The transmission from Ruger 22 was straight and to the point. “On this course and speed we show twenty-one minutes to Yemeni airspace. Are we to maintain the shadow across the border?”
For five minutes the debate ran, by which time the president was directly involved. Coltrane was perfectly happy to punt that decision. The MD-10 was so far behaving as hoped, a straight track toward the Indian Ocean. The danger, however, was not yet past. While Saudi Arabia might soon be in the clear, another less reliable ally was coming under threat—or as more bluntly put by the Secretary of Defense, “under a fast-moving cesium cloud.”
In the end it was decided that the two-ship of Raptors, each with the radar cross section of a wasp, could safely penetrate Yemeni airspace. Chances were also good that the MD-10, on the off chance it registered at all on Yemen’s dodgy radar network, would not be considered a threat. The beleaguered government there had all it could handle with countless terrorist groups camping, quite literally, in its desert backyard. Threats from the sky were hardly a priority.
The Raptors backed off but kept radar contact. Charlie Bravo Six Eight Hotel droned its southerly course steady and true.
* * *
Slaton stood behind the commander’s mahogany desk at Riyadh Air Base, a secure phone to his ear. His call to Christine had been picked up on the fourth ring by the voice he’d hoped not to hear.
He began, “So help me God, if you—”
“Steady, kidon,” Stein countered. “Before you start making threats, I should tell you that your wife is standing in front of me and your son is in my lap.”
“And you should know that your mission failed. The cesium cloud you aimed at Ghawar is heading harmlessly out to sea. Langley understands that I had nothing to do with it. In fact, we worked together to keep the drop from happening.”
There was a lengthy pause on Stein’s end.
Slaton turned the screws. “You haven’t gotten any updates from Ben-Meir. Want to venture a guess why? You had me going when you told me he’d been kicked out of Mossad, and that it related to the operation with Grossman. Not only did I fall for it, I played right into your hands—I asked you to watch over my family.”
“You know our creed, David. Trust no one. I made the same mistake. I trusted Mossad and they left me for dead in a desert in Iran.”
“And I was the one who pulled your ass out! I saved your life!”
“Life? What life? I gave everything to Israel, and in return they spit me out with a cane and a disability check! I won’t let it end there—I’ve earned far more.”
“So that was your motivation—money? The rest of your group are gone, Yaniv, all seven. You’re sitting in the dark waiting for news reports about your strike. Only there aren’t any. There should have been something by now, right?”
Stein didn’t respond.
“Trust me, it’s over.”
“If so, then congratulations. But it only simplifies things for me—seven fewer paychecks to cut. All I have to do is disappear.”
“Only you can’t. Not from me.”
Silence followed, and Slaton realized his mistake. He was cornering a man who was almost certainly armed, and who had his wife and child in the same room. Slaton was halfway around the world, his only weapon one tenuous fiber-optic connection. He could ask Langley to intervene, and he was sure they would try—but no hostage rescue team could arrive in time. For Slaton, the two most precious lives on earth were dangling by the thinnest of threads. If the call ended, he knew it would be over.
Stein was quiet, but the connection remained. Slaton heard Davy’s tiny voice in the background. Never in his life had he felt so helpless.
* * *
Christine held out her arms.
Her son lurched toward her, his arms outstretched, and Stein was forced to use both hands to keep him from toppling to the floor. It was as instinctive a reaction as there was on earth—to protect an infant from falling. In that instant, Christine reached around and pulled the Beretta from her waistband and leveled it at Stein. Only it wasn’t really level. The gun moved in her hand, wavering like a leaf-heavy branch on a blustery spring day.
Stein caught Davy and righted him in his lap. He saw immediately what she’d done. For an instant his expression was one of surprise, but then his relaxed demeanor returned. He almost seemed amused by her wavering aim.
“Please don’t shoot your son.”
Christine didn’t respond, and Stein’s right hand drifted toward his own weapon.
“Don’t!” she shouted.
The hand went still.
Stein said, “You told me David didn’t keep a gun in the house.”
“No, I said I asked him not to keep one there. And I said I had never owned a weapon myself. All true.”
Stein grinned. “You didn’t trust me—a good intuitive move. Well done.”
“I guess David taught me something.”
“You know, you might have made a good spy.”
Over the wobbling gun sight, Christine saw a good bit of Stein, her tiny child covering no more than his left shoulder and stomach. “Maybe so,” she said. “But then, we all tell the occasional lie.”
“Have you told me any others?”
“Actually, yes. I led you to believe that I didn’t know anything about guns. Truth is, my father was a serious hunter, and he made damn sure I knew how to handle a weapon.” The Beretta instantly went to stone in her hand, its barrel fixed on Stein’s head.
* * *
Even at the speed of light, the sound of the shot took two and a half seconds to reach Riyadh. Slaton had heard both sides of the tense conversation on the open line, and tried to imagine what was happening, tried to visualize the scene. Now he heard Davy screaming, terrified by the booming noise.
For the longest ten seconds of his life, Slaton waited. That was all he could do. The next voice he heard was Christine’s.
“It’s okay, David. We’re both fine—it’s over. Please come home.”