Lethal Code

CHAPTER 13

Lana looked at Emma, slouched on the couch watching TV, and wished more than anything that she could have evacuated her daughter from the Washington area. Their little burg of Kressinger lay well within the capital’s kill zone for nuclear missiles — or a cyberattack that could target the wickedly cruel stores of chemical and biological agents left over from the Cold War. Those nightmares included chimera viruses like Veepox, which combined smallpox and Venezuelan equine encephalitis, and could wipe out entire populations.

Horrific scenarios seemed never-ending, when Lana let herself consider the worst outcomes — and how could she not, when her only child could fall prey to them? Such was the unprecedented threat of a cyberattack: It could turn any or all of a country’s arsenals on itself. The stronger the nation, the more susceptible it became. Paradox had become the dominant paradigm. That was particularly true for the U.S., which had been the mightiest country on Earth less than a week ago. Now its very strength could turn it to cinders, or leave vast reaches rife with the dead and dying.

Lana and everyone in the intelligence services were in a race against time. How much time? Only unknown hands on unknown computers knew the answer to that question, leaving her and everyone else in the intelligence community acutely aware that the next second could be the last they lived.

She sat next to Emma and tried to hold her. Emma squirmed away. “When is she showing up?”

“She” had turned out to be the surprise caregiver. Bereft of options, Lana had decided to leave Emma at home, but that had necessitated finding a new person to keep watch on the girl. Irene was headed off to get help, if any drug and alcohol rehab centers actually remained open.

As part of Lana’s networking, which entailed calling and texting virtually everyone she knew, she had contacted Tanesa Weir yesterday afternoon. Tanesa was the young choir member who, along with others on her big blue bus, had saved Lana’s life, along with the lives of so many others during the first minutes of the cyberattack. She’d even been featured in the NPR report. Tanesa was such a responsible person, Lana thought she might know an older woman of like mind and spirit.

After a rushed, fifteen-minute discussion about the duties and compensation, though, Tanesa herself offered to take the job.

Lana was stunned. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Tanesa replied.

Only three years older than Emma. But she seemed a lot more mature emotionally.

Lana had been in a supertight spot, expected to depart for Saudi Arabia ASAP, and everyone she knew was dealing with personal and professional emergencies, so she told Tanesa that she had the job, which had outraged Emma:

“I can’t believe you’re bringing someone that young in to take care of me.”

“Would you rather I find another fifty-six-year-old like Irene?” Lana had retorted.

“You don’t have to bring in anybody. I can do the job.”

“I don’t think so, Emma. Just last weekend you came home tipsy from drinking Palm Bays. Then you left the house in the middle of a crisis when I told you not to and almost got yourself killed. Those aren’t signs of someone who is ready to take care of herself. And Tanesa is very responsible. I’ve seen her in action.”

Glowering, Emma had stormed into her bedroom.

Lana had arranged to have Audrey, Jeff’s executive assistant, check in with Tanesa daily to make sure she had whatever she needed.

The young woman could take the position because, as a homeschooler, she had a highly flexible schedule. She had never sat in a classroom, yet had excelled on all the standardized tests administered by the school district. She seemed a fine choice, given the circumstances. Lana’s main regret was that she had no time to set up a meeting between Emma and Tanesa first. Technically speaking, they had met — at the hospital. But Emma had been so drugged at the time that she had no memory of the bright-eyed choir member.

The doorbell chimed. Both mother and daughter jumped up.

“Do you want to get it?” Lana asked.

Emma shook her head. She looked startled, or maybe it was sudden shyness. It still happened, though rarely.

When Lana opened the door, Tanesa stood there smiling. Behind her, an NSA driver waited in an unmarked car to whisk Lana to Andrews Air Force Base, about thirty minutes away.

Lana welcomed the young woman, who rolled her modest-size suitcase into the entryway, turned, and then hugged her as naturally as if she had known Lana all her life. It made Lana feel good about her decision.

She led Tanesa into the living room, where Emma was still standing, stiffly, Lana thought.

But Emma brightened when she saw Tanesa, who reached out and took Emma’s hand in both of hers.

“You are some kind of beautiful, girl. You take after your mom, don’t you?”

