You don’t understand anything, you fool. “See to it.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. But there is another problem, and it may be somehow related.”
“What is it?” Nuaimi demanded, impatiently.
“Our water has stopped flowing.”
“What are you talking about?” Nuaimi practically shouted. What was happening? His entire career was blowing away like a bit of cloth in a wind.
“All the water faucets and toilets in the building have ceased to function. Our engineer believes that there may be a problem with the water main out on the street.”
“Get it fixed—” Nuaimi said, but then stopped. His eyes went to the lamp on his desk. He flipped the switch and it came on. Whatever U.S. agency was outside spying on them — probably the FBI — had not shut off the utilities to isolate the embassy. The water was just an annoying problem. “Call the city or whatever agency supplies our water service, and report the problem.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” bin Besharati said.
Nuaimi buzzed his secretary. “Where is al-Kaseem?”
“I don’t know, Your Excellency. Shall I find him for you?”
“Yes, immediately.”
“Prince Salman has returned, sir. He would like just a moment of your time.”
For a fleeting moment Nuaimi wondered if the prince’s trouble in Monaco with the former director of the CIA was connected to what was happening across the street. But then he dismissed the notion as melodramatic. Americans were cowboys, but the government did not operate in such a fashion.
“Send him in, but as soon as you locate al-Kaseem I want to speak with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nuaimi had risen to the post of deputy ambassador to the most important nation on earth not because of his family name, but because he was a skilled diplomat. He had worked in various capacities at embassies around the world, from Moscow to London and from Damascus to Tokyo, where he’d learned the business. In this situation, with another bin Laden attack against the U.S. on the verge of happening, he was in the most precarious position of his career. If he did nothing he would be finished. Which, he begin to realize, actually gave him the power to do whatever he wanted. Within reason.
One small step at a time. That was the diplomat’s credo, Nuaimi thought, as prince Salman came in. And perhaps the prince could be the first step.
“I’ve reconsidered,” Salman said. “I don’t think Washington is the place for me to be at this moment. So I’m going home.”
Nuaimi’s spirits sank. He’d had the vague thought of using the prince as an emissary to the White House. At the very least he might be able to learn why the embassy had become the target of a surveillance operation. “Perhaps I was being too hasty, suggesting you leave.”
Salman was amused. “Not at all,” he said. “Is your telephone secure?”
Nuaimi was confused by the question. “Normally I would say yes, but considering what is happening across the street, I could not guarantee it.”
“Good,” Salman said. “In that case I would like to use it to let my staff in Lucerne know that I am returning. I want to make sure that when I walk out the front door I will be expected. Considering the climate in Washington, it would not do to make a sudden, unexpected move.” He gave Nuaimi a sly look. “I don’t think my presence here is wanted. Calling from your desk might be worth something for you.”
“Of course,” Nuaimi said, and he sat back as Salman came around the desk and direct-dialed his compound on the Swiss lake.
He spoke for only a half minute, informing his people that he would be returning no later than sometime the next day, his work here nearly finished.
“Thank you,” he told Nuaimi after he’d hung up. “When I return, I’ll speak to my uncle about you.”
“That is very kind, Your Excellency,” Nuaimi said, and Salman walked out. What work had he come here to do that was nearly finished? Nuaimi wondered.
His secretary called. “Mr. al-Kaseem does not answer his page, sir. No one has seen him since earlier this morning.”
Nuaimi felt a sense of fatalism. He was the deputy ambassador. He was a diplomat. It was time to live up to his position, because he no longer had anything to lose. “Get me the White House. I wish to speak to President Haynes about why we are being surveilled contrary to international conventions.”
Khalil and the cameraman had left the cell to give Kathleen time to think over the threat to abort the baby, but in the fifteen minutes since they left she was no closer to making a decision. She was frightened, and she didn’t know what to do.
She sat on the cot, her back against the wall, tightly hugging herself for warmth and to stop from shaking. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come, and her mouth was still dry. It was as if her entire body was drying out. Even the bleeding seemed to have diminished. Nor was she in much pain now that the injection the doctor had given her had kicked in.
She didn’t want to die. Not here, not like this, without ever having a chance to see Kirk again. Just one more time she wanted to look into his face, feel his arms around her.
It had been a stupid act of vanity driving down here and showing herself in front of Yarnell’s old house. Elizabeth would have told her father by now, and God only knew what Kirk was in the act of doing. People were probably going to die because of her stupid pride. She was the wife of the former director of the CIA, one of the Company’s top agents ever. News of her kidnapping had probably reached the White House by now. It was another bit of trouble in an already deeply troubling time.
It had been her plan to find out if Khalil was staying at the Arab Center by driving up and parking across the street. If he was inside and he spotted her sitting there, he might worry that Kirk would be coming after him and Khalil would do something foolish, like bolt. But she realized now that she’d never had the real measure of the man. After his failure in Alaska, he’d become like a cornered animal, fighting for its life.
Kathleen looked up, another thought coming to the forefront. She was alive. They hadn’t killed her yet. And just like in Alaska, on the fantail of the cruise ship, in the cold and dark when she didn’t think she would survive, something happened. Kirk happened. Lovely, strong, impossible man.
She owed him now. For Kirk and the baby and Elizabeth and Todd, she had to remain alive, had to keep the baby safe.
She got shakily to her feet and staggered to the door. She pounded on it. “Hey,” she shouted, her voice weak. “Hey. I’ll make the tape. Come back.”
Someone was outside the door. She stepped well back, and then straightened her pajama top and fluffed her hair as best she could without a mirror.
The door opened, and the cameraman, short, thick-necked, was there. “What is it?” he demanded. His accent was harsh.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Kathleen said, careful to keep her voice steady. “I’ll read the statement.”
“I’ll tell him,” the cameraman said, and he started to close the door.
“Wait!” Kathleen shouted. “May I have a glass of water, please?”
The man laughed and closed the door.
Kathleen closed her eyes for a moment. I will be strong. I will survive. She went back to the cot and picked up the script Khalil had given her. She didn’t know for sure where she was, but she thought it was possible they’d brought her to the Saudi Embassy. As she read the message she was supposed to read for the camera, she tried to figure out a way to indicate where she was. She didn’t know Morse code, so she couldn’t blink out a message, but there had to be a way, and she was determined to figure it out.