Arab Summer Read online

“He will have a role in the new government. He’s universally respected and trusted, in part because of his reputation for fairness and even-handedness, but also because of his Saudization policies, which are well supported. He’s seen as one of the few royals with the common Saudi’s interests at heart. In our new government we will need to have a consortium of business, finance and religious leaders—Sunnis and Shiites—and Yassar is the one who can accomplish that.”

  Still no reaction. He decided to take a different approach. Appeal to her heart.

  “You had a clear shot and hesitated. Was it because of your feelings for me?”

  “I didn’t hesitate. I hate you.”

  “Look deeper. There can be no hatred without love.”

  “I loved you once.”

  “Once? Or still? Is a bond such as we had ever broken?”

  She didn’t respond, seemed to be turning it over in her mind. He waited.

  “It’s different for a woman,” she said. “Once she’s taken a man, there will always be a bond.”

  He inclined his head. Gently, he told himself. “So you still feel the bond?”

  “I hadn’t finished. That bond—that reservoir of emotion—will always be there, however deeply buried. And the betrayal of that is what allows a woman’s hatred to be so much more profound than anything a man can ever experience.”

  Saif felt himself sag with disappointment. He settled back in his chair. “I will speak openly, from the heart, because I sense we’re nearing the end of any productive conversations.”

  Sasha looked away, as if to tell him she didn’t care.

  “I loved you once, as deeply as I believe you loved me. Feeling your love for me was the most profound thing I have ever experienced in my life. I am certain I could recapture the ecstasy of my love for you if you were to show me just a taste of yours for me.” He inclined his head toward her again. “That is all I ask. For you to open your heart again to me for a moment, and let me return it.”

  She didn’t reply. After a few moments she turned her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes grew moist, then a single tear coursed down her cheek.

  Saif smiled. The rain begins with a single drop. He stood up, kissed her forehead and left, feeling victorious.

  Sasha held it in until she heard the lock turn in the door after Saif left, then gave in to sobs. She’d had a moment of panic when Saif told her he feared that they were nearing the end of any productive conversations. What was I thinking? In her disoriented state did she really believe that he would let her survive if she continued to resist him? So she’d done her best to fake it.

  She’d tried to conjure a tear for him, but it wouldn’t come. She summoned her sense of hopelessness and fatigue, but nothing.

  Then she thought of Daniel. Lying on the floor of the apartment with a red circle over his heart, blood pooling beneath him, dying. No, not dying, dead. His lifeless eyes staring up at her.

  Then, with that image, when that single tear had come it had been difficult for her to keep it from becoming a torrent.

  So now she let her tears flow, sobbing unrestrainedly, her body shaking. She cried for Daniel, the guilt she felt for his murder, because without her in his life it never would’ve happened. Cried for the purest love she’d ever felt being robbed from her only a few short years into what should have been a long journey together into old age. Cried for the waste she’d made of her life, starting as a frivolous young girl, then selling her body as a concubine, culminating in becoming a murderess many times over, and still allowing herself to be manipulated in that role.

  She stopped sobbing and hung her head. She’d never be able to convince Saif that she was siding with him long enough to carry it off. He’d wind up having her killed. I’m as good as dead. But what difference did it make? Hers was a wasted life anyhow.

  CHAPTER 19

  Day Seven. Grand Mosque, Mecca.

  SASHA HAD JUST FINISHED CRAWLING to the wall. That was enough stimulation to get her emotions back in check and her wits sufficiently about her to regroup.

  A wasted life? Saif is finally getting to me.

  She forced herself to throw off the thoughts that had just attacked her, like some autoimmune disease. Quit blubbering and think. What could she hang on to to steel herself? Daniel was the best part of her. But now that he was gone, what else had she done, what did she have? Yassar. Even Tom. Yes, Tom, who loved her in silence, even perhaps without acknowledging it to himself, but showing it with his actions. Supporting her, looking after her, and out there now with his team waiting for her. And if she was in trouble, prepared to come in after her. That was enough to get her off the floor.