Emma blushed. Lana hadn’t seen that in a while, either. The two young women started talking right away.

Sensing that everything was as settled as it could be, Lana said good-bye, kissed Emma, and ducked out.

She handed her carry-on bag to the driver and climbed into the backseat, looking at the pair still chatting away near the window. Then Emma signaled Tanesa to the stairs, presumably for a tour of the house.

If Lana could read Emma at all, which was a challenge these days, to be sure, she thought her daughter liked the idea of having a young African American living with her. In fact, Lana would have bet that Emma found the idea pretty damn cool, especially compared to the starchy Irene.

The NSA car ferried Lana directly to Andrews for a military flight to Riyadh. Deputy Director Holmes did not want Lana or Agent Candace Anders on the same plane with each other, or on the flight with Ruhi Mancur; other agents were seeing to his safety en route. Both women would be traveling with diplomatic cover to the emirate of all emirates.

Lana looked out as they drove past the big blue chevron-shaped sign for the air base. In minutes, they were approaching the terminal from which she would depart. She imagined that she’d be issued a onesie flight suit, walk up a wide cargo ramp at the rear of the plane, and strap herself into a bare-bones military cargo carrier, as she had once done for an unscheduled trip to Colombia. Instead, they passed through a guarded gate and drove up to a Bombardier Global Express jet.

An airman loaded Lana’s bag while she thanked her driver. She stepped aboard, looked around, and smiled: There would be no funky onesie this time. With its pale blue carpeting and buttery, cocoa-colored leather seats, the interior of the Bombardier might have been luxurious enough to satisfy the Saudi royal family. Clearly, the military’s top brass knew how to fly in comfort. Then again, she reminded herself, the Pentagon was the last bastion of loose money.

Seating was arranged much like a series of living rooms. Directly in front of her, a long couch was fixed to one wall, and a set of what appeared to be plush recliners sat in an arc facing the couch. A male flight attendant led Lana to one of them and explained the controls; it converted into a bed.

The U.S. ambassador to Yemen, sporting hair transplants that looked like they’d been implanted by a drunken cosmetologist, looked up from his perch on the couch and smiled, before promptly returning to his laptop.

What’s he doing on this flight?

She knew better than to ask.

Lana opened her own device, pleased to find Internet service so readily available. The envoy might have noticed her smile. He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to worry about cyberattackers messing around with the controls in here. This thing usually carries around four-star generals. Nothing can penetrate it.”

Nothing? You think so? If virtual hands had commandeered nuclear missiles, then nothing was impenetrable, least of all a military jet.

Lana indulged him with an appreciative nod, taking comfort in knowing that her own cover was secure, for surely the envoy would never have served up such techno-tripe if he knew to whom he was speaking.

The flight attendant asked if she wanted a drink. Lana ordered a glass of red wine, a good merlot, if they had it, and wondered about the attendant’s real role. He looked much too rugged to play the waiter.

She used an elaborate code, committed to memory, to log on to her computer and access the files that had occupied her of late — an online Islamist magazine that had defied her best efforts to hack it open so she could hack it to pieces. She and Holmes and others in the intelligence community strongly suspected that deep beneath the online magazine’s cover, the site was a center for terrorist command and communications.

Not that they weren’t producing articles for open consumption. On her screen at that very moment was a headline for the issue’s lead story: “How to Make a Bomb in the Kitchen of Your Mom.” The English was stilted, but the step-by-step instructions appeared painfully precise and accurate.

Intelligence analysts credited the late Anwar al-Awlaki, the American-born-and-educated promoter of Islamist terrorism, with having encouraged Yemeni Al Qaeda to publish the magazine. It was called Inspire, of all things. Building a bomb in your mother’s kitchen? Inspiring? To some, it appeared: The Boston Marathon bombers might well have used that very “recipe.”

Lana took solace in knowing that al-Awlaki would never oversee the writing of another headline, or the delivery of another inflammatory speech for unbalanced believers everywhere.

Ruhi felt the landing gear clunk into place and looked down at the King Khalid International Airport. The desert glare made him squint. Even so, he couldn’t miss the dome of the massive mosque at the heart of the facility. He recalled a prior visit when a cousin — not Ahmed, thankfully — dragged him to the prayer center that could hold five thousand worshippers inside, and another five thousand in the plaza outside. On that occasion, there had been fewer than fifty people in the mosque.

