Arab Summer Page 7

  “No.”

  “Not Yassar?”

  “No. I told you. He’d forbid it.”

  She saw him observing her, checking, or contemplating. He said, “I spoke to him.”

  She felt a surge of blood to her face. “When?”

  “Yesterday. I met with him off-site. He asked whose idea this was. I told him it was yours, said we couldn’t do it without his help or at least his agreement.”

  “And?”

  “He said he’d consider it.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you should pack your bags.”

  CHAPTER 6

  ABOARD THE CIA LEARJET, SASHA’S jitters were gone. It wasn’t just that they were moving forward, that she was out of that noman’s-land of “Yes or no?” It was more an internal sense that she’d aligned herself with what was right. She thought of Daniel, seeing him smile—his last—as he came through the door in the apartment in Geneva, and thought, Yes, that was what drove her. Then she saw his lifeless eyes staring up at her. She pushed the image and the anger surging upward with it inside her to hold in reserve, knowing she’d need that to motivate her later. She turned to Tom across the aisle from her, just the two of them on the plane.

  He said, “How’re you doing?”

  “Better than I’ve been in quite some time.”

  He had his business face on, but she could still feel his warmth beneath it. He said, “We’re flying straight into Riyadh, then to the embassy. The rest of the team will meet us there. There’ll be three of them, supported by another you won’t meet for now. I’ll take you through their backgrounds and specialties now so when you meet them—”

  “Not now, please, Tom. We’ve plenty of time for that later.”

  He observed her for a moment, then said, “Second thoughts? Last chance to change your mind. After this there’s no turning back.”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m totally resolved to do this.” She smiled at him. “Over the last 18 months I’ve felt that I didn’t exist before I met Daniel. Now I don’t even know why I’m here on this planet, except to square this with Saif. I’m not afraid to die in the process. Whatever happens to me doesn’t matter. I know you don’t like it when I talk like this, but it’s just my body, my corporeal form, not me. I feel like I can do anything and it can’t touch me. I’m already saved.”

  “You’re talking that crazy Hindu stuff again.”

  “You only say that because you’re stuck here, in a crazy world. I’m not.”

  “Yeah, whatever you say. Just don’t go talking this way with anyone else on the team. They’ll think you’re on some suicide mission and worry that you’ll get them all killed.”

  “Trust me, I won’t do anything to interfere with this operation.” She held his gaze, knowing she was showing the intensity of her feelings. “All I keep focusing on is, ‘This man had Daniel murdered.’”

  An hour later, after she awoke from a nap, Tom said to her, “Good, you’re awake.” He ordered coffee for both of them, then started briefing her on the rest of the team. She smiled to herself as she listened. He’d never asked if she was ready, just plunged right in.

  They arrived in Riyadh at 7:00 a.m. local time. Tom suggested that they freshen up in the lavatory on the airplane, head directly to the embassy and get organized for the team meeting rather than checking into their hotel first. Sasha slid a black abaya on over her jeans and shirt, then put on a hijab headscarf and veil. An embassy car drove them through the center of Riyadh toward the American Embassy. In the center of town, Tom turned to Sasha and said, “I didn’t mention one team member while we were on the plane. We have a man on the inside, under deep cover, code named Archer. He’s been briefed on the operation and who you are.”

  Sasha raised her eyebrows, perplexed. All this trouble and they have a man inside? “If you want Saif as badly as I do, why don’t you have your man inside take him out?”

  “We do that and we’ll blow his cover. It’s taken us five years to get him where he is in the al-Mujari. He’s too valuable for that, but he’ll be how we get you inside. He won’t be at the team meeting. We’ll meet him off-site at a safe house later today or tomorrow, depending when he can safely break free.” They rode in silence until the car drove through the gates into the American Embassy compound, then into the underground garage. Upstairs in a conference room, Tom set up a map of Buraida on a corkboard, then pulled out a whiteboard and Magic Markers. He sat down across the table from Sasha and checked his watch. “The guys should be here soon.”

