to God. “I’ll see you this evening, Mr. Wells.”
Wells forced himself onto a treadmill for an hour, flipping on CNN International to see what he’d missed on the flight from Rome. Laura Frommer, the chairwoman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, had announced her support for the President. The CIA offered a convincing case at our hearings, Frommer said at a press conference. And the Iranians can defuse this crisis very simply. Open your nuclear facilities, let us speak to your scientists. You say you aren’t trying to build a bomb, but this uranium ingot tells a different story.
The American government had found its line: If war comes, it’s Iran’s fault, for refusing to open up. The argument had traction. Polls showed that sixty-three percent of Americans favored military action, up eleven percent since the missile attack that downed United 49. If Duberman was behind the missile, it had worked even better than he expected. Wells briefly wondered if he should have gone to Mumbai instead of coming here. But he had no leads in India. And he and Shafer and Duto were far better off staying off the agency’s radar. That would be impossible in Mumbai.
Exhaustion overcame Wells as he stepped off the treadmill. He found his way to the master bedroom, set his phone for 7 p.m., pulled the shades. And slept.
He woke not to the beeping of his alarm but amplified Arabic voices in the distance. He didn’t have the usual traveler’s dislocation when his eyes snapped open. He knew exactly what he was hearing. The Maghrib, the sunset call to prayer, the fourth of the day. Wells felt an oddly urgent need to pray outside, launch his devotions into the setting sun, nothing but desert between him and Mecca.
He found a prayer rug in the bedroom’s cavernous closet, made his way to the mansion’s flat roof. The wind yanked the sleep from him and he prayed vigorously, purposefully. By the time he finished, the sun had nearly disappeared. He felt calmer and stronger than he had in weeks.
He stood, turned to go inside—
And saw the white Nissan from the airport rolling past the mansion’s back gate. The scratch in the driver’s door left no doubt.
Wells didn’t panic. Whoever was inside wouldn’t try to storm the mansion. Far easier to attack as the Mercedes left the grounds, a natural choke point, or on the road to the Ministry of Defense.
He would shower, get ready for his meeting. When Ghaith returned, they’d talk.
As he was showering, his phone buzzed. He stepped out unwillingly, grabbed for it. Kowalski. “I don’t know if this qualifies as good news or bad, but the Russian says he’ll meet you. No surprise, you come to him. Fly into Volgograd.”
“It’s not back to Stalingrad?”
“Nor Putingrad. Yet.”
“When?”
“He can do it as soon as tomorrow. If I were you, I’d get there before he changes his mind.”
“What about the visa?”
“Get to any Russian embassy or consulate, he’ll arrange it.”
Buvchenko proving the power of his connections. Wells wondered if he could leave Riyadh tonight after his meeting with Nawwaf. A direct flight to Russia would be impossible, but Saudia or Turkish Airlines surely had overnight service to Istanbul. From there he could get the visa, be in Volgograd by the next night. He wished he could ask the Saudis for a private jet, but had pushed Abdullah’s generosity too far already.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you had a question for him, one you had to ask in person.”
“That’s all?”
“And that you would pay a lot of money for the right answer. He likes money. As do we all.”
“Thank you, Pierre.”
“Don’t thank me until you get out.”
Ghaith arrived as Wells was raiding the refrigerator, which was disappointingly empty.
“No chef?”
“Didn’t want to bother him. I saw the Nissan again, Colonel. From the airport.”
“You’re sure?” His tone surprised Wells. More annoyed than nervous.
“I was on the roof. For the Maghrib.”
“It’s ours.”
Wells’s turn to be surprised. “You said—”
“I lied. I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t think you’d make it. There’s one other undercover car, too.”
Wells crossed the kitchen in two big strides, put himself face-to-face with Ghaith, close enough to smell the sugary coffee on the colonel’s breath. He had six inches and fifty pounds on the Saudi.
“You didn’t want to worry me?”
“An error. I apologize.” Ghaith pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’m married to one of His Majesty’s grandnieces. Check for yourself. If you’re concerned whether you can trust me.”