“But you should see it during Ramadan,” his cousin had said, eyes growing large as the dome. “So many people that you’re scared for them. For yourself.”

“Why?” Ruhi had asked.

“Terrorists. Bombs. The perfect place to kill so many loyal Saudis.”

That had been another stark reminder that all was not well in the House of Saud. Ruhi stared out the window now, wondering how much longer the royal family would be able to rule this fiefdom.

He saw the plane near the runway, spotted the shadow of the wing on the tarmac, and felt the slightest bump. The passengers clapped. It sounded dutiful to him. He didn’t bother. Neither did he thank Allah; but he saw enough lips moving under enough head scarves to know that many of his fellow passengers were offering their gratitude to God. It appeared no less obligatory than the applause.

Off in the distance he spotted the Royal Terminal, where heads of state and some seven thousand Saudi princes planted their feet first upon coming back to the kingdom. Just seeing those perks riled Ruhi up all over again. How long did the royal members of the lucky sperm club who passed through that luxurious terminal think they could withstand the pressures of the Arab Spring? A country with a king who actually ruled his subjects? Bad enough the Brits and other Europeans had royal families for ceremonial purposes, facile reminders of colonial power now as shuttered as the eyes of the dead. But Saudi Arabia, his homeland, remained rooted in a world that should have been shelved centuries ago. Only the most downtrodden believers could accept the theological rot necessary to support such a system.

Better chill, he advised himself as he headed toward the plane’s exit. You don’t want to be trudging into passport control with the proverbial chip on your shoulder. You’ve already got a cousin the Saudi secret police would love to club to death. The last Ruhi heard, Ahmed had fled to Yemen, on the emirate’s southern and most porous border. Yemen was the destination for scores of Saudi Islamists who wanted more, not less, fundamentalism in their faith.

Ruhi handed his filled-out entry forms to a flight attendant. The man scarcely glanced at him. Ruhi thought his ball cap and beard were ample disguise — at least to the casual observer. A little scruffy today, a little scruffier tomorrow.

He trudged behind the other passengers into a wide, brightly lit terminal, thinking the immigration service would probably give him a good going-over.

Ruhi wished that the intelligence agents who had recruited him had given him a phony passport. He hadn’t even thought of that till now. But perhaps U.S. intelligence knew that he could never pass himself off as someone else — not entering a country where his family had close associations with terrorists even more disgusted with royal rule than the expatriate now arriving home.

Within minutes, he queued up in the cavernous entry area. Nothing unusual. Not yet. His imaginings of Saudi secret police descending on him right away had not materialized.

He shuffled forward with his lone bag, obedient as a dog. He knew better than to draw attention to himself at a Middle Eastern border crossing, especially not in Saudi Arabia, where the officials held the keys to a bona fide kingdom.

Even the word “kingdom” spoke of a bygone era that still thrived in his homeland. Women were not permitted to drive or vote, but the Saudi king had recently decreed that they could have a seat on the Shura Council, an assembly that considered laws and offered counsel to the king. But the Shura had no real power, certainly not to legislate, and the women would not be permitted to mingle with the men.

Big whoop.

He knew from one of his six sisters that the nascent feminist movement in the emirate was gaining steam. But the great majority of women were subject to strict religious guidelines about the clothing they were permitted to wear, just like Ruhi’s cousin, Ahmed, wanted for every woman in the world. Forced conversions and hijabs for all.

A Saudi immigration officer in a long-sleeve white one-piece thawb and a keffiyeh signaled Ruhi to come to a table. While the officer looked from Ruhi’s passport to a computer terminal and entered data on a keyboard, another similarly attired officer combed through Ruhi’s carry-on.

Ruhi realized that he was holding his breath. You’re such a spy, he chided himself. Try breathing.

“Purpose of your visit, Mr. Mancur?”

“I’m visiting my family.”

“It appears that your parents haven’t been back in many years. When will we have the pleasure of a visit from them? Or don’t they care about the country that succored their souls?”

“They care very much. But my father is working so hard.”