  Time to get out of here, and you don’t have forever to make it happen.

  At the wall, she checked the scratches she marked there each time they took her to the toilet. Eleven. Not as many as she would’ve expected. So maybe she hadn’t been here as long as she thought. That gave her a lift. She crawled back to the middle of the room and got her chair upright. She started working out her plan. She didn’t know why, but for whatever reason, the last two times they’d come to take her to the toilet, only one armed guard had accompanied the dog collar man.

  When they came to get her the next time, she’d be ready.

  The lights were on when she heard the key in the lock. She pretended to be asleep. She couldn’t tell from the footsteps whether it was two or three men, but when the dog collar man prodded her and she looked up, she saw he only had one guard with him. After the man put the dog collar on her and cut the bindings off her arms and legs, she intentionally staggered and fell getting up from the chair. When he pulled her to her feet with the leash, she forced herself to react sluggishly to the sharp stab in her neck from the prongs, even though she wanted to cry out in pain. She shuffled out of the room, hanging her head and screwing up her eyes as if she were dazed.

  She waited until they were down the hall and the dog collar man started to unlock the toilet door. They were in close quarters, the leash slack and the guard only a few feet off to her right. Her heart started to pound, anticipating the moment.

  Now.

  She spun to the right, reached out to grab the pistol from the guard and wrenched it upward, twisting the man’s wrist as she kicked one of his legs out from underneath him. Before the dog leash man had finished turning at the sound, she had the gun against his forehead, saying in Arabic, “Move and you die.” She spun again and kicked the guard in the face, sending a spray of blood as she smashed his nose. She turned back just as the dog collar man started to yank on the leash. She backhanded him in the face with the pistol, then smashed him over the top of the head with it and he went to his knees. She pulled the leash out of his hands and turned back to the guard, who was now attempting to struggle to his feet. She aimed the pistol at him and prepared to fire. Instead, she sent the guard crashing to the floor with another karate kick to the side of the head.

  She stepped back and pulled the dog collar off her neck, then stuck the pistol in the dog collar man’s face. “Wear it,” she said and handed it to him. She held the leash in her left hand and pulled him to his feet, glancing at the guard on the floor who was now looking at her, blinking, with fear in his eyes. She pointed the gun at him and said, “Up.” She motioned down the hallway toward the room where they’d imprisoned her. Back in the room, she held the gun on the guard and instructed him to bind the dog collar man’s wrists and strap him into the first chair.

  Then she had him strap his own legs to the second chair. She held her wrists out to him and cocked the hammer on the gun. “Cut the strap,” she said to him, keeping the gun pointed at his chest, “carefully.” He pulled out the knife and did so; Sasha sighed as the cuffs fell to the floor, tears of relief coming to her eyes. She pocketed his knife. Next she told the man to form a loop with one of the police handcuffs. “Put your hands in it,” she said, grabbed the loose end and cinched his wrists tight. Then she strapped his biceps to the back of the chair. She fished into his poc
kets to find his cell phone.

  “Allah will judge you for this, infidel,” he said.

  Sasha backhanded him across the face. “Shut up, fool. Don’t push your luck. It would be less trouble for me to kill you.”

  She grabbed her abaya from the hook on the wall and dashed out. When she reached the door to the toilet, she picked up the ring of keys. As she ran down the hall, her breath was coming in gasps.

  Free!

  She ran for about ten minutes, turning right at every intersection in the corridors so she could remember how she had come. She reached a section of the catacombs that wasn’t lighted, then pulled out the cell phone to use the lighted face to illuminate her path. She stopped in front of a door. She tested the handle. Locked. She tried the keys from the ring one by one and was able to unlock it, then stepped inside a room that appeared to be almost identical to the one she had been held in. She closed and locked the door.

  It took her a few minutes of sitting in the middle of the floor, breathing deeply, rubbing her wrists and stretching her neck and shoulders to relax. As she looked at the face of the cell phone, her heart sank.

  No signal this far underground.