  Ten minutes later a bone-thin man who appeared to be in his mid-30s walked in carrying an armful of papers. He was tall, perhaps 6’5”, bald, and with a neck that seemed twice as long as it should be. Tom stood up and shook hands with him across the table. “Great to see you, Ryan.” He extended his hand toward Sasha. “Meet Sasha Del Mira. Sasha, this is Ryan Murdoch, our Deputy Station Chief here in Riyadh.”

  “A pleasure,” Ryan said, in a bass voice. His eyes, magnified by his quarter-inch-thick rimless glasses, seemed to bulge at Sasha like cue balls.

  “Ryan will be our local liaison to run interference for us on virtually everything—moving our local assets around, intelligence, logistics and transportation. I’m pleased to say I recruited him myself 10 years ago and he’s been with us on our Mid-East team ever since. You can have complete confidence in him.”

  Ryan smiled, sat down and put his pile of papers in front of him. Then he darted a glance at the credenza, got up and walked over to it to pour himself a cup of coffee. He started back toward his seat, then stopped. He walked over to the credenza again, pulled some pushpins from a plastic case and stuck them in the map of Buraida. He took a step back, cocked his head, then nodded to himself before walking back and sitting down.

  What an unusual character.

  Almost immediately, two men in their late 20s walked in. Both wore conservative gray suits, white shirts and muted ties. Their hair was close-cropped on the sides, slightly longer on the top and sticking up like the bristles on a brush, boot camp style. Tom said, “Sasha, this is Zac Fulton and Seth Green. They’re both Army Special Forces, on loan to us, courtesy of Rusty Baldridge, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Fellas, Sasha Del Mira.”

  Zac extended his hand. He was a tree trunk with muscles bulging through his suit and a neck seeming to be as large as Sasha’s waist. “Pleased to meet you,” he said in a Southern American drawl. Shaking his hand was like grabbing a pound of steak.

  Seth stepped forward, wiry and short, with an erect posture like a gymnast. His hair was red and his skin pale alabaster, with freckles like the Archie character from the comic books. “A pleasure, Sasha,” he said as he shook her hand.

  “Zac is in charge of communications and technology. Seth handles weapons and martial arts. They’ll also be your primary support in the field.”

  Seth smiled, showing a gap between his front teeth. “I’ll be giving you crash courses in weapons and martial arts over the next week. Tune-ups,” he said, “starting today at noon.”

  Sasha smiled and nodded, thinking that, after seeing their body types, she’d expected their roles to be reversed.

  “Alright, let’s get started,” Tom said. He had Ryan pass out current photographs of Saif and then said, “This is a single-purpose operation. We locate Saif, get Sasha in and wait for an opportunity for her to take him out, then extract her.”

  Ryan said, “We aren’t sure where he’s hiding, but for the moment he’s acting pretty cocky, visiting home to see his family frequently, as if nothing’s going on, so for Archer to get Sasha in should be doable.”

  “Yes,” Tom said, “but she won’t be able to bring in a weapon. So we’ll need to shadow her and conceal one someplace for her—or multiple places—after she’s with Saif.”

  “Does the Saudi Secret Police know Saif visits his home frequently?” Sasha asked.

  “We don’t know. And even if they did, we aren’t sure the Saudis are really focused t
hat intensely on Saif yet,” Tom said. “Yassar admitted to me that they were one or two steps behind us when I briefed him on our knowledge of Saif’s activities.”

  Sasha shuddered with guilt at the mention of Yassar’s name. She couldn’t believe she still hadn’t called him since she’d left the ashram, especially now that she was actually on Saudi soil.

  Ryan stood up and pointed to the three pushpins he’d stuck in the map of Buraida. “We think Saif is staying someplace here in the northeast quadrant of Buraida. He’d want to be near his home”—Ryan pointed to one of the pins, then to the two other pins—“and Qahtani’s house and the mosque Qahtani operates from.” Ryan then summarized what they knew of Saif’s day-to-day routine and his progress in convincing religious leaders of Qahtani’s status as the Mahdi. “Overall, we think he’s where he wants to be: he’s well organized, firmly in charge, has a well-trained force close to him, adequate weapons, close ties to the other Islamic dissident groups around the country and a core group of loyal lieutenants surrounding him. Given the volatile nature of the recent demonstrations, we think Saif could provoke a populist uprising at any time. He’s ready, and as you say, Tom, the Saudis aren’t.”