“Yes, you do have to work like a slave in the great United States of America. It’s all work, work, work. And now it is a disaster there. So is that the reason you have come back? Because it’s so unbearable to be in your America now?”

“I won’t deny that Saudi Arabia is in much better shape. I—”

“And you,” he interrupted, “are you in much better shape after what you have been through?”

“I am okay.”

“Okay? Really? I would think what you went through was all but unbearable.”

Play hard to get, the Middle East expert at the Farm had counseled Ruhi. Make it appear that you’re too traumatized to talk about the torture.

“I am very happy to be in Saudi Arabia,” Ruhi said carefully.

“Of course you are. But look at what you were doing in your America. You were making fossil fuels out to be a tool of the devil. At the Natural Resources Defense Council you were smearing the emirate. The source of our wealth, our financial lifeline, and you were doing all you could to demonize it.” He shook his head. “They say you are a terrorist. Maybe that is true?”

“No, they admit it was a mistake.”

“But they let you leave. They wanted to get rid of you. And they did torture you. It says so right here.” He looked at his computer screen, hidden from Ruhi. “Do you hate them?” He leaned so close to Ruhi that he could see a lone gray hair in the man’s beard. “What did they do to you?”

“It hurt,” Ruhi said, hoping to leave it at that.

“And is there any evidence that it hurt?”

Ruhi nodded, filled with revulsion at the man’s manner, his eagerness, but he also realized that his reaction might be seen by the officer as appropriate for someone who had been severely violated, who had suffered a dog bite and burns from electrodes.

“How long do you plan to visit your family?” the officer asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“A few weeks, maybe a month or two.”

“Why not stay here? What do you owe a country that tortured you?” He wasn’t interested in an answer. “I will tell you, Mr. Mancur. Not a thing. You owe those devils nothing. Millions of good Muslims can’t wait to get to the land of Mecca and Medina. But you?” He shook his head again. “You come just to visit. After what they did to you? But maybe they didn’t do anything. Maybe that explains why you’re here and why you plan to go back. Maybe there are secrets about your ‘torture,’ beginning with the fact that there was no torture.”

“There was,” Ruhi said fiercely. “I can show you.”

“Maybe in time you will,” he said, sending a chill through Ruhi.

“And I might stay. I miss my country. My family.”

“And you would leave your parents in that hellhole over there? Is that what a loyal son does now in America?”

I can’t win to lose with this guy.

“No, I would bring them back home, too.”

“That is the right word, Mr. Mancur. The magic word: ‘home.’ Use it wisely. Do not abuse it. Think about it.”

The officer slapped Ruhi’s passport closed and, for the first time, spoke without feeling: “Welcome to Saudi Arabia. Enjoy your visit.”

Granted, Tanesa was black, and that was cool. Granted, she’d saved her mom’s life, and that was cool, too. And, granted, she was a massive improvement over Mrs. J… Then again, a stone effigy of Kermit the Frog could have carried that load. But Emma was starting to have her doubts about Tanesa. They’d just checked out the upstairs bathroom and stepped into her room. Up till now, the new caregiver had oohed and ahhed every few seconds.

But now she was raising her eyebrows. Okay, the room was a mess, but that’s not what drew the new caregiver’s attention. It was a can of strawberry-pineapple Palm Bay, a purple thong, and the picture of Emma with her skirt up in the ambulance. Skateboarder Boy, whose name was Shane, had left them for her in their mailbox, and Emma had failed to hide them very well after hurrying them upstairs.

“Where’d that garbage come from?” Tanesa demanded, holding up the panties. Then she picked up the Palm Bay. “And you’ve got no business drinking this stuff.”

Emma tried to strike a casual tone, explaining that she’d met Shane in the ambulance. “He gave them to me. They’re like a get-well gift.”

“Get-well gift? They’re a disgrace is what they are. And taking a nasty picture of you when you’re hurt and can’t do anything about it? That’s just wrong.”

“It’s no big deal. You can’t see much. And look at my face. I look good.”

“He’s not looking at your face, I’ll tell you that. And yes, it is a big deal, and if he’s bringing you alcohol and a thong, he’s going to want pictures of you in that too. He’s definitely not welcome when I’m around.”

