An executive jet had flown him into Riyadh, where three ink-black SUVs waited on the tarmac. A few soldiers with semiautomatic weapons stood guard and a polite diplomat who spoke fluent English met him at planeside. He was hustled into the middle SUV. No customs inspection, no delay, and no American Embassy types. A person could get used to this VIP stuff, Swanson thought as he settled into the spacious seat. With the gunboat up front wailing its siren and flashing its lights to expedite the trip, the three vehicles arrowed out of the airport and hit the highway. Armored troop-carriers were parked near most intersections and military patrols walked the sidewalks as the curfew time of nine o’clock neared.
Kyle was surprised at the quietness of the downtown streets, for he had anticipated seeing clashes between the authorities and rioters. Instead, everyone seemed to be heading home, not toward some confrontation. Never jump to conclusions. It was natural that security would be extremely tight in any area leading to the royal palace. Mobs would have been broken up before having a chance to coalesce.
A man’s view of a battlefield never extends beyond what he can see. The vision of a private does not stretch far beyond the brim of his helmet, while a headquarters general with only a map usually has no personal idea of the ground over which his troops are fighting. Both are effectively blind to things beyond their immediate area of responsibility. And riding in a tightly secured convoy would give Kyle no indication about what was really happening throughout the broad country of Saudi Arabia. Still, he mentally noted that he was not seeing chaos and fires, nor hearing gunshots, nor having to crash through street barricades in Riyadh.
The SUVs rushed out of the city center and soon swept through a huge stone gate that marked the entrance to the palace grounds, the heavily guarded private preserve of the royal family. When Swanson stepped from his vehicle, he felt transported into some Arabian fairy tale. It was not really a palace at all, not a single sprawling building, but a small city unto itself, a labyrinth of streets and structures so vast that the palace staff drove battery-powered golf carts to reach from one end to the other. He was escorted down a long and wide corridor bordered by tall columns, through another high and beautifully ornate gate, then across a courtyard of inlaid marble that was veined with green and black streaks. A spouting fountain broke the quiet of the place and they stepped into a vestibule, beyond which was a large, high-ceilinged room with thick carpets on the floor. A row of men in uniforms, regal robes, and business suits stood along one side. At the end of the room, standing next to a long sofa of gold brocade, was King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia.
“Kyle Swanson! Welcome!” he called, raising his hand in greeting.
Kyle felt the eyes of everyone in the room on his back as he walked closer to Abdullah. “Good evening, Your Majesty. It’s good to see you again.”
Abdullah put a hand on each of Swanson’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “And under much different circumstances, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Quite.”
The monarch motioned toward the other men in the room. “These are my closest councilors, family members, and friends, all of whom you will meet later. And, gentlemen, you have heard me speak of Gunnery Sergeant Swanson’s bravery during the terrorist attack at the hospital in England. I emphasize again that I trust this man. If he wanted me dead, he would have already killed me. You will all do your best to make his mission here a success. He has my total support and confidence. I trust that my wishes on this are clear.”
There was a murmur of agreement among the diplomats, government officials, and military officers. King Abdullah nodded. “Now, Gunny Swanson, please come with me for a few minutes of private time before you set to work.”
Kyle followed the king into an adjoining private chamber, across a floor patterned in blue and white tiles. “Close the door and have a chair,” he said. Swanson did so, remaining silent until the king might indicate a response would be welcomed.
“First, I have some excellent news for you from England. The physicians say that our friend Sir Jeff is recovering well. A long road of recovery lies ahead of him, but he is on the mend. I know how close you are.”
“That’s good to hear, sir,” Kyle replied. “I was very worried about him.”
Abdullah picked up a rectangular box made of shining wood. “I want to formally express my thanks to you and Major Summers for saving my life at the hospital. I won’t forget that.” He handed Swanson the container. Resting inside on a cushion of maroon velvet was a double-edged Arabian dagger, a jambiya, with a blade that curved up from a bone handle decorated in bright stones held tight in a web of silver.
“Your Majesty, I cannot accept this. I was just doing my job. We’re not allowed to receive private gifts.” Swanson was stumbling for words. Are those rocks real?
“Ah, but you must!” The king smiled at Kyle’s discomfort. “I obtained the explicit permission of President Tracy. You and the major are to donate it to the National U.S. Marine Corps Museum in Quantico as a symbol of our friendship. You are quite a pair, and this is the least that I can do.”
“Well, sir, thank you.” He slid the blade from the scabbard. Razor-sharp and as old as sand. “I appreciate it, sir. Major Summers may pry out one of those stones to make a ring.”
The king laughed and took a seat behind a broad desk. “Now let me tell you the main reason that I was speaking with President Tracy: the presence of nuclear weapons in my country. In retrospect, I understand the reason for getting them, back in the days when Saddam Hussein in Iraq and the Taliban in Afghanistan were growing menaces. Now, however, they are a destabilizing influence. I want to get rid of them as soon as possible, for I have no intention of starting nuclear war. Trusted people will facilitate our end of the handover, but if a dangerous situation develops, I give you my permission to handle it. I will back you up. Just help us get rid of those things.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s the right decision.”
The king shifted his position. “I suppose that you were briefed that one of the missiles may have fallen into the possession of the terrorists?”
“Yes, sir. I am confident that your military will recover it. We should process the remaining four as quickly as possible.”
“Exactly. We have a large force now searching for the missing device. Only the warhead was taken, not the delivery system, so it is not just something that any common soldier can operate. Too many built-in technical and redundant safeguards for that.”
“To consider my role properly, sir, may I ask your opinion of the overall situation in the kingdom at present? Obviously, I have already been sworn to secrecy.”
Abdullah pulled gently at his goatee and defiance flared in his dark eyes. “I think we have great challenges ahead, but there are positive signs, too. The most telling point is that the overall population does not seem to be deeply involved. Our citizens are devout and conservative, but will not throw away everything we have earned and learned in the past century. Without the people, the plotters cannot succeed.”
Kyle had one more question. “And have your intelligence people figured out who is behind all of this? Who do the rebels want to take your place?”
“There seem to be several major players. To answer your main question, no one is going to take my place because they want to replace the monarchy entirely. A religious regime would be established instead, and the prime candidate to become its leader is Mohammed Abu Ebara, the head of the Religious Police. Ebara is a dirty piece of work and somewhat mentally unstable. For instance, it was his decision a few years ago to let that school in Makkah burn down with fifteen girls trapped inside. His police would not allow the students to escape from the building because they would be unescorted by male relatives. Similarly, the firemen, as unrelated males, were prevented from going inside. It was medieval stupidity.”