Ghaith pushed past Wells, out of the kitchen.
He came back a minute later with a big black pistol. A Glock 22. Forty-caliber.
“You didn’t have anything bigger? Like a cannon?”
“It’s too big for you?”
Point, Saudi Arabia.
“As long as it’s loaded.” Wells popped out the magazine, found it full. Fifteen fat copper-jacketed rounds.
“You understand you can’t bring it inside the ministry offices.”
“If I need it in the Ministry of Defense, we’re really in trouble.” Wells snapped the magazine back into the pistol. It would kick harder than the 9-millimeters he preferred. Still, he was glad to have it.
He stuffed it into his jacket pocket, the butt poking out. Not ideal, but better than shoving it into the back of his jeans like a wannabe gangster. “Can we go now?”
—
At first glance, the security around Riyadh Air Base seemed more appropriate for an installation like Kandahar or Bagram, an American airfield in hostile territory. A high concrete wall stretched around the perimeter. Cameras were everywhere. Signs warned in Arabic and English: “Danger: Armed Guards—Do Not Approach Without Authorization!”
At first Wells didn’t understand why the Saudi military had chosen to present such a hostile face to its capital city. Then he saw that hostility was precisely the point. The Sauds wanted their people to remember that they were ruled, that the concept of consent of the governed went only so far in Riyadh.
The base’s walls extended for what seemed like miles. Finally, the Mercedes reached its main entrance, marked by a tall and strangely elegant arch of tan-colored concrete. Four soldiers in a fortified machine-gun nest targeted them with a spotlight as the limousine stopped at the outer gate guardhouse. Khalid lowered his window to hand over his identity card. After a brief conversation, he looked over his shoulder at Ghaith.
“Colonel. They say we aren’t authorized.”
Wells liked this day less and less. He rested his fingers on the butt of the Glock. But pulling it would only make the guards more nervous. Through the glare of the spotlight, he saw their chase car five meters behind. Both too close and too far to do any good. They would make a fat target for a suicide bomber.
Two guards stepped out of the gatehouse and motioned for the Mercedes to turn around. Ghaith pushed open his door. The guards lowered their rifles, but the weapons seemed only to make him angrier. “We’ll sort this out in one minute, no more. Or by next week you simpletons will be in the Empty Quarter chasing scorpions.” Ghaith meant it, Wells saw. Nobody pulled rank quite like the Saudis.
The guards looked at each other, then waved him into the guardhouse.
Three minutes passed before Ghaith stepped out of the guardhouse, back into the Mercedes. He slammed the door. Whatever he’d said seemed to have carried the day. The gate slid open. “Go, Khalid.” The Mercedes eased inside.
“They still had us coming this morning. Oafs.”
Another easy explanation. Or maybe someone wanted to be sure that their arrival would attract notice instead of being quiet.
—
Finally, Wells walked into Nawwaf’s office, a square room that overlooked the airfield’s main north–south runway. Models of American, Russian, and Chinese missiles filled a glass cabinet by the door.
As was customary in Saudi offices, photos of Abdullah and Salman hung prominently. Wells expected to see personal photos of Nawwaf with Salman, a way for the general to remind visitors of his place in the hierarchy. There were none. The omission mildly impressed Wells. Nawwaf was confident enough in his own authority not to rely on his father.
Nawwaf was tall and thin, with a crisp uniform and a neatly trimmed beard that framed his narrow lips. He stood from behind his mahogany desk and saluted Wells, more than a hint of irony in the gesture. “Mr. Wells. Hello.”
“Salaam aleikum, General.”
“I’d prefer we stick to English, Mr. Wells. I studied physics at Oxford. I expect my English is adequate for your needs.”
“Nam.” Yes.
Nawwaf didn’t smile. Wells decided to take a friendlier tack, get the general talking generally about the Iranian program before moving on to the questions he’d come to ask.
“I appreciate your taking the time to see me. Do you know why I’m here?”
“I was told only that it was not related to our base at Watah.” Making sure Wells knew that the topic was off-limits.
“I have questions about the enrichment process. I’ve heard you’re an expert.”
“I doubt I can tell you anything your own scientists haven’t.”
“Humor me.”
“As you wish.”
“I’ll start with the obvious. Could Iran have enriched uranium to weapons-grade? Even though we and the IAEA watch their stockpiles.” The International Atomic Energy Agency.
“The Iranians acknowledge they’ve enriched several thousand kilos to twenty percent enrichment. If they hid a fraction of that, they could easily take the final step, from twenty percent to weapons-grade.”
“But could they have hidden it?”
“Certainly. They had years when no one was watching on-site. The inspectors checked afterwards, but it’s a matter of altering output tables, hiding the efficiency of the process.”
“That simple.”