“We’ll see about that.”

But Emma felt less sure than she might have sounded. She checked her watch and saw that things could come to a head very quickly: Shane had texted that he was coming over with another “surprise.”

“Yes, we will,” Tanesa vowed.

Now, as Emma headed downstairs, the doorbell, indeed, rang. She raced to open it. Shane, arm in a sling, held out a little bag with his other hand.

“I got you another pair in pink.”

But before Emma could take it, Tanesa appeared and reached past her, snatching the bag. She took one look inside and crunched the bag closed.

“You are not welcome here,” she said to Shane, “bringing this kind of trash around. And you”—she pointed her long finger at Emma—“and I are going to have a talk.”

Nobody had ever spoken to Emma like that. She was so stunned she reeled into the living room as the door closed on Shane’s shocked face.

“Emma, sit down.”

Emma dropped onto the couch.

“Let me tell you something about boys and this stuff.” She held up the Palm Bay and the purple thong as if they were diseased. “There is no free lunch with guys. And when they start giving you this kind of stuff, they want the whole buffet. You hear what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, but maybe I want the whole buffet, too,” Emma said, making another stab at defiance. But she felt more tentative than she sounded.

“You may think you do, but you don’t. What’s important to you? Really important. Can you tell me that?”

Emma looked like she’d hit her personal mute button.

“What are you good at, girl? Come on, tell me, please. You play an instrument? Swim fast? Do you like art? Soccer? Science?”

“No, I suck at science. I’m not really good at anything.”

“I don’t believe that. What do you want to be?”

“A movie star.” Emma loved telling adults that, even a young one like Tanesa, just to see whether they’d be honest or say something completely stupid, like, “You could do that.”

“Are you working at it?” Tanesa said. “You do any plays at school, that sort of stuff? Or do you just dream about it?”

Emma felt boxed into a corner, but she knew one sure way to shift the subject fast: “Boys like me.”

“I believe that. But if they’re coming around like that loser, they’re only liking one thing about you.”

“So what?”

“So once they get it, they’re gone.”

“Not always.”

“Mostly. Hey, I know.”

“I doubt that. My mom says you’re in a Baptist choir.”

“Yes, that’s right. But do you think I was born in that choir? Uh-uh. I was not. I’ve only been in the choir for two years. Before that I spent most of my time striking the wrong notes with the wrong guys, and I paid for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I got pregnant and had an abortion.”

Shocked, Emma had to look away. When she turned back, Tanesa’s steady gaze met her own.

“Has anybody talked to you about birth control?” asked Tanesa.

“My mom. I know everything. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s good. I’m glad you know everything. Where do you keep your condoms? And are you on the pill, or getting a monthly shot?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I’m your caregiver. That means I am going to take care of you, and if you’re so sure that the only thing you’re good for is having sex with the first guy who throws some panties at you, then I am going to make doubly sure you have those condoms and birth control pills. I am not kidding. And we are also going over the ABCs of the STDs. Those things and a whole lot more. You hear what I’m saying?”

Emma looked out the window. Shane was gone. She turned back to Tanesa and sighed. “There is something else I like.”

Tanesa waited, one foot tapping the carpet. “What’s that?”

“I like to sing.”

Ruhi’s uncle Malik waited for him at the end of the terminal, where his nephew passed through the airport’s tightest security zone. Bearded, Malik still wore plain black glasses with tinted lenses, and dressed as traditionally as the Saudi immigration officers.

Malik was the father of eight children, with two wives. “One wife was enough,” he often said in the presence of his spouses, “and two were twice as bad.” But he called his children “the great consolation for the curse of matrimony.”

“It is really good to see you, Uncle Malik.”

His uncle hugged him and held him by both shoulders. “I’ll bet it is also great to stand on Saudi soil after the way they treated you in that disgusting country that you call home. You are a hero to us here, Ruhi.”

He certainly hadn’t received a hero’s welcome in passport control, but the Saudi street was often at odds with Saudi officials, which was why the royal family had to keep a tight lid on the populace — and tossed their subjects an occasional bone from the skeleton of democracy.

But Ruhi mentioned nothing about the immigration officer who had questioned him, saying only that it was always good to see family.

