The hangar was hot, the big fans stirring the air to little effect on an unseasonably warm afternoon. Tikhonov used a shirtsleeve to wipe beads of sweat from his brow.
“What should the fuel load be?” asked Hamza, the young local who ran the fuel truck.
“Full tanks,” Tikhonov responded, his elbows deep in the electronics bay of the MiG that would fly tomorrow.
He had been issuing orders nonstop since arriving back at the hangar, RosAvia’s little band of employees rushing about the place to ready their only airworthy MiG for an unscheduled “live-fire test” tomorrow. At least they don’t have the burden of the truth, he thought.
In the two hours since Colonel Zhukov had dropped his bolt of lightning, Tikhonov battled the obvious question. How did I not see this coming? The answer, of course, was obvious. He had become so distracted by the engineering, the technical hurdles, that he’d lost sight of the greater picture. The remote location and minimal staffing. All controlled by a lone military officer with no scientific background. Tikhonov’s follow-up question—How will this affect my career?—was answered even more easily. He would have no career. The funds transferred to the new account would have to carry him for the rest of his life. He would disperse the money elsewhere, of course, and disappear as quietly as possible. Yet professionally he would never be heard from again.
He watched the carefree Hamza turning valves on the fuel truck, and for the first time wondered how it would affect the others—thirteen men who had no such golden parachutes. Men as much in the dark about RosAvia’s true goals as he’d been only hours ago.
Tikhonov pushed the thoughts away, Zhukov’s parting words ringing above all else: Your future is guaranteed to be restful, Boris. How long it might last … that depends very much on success.
He stepped back from the MiG and tried to imagine what could go wrong tomorrow—the final flight of his crowning project. Today’s mission had been perfection, but how often had he seen hard-won success followed by inexplicable failure? Advanced telemetry, cobbled-together flight-control software, an airplane that was older than he was. What could go wrong? he thought bleakly.
Tikhonov went to his laptop and began inputting the profile for the next day. The first change: plotting a course to a new operating area.
* * *
Sorensen got what she wanted after fifteen hours in Saudi Arabia—a meeting with the head of its National Guard.
She waited for the minister of the Guard, General Qasim bin Abdullah, in a grand conference room at the Riyadh regional headquarters. The room was a basketball-court-sized testament to gold and translucent fixtures, no expense spared in the glorification of the kingdom. The central hardwood table alone must have involved three great trees felled in some equatorial forest. The walls were lined with portraits of contemporary kings and princes. A few she recognized. None were smiling.
Sorensen knew a good bit about the Saudi Arabian National Guard, or as it was referred to in Langley, the SANG. She knew it was the country’s lead organization when it came to dealing with internal threats, and that its regiments were dispersed across the country. Its leaders were drawn exclusively from tribes loyal to the ruling House of Saud, and its command and control structure was completely separate from that of the military. The reasons for these precautions were obvious enough. On paper the National Guard was tasked to protect Mecca and Medina, as well as select strategic targets—notably the country’s oilfields. Yet the SANG’s primary mission was far more elemental—it was sworn to keep the Saudi royal family safe and in power.
The great door at the head of the room surged open, and leading a small contingent was General Abdullah. He was a tall, long-faced man with a meticulously groomed beard. On seeing Sorensen, he spoke a few hushed words to the three men behind him—two wore robes, the other was in uniform—and all made a decorous exit.
The general came toward her, moving in a way that made her think of a great water bird, his long limbs graceful under the robe. His bearded face held a smile, the same one Sorensen imagined was in place for any American with official status. She’d been given a briefing on Abdullah: he was a fast-riser in the Saudi hierarchy, spoke flawless English thanks to a degree from Georgetown, and had a reputation as something of a womanizer despite having three wives.
“Miss Sorensen,” he said, “it is good to meet you.”
“And you, General.”
The two shook hands and, penetrating gaze aside, Sorensen sensed Abdullah would rather be somewhere else at that moment. Coltrane had undoubtedly pulled strings to make the meeting happen.
He said, “Should I assume this is about the arms smuggling operation you’ve recently brought to our attention?”
“It is.”
“I assure you we’ve taken your warnings most seriously. Units have been dispatched across the kingdom to track down these Shiite miscreants.”
“Shiite?”
“Of course. It has been an ongoing problem for the last two months. The odd arms shipment here and there—small arms and explosives, barges across the Gulf and trucks from the Empty Quarter. These munitions are meant for the hands of those who would do the kingdom harm, but I can tell you we have intercepted every one.”
“I hadn’t heard about any earlier shipments,” responded Sorensen.
“We have been keeping it rather to ourselves.” The general shooed his hand in the air as one would for a bothersome insect. “As always, it is the work of Iran and their underlings. The mullahs across the Gulf live in an increasing state of fear.”
