71

The meeting did not exactly get off to an auspicious start.

In fact, more than forty minutes after she had arrived, it had still not begun. The king was ill. The crown prince was on a call. The foreign minister’s plane had engine troubles, so he had only just landed at the airport and was still on his way. All the while, the chief of royal protocol kept apologizing and bringing more mint tea.

At first Whitney was annoyed. She had a schedule to keep, and this was not helping. Then she grew furious. For all the strains in the bilateral relationship over the years, the Saudis had no better friend or closer ally than the United States. This was particularly true of the Clarke administration, which had vigorously protected the alliance from the wolves on Capitol Hill and the visionless bureaucrats in Brussels. How dare the Saudis stand her up, given all that was at stake?

Yet as the minutes ticked by, such thoughts and emotions eventually morphed again, this time into worry. The eldest son of the Saudi monarch was not on a call, Whitney surmised. He was sending a message. He and his father were furious at the Israelis and were making their displeasure known by disrespecting Israel’s best friends. The royals really were looking for a way out of the peace process. The summit in Jerusalem had made front-page headlines from Tehran to Tucson. Hope of a new, peaceful, stable Middle East had soared, and with it stock markets the world around. Yet that was all well over a year ago. Since then, no treaty had been signed. The Saudis kept asking more questions, requesting more clarifications, and finding new reasons for new delays.

There were plenty of possible reasons for the royals’ frosty feet, even in the midst of the sweltering Arabian desert. Fear of assassination had to top the list. But insurrection, waves of terror, and a missile war with Iran were likely runners-up.

Fifty-three minutes after Whitney had arrived, Crown Prince Abdulaziz bin Faisal Al Saud finally made an entrance. Alone. No foreign minister. No aides. Not even a notetaker, a translator, or a member of the Royal Guard. The thirty-eight-year-old heir to the throne apologized for his delay, but he did not look happy and did not greet her warmly, and this only stoked Whitney’s fears.

“We have a problem,” the crown prince said.

Apparently, she thought but for the moment said nothing.

“Whom does your CIA believe will replace the Supreme Leader?”

Whitney had expected the question, but not right out of the gate. “I’m sorry?”

“When the Assembly of Experts meets, whom do your people think will be tapped to be Iran’s next Grand Ayatollah?”

Confused as to what this could possibly have to do with the crown prince being so late, much less the peace treaty or the missile war underway in Lebanon, the secretary of state nevertheless set down her glass of tea—her third since arriving—and tried to recall the names they had been bandying about. This was the very essence of diplomacy, she reminded herself—sounding thoughtful and helpful even when one was fit to be tied.

“Well, I suppose the front-runner would be Abdolhasan Farahani,” she began. “But then again, Daryush Ebrahimi is probably a strong contender as well.”

“Why these two?” Abdulaziz asked with an expression that was at once severe and inscrutable.

Whitney took a moment to compose her thoughts, then replied, “Well, both men are highly trained, highly respected clerics. They’re both former students of Ansari. Both are hard-liners, though maybe not as crazy as he was.”

“And?”

“And both are certainly long-serving members of the assembly themselves. They know everyone. Everyone knows them. And I guess I’d add that there has been a great deal of speculation about both men in the media—well, the media outside of Iran—ever since the health of Ansari was known to be in decline.”

“Why do you suspect Farahani would be more likely than Ebrahimi?”

“Did I say that?”

“You implied it.”

“Yes, I guess I did,” Whitney said. “For one thing, Farahani is younger. His health is fine, so far as we know . . .”

“And?”

“And what?” she asked. “Do you not agree?”

“Actually, I do,” the crown prince replied. “You’re absolutely right. Both are very strong contenders. And they have both been on the top of our lists as well. I have leaned toward thinking Ebrahimi had the edge on Farahani. My father has believed just the opposite.”

“How is your father?”

“Not well,” the crown prince confessed. “And he apologizes for not being with us today.”

“It’s that bad?” Whitney asked.

The crown prince was silent for a long while.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” Whitney said gently. “But with one succession in motion, I have to ask. Are we about to have another?”

This produced another awkward silence.

“Perhaps,” Abdulaziz finally replied. “He is battling pneumonia. It is his second bout this year. My brothers and I are concerned. But with all that is going on in the news, we don’t want this to get out, and I would ask that you keep this between us.”

“I ought to tell the president.”

“Of course, and the vice president also,” said the crown prince. “Director Stephens I will talk to personally. But beyond this, we must ask for your discretion.”

“You have it.”

“Thank you,” he said. “We can discuss this more in a moment, but right now I have some troubling news.”

Whitney braced herself. She knew what he was going to say. She just did not want to hear it.