Uncle Malik led him to the exit. “You return an older and wiser man, Ruhi. Are you thinking of staying this time, now that the U.S. is the world’s biggest disaster zone?”

It irked Ruhi to hear his uncle take such pleasure in America’s pain, but he responded evenly. “That is possible. I am considering it.”

“I had to laugh when I saw pickup sites for Saudis to donate clothes and food for Americans. I donated one of Shabina’s old hijab. I tell you, that made me laugh even harder. Oh, how the mighty America has fallen. And good riddance, right? So tell me, what did they do to you?”

Hard to get, Ruhi reminded himself again.

“They did what you would expect,” Ruhi said as they approached Malik’s luxurious Mercedes, one of the perks of being an executive of the Saudi Arabian Oil Company.

Ruhi stretched his long legs, appreciating the cool air in the idling car.

The driver, who had been with Malik’s family for forty years, merged the full-size sedan into traffic.

“But what could you tell them, right? You know no secrets. Not like Ahmed.”

Malik had always been so proud of his firstborn boy, even after years of Ahmed’s radicalism.

“I know nothing.”

“Not really. You know Ahmed. I’ll bet they wanted you to tell them everything you could about him.”

What Ruhi wanted to tell Malik was that his uncle’s firstborn was an asshole and the reason he himself was caught up in this mess. But again, he refrained, confining himself to a nod.

“I expect my boy will be a martyr one day.” Malik shook his head. “That is so sad. I share so much of his faith, but not his methods. Saudi Arabia is a great society. We do not want to undermine the great spiritual wealth we have by seeing our best and brightest kill themselves.”

Ahmed? Best and brightest? Ruhi shuddered, he hoped not visibly.

“You will see that you are in the best place in the world to find your faith again, Ruhi. I hope you do. You look like a lost sheep to me.” Malik shook his head again.

“No, the first step to finding my faith again came when they threw me into a dark cell with a big dog. That was the first time I prayed in many years.”

Malik took Ruhi’s hand in both of his. “I’m so sorry they did that, but I am so grateful to Allah that you have found your faith. You remember the Prophet’s words: ‘A sincere repenter of faults is like him who hath committed none.’”

Not another proverb. Uncle Malik had always been a great one for quoting the Prophet. Ruhi forced himself to nod, then looked out the car window.

As far as he could see, the Saudi Arabian desert rose and fell in wind-sculpted dunes. Riyadh lay in the direction they were speeding.

Malik leaned so close that Ruhi could smell his breakfast of eggs and onions. It didn’t smell good. “Did they put that dog on you? I have seen the pictures from Abu Ghraib.”

Ruhi nodded.

“They are beasts!”

“Worse than beasts,” Ruhi said. “They are cornered beasts. They will do anything to try to save themselves. I know that now.”

Ruhi withdrew his hand and turned away, filled with disgust. It wasn’t directed at Malik’s curiosity, and it wasn’t a performance. It was real. He acted on the anger and fear and even the frailty that he had known during his torture — and the resentment that he harbored for all of that. And it had worked. He could tell that his uncle sensed the genuineness of his hurt and fury.

Ruhi wondered whether it was the right time to ask if Ahmed had slipped back across the border to come home, or was still in some Islamist redoubt in Yemen. No, he told himself. You don’t want to push too hard too fast, even with Uncle Malik.

A feast was prepared that night in Ruhi’s honor. A sheep was ceremoniously slaughtered and butchered and roasted in a great stone pit in the wide courtyard of Malik’s huge home. Oranges and limes and lemons, papayas, dates, and pomegranates — tropical fruits of all kinds — adorned a sideboard, along with breads and rolls, vegetables, and scented olive oils. It astonished Ruhi to see such wealth, such unbridled abundance, after leaving the U.S. in such a decimated, desperate state.

Many toasts were made in Ruhi’s honor, all with nonalcoholic beverages, of course. His siblings and extended family avoided asking about his detention. Perhaps Malik had told them to be respectful, that his nephew was a wounded man. Not a word came up about Ahmed in any of the necessarily fleeting conversations that Ruhi had in the course of so many greetings. He was surprised and pleased that he could remember all the names of his relatives. Family was sacred in Saudi Arabia, and no matter what America had to offer an immigrant such as himself, close family ties were not as common there, even among the native born.

