“So you think the Istanbul uranium came from Iran?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Wells. You asked me if the Iranians could have enriched uranium to weapons-grade. The answer is yes. Whether they have actually done so is another matter. That comes down to what you Americans found in Istanbul. What you claim to have found, I should say.”
“You think we planted it?”
“Maybe you wanted an excuse to attack Tehran. On the other hand, if the Iranians did produce it, we have a problem. I’m not sure which is worse.”
Wells saw his opening.
“What if I told you I agreed with you?”
“That the United States has planted the uranium?”
“Not the United States. Someone trying to get America to attack Iran.”
Wells watched as Nawwaf reacted to the theory the same way everyone did: Impossible.
But what if it’s not?
“Who? The Israelis would be the obvious choice.”
“Suppose it’s a private group?”
Nawwaf shook his head. “No private group could manage it.”
“Unless they didn’t enrich it themselves.”
“I don’t see what you mean.”
“Has anyone ever tried to sell the Kingdom highly enriched uranium?”
Nawwaf laughed, an unexpected sound.
“At least now I understand why you’re here.”
The general busied himself in his desk, came up with a gold cigarette case and lighter. “Do you smoke?”
Wells shook his head.
“You Americans all expect to live forever.”
“At this point, I’d settle for next week.”
Nawwaf lit up with a practiced hand, dragged deep. “I smoke less than I used to, and I enjoy it more. Now. You were asking if I might know the real source of that ingot?”
For a moment, Wells let himself believe the general might have the answer. “That’s right.”
“I confess I find your theory interesting. But I can’t help. I was approached once the way you suggest. Before you grow too excited, it was by a North Korean. This was a conference five or six years ago. He claimed he had a working bomb. I went as far as asking the price. Five billion dollars. Two up front, three when they delivered.”
North Korea again. Wells wondered whether Duberman could possibly have been desperate enough to deal with the psychopaths in Pyongyang.
“Cheaper than the Pakistanis.”
“Funnily enough, he said the same, too. But I couldn’t take him seriously. I had no way of knowing if they could even build a competent bomb. Their tests were just past fizzle, the low single-kiloton range. No, we would have to buy at least two to have one to test, and if it failed we would hardly be in position to demand a refund.”
“You think he was serious?”
“I think he thought he was. I didn’t bother to tell anyone here. I would have been a laughingstock. And he wasn’t offering raw HEU, you should understand. Not what your people found in Istanbul. Only a finished bomb. I don’t think he’s the one you want.”
“And that was the only time?”
Nawwaf took another drag on the cigarette. If he wasn’t actually searching his memory, he was a fine actor. “Yes, truly. I don’t love your country, Mr. Wells. But my father and the King have told me to speak honestly, and I wouldn’t dishonor them by lying to you.”
“Then I thank you for your time.”
“Good luck with your search.”
“By the way, General, do you have any idea why we were stopped at the gate? We were told that the time for this meeting hadn’t been updated.”
“My assistants handle that. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
“Not at all.” Wells extended his hand and they shook over the general’s giant desk.
“I’ll try to find the Korean’s name, for what it’s worth. And if I think of anything else, I’ll call you.”
Wells saluted. “Ma’a as-salaama.” Good-bye.
“Ma’a as-salaama.”
“He was helpful?” Ghaith asked, as they walked side by side through the ministry’s empty corridors.
“Maybe.” Wells would talk to Duto and Shafer about North Korea, though the possibility was far-fetched at best. “So we can be at the airport?” He’d booked himself on a Turkish Airlines flight to Istanbul that left just before midnight.
“I should tell you. While you were speaking to Nawwaf, the King’s office sent word. His Majesty wishes to see you tomorrow.”
Wells wondered why. Maybe Abdullah wanted him to relay a message to the White House, though Wells wasn’t sure why the King would bother with an intermediary. He could call the President directly.
Whatever the King’s reasons, staying overnight in Riyadh meant Wells would have to postpone his trip to Russia for at least another day. Buvchenko might call off their meeting. But Wells could hardly say no. He didn’t need to be an expert on royal etiquette to know that Abdullah had given him an order dressed as an invitation.
“Of course.”
The Mercedes waited outside the ministry’s front doors, its engine running. The wind was up, the night almost cold. Wells looked up, expecting a galaxy of stars. But light pollution from the base and the city blocked all but the brightest.
Riyadh was far from a late-night town. Most Saudi families ate dinner inside their high-walled compounds. The city had no bars or clubs, not even any movie theaters.
So aside from the trucks cutting through Riyadh on their late-night runs across the desert, the Makkah Road was nearly empty as the Mercedes sped home. The BMW followed fifty meters behind. The Nissan was ahead, with the final escort, a Toyota Land Cruiser, farther back. A stretched-out convoy, blazing down the left lane, passing the eighteen-wheelers in the right two lanes like they weren’t moving at all.
From somewhere behind them came the whine of a motorcycle engine cranking at high revs, closing fast. Through the back window, Wells saw the bike accelerating past the Land Cruiser, closing on the BMW. It was a big black sportbike, 1,100 ccs or more. It had to be doing at least one hundred thirty miles an hour. The driver wore a black helmet with a striking gold face shield.
As it closed, Wells pulled his pistol. Not that the weapon would do him much good. The Mercedes didn’t have firing ports, and the bullet-resistant windows worked both ways. Trying to fire through them from inside would send bullet fragments ricocheting around the passenger compartment.
The motorcycle pulled up beside them. It slowed beside the right rear door, next to Wells. Barely three feet of pavement separated them. The rider turned toward Wells, the body of the limousine reflected and distorted in his face shield. Wells lifted his pistol. The rider would have to respect the threat unless he knew about the bullet-resistant windows.
Maybe he did. He pulled his gloved hand from the left handlebar, cocked his thumb to make a finger pistol. He extended his arm close to the glass and pretended to shoot, raising and lowering his index finger, pow pow pow. Wells imagined the rider, eighteen, nineteen, twenty at most, the years when death wasn’t even a whisper. No doubt he was grinning like a fool under his face shield. He returned his hand to the bars and raised himself off the seat and pulled backward, lifting the nose of the bike. Back and back until the motorcycle rose at forty-five degrees from the pavement, a highway wheelie—
After a few seconds he lowered the nose, settled himself behind the fairing, took off down the empty highway. The bike pulled away like Secretariat in the Belmont homestretch. No license plate, at least not one that Wells could read. In fifteen seconds, it disappeared into the dark, its red taillight dimming, engine fading. Wells had spent plenty of time on motorcycles. He was comfortable with three-digit speeds. But he couldn’t remember ever pushing that hard.