ONE MONTH LATER
HAMAD INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, DOHA, QATAR—AUGUST 22, 2021—17:25 / 5:25 P.M. AST
Nir was going to sweat. There was no getting around it. Looking out the window as the plane landed, by the heat shimmers on the runways it was evident that the temperature had reached the full 42 degrees Celsius predicted. London had been half that temperature when he’d left Heathrow that morning.
The Qatar Airways Airbus touched down with a jolt, then began its taxi to the terminal. Nir wished the pilot would take his time. He was not looking forward to what awaited him. It was a good plan. It was a necessary plan. But it still stunk rocks that he was here as the primary player in the plan.
The CARL team hated the idea when he presented it to them. They argued it. They fought it. But eventually, he wore them down. In the end they accepted it not because he as their leader demanded they accept it but because it was the one plan they’d come up with that could work.
The reaction was similar when he took the idea to the ramsad. He’d been the last Kidon leader to present, and the other teams had given some solid options. But they weren’t great ideas. His was a great idea. The ramsad pointed out all the possible flaws. Efraim Cohen went apoplectic, saying that’s just not the way the Mossad operates. Old Ravid Efrat had even called him a “punk cowboy.” But in the end, they’d given in, and the ramsad greenlighted his plan.
Three of the other team leaders offered to go in Nir’s place. Efrat, however, had just shaken his head and labeled him a fool. But that night, it was the old agent who had dished out the money for the round of Goldstars Nir owed for winning the competition. When Nir pointed out they weren’t supposed to celebrate until after he came back, Efrat said they better do it now just in case.
After collecting his carry-on, Nir exited the plane. Immediately, he was wowed. Less than ten years ago, Hamad International Airport had replaced the old Doha International, and everything he set his eyes on still looked new and cutting edge. On the flight over, in the in-flight magazine Oryx, Nir had read that just that month Skytrax had named HIA the number one airport in the world.
Let’s see if that extends to their immigration process. In all my travels, I have never seen one efficiently run.
Once again, his expectations were exceeded. In a country that sees far more international travel than domestic, the Qataris have immigration down to a science. Despite 500 passengers on his flight, he stood in line only ten minutes. The agent took his United Kingdom passport under the name Thomas Martin, ran it through the computer, stamped it, and passed it back all in the span of 45 seconds. Customs was just as easy with his carry-on.
When he exited the airport, the brutal heat hit him like a communal bread oven on a kibbutz. It forced the air out of his lungs. Thankfully, though, the sun was starting to go down. Maybe the city would become tolerable in the next couple of hours.
Spotting a line of cabs, he walked to the first one in line. In Arabic, he asked, “How much to take me to the Mandarin Oriental?”
“That’s very far. Eighty riyal.”
“I’ll give you twenty.”
The man looked shocked. “Do you even know what a riyal is? Please. I’ll do it for sixty, but no less.”
Nir shook his head. “I know exactly what a Qatari riyal is and what it’s worth. I’ll do it for 30.”
“Fifty. I can’t do it for less. I’ll lose money on my gas.”
“Sorry. Have a nice night.” Nir turned toward the second taxi in line.
The man stopped him. “Please. I have a family. Thirty-five, and we have a deal. I have a very nice car. Very cold air conditioning.”
Nir looked at the man, then said, “Okay, thirty-five, even though you and I both know you’re pulling five more than you should.”
The cab driver smiled and shrugged as he opened the rear door. Nir slid in bag first.
Dafna had told him to expect a 20-minute trip. That gave him some time to process through all that had happened and what was about to take place.
Soon after the plan’s approval, the ramsad had set more than 150 Saudi assets on the task of digging up information on why the crown prince would be after Ali Kamal. Yossi, though, had made the breakthrough.
An unusual pattern of phone calls from the father of Kamal’s driver to numbers in Yemen had begun over the past several months. With some access help from Nicole—into the computers of the General Intelligence Presidency, the primary Saudi Arabian intelligence agency—Yossi discovered those numbers had been flagged for being related to the Houthi rebels. He then cross-referenced the timing of those calls with the location of Kamal’s phone. He realized that for every one of the Houthi contacts, Kamal’s phone was at the same location as the phone registered to his driver’s father.