  “I’ll be working on that behind the scenes,” Tom said, “but in the interim, this operation is our best chance.” He turned and looked at Sasha. She set her jaw, feeling the anger, glad for it.

  After the team meeting, Sasha and Tom were alone, seated next to each other in the conference room. “Seth should be up to get you shortly,” he said, still looking at the papers in front of him. Then he glanced up and said, “Well, here we are, just like old times, huh?” Tom’s eyes softened and she saw that movie star twinkle they’d had when he was younger.

  Impossibly blue. She smiled. “You know, I had a crush on you all those years ago.”

  He grinned.

  “Remember that lunch we had on the retaining wall of the Promenade des Anglaise in Nice?”

  He nodded.

  “I knew there was more to you than just this sandy-haired, scruffy American, so I wasn’t floored when I found out you were CIA, but I thought you were getting ready to make a pass at me.”

  “Were you disappointed?”

  “In a way I think I was.”

  He shifted in his seat, looking awkward. “Aside from the professional element of it, I was in my early 30s and you were just a baby.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was 18, but look at the life I was leading. I’d say that qualifies as an adult.”

  He nodded and smiled stiffly, then looked away. He turned back to the papers in front of him. For a moment she thought of teasing him, then remembered another moment in their past. It was after she and what remained of the death squad had arrived at the safe house after she’d killed Ibrahim. It was then that she’d seen something in his eyes that she’d missed until that point. Tom had taken her by the arm and walked her into an office. He’d sat her down on a straight-backed chair and taken a seat in front of her. He’d told her how they would get her from the safe house to the embassy, cut and dye her hair, get her out of Saudi Arabia on a US passport as the wife of an oil broker from Houston.

  She’d told him she wasn’t leaving, that she needed to go back to Yassar to make sure he understood. Tom had just looked at her, speechless. She’d insisted Tom give her the tape of Ibrahim swearing he’d kill his father. It would be the proof she needed. She knew Tom could see her resolve, now not just putting up a good front after her horror at murdering a man, a man to whom she’d served as concubine for three years. She had her mind right, knew exactly what she was doing.

  “Okay,” he’d finally said, looking resigned. He reached out and stroked her forehead, surprising her. He’d never done anything like that before.

  She felt emotion thick in her throat. She tried to say, “Thank you,” but could only mouth the words.

  Then Tom talked through the scenario of how he would get her back into the Royal Palace to Yassar, talking as much to himself as to her. When he finished they exchanged a few final words about the consequences of what she was doing. Then he turned to her and said, “This is it, you know.” He leaned toward her. He reached up and stroked her forehead again, then caressed her cheek. “It’s unlikely we’ll ever see each other again, and no matter what happens to you, I won’t be able to help you.” She saw the tenderness in his eyes, and at that moment couldn’t understand how she’d never seen it before. He said, “Sasha, I—”

  “Don’t,” she said, surprised she was even able to speak because her throat was burning. Tears flushed into her eyes.

  He held her gaze, nodded and smiled, an awkward smile, then looked away.

  Sasha now looked over at Tom, engrossed in his papers. She realized he’d just turned from her with that same awkward smile. It struck her like a stab in the heart, forced a sharp breath into her lungs. She had to turn to look out the window to keep Tom from seeing her eyes tearing up. Oh my God. How could I be such a dolt? A minute later Sasha had composed herself. She was touched, feeling close to Tom, somehow safer with him now. He cared for her. She turned to him. “Are we friends?”

  Tom looked up from his papers. “I suppose we are, in a way.”

  “I remember back in Nice, then in Saudi Arabia, wondering at times.”

  Tom didn’t respond right away. “Go on,” he said.

  “I remember a few times in particular. We were in the embassy in Riyadh and you first played the tape of those awful al-Mujari men, Abdul and Waleed, inciting Ibrahim to swear allegiance to Sheik bin Abdur, then goading him to scream that he’d murder Yassar.”

