“That happens?” Duto said from the seat ahead.
“You run a casino long enough, everything happens. I tried to figure out once how many separate bets I’ve taken over the years, not even counting the slots. I couldn’t. It had to be billions. Sooner or later, you get these streaks. You know what I always tell my managers? Take the bet. In fact, they know what I’m going to say, they’re not even calling to ask as much as to let me know what’s going on. I like to hear. So we take the bet. In all those years, you know how many times the guy, it’s always a guy, has walked out ahead? Once. In 1999. The blackjack guy, I couldn’t believe it, I’ll never forget it, he won that seventh bet.”
“Another blackjack?” Wells didn’t much care about gambling, but Duberman could tell a story.
“No, a six-card twenty-one to beat two tens for the dealer.”
“Bull,” Duto said.
“Why would I lie? I’m guessing you don’t play much blackjack, John, but trust me when I tell you that’s incredibly rare. I wasn’t there, but my manager told me that he said, That was fun. I guess I’m done. Picked up a half-million dollars in chips and walked out. We never saw him again, either. My security guys looked at the tapes to make sure he wasn’t cheating, colluding with the dealer. I still think that’s probably what happened, but we could never find it. But every other time, those guys, they crashed and burned. Because it’s just luck, John, that’s all it is. That’s all you are. The luck eventually runs out. The house always wins.”
Wells had to fight not to mention the call from Rudi. Instead, he said only, “We’ll see,” an answer that sounded lame even to him. Duberman didn’t bother to answer.
Wells turned away, looked at Salome, but he found no succor in her face. Only hate. He had questions for her: Did you feel it, too? And How did you end up here? But he didn’t feel like asking. And he supposed he already knew what she’d say: Yes. And How does anyone end up anywhere?
“I should have killed you in Volgograd.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. I wouldn’t have gotten to hear your boss’s stories.”
A reluctant smile creased her lips, and Wells knew her thoughts, knew they mirrored his. Ninety minutes later, the jet began to descend. “We’ll be at King Khalid International Airport in approximately thirty minutes,” the pilot said over the intercom. “After landing, we’ve been told to remain on the auxiliary runway, so that’s what we’ll do. Rendition Airways looks forward to serving you again soon.”
As the jet stopped, a dozen unmarked police SUVs surrounded it. The armada taxied slowly away from the lights of the main terminal, to an apron beside a blocky concrete building at the airport’s northeastern edge, as far from the city of Riyadh as possible. “Quarantine Station,” its sign read in Arabic and English.
“If they offer us a welcome shower, I’m going to get nervous,” Duberman said.
“Holocaust humor,” Duto said. “Classy.”
The police trained a half-dozen spotlights on the jet and rolled a staircase to the front cabin door. The flight attendant, who had spent the entire flight in the rear galley with wraparound Beats headphones over his ears, the literal definition of hearing no evil, stepped forward and popped it open. The desert wind kicked dust inside as a spotlight glared through the open door.
Wells stepped forward. A uniformed Saudi officer stood at the base of the stairs and waved him down. Three soldiers stood around him, their rifles trained on Wells. Wells wondered if he might finally have exhausted his credit with Abdullah, if the Saudis might arrest him and everyone on the plane. But when he reached the stairs, the officer extended a friendly hand. He was short, stocky, and handsome, with the close-cut beard that Saudi royals favored. Wells tried to ignore the fact that he looked about twenty.
“Salaam aleikum.”
“As-aleikum salaam.”
“Mr. Wells. I’m Colonel Faisal. A grandson of Miteb.” Prior to his death a year before, Prince Miteb had been Abdullah’s closest ally in the royal family. If his grandson was here, Wells was safe.
“Thank you for coming here.”
Faisal smiled. “Rami”—Abdullah’s most senior secretary, basically his chief of staff—“said it might be the most interesting mission of my career. He said when you were involved, his life was never boring.”
Wells had sometimes wondered why Abdullah let him draw so many favors over the years. He suspected that Faisal had given him the answer. Genuine excitement was as hard to find for a king as anyone else. Maybe harder.
“Do you know why you’re here, Colonel?”
Faisal shook his head.
“A man and a woman aboard that plane have requested asylum in the Kingdom.” This explanation failed to answer any number of important questions, including Who are they? Why are they claiming asylum? What’s your relationship with them? And, even more obviously, Why did you land here in the first place? Whether out of deference, or, more likely, because he’d been told to keep his mouth shut and do what Wells said, Faisal asked none of them.
“Yes. I see.”
“I imagine you don’t get many asylum seekers, but I think it would be best if you kept them out here in the quarantine station. Instead of taking them back to the terminal to start a more formal process.”
“Are they dangerous, sir?”
“Not unless you like to gamble.” The joke sailed past Faisal. “No. They aren’t.”
“And shall I question them, sir? To determine whether they have legitimate business here?”
Absolutely, positively not. “Just hold them, make sure they’re comfortable. Food, a hot shower, whatever they like. Don’t touch them under any circumstances.”
“But then how will I know what to do with them?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, you’ll release them,” Wells said. Of course. Makes perfect sense. “Rami will tell you exactly when, but it won’t be too late. Certainly before dark.”
“Release them where, sir?”
“A flight to Amman. Rami will arrange the jet. But don’t tell them that you’re going to let them go until Rami tells you so. Most important, don’t let them make any phone calls. Whatever they promise or threaten, no communication of any kind.”
“I understand, sir. And will you be leaving now?”
“Not yet. We’ll sleep on the plane until morning and then take off.” Wells figured the Gulfstream would be at least as comfortable as the quarantine rooms.
Faisal nodded, though his expression remained puzzled. “This seems like a lot of trouble, sir. If they’re going to leave tomorrow anyway.”
Wells shook the young Saudi’s hand. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you, Colonel?”
“Twenty-five, sir.”
Nice to be a prince.
Back in the cabin, Duberman and Salome hadn’t moved.
“Go on,” Wells said. “I give you my word you won’t be hurt.”
Duberman stood, turned to Duto. “Senator. Your friend is obviously mentally ill. Are you going along with this? It’ll destroy you, too.”
“Good-bye, Aaron,” Duto said.