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  Tom inclined his head.

  “I need you for a follow-up meeting tomorrow here in my office with a couple of people. You don’t need to know who for now. I don’t need you to do anything special but be ready to talk like you did in our meeting yesterday, and answer any questions.”

  Tom nodded. “No problem.”

  “Stick to the facts and don’t go too crazy interpreting things.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

  “I’ve read your file,” Ross said, tapping a two-inch-thick folder on his desk, “and as long as you don’t start anything with your ‘unconventional approach’ to things we’ll both be in good shape.” Tom was trying to guess what that meant when Ross said, “I mean improvising like you used to do when you were a Station Chief in the field in Riyadh, running Saudi agents. And like you did two years ago as Section Head during that al-Mujari mess. I’m not being critical. In my mind that’s a great strength. I want no-bullshit guys like you when we’re in a tight spot.” Ross paused for a moment and just looked at Tom. “But don’t get creative tomorrow, okay?”

  “Was that supposed to be a pat on the back or a kick in the ass?” Why was Ross telling him to rein in himself in this upcoming meeting? And why the mystery about who else would be there?

  Ross said, “Let me give you a little insight into my job, and what my life is like. I’m a Republican, and I’ve survived three different administrations as director, one with the Democrats, having been passed from George W. Bush to Obama, and now to Ron Paul’s administration. Almost 20 years. And even after Paul dropped dead, I was still accepted by Santorum after he was sworn in. Know why?”

  “No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  Ross smiled. “I’m an old spook, but my real job is being a politician. I have to be a tough son of a bitch in one of the toughest of worlds—Washington politics. Without guys like me running interference for the Agency, each presidential administration would stick its fingers into our business and muck everything up. No continuity. Covert agents exposed. Allies hung out to dry. Programs that took years, even decades to come to fruition dropped in the middle because some candy-asses who advise the man who occupies the White House don’t have the balls to follow through. It’s a bitch that it needs to work this way in Washington, but I’ve survived this long only because I let each administration know only what it needs to know, and hold the rest of what the Agency knows over its head, with some tantalizing hints. Or threats. You following me?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Don’t talk much, do you?”

  Tom shook his head.

  Ross smiled. “You’re an old spook, too, and I guess keeping our mouths shut is the only way we get there, huh? Old, I mean.”

  Tom nodded.

  “Okay,” Ross said. “I guess I can give you a taste of what we’re up against here.” He sat back in his chair as if settling in. “As I see it, the Saudis have two major reasons we’re interested in them. First, they’re the largest producer of oil and they have the largest oil reserves in the world. Second, they’re the site of Islam’s two holiest shrines. Let’s talk about the first one.

  “We—the West, and by that I mean primarily the US—are in a comfortable standoff with the Saudis. Maybe a better way to say it is we’re swapping one thing for another. We rely on the Saudis to keep the price of oil reasonable by pumping more than the world needs, so supply outpaces demand. And that also means the Saudis, as the largest member of OPEC, drive OPEC’s position. Every US president since forever has felt a moral commitment to political reforms within Saudi Arabia to help out the average Saudi schlub. But that hasn’t happened, largely because we don’t want to piss them off with that kind of moralistic rhetoric as long as they keep oil prices low. And in exchange, we keep our mouths shut about what they’re up to in their kingdom, and sell them our military hardware so they can keep their neighbors and the average Saudi schlub at arms’ length.”

  Tom said, “More the average Saudi schlub, because these days he’s their greatest threat.”

  “Exactly. But all the crap the White House spouts about human rights agendas and moral imperatives is something we can’t let divert us from our real focus. We start letting Rick Santorum poke his finger in the Saudi royals’ eyes and we’re looking at a major problem that could cascade into the economy with paralyzing implications.”

  Tom didn’t envy Ross the nature of the world he operated within.

  Ross went on. “If we’re too candid with the new president’s staff about what’s really going on inside Saudi Arabia, we’re likely to screw everything up.” He stared Tom in the eye. “I’m not going to be subtle, here. We out the Saudi royals and we’re in big trouble. Any of it: Exposure of the full extent of suppression of the Shiite minority. The fact that people still disappear in the middle of the night. Torture of dissenters. Corruption. The royal family in every major corporate or government position. You name it. Stuff Santorum could use as a soapbox. We can’t let that happen, can we?”

  Tom didn’t move.

  “Which gets us to the second reason we’re interested in the Saudis: they’re the center of the Islamic world. Anything that happens over there is influenced by that fact, big-time. So keeping the lid on the tensions between the Shiites and the Sunnis is critical, because they’re a volatile mix.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir.”

  “The guys who’ll be here tomorrow will be highly sensitive to anything you say.” Ross paused and continued to stare Tom in the eye. “So stick to the facts in your briefing memo, no more.”

  “But there are—”

  “Just your memo. I can’t have you going rogue on me. Are we clear?”

  Tom felt an almost imperceptible movement of his neck, and Ross nodded back, message received.

  “Tomorrow’s meeting is strictly Need to Know. In your case, that means nobody else needs to know, and that includes Jenkins.”

  Tom nodded again.