So Ali Kamal was reaching out to the Houthis. The question was why, with only two logical answers. Either he was supporting them in their cause or he was trying to recruit them to his. Nothing in Kamal’s history pegged him as a traitor to his country, so they assumed the latter. He simply wanted the royals out.
Based on that information, the ramsad set up a meeting between his envoy and the crown prince’s chief of staff. The purpose was to communicate information too sensitive for any method but person-to-person. If the information was satisfactory, then the envoy would be taken to the crown prince. The location was set for Doha, and Nir was designated as the envoy.
Now here he was in Qatar preparing for a meeting tomorrow, during which he would ostensibly communicate two pieces of vital information to the Saudi crown prince’s number two man. First, he would reveal the name of the one conspiring against the royal family. Second, he would reveal the date and time for Israel’s planned air strike on Iran’s nuclear program.
Of course, it was all a ruse, designed to draw out his true target. The crown prince already knew the name of the person conspiring against him, and Nir would likely never have the opportunity to communicate any attack information to the Saudis.
And this is your brilliant plan, he thought, shaking his head.
It was dusk when the driver pulled up to the hotel. No sooner had the car come to a halt than Nir’s door opened. A porter wearing a long white jacket and a small mocha-colored hat welcomed him in English. Nir punched a tip into the cab’s electronic pay system and stepped out. The long driveway was well lit, as was the beautiful marble façade of the hotel.
“Do you have any bags?” asked the young man.
“Only what’s on my shoulder,” Nir responded in his practiced Estuary English accent. “Just point me in the right direction.”
“Just inside the doors, you will find check-in. Enjoy your stay at the Mandarin Oriental.”
The porter closed the door to the cab and slapped its roof. The car pulled off, and Nir walked into the lobby, slowing to take in all the beauty and accoutrements one would expect in a five-star hotel. Its large atrium rose many floors up into the air, and all around dark woods contrasted with the white marble. The walls themselves were covered with long windows tinted orange, brown, and yellow, which probably gave a much more stunning effect during the sunlight hours than they did this time of the evening.
“Sir, would you like a moist towel?” A young woman stood next to him holding a tray with three rolled-up cloths.
“Thank you,” he said, unrolling one, then using it to wipe his face, neck, and hands.
The woman held out a basket, and Nir dropped in his towel.
“Sir, would you like juice?” He spun the other direction, and there was another young woman holding a small silver tray on which stood four flutes of golden liquid.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a glass.
I could get used to this treatment, he thought as he made his way to the front desk.
“May I help you?” a young man behind the counter asked.
“Checking in. Thomas Martin.” Nir set the glass on the counter and reached for his passport.
“Welcome, Mr. Martin. We have your room all ready for you.”
Four minutes and a glass of juice later, Nir stepped into an elevator. Room 486 said his card folder. He punched the button with the 4 on it.
If I can just get a good night’s sleep after all this flying, maybe I’ll be ready to face tomorrow. He’d started yesterday morning at Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. After leaving Israel, he’d been to Frankfurt, Essen, Berlin, Frankfurt again, Helsinki, and London. Now he just wanted a beer and a bed.
The elevator dinged, and he stepped out, noting his room was to the left. At the end of the hall, he held the keycard to the reader, heard a click, and turned the handle.
The door flew open, and a fist drove into his solar plexus. Nir doubled over, gasping for breath. Two sets of hands grabbed his arms and pulled him into the room, while another pair drove his head toward the floor. He plowed forehead first into the carpet. Before he could even fight back, he felt a sharp jab in his neck. Still sucking hard to get air, he lifted his eyes. He had only a second before a black hood was pulled over his head, but he saw at least three other men in the room besides the ones who’d assaulted him.
Directly in the center of his line of sight was one more item he wished he hadn’t seen. A large steamer trunk in the middle of the floor, its lid open.
That is going to hurt, he thought before all went black.