  But she remembered Zac telling her how powerful the transmitters stitched into her abaya were. She felt the seam of her abaya and found another of the battery packs for a transmitter, squeezed it to energize the battery. Still using the lighted face of the phone, she pulled out the pocketknife and found the first transmitter she had used, then cut it out of the seam of the abaya. She squinted and bent over the device and sliced the wires away from its dead battery. She removed the battery from the cell phone and held the transmitter’s wires to the contacts. She removed one of the wires, touched it to the battery contact again, removed it once more. Will the signal work?

  Couric was the name of the guy, mid-40s, who showed up and knocked on the door asking for Tom. He introduced himself as a captain, Special Forces, commanding 18 men from Special Ops Command. He said if Tom’s guys wanted in, okay, he welcomed them as long as they were properly armed, and if the Saudis wanted to participate, fine, but it was Couric’s show all the way. Tom told him Assad had just left to prep his teams, then turned to see that Seth and Zac had already stepped into the bedroom, grabbing their equipment and weapons.

  I guess they want in.

  Tom briefed Couric on the situation, then walked into the bedroom and said to Zac and Seth, “I’ll need you guys here, at least for now.” When he saw their faces fall he added, “Sorry, but we need to monitor what’s going on, and Sasha’s our first priority.” They both started putting their gear back like high school kids being told they weren’t starting in that day’s football game.

  A moment later, Tom saw Zac walk up to Couric where he was studying the plans of the mosque. Zac saluted and said, “Sergeant First Class Zac Fulton, sir. Special Ops Command, attached from Special Forces, 101st Airborne.”

  “At ease.”

  “With your permission, sir, I’d like to hook up monitors on some of your men. It’ll help me keep track of where your men are.”

  Couric raised his eyebrows. “How many, and are they detectable by the rebels?”

  “A half dozen, and no, the rebels can’t have that technology.”

  Tom saw Zac walk Couric into the bedroom and show Couric his equipment.

  “Do it,” Couric said when they walked back out. “My men are downstairs.”

  Couric pulled out his cell phone and made a call. Zac walked back into the bedroom to grab some equipment, then left.

  Couric pulled out photographs of Sasha, Rashid and Saif and put them on the table. “My men understand these two are ours,” Couric said to Tom, pointing to Sasha and Rashid’s pictures. He went back to studying the plans of the mosque. Eventually he said, “I’ve seen enough. I want to get my men into position. We’re moving. It would be better, sir, if you and your team accompanied me so you can see what the lay of the land is.”

  Five minutes later they were three blocks outside the northeastern perimeter wall of the mosque. Couric’s men piled out of the SUVs, Couric saying, “Move, move, move,” like they were under mortar fire. It took one of his guys about 30 seconds to open a wire grate on an entrance to the catacombs that looked like something from the 1700s. Couric’s men scrambled inside and worked their way up into the tunnel and out of sight.

  Couric stood at the entrance to the catacombs and said to Tom, “Well, sir, where the hell are our Saudi buddies?”

  “You caught them flat-footed,” Tom said, “but they’ll be here.”

  Couric shrugged, looked at his watch.

  About five minutes later Tom heard the sound of engines off in the distance. They grew louder, then a dozen SUVs pulled up. Assad jumped out of the first SUV. He strode over to Tom, smiling. He slapped Tom on the arm as if they were old friends, then walked past him to Couric. “I am Assad,” he said to Couric. “I have a team of 36 of my best men, all English-speaking, wearing night-vision equipment and body armor, and armed with M4A1s just like yours with holographic sights and sound suppressors, ready to show you the joys of our Saudi underground.” Tom was pleased to see Couric flash a smile, receive Assad’s hand and shake it. Couric then escorted Assad back to where he’d been standing and the two talked and gestured for a few minutes, apparently about Couric’s concept of the operation. Assad then waved one of his lieutenants up and had him speak to Couric, while Zac spoke to Assad, then hooked up transmitters to Assad’s three team leaders. A minute later he motioned to his men and they trotted into the entrance to the catacombs, their equipment rattling as they went past.

