Abdullah merely nodded. Wells was reminded of a phrase attributed to Earl Long, the three-time governor of Louisiana, Huey’s less famous, more corrupt younger brother:
Don’t write anything you can phone. Don’t phone anything you can talk. Don’t talk anything you can whisper. Don’t whisper anything you can smile. Don’t smile anything you can nod. Don’t nod anything you can wink.
Long hadn’t been around for the Internet, but Wells could guess what he would have made of email.
“So. Nawwaf briefed me this morning on your theory. I must tell you I don’t think it’s correct.”
“You think that the uranium is Iran’s?” Wells found himself genuinely surprised.
“Persians are Persians.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you know what the Shah had in common with the religious ones who took over in 1979? They all see everything within two thousand kilometers as theirs. West to Mecca, east to Baluchistan, north over the Caucasus.”
“They must know the Muslim world would never accept Shia control of the Kaaba.”
“They know nothing of the sort. In fact, the opposite. They see it as their divine right. And the ones who aren’t religious, for them we’re just a bunch of uncultured Bedouin riding camels through the desert. As far as they’re concerned, Iran is the only real nation in the region, the only one with any history. To them the bomb is a triumph. Not just military, but technical, scientific. It makes them a modern nation.”
“Modern as North Korea.”
Abdullah ignored the objection. “Also, the bomb makes us squirm and protects them from you. And the Jews, too.”
“Until Pakistan gives you a bomb of your own.”
“Maybe they’re not so sure the Pakistanis will give us a bomb,” Abdullah said.
“What about you, Your Majesty? Are you sure?”
“It doesn’t matter, because we haven’t made the request.”
“I see all the reasons they might want a bomb. It doesn’t mean they’ve achieved one.”
“If they have, they need to be stopped. And if they haven’t, maybe they need to be stopped from trying.”
“You want the United States to invade Iran on rigged evidence, Your Majesty.”
“What is rigged? What does it mean?”
“People on the left and the right in America, they already don’t believe what the government says. After what happened in Iraq, this would be a catastrophe. Maybe even cause a constitutional crisis.”
“I don’t believe it. Because you’re an absolute monarch. You buy off anyone who criticizes you, and destroy the ones who won’t stay bought. Your biggest threats come from your nephews, not your citizens. You can’t imagine millions of people filling the streets to challenge you.
But Wells said only, “Believe me, Your Majesty. It’s possible.”
“There are still eight days left. Maybe Iran will see the light and you won’t have to invade.”
“So you won’t help?”
Abdullah leaned forward, staring at Wells like a pitcher who needed just one more batter for his no-hitter. He might not have too many fastballs left, but Wells was about to see one.
“I won’t help? Have I not helped already? I let you come here, speak to Nawwaf as you wished. Last month in Bangkok you asked for aid and we granted it immediately. And I promise that no one will tell the FBI and CIA that you were the actual target of this bombing. Unless you would rather that your name be part of our reports.”
“No.” Wells didn’t know what the agency would do if it heard about his freelancing, but the response certainly wouldn’t be you go girl!
“Those courtesies will continue. I gave you my word and it holds. Even though I fear what you find may not help my country. Do you understand me, Mr. Wells?”
“Thank you.”
“Then what more would you like?”
“That you might speak to the President.”
“What shall I say?” Abdullah smiled gently, as much as telling Wells that he was making a fool of himself.
“That he should wait. That there’s too much we don’t know.”
“So you want me to pass along a theory I don’t believe, act against my country’s interests.”
“A war on false pretenses.”
“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!” The shriek came from behind the glass, astonishingly loud. Wells spun in surprise — and found himself staring at a huge blue parrot. “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!” God is great.
“Glad you think so,” Wells said.
“Allahu akbar?” A questioning tone this time, and then the parrot flew off.
“You know, this is my favorite room in the whole palace. These birds.”
“I thought you were more of a falconer, Your Majesty.”
“In my old age, these amuse me. They remind me of my aides, the foolish ones who repeat whatever I say. I bring them here sometimes, but they never see the joke.”
“That why I’m here?”
“You and I, we can speak honestly. So I tell you now. Even if I spoke to the President as you asked, it would make no difference. Do you know why?”
Wells shook his head.
“Because he listens to three or four people about this now. His NSA, maybe the Secretary of Defense, maybe the Vice President and chief of staff, if he trusts them. And even them, he hardly hears. In his mind, he’s reached the point where it’s his decision and his alone. This is what it means to command an army.”
“And you think he’s made his decision?”
“You’ll need strong evidence to change his mind. Very strong.”
Abdullah pushed himself up. “Will you stay for lunch with me?”
Wells looked at his watch. Almost noon. “I can’t.” He decided against asking Abdullah for a private jet to Russia. The King would have agreed, but Wells didn’t know what Buvchenko would make of his arriving that way.
“All right, then.” Abdullah took Wells’s hands in his own. The king’s hands were worn with age, dry and creased. “Barak’allah fik.” May God bless you.
His tone was final, the meaning clear enough. Good-bye, not just now but forever.
9
SEVEN DAYS…
Gentlemen?” the waiter at the Hyatt Regency said.
“Coffee, scrambled eggs, rye toast, hash browns. And a side of bacon.” Shafer felt like a bad Jew when he ordered bacon. A bad Jew who was going to die of a heart attack. But the guy at the next table had a plateful, and it smelled delicious.
“Egg-white omelet with asparagus, and please ask the kitchen to cook it dry,” Ian Duffy said.
“Yes, sir.”
Bad enough that Duffy’s gray suit had a rubbed metallic sheen that screamed Armani. Real men don’t eat egg whites. Shafer wanted to despise the guy. But he couldn’t.
Duffy had been chief of station in Hong Kong during Glenn Mason’s tour there. Duffy had quit the agency two years before and come back to the United States. Now he consulted for multinational companies with investments in China. His company was called Global Asian Partners, or Asian Global Partners, or I Partner Asia Globally, or some such. Shafer had done his best to forget.
The clandestine side wasn’t that big. Shafer must have met Duffy at least a couple times over the years. But when he looked Duffy up on LinkedIn, he had no recollection of the man. On-screen, Duffy wore a getting-it-done smile. His profile openly mentioned the CIA. He didn’t specifically say he’d been Hong Kong station chief, but he came close: 200X–201X: Senior Management, Overseas Post, East Asia. Shafer was astonished at first, then less so. Of course Duffy’s prospective clients would want to know what he’d been doing all those years after the University of Michigan. The CIA was a lot more impressive than the State Department.