“So how are we going to find his place? Just look up ‘Henry Tsang, the Chinese Spy’ in the telephone book?”
“Something like that. The Trident team back in Washington has an electronics intel guy we call the Lizard, who can find a needle in a haystack. He’s already working on the problem. There aren’t too many Henry Tsangs in Riyadh, and he will have left tracks somewhere if he is affiliated with the diplomatic community. Odds are pretty good that the Lizard will find him.” Kyle closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest.
Jamal watched the gray line of pavement unfolding in his lights, stark against the blackness of the sky. “Want me to give it a run through the CIA computer?”
“The Lizard will already have done that. His system sweeps everything our government has, including NSA intercepts, before he really gets down to work. Tsang has had plenty of time to contact his superiors, so he is likely to be catching some sleep before getting started tomorrow. I like to visit people before dawn.”
The luminous blue digits of the clock on the dashboard caught his eye. Sunday morning. He would wait until they entered the city to contact the Lizard, who would still be at his desk although it was Saturday night in the States. The country music went away, replaced by some head-banging rock that snapped them both awake.
Traffic was increasing, so Jamal had to slow his speed as the dome of Riyadh’s city lights became visible, then grew clearer as they came closer. Blinking yellow signals and orange cones marking road work were showing up on their side of the highway and cut off the left lane. Cars and trucks were squeezing over to get through the construction zone. In a couple of miles, another lane was brought to an end and finally there was only one lane left open. It was plugged solid with traffic. Jamal eased off the accelerator.
Kyle turned off the CD player. He had watched the bright warning signs, the cones and the slowing traffic, but there were no bulldozers or paving machines. Not good.
Jamal steered the Mercedes a bit to the left so he could see around the big truck right ahead of them that was blocking the view. A broad swatch of floodlights pooled the area ahead. “Military roadblock. Probably checking for rebel fighters and equipment.”
Kyle automatically withdrew his laminated identification card and gave it to Jamal, who found his own ID and placed them both on the leather-covered dashboard. The line did not really stop, but inched steadily forward, more as if the drivers were gawking at an accident than the stop and go of vehicle searches.
“This line is moving too fast,” he said, straightening up in his seat. “They’re not checking the truck loads.”
The truck ahead accelerated when the guards waved it on. It rolled between armored personnel carriers that were stationed on each side of the road. Bright lights illuminated fifty yards on each side of the checkpoint, and spotlight beams danced across their faces. A Saudi sergeant motioned for Jamal to stop. When an officer approached, Jamal pushed the button to lower the window. Another soldier appeared at the front bumper on Kyle’s side and stopped, a rifle held loosely in his hands. Others approached from each side.
“Identification, please,” the officer asked in perfect English.
Jamal handed over the plastic-covered cards.
The officer studied the IDs for a moment, returned them, and said, “Thank you.”
Instead of moving away from the window, the captain gave a signal and other soldiers broke from a formation at the roadblock and poured into position around the car. The officer said, “Now please pull over behind that Humvee. By order of His Majesty, King Abdullah, you are both under arrest.”
52
MOSCOW
RUSSIAN PRESIDENT ANDREI VASILIYVICH Ivanov was again at the wheel of his Ferrari F430 Spyder, easing off the accelerator as he entered Moscow after zooming in from his dacha outside Moscow. A young newspaper vendor called out from the sidewalk and the Ferrari’s horn beeped a reply. The driver waved.
The Saudi plan had not worked, but no one looking at the smiling, healthy, young man could detect that anything was wrong. He was doing a big of campaigning while on the way to work. A mile later, the car stopped abruptly beside an old woman who was huddled against a wall. Her skin was drawn and wrinkled, the matted hair covered by a kerchief and the frayed clothes were wrapped tight against the biting early morning cold that said winter was coming. Ivanov hopped out and approached her. “How are you today, grandmother?” he asked with sincerity.
Her watery eyes sparkled when she recognized him. “I am good, Andrei. Thank you.”
“Why are you out here alone and so early?”
Her glance toward a nearby coffee house gave her away. “I’m just taking a walk.”
“A beautiful woman should never walk alone. Do you have time for me to buy you a small breakfast?” He had her by the elbow, steering her toward the restaurant, where the owner had been watching the scene and threw open his door.
“Andrei! Please come inside.”
“I am afraid that I cannot this morning, unfortunately. But would you please give our grandmother a cup of warm soup and buttered bread?” He reached into his jacket pocket and peeled off a few bills to pay for the meal.
“Put away your money. It will be my pleasure.” He took the frail woman’s hand and led her inside, into the warmth. The fact that he did so would be noted and remembered, a small favor that would increase the restaurant’s business today.
Andrei stuffed the bills into her pocket and pecked her on the forehead. “All Russian women are beautiful, just like you, my darling. I have to go to my office now. Perhaps we will meet here again some time and you can tell me a story of the old days.” He hurried back to the car and was gone in an instant.
“Andrei Vasiliyvich works too hard,” the restaurant owner observed. He had caught the message that Ivanov might return unannounced and that the frail woman had just become a regular recipient of morning bread and coffee. “He understands us.”
“He’s a good boy,” she said.
A FEW MINUTES LATER, the Spyder charged through a gate in the crimson brick wall of the Kremlin, and the domes of St. Basil’s glittered in the early sun. When Ivanov stopped at the curb, his usual greeting committee was already there. His chief of staff was impeccable in a business suit and his secretary was modestly dressed, which did nothing to hide her beauty. Andrei switched off the ignition and got out. Ivanov wore a black sports coat over a heavy white sweater, dark blue pants, and polished hiking boots. He was only forty-four years old, single, muscular, and healthy, and had already put in a full day of work at his home, exercised with his guard, and had received a full briefing on the domestic and international scenes while a barber trimmed his thick black hair and gave him a close shave. A manicurist buffed his nails.
“Good morning, sir,” his aide said, welcoming the president of the Russian Republic. “Prime Minister Putin would like a word with you. He is in his office.”
“Hah! I’ll bet he would.” The aides followed. “Stefan, please tell the old gentleman that I’m too busy right now.”
Putin was said to be declining in strength, so the power of the state eventually would fall to the Ivanov family. Russia was going to belong to Andrei and his heirs.