While the CIA working groups tracking down Ovechkin were having a productive morning, those hunting arms shipments in Saudi Arabia were making far less progress. Of the five caches that had reached the Red Sea shoreline, two were tracked to Duba, and one each to Gayal, Al Wajh, and Umluj. In what was thought to be a matter of atrocious bad luck, all the cargo was confirmed to have arrived ashore but subsequent movements proved untraceable due to gaps in satellite coverage. Embarrassing as it was, Langley could not track a single shipment beyond the docks.
Acting on the CIA’s warning, the Saudis did their best to forestall whatever trouble was brewing. They inspected warehouses and delivery trucks in each of the identified ports. In a rented shed in Gayal, two crates were discovered that seemed to match the provided satellite images. Unfortunately, both had been emptied of their contents, and a witness reported that a group of men had loaded everything into a pair of trucks hours earlier. A description of the vehicles was quickly circulated, and one was found abandoned with a flat tire, still laden with its load, along a wadi outside town. The inventory discovered was exactly what the Americans had described—a dense collection of basic small arms. Another crate was discovered in a commercial garage in Duba, four men scattering to the wind minutes before the authorities arrived.
In National Guard headquarters in Riyadh, the influx of weapons was discussed at length during a hastily convened meeting of the security council. Everyone agreed that the smuggling operation was problematic, yet there was consensus that the Americans were exaggerating the scale of the operation. Many also expressed irritation that they had not been advised of the threat sooner—timely intervention as the boats came ashore would have been a showstopper. Their pique heightened further when a senior CIA man let slip that Israel had been helpful in uncovering the plot. The Saudi foreign minister in particular, who kept a seat on the security council, was nettled that Israel had inserted itself into the matter, no quarter given for their claim of “the good of the neighborhood.”
Farther afield, the shipments sourced in the Gulf of Aden had by all accounts disappeared into the wilderness of Yemen—this to no one’s surprise. Due to competing American surveillance commitments, the destinations of the shipments along the northern shores of the Persian Gulf had never been nailed down.
Up and down the Saudi establishment, everyone went through the motions. Detachments along the northern frontier were given vague orders to keep an eye out for possible weapons shipments, although no one could say just where or when they might take place. Police along both coastlines were ordered to look for suspicious vehicles. At various levels, the Saudi reaction vacillated from annoyance to caution to disbelief.
What those involved in the search—including the Americans—did not know was that leaders at the highest levels of the Saudi establishment were monumentally distracted by a wholly separate concern. It was not based on any specific threat, but centered around an event that had been on the books for months, and whose arrangements were proving a logistical nightmare.
For good reason, only a handful of princes and generals knew the full details. Among them, not a single one ever imagined that the two events could be linked.
* * *
Slaton’s CIA phone rang as he got out of the shower. He answered with wet hair and a towel around his waist. The number wasn’t familiar. The voice that greeted him was.
“We know roughly where Ovechkin is,” said CIA director Coltrane.
“Roughly?”
“We’ve narrowed it down to fifty square miles of a certain country.”
“Okay. Which miles in which country?”
“Before I tell you … I’d like to know why you’re so interested.”
Slaton hesitated. Only minutes ago, under a stream of hot water, he’d been asking himself the same question. He hedged with, “Because I don’t think the CIA is going to pursue him.”
“Ovechkin’s involvement in this scheme won’t be forgotten, I promise you that. But for the time being, he is not a priority. The situation in Saudi Arabia takes precedence. I’m sending Sorensen to Riyadh. She uncovered this threat, and the Saudis always respond better face-to-face—they’re funny that way.”
“You’re taking her out of Rome? What about—”
“Don’t worry, she told me about your arrangements. I issued the order myself—your wife and son will remain secure at the embassy.”
“Okay … thanks for that.” He decided that with Coltrane’s backing, security for his family would only get tighter. He also didn’t question the wisdom of sending a woman to deal with the House of Saud’s exclusively male leadership. All things considered, he liked the idea of having someone he trusted inside that fence.
Coltrane said, “Since you didn’t answer my question about your interest in Ovechkin, let me put it a different way. Is it him you’re after, or this mysterious assassin?”
“I think one leads to the other. And sooner or later, both need to be reckoned with.”
“For whose sake?”
Slaton didn’t reply.
“You really want to chase this,” said Coltrane, more an accusation than a question.
“I don’t like loose ends. Right now I have an advantage, and I don’t want to lose it.”
“I’m not so sure about that advantage. Miss Sorensen briefed me on the bullet you recovered. It sounds like a revolutionary system.”
“That remains to be seen. Every weapon has its weaknesses.”
“So does every soldier.”
An impasse developed, the faint hiss of static carrying in both directions. Coltrane broke it. “Begin in Casablanca. Hopefully I can fine-tune your search by the time you arrive.”
“Casablanca,” Slaton repeated. He weighed it for a moment and thought it made sense. Some co-processing part of his brain began drawing maps and calculating distances in the background.
Coltrane gave Slaton a special phone number to reach him directly.
“And if I find Ovechkin?” Slaton asked.
“I can’t tell you what to do. But if he stays alive long enough … we’d like very much to have a word with him.”
* * *
At 12:35 that afternoon Sorensen learned she was booked on a 4:10 commercial flight to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Traffic on a Sunday would not be particularly bad, but all the same she rushed her preparations. With her bag packed and an embassy car being called up, she diverted to see Christine. Sorensen found her on the patio having juice and sweet bread with Davy.
“Care to join us?” Christine asked.
Sorensen thought she looked weary, but decided that was as it should be—she’d stayed up half the night watching her husband on a mission. “Wish I could,” she said. “They’re shipping me off to Saudi Arabia.”
“When?”
“I’m leaving in ten minutes.”
Christine’s tight visage remained unchanged. “Does this have to do with—”
“Yeah, it does. The front office wants somebody on the ground who knows the situation.”
After a few beats, Christine said, “I just got a call from David. He said he’ll be gone a few more days—that he has one more thing to do.”
“Did you ask what it was?”
“No. I only asked him to please come home as soon as he could.”
“He will,” Sorensen said. “I know it.”
Christine locked eyes with her, deconstructing the answer. Wondering if it was based on insider knowledge or blind hope. Sorensen did her best to smile, and probably failed. She turned away abruptly and headed for the door.