“Actually,” Sorensen said, “we saw convincing Russian fingerprints on this operation.”
“Russian?” repeated the general. “Why on earth would Russia risk such a provocation?”
“That’s a very good question. One we’ve been asking ourselves.”
Abdullah looked at Sorensen with suddenly softened eyes. “You are very pretty,” he said.
Sorensen was wearing conservative clothing, and her blond hair was pulled back beneath a tasteful scarf. Not sure how to respond—at least not without causing an international incident—she let the comment go.
“Tell your director not to worry,” said Abdullah. “We will have these stray arms swept up in a few days, just as with the others.” He leveled a finger at her. “And also tell him that next time he should share his intelligence with us before bringing in the likes of Mossad. I am sorry I cannot give you more time, but I am exceptionally busy this week with the family gathering.” He turned toward the door in a flurry of white cotton.
“Family gathering?” Sorensen queried.
The general seemed to hesitate, then turned back to face her. Once more Abdullah looked at her appraisingly. Had he not been vaguely smitten, she was sure he would have kept going.
“Our king sets a careful course,” he said. “Once each year he arranges a gathering of the royal family. It is an event like no other, a week in which the scattered hands of the kingdom become one. Policies are agreed upon for the coming year, alliances forged. This gathering is not comprehensive, mind you—the extended relations in the House of Saud number in the tens of thousands. Praise be to Allah, the most important in our kingdom number little more than a hundred.”
“Where will this take place?” she asked.
“Most years the gathering convenes in one of the main palaces, either Jeddah or Riyadh. As the head of the National Guard, it is my duty to secure things accordingly. This year, however, will be rather different.”
“In what way?”
“Even to you, I cannot divulge specifics. Not for a few more hours. But rest assured that a few guns running around our countryside … they are inconsequential. Now, I really must go. If you are still in Riyadh next week perhaps we can schedule a more in-depth meeting.” Flashing what had to be his most engaging smile, he spun away in a flourish of white cotton.
Sorensen stared incredulously as Abdullah disappeared through ten-foot gilded doors. The moment he was gone she reached for her phone. Her first two attempts to dial Langley failed, and she realized the building must be hardened against electronic eavesdropping—something akin to what would be called a SCIF at home.
She walked outside to get a signal, but before she could dial again Sorensen encountered a sight that left her standing in awe with her phone at her side. Across an expansive parking lot, shimmering under the lingering late afternoon sun, were more armored limousines than she’d ever seen in her life. All of them were empty, parked in wait of some great movement of VIPs. Sorensen realized there could be only one explanation. Without knowing where the royal gathering was taking place, she understood that the road to attend it began here.
She shook away her surprise, and seconds later her third call to Langley went through.
* * *
Slaton rounded a curve at speed, the big bike beneath him handling smoothly over the ribbon of high desert road. The motorcycle was a BMW, rented from a company that specialized in touring adventures of northern Africa. Slaton had considered a number of transportation options, but after receiving his surveillance assignment, he chose the bike for its blend of speed and maneuverability.
He was still traveling light: in the BMW’s hard-case saddlebags were one change of clothes, a cheap backpack, a compact set of binoculars, and a high-end digital camera with a telescopic lens. All had been purchased in Casablanca, and all were perfectly in character for a lone Scandinavian on an adventurous Moroccan holiday.
His assigned objective was an airfield near a place called Ouarzazate, an hour’s ride ahead. The CIA was convinced a small business jet would soon land at the airfield, and, for reasons he could not discern, the agency wanted him to photograph the lone passenger expected to disembark. It was a simple enough job, and as quid pro quos went, a small price to pay for the support he so desperately needed.
The latest word from Langley was that the target of his surveillance would arrive in the early evening—the timing was tight, but feasible. Slaton had also been asked to take pictures of the airfield and anything that looked “interesting.” He recalled how many times Mossad had launched him into such missions. Speculative intelligence forays where operatives were put at risk to prove or disprove some analyst’s hypothesis. Or, in other cases, the conjecture of a senior operations chief. Whatever the source, he would approach the whole affair with a due sense of caution.
He accelerated out of a series of curves, the BMW commanding over roads that were in surprisingly good condition. If that held to Ouarzazate, he would arrive with time to spare. With any luck, he could get the desired pictures, return to the coast, and find a place to rest for a few hours before the real work began: in the early hours of tomorrow morning, he intended to be scouting the area where Ovechkin had gone into hiding. Looking for a man who was killing in his name.
The dry desert air swept past in a ninety-mile-an-hour rush, snapping at his clothing and keeping his head below the windscreen. As Slaton raced eastward, the sun touched the mountains behind him in faltering shocks of orange.