“Why does it matter?”
“Because men who tell one lie usually tell others.”
A sudden commotion erupted among the white-robed courtiers as Crown Prince Khalid bin Mohammed entered the tent. He was dressed traditionally in a thobe and ghutra, but unlike the other men he also wore a bisht, a brown ceremonial cloak trimmed in gold. He was holding it closed with his left hand. With his right he was pressing a mobile phone to his ear. The same phone, Gabriel assumed, that Unit 8200 had compromised. He could only wonder who else might be listening—the Americans and their partners in the Five Eyes, perhaps even the Russians or the Iranians.
Khalid terminated the call and stared at Gabriel as though astonished to see Israel’s avenging angel in the land of the Prophet. After a moment he crossed the richly carpeted floor, warily. So did four heavily armed bodyguards. Even when surrounded by his closest aides, thought Gabriel, KBM feared for his life.
“Director Allon.” The Saudi did not offer his hand, which was still clutching the phone. “It was good of you to come on such short notice.”
Gabriel nodded once but said nothing.
Khalid looked at Sarah. “Are you under there somewhere, Miss Bancroft?”
The black mound moved in the affirmative.
“Please remove your abaya.”
Sarah lifted the veil from her face and draped it over her head like a scarf, leaving a portion of her hair visible.
“Much better.” It was obvious that Khalid’s bodyguards did not agree. They quickly averted their eyes and fixed them coldly on Gabriel. “You must forgive my security men, Director Allon. They’re not accustomed to seeing Israelis on Saudi soil, especially one with a reputation like yours.”
“And what’s that?”
Khalid’s smile was brief and insincere. “I hope your flight was pleasant.”
“Quite.”
“And the drive wasn’t too arduous?”
“Not at all.”
“Something to eat or drink? You must be famished.”
“Actually, I would prefer to—”
“So would I, Director Allon. But I am bound by the traditions of the desert to show hospitality toward a visitor to my camp. Even if the visitor was once my enemy.”
“Sometimes,” said Gabriel, “the only person you can trust is your enemy.”
“Can I trust you?”
“I’m not sure you have much of a choice.” Gabriel glanced at the bodyguards. “Tell them to take a walk, they’re making me nervous. And give them that phone of yours. You never know who might be listening.”
“My experts tell me it’s totally secure.”
“Humor me, Khalid.”
The crown prince handed the phone to one of the bodyguards, and all four withdrew. “I assume Sarah told you why I wanted to see you.”
“She didn’t have to.”
“You knew?”
Gabriel nodded. “Has there been any contact from the kidnappers?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How much are they asking for?”
“If only it were that simple. The House of Saud is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a trillion and a half dollars. Money is not the issue.”
“If they don’t want money, what do they want?”
“Something I can’t possibly give them. Which is why I need you to find her.”
THE RANSOM NOTE WAS SEVEN lines in length and rendered in English. It was accurately spelled and properly punctuated, with none of the awkward wording associated with translation software. It stated that His Royal Highness Prince Khalid bin Mohammed had ten days to abdicate and thus relinquish his claim to the throne of Saudi Arabia. Otherwise, his daughter, Princess Reema, would be put to death. The note did not specify the manner of her execution, or whether it would be in accordance with Islamic law. In fact, there were no religious references at all, and none of the rhetorical flourishes common in communications from terrorist groups. On the whole, thought Gabriel, the tone was rather businesslike.
“When did you receive it?”
“Three days after Reema was taken. Long enough for the damage to be done. Unlike my father and his brothers, I have only one wife. Unfortunately, she cannot have another child. Reema is all we have.”
“Did you show it to the French?”
“No. I called you.”
They had left the encampment and were walking in the bed of a wadi, with Sarah between them and the bodyguards following. The stars were incandescent, the moon shone like a torch. Khalid was fussing with his bisht, a habit of Saudi men. In his native dress he looked at home in the emptiness of the desert. Gabriel’s Western suit and oxford shoes gave him the appearance of the interloper.
“How was the note delivered?”
“By courier.”
“Where?”
Khalid hesitated. “To our consulate in Istanbul.”
Gabriel’s eyes were on the rocky earth. He looked up sharply. “Istanbul?”
Khalid nodded.
“It sounds to me as though the kidnappers were trying to send you a message.”
“What sort of message?”
“Maybe they’re trying to punish you for killing Omar Nawwaf and chopping his body into pieces that could fit inside carry-on luggage.”
“It’s rather ironic, don’t you think? The great Gabriel Allon moralizing about a little wet work.”
“We engage in targeted killing operations against known terrorists and other threats to our national security, many of them funded and supported by elements from your country. But we don’t kill people who write nasty things about our prime minister. If that were the case, we’d be doing nothing else.”
“Omar Nawwaf is none of your concern.”
“Neither is your daughter. But you’ve asked me to find her, and I need to know whether there might be a link between her disappearance and Nawwaf’s murder.”
Khalid appeared to consider the question carefully. “I doubt it. The Saudi dissident community doesn’t have the capability to carry out something like this.”
“Your intelligence services must have a suspect.”
“The Iranians are at the top of their list.”
The default Saudi position, thought Gabriel. Blame everything on the Shiite heretics of Iran. Still, he did not dismiss the theory out of hand. The Iranians viewed Khalid as a primary threat to their regional ambitions, second only to Gabriel himself.
“Who else?” he asked.
“The Qataris. They loathe me.”
“With good reason.”
“And the jihadis,” said Khalid. “The hard-liners inside the Saudi religious community are furious at me for the things I’ve said