  “Good. And another thing.” He looked Tom up and down. “You own a suit, don’t you?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Wear it. And a white shirt and tie, and a pair of hard shoes, shined. You’ll need to look the part.”

  CHAPTER 3

  AT 7:50 A.M. THE NEXT morning, Tom sat in a room ten minutes across town from CIA headquarters. Sitting here reminded him of the old days as a Station Chief, killing time, waiting for a covert meeting with a field agent. He glanced from his Washington Post to his watch, discreetly, from habit and long experience at not appearing to be waiting for someone, even though he was upstairs in a room at the Staybridge Suites. Twenty minutes late. He smiled. Just like her.

  A few minutes later he heard a knock on the door, walked over and opened it. The same long black hair, petite 5’4” frame, full breasts and dancer’s legs that went all the way down to the ground. Dressed casually in jeans and a sweater. Still beautiful. Tom smiled.

  “Hello, Sasha.”

  “Hello, Tom, you’re looking well.”

  Sasha took him in. Still handsome. He wore a tailored blue suit—pressed, of all things—and his tie was snugged up against his starched white collar. Even that unruly mop of sandy hair looked reasonably tamed. He directed her to a table set for breakfast for two. She sat down.

  “You look like you just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren shop window.”

  He smiled, those impossibly blue eyes of his turning up at the corners. “Big meeting later today.”

  “I don’t think I ever told you my nickname for you before we were introduced was ‘the scruffy American.’”

  He laughed.

  She said, “Quite an introduction, as I recall. You swooped in on me at my table, remember?”

  “Of course. The Sea Wall Café and Lounge at the Baron David de Duval Hotel in Nice. I was stalking you.”

  “Yes, but not for the reason a man normally stalks a woman.”

  He shrugged. “You had it figured out.” He paused, leaned towa
rd her. “How are you?”

  She felt the ache, looked down at the table.

  He said, “I was sorry to hear about Daniel. I liked him. I’m sure that was horrible for you. How’re you doing?”

  The air had gone out of her lungs. She had to pause to inhale before she looked back up at him. His eyes were sympathetic, sincere. She was surprised her throat didn’t well up with emotion. “Better now than I was. It’s a process.”

  After they helped themselves to the hot-and-cold buffet set on room service tables, she asked herself, Why am I dragging this out? He’d given her a few chances to say why she’d asked to see him. I’m closed up. When they started eating breakfast she still hadn’t gotten to it.

  He said, “I tried to find you after I heard about Daniel.” He paused. “So what have you been up to?”

  “I’ve been living in an ashram in India for the last 18 months.”

  She didn’t look up from her fried eggs—she’d taken four from the heated servers, hadn’t eaten one in 18 months. Get it over with. “I’m sure you want to know why I asked to see you today.” She felt a flutter of nerves, then pushed it away, looked him in the eye and said, “I want you to help me find a murderer named Saif.”

  Tom didn’t react. He took a moment before saying, “Who’s this guy, Saif?”

  Sasha hardened her eyes. “Come on, Tom, don’t stonewall me. Saif Ibn Mohammed al-Aziz. I knew him 20 years ago. Just before the al-Mujari recruited him. He was high enough up in the organization two years ago that you must have scads of intelligence on him. I know I don’t have any security clearance now, but you recruited me once and you can do it again. I want to go back undercover and get him.”

  “Why?”

  “Daniel. Saif ordered the hit.”

  Sasha thought back to the Geneva police’s forensics report that she’d seen. The shooter had taken three bullets, one at close range in the heart, which the report said had to be the last, because it would’ve killed him instantly. She was certain someone as diligent as Tom would have reviewed it before meeting with her. He must have, because he put it together. He said, “The shooter told you it was Saif, then you did him, right?”

  “And now I want Saif.”

  Tom put a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth, took his time chewing and swallowing before saying, “Must’ve been some ashram.”

  Sasha made her tone matter-of-fact as she said, “This is about good versus evil.”

  Tom looked at her skeptically, said, “Good versus evil notwithstanding, we’re not in the assassination business.”

  “What about two years ago?”

  “That was different. We were under attack. The president signed a directive authorizing it.”

  “What if I just brought him in? So he could stand trial, make an example of him. Show his people what their aspiring leaders are really like.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Okay.” She clenched her jaw, narrowed her eyes. “You’re right. The man had my husband murdered. I want him dead. More than that, I want to do it myself.”

  “We aren’t in the revenge business, either. Besides, if you could get close enough to him to kill him, he’d have you killed first.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “What’re you talking about? He tried it once, he’ll do it again.”

  “He didn’t try it once.”

  “What?”

  “I returned to the apartment in Geneva first. If he’d wanted me dead, his shooter would have stepped out of the bedroom and shot me. He didn’t. He waited for Daniel to get home, then made his move.”

  “He wanted to be sure to get both of you.”

  Sasha shook her head. “You trained me. Trust me, I’ve had 18 months to replay it thousands of times. Even if he wanted us both, any professional would have made me the first target. Daniel had just closed the door. He was pinned, nowhere to go. I was in the doorway to the dining room, free to duck out of the way. Take out that target first—me—then the one who can’t move out of your line of fire.”