  Assad joined Tom, Ryan, Seth and Zac as they went back to Tom’s hotel suite, where Assad called Yassar to join them. Yassar drank tea while Tom sat, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Zac monitored his equipment from the bedroom, Ryan talked on the phone to the embassy in Riyadh, while Seth, apparently not knowing what else to do, cleaned his weapons in the kitchen.

  “Now we wait,” Assad said to Tom.

  A few moments later, Zac called Tom into the bedroom to look at his equipment. Zac switched the laptop to a different screen. It looked like a map, with numbers marking points all over it, and different blinking lights scattered around it.

  “I showed this to Couric before I hooked up his men. I input a map of the catacombs,” Zac said. “The numbers you see are GPS coordinates, which the MantaRay feeds automatically into the computer from signals it picks up. The blinking green dots you see are those of Couric’s men. The blinking amber dots are Assad’s men. The blue dot is Rashid’s cell phone. The four white dots are Saif’s cell phones.” Zac looked up at Tom and put his finger on the screen. “And this red dot is one of Sasha’s transmitters.”

  Tom felt a wash of relief. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. See that other red blinking dot right next to it? It’s signaling in Morse code.”

  “Morse code?”

  “Yes. It has to be her. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Who uses Morse code anymore?”

  “That’s the point,” Zac said. “Nobody.”

  “Then why do you think it’s Sasha?”

  Zac said, “Because she asked me, in the event of an emergency, what might work if nothing else did. So I taught her Morse code.”

  “So what’s she saying?”

  “Here in the catacombs.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense.”

  Assad, who had joined them, said from behind Tom, “Yes, it does. Please, come back in here.” He walked them into the living room and stood over the plans of the catacombs. He pointed. “I’d say she’s about here.”

  What the...? Tom said, “But that’s at least 100 yards outside the walls of the grand Mosque, and completely outside the catacombs.”

  Assad said, “She’s in one of the oldest sections of the catacombs. One that the construction company didn’t map, because it was outside the area they’re doing their work, and so old that they are u
nsafe to walk in.”

  Tom said, “Then she must be in trouble.” He felt his guts twisting, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He wondered if Zac could see it, then decided he didn’t care. He said to Zac, “Can you take this MantaRay thing with you?”

  “No, but I know where you’re going. I can bring my laptop and it communicates wirelessly with the MantaRay. I can track Sasha as long as I can get a wireless signal on my laptop.”

  Tom said, “Suit up, guys. We need to go in there and get her out.”

  Assad said, “I’ll put together another of my teams.”

  Sasha didn’t have the benefit of being able to check the time on the cell phone, because she was using its battery to send her Morse code signal. She’d send her message five or six times, then pause and think, then signal again. Her mind got clearer with each repetition, or maybe it was just the fact that she had the ability to move her arms and legs.

  Enough of this. She put the battery back in the cell phone and used the light from the face to examine the gun she’d taken from the guard. It was an old American army-issued semi-automatic Colt .45. It was a weapon she’d never fired before, but she knew was reliable and had legendary stopping power. She checked the magazine. Eight rounds. She racked the slide to load one into the chamber. She shoved it in the waistband of her jeans, put on her abaya and opened the door. She turned and headed back toward the mosque. She trotted up the ancient corridor, believing Zac had gotten the message, that Tom would figure out what to do. So she focused on what she needed to do.

  Hunt down Saif.

  Back in Tom’s hotel suite, Zac called out from the bedroom, “She’s moving.”

  Tom ran in and looked at Zac’s computer screen. “What’s she doing?” The red dot was heading back toward the mosque.

  Saif paced in the hallway, anxious. Not only had Sasha escaped, but she had managed to take the guard’s pistol. It was a distraction at a time when he least needed one. Now that they were announcing the coming of the Mahdi over the loudspeakers from the minarets, they were just one day away from confirming his arrival, the point at which the full revolution would begin.