But pilots could turn off transponders from the cockpit, as had famously happened in the case of Malaysia Airlines 370. They were supposed to do so only in extraordinary circumstances, such as a malfunctioning transponder that was sending the wrong altitude, or an electrical fire. Any plane that wasn’t sending transponder signals was presumed to be a military aircraft and risked being shot down.
The pilot shook his head. “Not in this neighborhood. The Israelis get squirrelly. In fact, even with it on, they won’t like the change of plans. We’ll have to give them plenty of room, go over the western Sinai and the Red Sea before we make the turn into Saudi airspace.”
“How about when we get over the Kingdom?”
“I trust you, sir, but not that much.”
Not what Wells wanted to hear, but he could hardly argue.
“I gotta ask.” The pilot nodded at the door. “Do they know about this little course correction?”
Wells hesitated, all the answer the pilot needed.
“I can lock this door, get you where you need to go, but if you can’t control them—”
“We can control them.”
“Sure about this? Because it’s about five felonies.”
Just put ’em on my tab. “Ask the senator if you like.”
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about. What happens in Riyadh?”
“We’ll leave the two we brought now and go straight to Johannesburg.”
The pilot shook his head. “By the time we land, it’ll be midnight local, we’ll have been flying about twenty-four hours straight. I’ll do my best for you, but Spock and I have to sleep a few hours before we go. Can’t be flying over Africa on a route we’ve never seen in the middle of the night with no rest.”
More bad news. Wells would have to check, but he imagined Riyadh was at least eight hours from Johannesburg. If they left the Kingdom tomorrow morning, they wouldn’t reach South Africa until midafternoon at best. By the time they found Witwans’s mansion, night would have fallen. Even if they could grab him quickly, they’d have barely one full day left before the President’s deadline, and South Africa was a sixteen- or seventeen-hour flight from Washington. Wells was sure that they would have to bring Witwans to the President or Donna Green in person to have any chance.
“You can’t sleep in Joburg?”
The pilot shook his head. “Everyone thinks these things fly themselves, but there’s a reason for the rules. We’re over the duty limits already. And I’m guessing that won’t be our last stop, that you’ll want us to come back here or the U.S. or somewhere else pretty soon, maybe even tomorrow night.”
“Possibly.”
“Even more reason, then. If you have a relief crew in Saudi—”
Wells shook his head. He was out of favors with Abdullah.
“Then we need seven hours minimum in Riyadh.”
Wells couldn’t argue. The pilot had already done as much as Wells could have hoped. By changing his destination after takeoff, he was essentially kidnapping Duberman and Salome. “Thanks.”
Back in the cabin, Duto, Duberman, and Salome waited expectantly.
“You’ll be happy to hear that was Shafer,” Wells said to Salome. As he’d expected, she shook her head, not possible. “If I can talk my way out of Lubyanka, you don’t think he can outsmart those mouth breathers on the seventh floor?
“And that’s why you went to the cockpit?” Salome said.
“He told me we had to talk on a clean phone. I asked the pilot for his, but he told me I had to wait until Cyprus. Anyway, I’m sure whatever he has to tell me is bad news for you.”
The explanation didn’t even qualify as paper-thin, but the engines went to full power before anyone could argue. “Buckle up,” the pilot said through the intercom. “We should be in Cyprus in about forty-five minutes.”
Ten minutes later, the G650 was high above Israel’s coast. The plane turned slowly right, to the northwest, and soared uneventfully toward Cyprus for fifteen minutes. And then they settled into an easy left turn. They were more than one hundred kilometers offshore already, with a thin scrim of clouds before them, nothing to provide any perspective. Even so, Salome figured out what was happening.
“What is this?”
This G650 had been equipped with two seats per row, one on each side of the aisle. Salome and Duberman were in the third row from the cockpit door. Wells was one seat up. He unbuckled his belt, stepped into the aisle, put one big hand on each of their shoulders.
“Change of plans. We’re going to Riyadh.”
“You think that’s going to save you?” Duberman said. “You think Gideon can’t track this plane? He’ll find you even before you land. You think they don’t know who I am in the Kingdom? Half the royal family has spent time at my tables. Those Gulf Arabs, they like roulette and baccarat. The classy games. Never craps. They don’t like to touch the dice that the infidels have touched. They have such funny rules.”
Wells had seen enough of the royal family to know Duberman was telling the truth. “Sure.”
“They’re not great gamblers, they get bored, don’t size their bets, blow through their bankrolls. They want big comps, too, always the fanciest brands, the biggest suites. One of Abdullah’s grandsons, he lost three million dollars in Macao in a week, we gave him a Ferrari convertible, a Spider 458, a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car. You know what he said? ‘Not bad, but I like the Bugatti.’ Which runs more like a million, a million-one.”
“Sounds like we’re doing you a favor,” Wells said. “You can set up shop in Riyadh.”
“Or are you hoping they won’t care who I am, they’ll lock us up because we’re Jews?”
A cheap shot, though Wells supposed he had it coming. “You’ll be safe enough. I want a decent head start”—let Duberman think he was running—“and they’re going to keep you for a couple of days.”
“All the head start in the world won’t help you.”
“Then maybe I should just kill you now.”
Duberman waved his hand, dismissing Wells, a remarkable gesture under the circumstances. “Whether I’m alive or dead, Gideon will hunt you down. And after what you did he won’t be satisfied with just putting a bullet in you.”
Wells sat back next to Duto, whose unhappiness was plain. He grabbed a pad, scribbled, That really Shafer on the phone?
Wells shook his head. But good news, he wrote.
What happens in Riyadh?
Tell you when we get there. Wells wasn’t asking permission. Whatever Duto had expected when he came to Cairo, he was committed now. Duto shook his head, but wrote only, Hope you know what you’re doing. Wells did, too.
Outside, the sky turned orange-pink for a few glorious minutes before night came. They were all silent as the jet followed the course the pilot had outlined to Wells, over the Sinai and the Red Sea. After almost two hours, the G650 turned left, over the Arabian Peninsula, the desert’s blackness broken only by a few small outposts. Mecca and Medina were down there somewhere. Wells wondered if he’d ever see them properly. He thought not.
He stood, faced Duberman.
“That offer you made me, Aaron—”
“Off the table.”
Wells smiled. “But you were serious?”
“You would have had to stay with me until after the war started. But yes.”
Wells believed him.
“You should have taken it. You know I’ve seen you at my casinos a dozen times.”
“I don’t—”
“All the years I’ve been doing this. You come and you’re lucky, and you’re lucky, and you’re lucky. And it starts to feel like something more. Even the dealers, the bosses, the shift managers, they start to believe. That’s when they call me. Guy came in with ten thousand last night, he’s been playing craps, now he has six hundred K and the whole casino wants to bet with him. He’s hit six straight blackjacks and let it ride every time, he wants to do it again for a quarter million.”