  He nodded, thinking it over. He said, “Tell me more.”

  “The shooter came out of the bedroom. I froze. Daniel ran to me. The shooter didn’t fire until Daniel was in front of me. Heart shot.” She choked on the words, recovered as she kept going. “I dived and rolled to my handbag on the dining room table. I fired through the wall. We’d renovated the apartment and it was just two layers of sheetrock and those silly tin beams. A 9mm cut through it like paper.”

  “So that’s how you got him?”

  “Yes, but he was lying by the apartment door, running to escape, not coming to finish me.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes, it does. Saif was sending a message. Even if his man had gotten away he’d have left one. He wanted me to know.”

  “A message? What?”

  “It was a long time ago, after that awful business with Ibrahim, after you and I lost contact. Saif and I were lovers. I know him. I’m sure he believes I betrayed him and his cause two years ago by helping you and Saudi Arabia. He probably wants to break my spirit, to make me suffer and die of a broken heart, just as his parents did, betrayed by Saudi Arabia.”

  Tom didn’t respond. He was still meeting her gaze but his eyes seemed unfocused, as if he were turning it over in his mind. What’s he thinking?

  The reporters and cameramen were almost finished setting up for the press conference in Prince Yassar’s office, adjacent to his quarters in the Royal Palace in Riyadh. Prince Yassar tried to imagine what they were thinking. He confessed to himself he couldn’t. Reporters and camera crews had been allowed inside the ballrooms for diplomatic functions, but to allow access to the personal office of one of the highest-ranking members of the Council of Ministers was unprecedented. He saw them eyeing the polished marble floors and walls, the Persian rugs and his gold-trimmed walnut desk as if they were from another planet. Yassar and Reem Assouf, the woman who would share the press conference with him, were already seated at the conference table in front of microphones. Reem was draped in a black abaya and wore her hijab headscarf and veil covering her hair and face. Yassar wore his traditional Saudi robe and headdress. Facing them were 30 reporters from the Saudi Arabian and worldwide press, including the London Times, The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. Good. They would help Yassar make a colorful display of the event. All the better to stuff it in the faces of his cousins, make it harder for them to stem the tide of change.

  Yassar looked over at Reem and smiled. She was petite, perhaps 5’2” and less than a hundred pounds. So tiny, and yet so formidable. She was largely responsible for the social milestone they were here to discuss today, something that would seem silly in the West, but was radical in Saudi Arabia: women going to work in lingerie shops.

  Yassar’s Communications Director nodded to him. “We’re ready,” he said.

  “Very well,” Yassar said. “Shall we begin?” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming. Since the subject we are discussing today is based on a new openness and social progress in Saudi Arabia, I thought it appropriate to welcome you into my personal office to formally announce it. I am Prince Yassar, a member of the royal family and Saudi Arabia’s Finance and Economy Minister. It is my pleasure to announce that effective today, my ministry is formally enforcing the royal decree issued by King Abdul two months ago, ordering that sales personnel in shops in Saudi Arabia selling lingerie and other garments that are only for women must be female. This represents the first time that Saudi Arabian women have entered the private sector workforce, and a major step in our government’s Saudization efforts to put Saudi Arabians into jobs in our country. I am pleased to introduce Reem Assouf, the woman who is largely responsible for this achievement. Reem?”

  Reem said, “Minister Yassar is being modest. I introduced the idea and pushed for it, but it was Minister Yassar who made it possible by putting his support behind it. He worked for over two years to convince social conservatives among his fellow
ministers, many of our influential sheiks and other religious scholars that this was a desirable change. Without his efforts we could not have succeeded.”

  “It is Reem who is being modest,” Yassar said. “She got my attention with an 80,000-strong Facebook community dedicated to this change. A novel approach for a seismic shift in our culture.” He turned to Reem and smiled. “We’ll take questions now,” he said.

  “My first question is for Ms. Assouf,” Barton James from The New York Times said. “Are you a practicing Muslim?”

  “Absolutely. I am Sunni, married, with two children.”

  James asked, “Doesn’t Islam prohibit women from working outside the home?”

  “Not according to modern interpretations of our religion. In fact, Saudi Arabian women have held jobs in medicine and education for decades.”

  Another asked, “Minister Yassar, how many jobs do you expect this to create for Saudi women?”

  “Over 28,000. And the majority of those jobs are currently held by foreigners.”

  Another reporter asked, “How will these women get to work? I understand Saudi Arabian women are prohibited from driving, and must be accompanied by a man in public.”

  Reem looked over at Yassar, said, “Yes, those are both true, and so we must look to Minister Yassar for some additional reforms, or at least for better public transportation.”

  Yassar said, “One step at a time.”

  “Soon,” Reem said, “we hope.”

  The press conference went on for half an hour. Yassar signaled it was over by saying, “Thank you all for coming. My ministry is already compiling a list of other jobs women will be permitted to hold. We expect to be making additional announcements in the coming months.” With that, he stood, looked at Reem and extended his hand toward the door to his private chambers. She preceded him out of the room. Once inside his private chambers, Reem said, “If we weren’t in Saudi Arabia I’d give you a hug.”