At the cabin door, Duberman turned to Wells. “You’re going to wish you’d killed me.”
“I already do.”
As they watched Faisal and his men usher Duberman and Salome into the station, Wells told Duto what had happened, beginning with Rudi’s call.
“So all of this was to buy an extra day. Not even.”
“Yes.”
“Ever think that maybe we should just have shot them?”
“Shot Aaron Duberman.”
“He’s the one who suggested it. They’re going to come at us as soon as they get out of here. And if we win he’s dead anyway. You think the President’s going to give Duberman a get-out-of-jail-free card?”
“I don’t shoot prisoners, Vinny.”
“All right. Better hope Witwans is home when we get down there.”
A possibility Wells had not even considered. “He’ll be home, Vinny.”
Finally, the jet reached an apron where dozens of other private jets were parked. The pilot opened the cockpit door. “We’ll sleep here. Wake at 0800 and be in the air by 0815.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Good night to all, and to all a good night.”
25
TWO DAYS…
With no bags, Salome and Duberman walked untouched past the customs posts at Queen Alia International Airport. They stepped into the arrival hall, a wide, low room crowded with money-changing stations, coffee stands, and men hawking hotel leaflets. Duberman stopped so abruptly that Salome had to dodge his heels and looked around as wide-eyed as an aquarium-bound fish. Salome thought she understood his confusion. The superrich never spent time by themselves in uncontrolled public spaces. Duberman had no guards or minders or drivers to tell him where to go, clear his path. Being threatened with execution didn’t faze him. Having to find his way through this terminal on his own, on the other hand…
“Over here.” She led him to a mobile phone kiosk.
The previous night in Riyadh, the young colonel had ushered them inside the quarantine station, where a pair of cots were waiting. “Sleep,” he said. “We will discuss in the morning.”
“Discuss what?” Salome said. She lay down and, to her surprise, fell asleep almost immediately.
She woke in confusion, certain she’d had the strangest of dreams. Wells had taken her and Duberman to Riyadh. Then she tasted the desert dust in her mouth.
She’d slept in her clothes, but the Saudis had shielded her cot with a sheet anyway. She pulled it open to reveal a concrete room covered with posters encouraging hand-washing. The colonel sat in the middle, playing a video game on his phone. Duberman was still asleep, lying on his back, his arms folded prayerfully across his chest. The world’s richest monk.
She still couldn’t believe that he hadn’t cracked in Tel Aviv. She almost had. After seeing how Wells had eviscerated his guards in Istanbul, she was certain he would follow through on his threat to kill Duberman. She’d been trying to play out what might happen after she gave up Witwans’s name. Maybe they could still stop Wells from getting to him. Maybe she could buy time by giving Wells a fake name. Anything to get him away from Duberman. But she saw that once she spoke, Wells would keep threatening her until he was sure that she was telling the truth and that he had a way to Witwans.
Still, she wanted to tell. She loves you, Wells had said to Duberman. More accurate to say that Salome couldn’t imagine a world without Duberman. She understood her hypocrisy. For five years, she had insisted they had to stop Iran from building a bomb at any cost. Now, with victory days away, she was about to risk their success to save one man.
Luckily, Duberman had somehow known that Wells wouldn’t pull the trigger. He had called Wells’s bluff.
Yet Wells still wasn’t finished. She supposed his ability to adapt to crisis, never give up, was the reason he’d survived so long. So they had wound up at this concrete quarantine station at an airport in Riyadh, watched over by this ridiculously young colonel.
He put away his phone as Salome rose from her cot and approached him.
“Salaam aleikum.”
“Don’t pretend to be polite. We’re your prisoners.”
“Not at all.”
“Then let us go.”
“Miss”—he pulled her passport from his pocket, made a show of looking at it—“Leffetz. I understand you’re upset, but there’s nowhere for you to go. You’re in quarantine.”
“Then let me call my office. Or email.”
He tucked away the passport. “Once you’re out of quarantine.”
“And when will that be?”
“Soon.”
“Days, weeks, months?”
“Soon.” He wasn’t smiling, but she couldn’t help feeling he was mocking her.
“What kind of quarantine is this, anyway? We’re not sick.” As she spoke, she knew she’d lost. Even speaking the word meant accepting his ridiculous premise.
“We are processing your request for asylum.”
“We haven’t—” She broke off, forced herself to keep her voice level. “That man over there. You know who he is?”
This time, he pulled Duberman’s blue American passport. “Aaron Duberman. Born Atlanta, Georgia.”
“He’s worth almost thirty billion dollars. Why would he want asylum in Saudi Arabia?”
“We have excellent free health care.”
Now she knew he was mocking her.
“When the processing is complete, we’ll inform you of the outcome.”
“I hope you’re enjoying this, because it’s going to end badly for you.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
When Duberman woke, she explained what had happened.
“How long do you think they can hold us like this?”
They were speaking Hebrew, ignoring the stares of the guards.
“Not long. No doubt they’re already getting calls from Jerusalem. Washington soon enough.”
Gideon would have realized quickly that Riyadh was their most likely destination, especially since Duberman had investigated Wells and knew of his relationship to the Kingdom.
The more important question was why Wells had dumped them here instead of Cyprus. Presumably, the phone call he’d taken in the minutes before takeoff held the answer. He would have needed a good reason for such a desperate play, and Salome could think of only one.
“Someone told him where we got the stuff.” Though she couldn’t understand who’d tipped him off. Maybe Shafer really had talked his way clear of the CIA. “If he gets to Witwans—”
“I understand, Adina.” He used her real name only when he was annoyed. “If I thought shouting would do any good, I’d shout. But it’ll just piss them off. And no matter what, I’m sure they’ll put us on a plane soon enough.”
Once again Duberman’s instincts proved right. As the digital wall clock over the door turned to 3:00, the colonel handed back their passports.
“I regret to inform you that the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia cannot accept your asylum request. You’re going to have to leave Saudi soil.”
“Too bad,” Salome said.
“We will provide a flight to Jordan, free of charge. Further transport will be your responsibility.” The colonel walked into a back room, returned with a dusty black abaya and headscarf. “You don’t have to cover your face, but please put these on until you are clear of our airspace.”
“Come on.”
“Your flight leaves in forty-five minutes.”
She would argue over Saudi dress codes for women another time. She wiped off the shapeless gown as best she could, threw it over her clothes, stuck her hair under the scarf.