“Did you know, Mr. Wells, that the United States has lost hundreds of kilograms of weapons-grade uranium over the last fifty years?”
Wells shook his head in genuine surprise.
“No one really thinks it’s missing. Otherwise, Washington and London would be ghost towns. Probably it never existed at all. Uranium enrichment is an industrial process, and like all industrial processes it has a margin for error. Especially if you want it to.”
“So they hide this uranium. Then? They build another plant without anyone noticing?”
“Possibly.”
“Wouldn’t it be huge?”
Nawwaf shook his head. “Once you reach twenty percent, you need only a hundred or so centrifuges running for a few weeks to reach the weapons-grade level. A small factory or warehouse could hide those.”
“If they used an aboveground site, wouldn’t there be emissions?”
“Only for a couple of hundred meters. You couldn’t find it with a brute search. You’d need to narrow the target area first.”
“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.
Ghaith leaned forward to Khalid. “How fast?”
“Two-fifty, two-sixty kph.” One hundred and sixty miles an hour, give or take. Suicide speed.
Wells checked the back window but saw only their chase cars. He tucked the pistol away.
Ghaith’s phone buzzed. He reached for it, listened briefly. “No. A ghost. Keep on exactly as you are. Text when you reach Turki Road.”
He hung up, turned to Wells. “I didn’t think you were the nervous type.”
“You’re telling me that was a coincidence.”
“We call them ghosts. You know how many times every year the ambulances clean up the accidents? Our sons, they have too much hormones, no women, nothing to do. They want to find out how fast they can go on these big empty highways. Know the police can’t catch them. He’s on his way into the desert. He sees the limousine, he stops. Sees who’s inside. You think a jihadi acts like that?” Ghaith mimicked the rider’s finger pistol.
“Or else he’s tracking us, checking out the setup, the chase cars.”
“Even if he is what you fear, he can’t touch us in here. These windows stop an AK.”
“VBIED.” The letters, all too familiar to American soldiers, stood for vehicle-borne improvised explosive device.
“At one hundred fifty kilometers an hour?” Ghaith yawned.
“What time did you get up this morning, Colonel?”
“Five a.m.”
“I’ll bet you get up at five every morning.”
&nb
sp; “Yes. Why?”
Ghaith understood the danger, or he wouldn’t be running an eight-man protective team. But fatigue was giving him tunnel vision. He wanted to explain away these obvious danger signs, because responding to them required energy he didn’t have. He wanted to stick to his original plan—get Wells home as quickly as possible, the most direct route—instead of recalibrating.
Natural mistakes. Wells had made them himself. Which didn’t make them any less dangerous.
“We should tighten up. Pointless to have four vehicles that can’t cover each other.”
“You want us to slow down?”
“I want time to react.”
“You’ll be at the house in three, four minutes. Tomorrow morning I promise you a ten-car police escort. A tank if you like. A helicopter.”
Wells ignored the sarcasm, checked the door next to him. Its knob was low, locked. Wells tugged on it, couldn’t raise it.
“Unlock the doors, Khalid.”
Khalid stole a glance at Ghaith.
“What is this?” the colonel said.
“Just tell him.”
“As long as you don’t jump out at one hundred fifty kph. His Majesty will be very angry if anything happens to you.”
“I won’t.”
Ghaith muttered the order. Khalid popped the back locks.
—
They passed the King Faisal Hospital apartment buildings. Khalid pulled off the highway as he had that morning. Wells had a sense of déjà vu that could have come straight from The Matrix. He’d been in Afghanistan when the movie came out, but he caught up years later. He didn’t watch many movies, but he had to admit he’d enjoyed that one. The super-slo-mo bullets. Keanu Reeves with his sleepy surfer’s twang. All the techno mumbo jumbo. Déjà vu is a glitch in the Matrix . . . It happens when they change something.
Then the whole world exploding.
Ahead, the white Nissan ran a blinking yellow traffic signal, turned left onto Prince Turki Road. Hardly a second passed before Ghaith’s phone buzzed with a text. He read it, leaned toward Khalid. “Go.”
Khalid turned south on Turki Road, passing over the highway. Ahead, the big apartment buildings of the medical center were mostly dark. The chase cars followed. South of the overpass the boulevard turned oddly claustrophobic. The perimeter wall of the hospital complex hemmed the road to the east. To the right, apartment buildings and a block-long mosque loomed several stories high and extended nearly to the edge of the road, blocking any view of the intersecting streets. An attack could come from almost any direction, including overhead. Yet Ghaith seemed unconcerned. “Two more minutes,” he said. And then Wells heard a pair of motorcycle engines screaming. To the north, behind them. Through the back window, he saw the headlights closing. The Toyota tried to block them, but it had no chance. They swerved around it as easily as a running back cutting past a fat defensive lineman.
Twelve Days Page 11
