BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Tristan rode with the Saudi ambassador in the rear of his silver Mercedes stretch limo with diplomatic plates, sitting across from him.
He looked about the luxurious custom-made interior—lots of rosewood, leather, and the latest in electronics—the very best money could buy.
It was classy, it was expensive, but above all, it was ostentatious—the Saudi way.
The ambassador, Prince Assad bin Saud, a direct descendant of the king, had always leaned toward Western clothes. Tonight he was dressed in a tailored gray suit, Italian shoes, and a gold Patek Philippe watch, which he checked absently before crossing his legs.
Tristan had first met the Saudi royal during his nonprofit days, when Tristan had attempted to set up a shelter for abused women in Riyadh after Saudi authorities failed to manage their own safe houses. Prince Assad had been minister of interior in those days. He had genuinely tried to help Tristan’s cause after his sister was severely beaten by her abusive husband. But Assad got caught between trying to do the right thing and his government’s traditional views on the subject. In the end, Assad was forced to throw every conceivable roadblock to keep Tristan from obtaining the required permits. Meanwhile, women of all ages in the Saudi capital continued to be abused, neglected, forced into unwanted marriages for the benefit of their fathers, and beaten when uttering the slightest protest. So Tristan had done the only thing he could do: he had devoted a full chapter of his book A Trail of Tears to the cruel way women were treated in Saudi Arabia. And in doing so, he created quite the stir among the Saudi royalty.
“Well?” the prince asked. “What was so important that it couldn’t wait for normal working hours?”
“This,” he replied, pulling out his iPad and handing it to him.
“What am I supposed to—”
“Just press Play.”
The prince watched the video. It included all of the incriminating evidence from Prince Khalid being caught in an ISIS encampment plus the footage from the grab in Paris, and the interrogations of the prince and the princess.
“What … what is the meaning of this?” he asked. “Where is Prince Khalid? And where is the princess?”
“They’re both safe … with us,” Tristan replied.
“Where?”
“Like I said. They’re safe with us, just like these videos are also safe with us … or the fact that your government funded the very individuals who attacked New York City.”
Prince Assad leaned forward. “Wait a minute! That is—”
“The ugly truth. And at this moment my government is reviewing a Saudi Arabia strike package similar to the one our coalition has been delivering against Pakistan and ISIS.”
Color drained from Prince Assad’s face. “What … hold on. My government—”
“Your government has much to answer for.”
“I … I need to process this. I need to discuss it with Riyadh.”
“Yeah … you do that,” Tristan replied. “You have two hours.”
“Two hours? But … it’s the middle of the night in Riyadh … everyone is—”
“You either interrupt their beauty sleep … or the bombs will … and then you’ll have no one left to discuss anything with.”
“The world will never condone an attack against—”
“The world will keep its head down, just as it has for Pakistan. You have financed the terrorists who attacked us—who destroyed New York City. The world won’t care what happens to Pakistan or Saudi Arabia as long as it also doesn’t happen to them. Face it, Assad: no one really likes the Saudis, with all of your extravagance and arrogance … except the Saudis. So you won’t be missed, though we will be sure to avoid hitting the oil fields and the refineries so we can run them afterwards. You know … to the victor belong the spoils.”
Tristan let that sink in a moment, before adding, “Your country is responsible for financing the New York and Bagram attacks, just as it is responsible for funding the bastards who have smuggled another bomb into this country.”
“Another bomb?”
Tristan paused again. For as far back as he could remember he had wanted to make the Saudis suffer for their role in 9/11. He wanted to stretch the moment for as long as possible.
“You have two hours to give us its location,” he finally said. “Or I’m afraid the video will go viral, followed by a White House press conference announcing your government’s involvement … and by the time we’re finished with you, Saudi Arabia will be little more than a pile of fused sand.”