The New Girl. Daniel Silva

enemy.

      “Welcome to Saudi Arabia, Director Allon. Or should I say welcome back? You’re looking much better than when I saw you last.” He grasped Gabriel’s hand tightly. “I trust your wound healed well?”

      “It only hurts when I laugh.”

      “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

      “A man in my position needs one.”

      “Mine, too. Business is quite brisk, as you might imagine.” The Saudi glanced at Gabriel’s bodyguards. “Are they armed?”

      “Heavily.”

      “Please instruct them to return to the aircraft. Don’t worry, Director Allon. My men will take very good care of you.”

      “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

      The bodyguards reluctantly complied with Gabriel’s order. A moment later Sarah appeared in the cabin door, her blond hair moving in the desert wind.

      The Saudi frowned. “I don’t suppose she has a veil.”

      “She left it in New York.”

      “Not to worry. We brought one, just in case.”

      THE HIGHWAY WAS SMOOTH AS glass and black as an old vinyl record album. Gabriel had only the vaguest idea of its direction; the throwaway phone he had slipped into his pocket before leaving Tel Aviv read NO SERVICE. After leaving the air base, they had passed through miles of wheat fields—Ha’il was the breadbasket of Saudi Arabia. Now the land was harsh and unforgiving, like the brand of Islam practiced by Wahhab and his intolerant followers. Surely, thought Gabriel, it was no accident. The cruelty of the desert had influenced the faith.

      From his vantage point in the Range Rover’s rear passenger-side seat he could see the speedometer. They were traveling in excess of one hundred miles per hour. The driver was from the Mabahith, as was the man seated next to him. One Range Rover was in front of them, the other two were trailing. It had been a long time since Gabriel had seen another car or truck. He supposed the road had been closed.

      “I can’t breathe. I actually think I’m beginning to lose consciousness.”

      Gabriel looked across the backseat toward the black lump that was Sarah Bancroft. She was cloaked in the heavy black abaya that the senior Mabahith man had tossed over her a few seconds after her feet touched Saudi soil.

      “The last time I wore one of these things was the night the Zizi operation fell apart. Do you remember, Gabriel?”

      “Like it was yesterday.”

      “I don’t know how Saudi women wear these things when it’s a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade.” She was fanning herself. “Khalid once showed me a photograph from the sixties of unveiled Saudi women walking around Riyadh in skirts.”

      “It was like that all over the Arab world. Everything changed after 1979.”

      “That’s exactly what Khalid says.”

      “Is that right?”

      “The Soviets invaded Afghanistan, and Khomeini seized power in Iran. And then there was Mecca. A group of Saudi militants stormed the Grand Mosque and demanded the Al Saud give up power. They had to bring in a team of French commandos to end the siege.”

      “Yes, I remember.”

      “The Al Saud felt threatened,” said Sarah, “so they trimmed their sails accordingly. They promoted the spread of Wahhabism to counter the influence of the Shiite Iranians and allowed hard-liners at home to enforce religious edicts strictly.”

      “That’s a rather charitable view, don’t you think?”

      “Khalid is the first to admit mistakes were made.”

      “How magnanimous of him.”

      The Range Rovers turned onto an unpaved track and followed it into the desert. Eventually, they came to a checkpoint, through which they passed without slowing. The camp appeared a moment later, several large tents standing at the foot of a towering rock formation.

      Sarah unconsciously straightened her abaya as the Range Rover drew to a stop. “How do I look?”

      “Never better.”

      “Do try to keep that Israeli sarcasm of yours in check. Khalid doesn’t appreciate irony.”

      “Most Saudis don’t.”

      “And whatever you do, don’t argue with him. He doesn’t like to be challenged.”

      “You’re forgetting one thing, Sarah.”

      “What’s that?”

      “He’s the one who needs my help, not the other way around.”

      Sarah sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

       10

       NEJD, SAUDI ARABIA

      IN PRESS INTERVIEWS IN THE WEST, Prince Khalid bin Mohammed spoke often of his reverence for the desert. He loved nothing more, he said, than to slip anonymously from his palace in Riyadh and venture alone into the Arabian wilderness. There he would establish a crude camp and engage in several days of falconry, fasting, and prayer. He would also contemplate the future of the Kingdom that bore his family’s name. It was during one such sojourn, in the Sarawat Mountains, that he conceived The Way Forward, his ambitious plan to remake the Saudi economy for the post-petroleum age. He claimed to have hit upon the idea of granting women the right to drive while camping in the Empty Quarter. Alone amid the ever-shifting dunes, he was reminded that nothing is permanent, that even in a land like Saudi Arabia change is inevitable.

      The truth about KBM’s desert adventures was far different. The tent into which Gabriel and Sarah were shown bore little resemblance to the camel-hair shelters in which Khalid’s Bedouin ancestors had dwelled. It was more like a temporary pavilion. Rich carpets covered the floor, crystal chandeliers burned brightly overhead. The news of the day played out on several large televisions—CNN International, the BBC, CNBC, and, of course, Al Jazeera, the Qatar-based network that Khalid was doing his best to destroy.

      Gabriel had anticipated a private meeting with His Royal Highness, but the tent was occupied by KBM’s traveling court—the retinue of aides, functionaries, factotums, groupies, and general hangers-on who accompanied the future king everywhere he went. All wore the same clothing, a white thobe and a red-checkered ghutra held in place by a black agal. There were also several officers in uniform, a reminder that the young, untested prince was waging war on the other side of the Sarawat Mountains in Yemen.

      Of the crown prince, however, there was no sign. One of the factotums deposited Gabriel and Sarah in a waiting area. It was furnished with overstuffed couches and chairs, like the lobby of a luxury hotel. Gabriel declined an offer of tea and sweets, but Sarah attempted to eat a honey-drenched Arab pastry while still wearing the abaya.

      “How do they do it?”

      “They don’t. They eat with other women.”

      “I’m the only one—have you noticed? There isn’t another woman in this tent.”

      “I’m too busy worrying about which one is planning to kill me.” Gabriel glanced at his wristwatch. “Where the hell is he?”

      “Welcome to KBM time. It’s an hour and twenty minutes later than the rest of the world.”

      “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

      “He’s testing you.”

      “He shouldn’t.”