The celebration was such a whirlwind — and filled with such singular good cheer — that by the time Ruhi settled in a guest room, he had forgotten about Ahmed. He lay in a large bed, dozing off, when the bedroom door to the courtyard creaked open. He bolted upright and saw a torch burning behind a gowned and hooded man.

“Ahmed?” Ruhi whispered.

The shape moved closer. “Why would you think it was me?”

Agent Candace Anders sat alongside a senior Saudi intelligence official. They were only a few miles from Ruhi, glimpsing him from a camera drone the size of a hummingbird.

“That’s him. That’s Ahmed Mancur,” said the official, who’d told Candace that his own name was Omar, never offering a family name. “And that’s your man, the one inside?”

“Yes, that’s Ruhi, his cousin. Look,” Candace said quickly, “we want to work with you. That’s why we tipped you off that Ahmed Mancur might come home. But it’s critical that you not grab him now.”

“That is asking a lot. We have been searching for him for a long time.”

“If you can wait a little longer, your country’s biggest customer would appreciate it.” Candace smiled as she spoke. “And one of your biggest benefactors,” she added, a not-so-subtle nod to U.S. military largesse to the emirate.

“You think Ahmed Mancur will lead you to your prey?” Omar asked.

“We don’t know, honestly. But we want to find out.”

They watched Ahmed slip inside the house and close the door.

The drone pilot, sitting only feet away, brought the tiny device up to an altitude of two hundred feet.

“You have no ‘ears’ inside?” Candace asked.

“Not in that place,” Omar acknowledged. “Malik has it swept at least once a week. He has differences with his son, but he doesn’t want him taken by us. But we have never been in such a position to take him down, either.” He was smiling now.

“So, what are you saying?” Candace asked bluntly. “That you’re going to take Ahmed now?” she asked.

“No, we will play ball, as you say.”

“How equipped are you to follow him in Yemen?” she asked.

“It depends. You?”

“We got Awlaki.”

“It took forever. So your answer is no, you’re not well equipped.”

“We don’t know yet, honestly. But we have huge resources invested in this case.”

“You say ‘honestly’ a lot. Should I assume you’re lying otherwise?”

She shook her head. Felt foolish.

They were back to waiting, as they had been before Ahmed showed up. Omar returned to briefing her about two Saudi Islamists, Abdullah and Ibrahim al-Asiri:

“Ibrahim was the explosives expert, supposedly. His brother, Abdullah, stuffed one of Ibrahim’s bombs up his anus. Please excuse my scatological reference, but it is essential to understanding how grim it is getting down by the Yemeni border.”

“That’s fine,” she said and shrugged. She almost added “honestly,” but choked it down.

“Abdullah was posing as an Islamist defector when he met with my boss, the chief of our counterinsurgency agency. He is a prince, you should know. Abdullah made it into the prince’s study in his home not far from the border. He even hugged him. Then Abdullah’s phone rang and set off the bomb.”

Candace winced.

“I am so sorry. I should stop.”

“No, you should not. I’ve seen worse.” Unfortunately, that was true — in Kabul. Moreover, Candace could not let herself be seen as a weak woman. Not in Saudi culture.

“The prince survived in good shape because the force of the bomb went straight up, taking Abdullah’s head off. It blasted clear through the roof.”

“Somebody was looking out for the prince,” Candace said, fully aware that she was setting herself up for a display of piety.

“Yes, may the blessings and peace of Mohammed be upon him.” Omar paused for several seconds before going on. “So the border keeps us busy with bombs and spies, defectors, men of no faith and men of great faith, and they are all at war with one another.”

“And that’s where we’re going, it looks like?” Candace asked.

“Yes, I am certain of it now.”

“It’s your own Casablanca.”

“That is true, but there is no Rick’s Café Américain for us.”

“Drinking and gambling? There wasn’t supposed to be then, either,” Candace said.

“I know, but times have changed.”

Have they ever.

