“If Abdullah sent you for me, then I trust you. I don’t doubt your loyalty, Colonel—”
“Thank you.”
“It’s your judgment I’m not sure about. You have anything else to tell me, now’s the time. A specific threat, whatever.”
Ghaith shook his head. “Nothing like that.”
“Then why all this? Four cars. How many men?”
“Eight. Plus the guards at the house.”
“Eight agents. For what?”
“Word about your arrival has spread.”
“In one day? Did someone email the whole country? John Wells is in town. Huntin’ season.”
“I told no one. Several of His Majesty’s secretaries know. His brother. General Nawwaf, too.”
“Nawwaf must be reliable or he wouldn’t be running your missiles.”
“He’s reliable. But I don’t know everyone on his staff. The wrong person hears. A ten-second call to AQAP.” Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.
“And you were planning to tell me when? When you dropped me back at the airport?”
“I am sorry.” Ghaith’s embarrassment seemed genuine.
“I’d like that pistol now. Don’t tell me you don’t have a spare somewhere in that Mercedes.”
Ghaith pushed past Wells, out of the kitchen.
He came back a minute later with a big black pistol. A Glock 22. Forty-caliber.
“You didn’t have anything bigger? Like a cannon?”
“It’s too big for you?”
Point, Saudi Arabia.
“As long as it’s loaded.” Wells popped out the magazine, found it full. Fifteen fat copper-jacketed rounds.
“You understand you can’t bring it inside the ministry offices.”
“If I need it in the Ministry of Defense, we’re really in trouble.” Wells snapped the magazine back into the pistol. It would kick harder than the 9-millimeters he preferred. Still, he was glad to have it.
He stuffed it into his jacket pocket, the butt poking out. Not ideal, but better than shoving it into the back of his jeans like a wannabe gangster. “Can we go now?”
At first glance, the security around Riyadh Air Base seemed more appropriate for an installation like Kandahar or Bagram, an American airfield in hostile territory. A high concrete wall stretched around the perimeter. Cameras were everywhere. Signs warned in Arabic and English: “Danger: Armed Guards — Do Not Approach Without Authorization!”
At first Wells didn’t understand why the Saudi military had chosen to present such a hostile face to its capital city. Then he saw that hostility was precisely the point. The Sauds wanted their people to remember that they were ruled, that the concept of consent of the governed went only so far in Riyadh.
The base’s walls extended for what seemed like miles. Finally, the Mercedes reached its main entrance, marked by a tall and strangely elegant arch of tan-colored concrete. Four soldiers in a fortified machine-gun nest targeted them with a spotlight as the limousine stopped at the outer gate guardhouse. Khalid lowered his window to hand over his identity card. After a brief conversation, he looked over his shoulder at Ghaith.
“Colonel. They say we aren’t authorized.”
Wells liked this day less and less. He rested his fingers on the butt of the Glock. But pulling it would only make the guards more nervous. Through the glare of the spotlight, he saw their chase car five meters behind. Both too close and too far to do any good. They would make a fat target for a suicide bomber.
Two guards stepped out of the gatehouse and motioned for the Mercedes to turn around. Ghaith pushed open his door. The guards lowered their rifles, but the weapons seemed only to make him angrier. “We’ll sort this out in one minute, no more. Or by next week you simpletons will be in the Empty Quarter chasing scorpions.” Ghaith meant it, Wells saw. Nobody pulled rank quite like the Saudis.
The guards looked at each other, then waved him into the guardhouse.
Three minutes passed before Ghaith stepped out of the guardhouse, back into the Mercedes. He slammed the door. Whatever he’d said seemed to have carried the day. The gate slid open. “Go, Khalid.” The Mercedes eased inside.
“They still had us coming this morning. Oafs.”
Another easy explanation. Or maybe someone wanted to be sure that their arrival would attract notice instead of being quiet.
Finally, Wells walked into Nawwaf’s office, a square room that overlooked the airfield’s main north — south runway. Models of American, Russian, and Chinese missiles filled a glass cabinet by the door.
As was customary in Saudi offices, photos of Abdullah and Salman hung prominently. Wells expected to see personal photos of Nawwaf with Salman, a way for the general to remind visitors of his place in the hierarchy. There were none. The omission mildly impressed Wells. Nawwaf was confident enough in his own authority not to rely on his father.
Nawwaf was tall and thin, with a crisp uniform and a neatly trimmed beard that framed his narrow lips. He stood from behind his mahogany desk and saluted Wells, more than a hint of irony in the gesture. “Mr. Wells. Hello.”
“Salaam aleikum, General.”
“I’d prefer we stick to English, Mr. Wells. I studied physics at Oxford. I expect my English is adequate for your needs.”
“Nam.” Yes.
Nawwaf didn’t smile. Wells decided to take a friendlier tack, get the general talking generally about the Iranian program before moving on to the questions he’d come to ask.
“I appreciate your taking the time to see me. Do you know why I’m here?”
“I was told only that it was not related to our base at Watah.” Making sure Wells knew that the topic was off-limits.
“I have questions about the enrichment process. I’ve heard you’re an expert.”
“I doubt I can tell you anything your own scientists haven’t.”
“Humor me.”
“As you wish.”
“I’ll start with the obvious. Could Iran have enriched uranium to weapons-grade? Even though we and the IAEA watch their stockpiles.” The International Atomic Energy Agency.
“The Iranians acknowledge they’ve enriched several thousand kilos to twenty percent enrichment. If they hid a fraction of that, they could easily take the final step, from twenty percent to weapons-grade.”
“But could they have hidden it?”
“Certainly. They had years when no one was watching on-site. The inspectors checked afterwards, but it’s a matter of altering output tables, hiding the efficiency of the process.”
“That simple.”
“Did you know, Mr. Wells, that the United States has lost hundreds of kilograms of weapons-grade uranium over the last fifty years?”
Wells shook his head in genuine surprise.
“No one really thinks it’s missing. Otherwise, Washington and London would be ghost towns. Probably it never existed at all. Uranium enrichment is an industrial process, and like all industrial processes it has a margin for error. Especially if you want it to.”
“So they hide this uranium. Then? They build another plant without anyone noticing?”
“Possibly.”
“Wouldn’t it be huge?”
Nawwaf shook his head. “Once you reach twenty percent, you need only a hundred or so centrifuges running for a few weeks to reach the weapons-grade level. A small factory or warehouse could hide those.”
“If they used an aboveground site, wouldn’t there be emissions?”
“Only for a couple of hundred meters. You couldn’t find it with a brute search. You’d need to narrow the target area first.”