  She saw Tom watching her, but with a different attentiveness than the way he usually observed her. Was it tenderness?

  She went on. “You nursed me through that, propped me up so I could face going back. Back into the Royal Palace, into the bed of a traitor and would-be murderer. I wondered at the time, ‘Is he sending me back just so I can gather enough information to bring down these people who are pulling Ibrahim’s puppet strings? Does he care what happens to me?’ In my moments of doubt I asked myself if you were simply manipulating me for your own goals.”

  Tom’s face was blank.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware that half the reason I was doing it was to get enough information to convince Yassar, who was certain to be unbelieving without proof. But then after I got over my horror that you wanted me to eliminate Ibrahim myself, after I agreed to do it and then changed my mind because I insisted on staying with Yassar afterward, you looked into my eyes and connected with me with the gentleness I always saw in you. I’m sure you had to stand on your head to change the plan at the last minute to send in the death squad instead of having me do it. That’s when I was certain that I wasn’t just some tool you were using.” She felt her emotions welling, not wanting them to. But she wanted Tom to know she was fond of him, even if that’s all she could offer.

  Tom said, “It didn’t matter. You had to step up and do it yourself anyhow when the plan went bad.” He smiled at her. “Thanks, I appreciate your saying all that, but I really was just doing my job. Although, I have to admit somehow it was always different with you.”

  “How so?”

  “If you could see the seedy types of double-dealers I work with most of the time you’d understand. Always some kind of payment or exchange. Money or a swap of political favors. To a great extent I pay what amounts to blackmail for information or services. You were different. You were operating out of real commitment, so I handled you differently.”

  “I did feel that you...cared.” As the words came out of her mouth, Tom froze in place like a trapped animal. Muscles tensed, ready to run, but with no place to go. Why am I going here? Did she need to hear him say something to confirm what she already knew was true? Stop this. She exhaled. “Don’t mind me. Maybe it’s tension building as I’m preparing to go in. But you should know I haven’t forgotten how you’ve always taken care of me like a friend. And I
guess all I’m trying to say is I’m grateful and I think of you fondly, as someone I can trust.”

  “If that’s the definition of a friend, then, yes, I am.”

  Sasha inclined her head. “You know everything there is to know about me.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Still, you know more of my life than most, and yet I know nothing about you.”

  Tom smiled. “I guess that means I’m good at my job.”

  “I gather so. But why? How did you wind up in the CIA, and why do you keep doing it?”

  Tom took a moment, as if he were uncertain he’d respond. Then he said, “I guess it can’t hurt,” as much to himself as to her. “There’s not much to tell. I started out by making myself up. I left Troy, Michigan, on a Greyhound bus with a copy of The Great Gatsby, heading east. By the time I reached New York City, I figured that if Jamie Gatz could make up Jay Gatsby, I could make up Tom Goddard.”

  “What about before that, in Michigan?”

  “Not much to tell. I was a second-string tight end in high school football, my dad drank and my mom had men friends over. When I found out she was taking money for it I got on that Greyhound to New York.”

  She felt a tug at her heart. “Then?”

  “I wandered around New York for a while, waited tables, went to SUNY for two years, then graduated from NYU with a degree in political science. When the CIA came to campus I applied, got the job. It’s all I’ve ever done, and I’ve been doing it ever since, for 35 years.”

  “That’s it? You simply keep doing it because it’s all you’ve ever done?”

  “Well, that’s how it was for a decade or so, maybe, but by the time I met you...I’m not gonna get corny here.”

  “Tom, you’re among friends.”

  He shrugged. “I keep doing it because we’re all surrounded by crap. Piles of it. The lowlifes are slinging it at us nonstop. Tearing us down, dragging us into it, trying to destroy everything we work so hard for.”

  “We?”

  “The US. The average guy who keeps his head down, believes in the dream. The kids who bust their butts to go to college, or become baseball players, whatever. Somebody’s gotta stand up to the shit that’s always flying, deflect it or throw it back.”