Candace shrugged and nodded, acknowledging his point. She could not have been happier to hear that they’d be heading for the Yemeni border. It was extremely difficult, diplomatically speaking, for U.S. intelligence agents to operate in Saudi Arabia without alerting their counterparts in the emirate. That was a problem because they didn’t always know the loyalties of individual Saudi agents. Yemen, however, had been most cooperative with the United States, even covering up U.S. drone attacks on its own people. In other words, Yemen wasn’t Pakistan, which had become openly outraged over American assassinations on its soil, after bin Laden and Abbottabad.

But large regions of Yemen had been reduced to anarchy, which provided the most compelling reason of all for heading to the southern Saudi border: The lawlessness made Yemen a possible center for the cyberattackers. Their tools were sophisticated; nobody, including Lana Elkins, had been able to hack below the “cover” of the online magazine, Inspire, to what Candace and other intelligence agents thought might be the command center for Al Qaeda in Yemen. Whoever was doing the website’s dirty work clearly had extensive cybertools, knew how to use them, and were all but taunting Western intelligence by affiliating themselves with an Islamist site brazenly urging the faithful to make bombs.

Yemen also had many anarchic tribal regions, much as Waziristan did, but Yemen shared a highly penetrable border with the technologically advanced Saudis. The emirate’s most radical Islamists had a well-earned reputation for traveling the world to spill the blood of infidels, which they had demonstrated most brutally on 9/11. That the faithful might simply hop their country’s southern border — to carry out cyberbutchery — appeared painfully plausible.

“Here he comes,” Omar said, interrupting Candace’s thoughts.

In the spare light of the courtyard’s torch, they spied a tall thin man with a long beard standing, once more, by the open door to Ruhi’s room.

Bin Laden incarnate, thought Candace.

The small drone descended. They heard Ahmed offer a Muslim blessing to his wayward cousin. Then they picked up Ruhi, saying, “I will see you then.”

What’s that mean? When? Where?

Candace glanced at Omar, who spoke as if he could read her thoughts:

“I doubt they’re talking about the food court at the Riyadh Gallery.”

“It definitely sounds like a meeting.”

Omar allowed that this was true. “But Ruhi won’t know where. Ahmed would never give up that information this far in advance, I can assure you of that. What he’s saying is that Ruhi should be ready to move at any time. They have plans for him. That is good.”

“What kind of plans?” Candace wondered aloud.

“They’ll be testing him,” Omar said, “even though he’s Ahmed’s cousin.”

“Testing? You mean torture?”

Omar nodded. “When you think about it, they have to. He shows up right now?”

“But it’s not a coincidence. He was tortured.”

“And now he works for you.”

“But they don’t know that,” Candace said.

“They are going to try to find out. I can tell you that much.”

But nothing went as planned, not for Ruhi and Ahmed, not even for those who had been spying on them.

The call came to Candace in her hotel room at five the next morning. The Mabahith, Saudi Arabia’s notorious secret police, had just burst into Ruhi’s room and hauled him to a windowless black van. According to Omar, Uncle Malik looked stunned, his protests muted by the attending Mabahith officer.

Candace sat up in her hotel bed, still absorbing the shock. “But Omar, these are your people! What’s going on?”

“No, they are their own people. They are very secret.”

“What do they want from him?” Candace asked.

“I suppose they want to test him too.” Omar sighed, then hung up.

Candace dropped her head back to her pillow and stared at the ceiling, whispering, “Don’t fail, Ruhi. Remember, you’re tougher than you think.”

But her whole country was going to have to be a lot tougher, she realized moments later when she received a text message from Holmes’s office: URGENT: THREAT LEVEL RISES.

It contained a link to an Islamist website.

Candace’s fingers flew over her keyboard. The following words appeared in simple white letters on a black background:

“The great jihad tells America the Defeated that martyrs are now in your homeland. They will take control of a very special group of children. There is nothing you can do to protect them. They will be in our hands soon. When our martyrs slay them, you will know that even children who defy our plans will suffer the worst retribution. They will die at the location of a great symbol of American power. At that moment you will witness what you have done to us for so many years. That is how our final attack will begin, America. With your hope for the future. With your children.

“Then we will launch your own missiles at you because we have taken control of your most powerful weapons. Your leaders know this. They are hiding those facts from you. We are telling you the truth. We will leave you destroyed forever.”