Blink of an Eye (19 page)

Clive Masters faced the group, amused by the banter. Smaley and company weren't necessarily slouches, but the Saudi diplomat had them hog-tied and properly disciplined.
Diplomat
was the wrong word for the man. He was a killer, pure and simple. And judging by his hard eyes, a good one.

“Seth Border,” Clive said, shifting in his chair. “The man you're after just happens to have an IQ that makes Einstein's look average.”

“I wasn't aware we were after a man,” Lord said.

“Well, if you're after the woman, you're after the man. I don't know how the brightest mind in the country happened to team up with our princess, but I can tell he's the one causing your trouble. You find him, you find her. I'm just curious, sir,” he said, looking into the Saudi's dark eyes, “but how exactly did Seth manage to stall you at that truck stop?”

If the Saudi registered the slightest surprise, he didn't show it.

“If I were in your shoes, I would have killed her then,” Clive continued. “But Seth pulled some trick, didn't he?”

Smaley cleared his throat. “I'm not sure what you're suggesting, Clive, but this isn't a run-and-shoot operation. We're dealing with complications that require a measure of caution. You're here because of your past association with Seth, but that doesn't mean you get to go after them with a bazooka.”

“A bazooka? Not exactly the weapon of my choice. I was merely pointing out, Peter . . .” He paused for the simple reason that the deputy's facade annoyed him. Before they'd gone their separate ways, they attended the FBI's Quantico school together. Small world. They'd each exceeded the highest academic scores the bureau had given before or since.

But not all bright minds see eye-to-eye. Some are cut out for the grind and gore of detective work, and others make better politicians. Clive had gone on to receive a doctorate in psychology and put in five years as an FBI profiler before moving on to the NSA. Peter had pursued a career with the State Department. Now, twenty years later, they found themselves on opposite sides of the same coin. The perfect diplomat and the perfect detective.

Clive resumed his thought. “I'm saying, Peter, that if our friend here had killed the woman in that bathroom, as he probably intended, we wouldn't be trying to keep the Middle East from blowing up. And we all know that if the House of Saud
is
overthrown by militants, sooner or later the Middle East
will
blow up. But he didn't kill her, did he? And frankly, I'm just a tiny bit curious how our fugitive managed to pull one over on an accomplished . . . diplomat's head.”

“Try to control yourself, Clive,” Smaley said. “Whatever you might think, not everyone's a gunslinger.”

“Perhaps if I had been in my own country I would have taken care of the problem,” Hilal said, staring Clive down with those black eyes of his. He dipped his head slightly. “But I am not. Now it will be your job. And by the sound of it, you are well qualified.”

The man was either sucking up or insulting him, and Clive wasn't ready to decide.

“Can you bring them in?” Iona asked.

“Do you want her dead, or do you want her brought in?” Clive asked.

“Brought in,” Smaley said. “Preferably.”

A faint smile curved Hilal's lips.

“They're headed east in a blue Mercury Sable reported stolen from the alley behind this building,” Clive said. “They have a two-hour head start, and, according to the clerk at the Wal-Mart they stopped at, they're loaded with cash. We'll put out a new APB, cast a broad net, and try to anticipate his next move. Run-of-the-mill. But Seth Border's not exactly run-of-the-mill. If he hadn't given the slip to three different parties, you might guess that he's better suited for breaking the light barrier than for leading a chase. But you'd be wrong.”

“A simple yes or no would do,” Smaley said.

“I'm not sure it would, Peter. As I've explained, in a case like this, the best way to get to the girl is to get to the man. But I'm not sure it's in our best interest to end Seth Border's life. He's not exactly an easy human being to replace. We can't kill him.”

Smaley smiled. “I didn't know you were so softhearted. Your friend may be a genius, but I doubt he's worth the stability of a region. I'm sure you can figure out a way to outwit him. Live up to that reputation of yours.”

His old rival hadn't lost his touch. Clive gave him a polite nod. Give credit where credit is due, but owe no man anything.

“In the meantime, we will keep you informed,” Smaley said to the Saudi. “You may tell your government that you have our full cooperation.”

“Then I'm sure you wouldn't mind allowing me to follow the investigation on a real-time basis,” Hilal said. “I would like to be updated on the hour.”

The snake was going after Miriam on his own, Clive thought.

“Of course. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.” The deputy secretary stood. “Please keep me informed.” He cast a glance at Clive and left with Iona.

Hilal stared at Clive in the brief silence that followed. Clive stood. “You'll excuse me as well, gentlemen, but I have a fugitive to catch.”

“He's very quick,” Hilal said, holding his stare.

“How so?”

“With his mind.”

So, the Saudi had been outwitted after all. Lord watched them with a raised brow.

“And if you were Seth? Where would you go?”

“I don't know your city. But I would get out of the city.”

Smart man. “You wouldn't go underground?”

“It would be difficult to go underground with a Saudi princess. Yes?”

“Yes.” Clive walked for the door.

“I believe that he may also be unusually . . . intuitive,” the Saudi said. “Perhaps clairvoyant.”

Clive turned back. Clairvoyant? Hilal was a Muslim. Evidently a mystic. Clive could see how facing the man
Scientific American
had called the next Einstein might feel like going up against Elijah himself. Though Clive doubted Seth was clairvoyant, Hilal was right: He would be an elusive prey.

Clive, however, had built his reputation on tracking elusive prey. Not one had yet evaded him. Granted, Pascal Penelope had taken seven years and Al Cooper three, but both were now behind bars alongside another twenty-three fugitives he'd collared.

“Thanks,” Clive said. “I'll keep it in mind.”

He left, knowing he'd see Hilal again.

chapter 17

t
hey are in a blue Mercury Sable, believed to be headed east out of the city. The police have issued an order to stop the car when it is located.”

Omar stared down through the smoked-glass window ten stories above Century Boulevard without acknowledging Assir. Sa'id stood to Omar's right, hands held at his waist. These two had failed once, but they would not fail again.

An orange-and-yellow plane floated by the window on its final approach to LAX. Southwest Airlines, the tail read. It looked like a lizard.

He'd left his thawb in London Heathrow Airport in favor of a dark-gray silk suit. With his trimmed beard, he looked more Mediterranean than Arabic—his intention. He'd been in the United States a dozen times and learned early that Saudi Arabians tended to draw attention, especially if they placed the title of prince before their names. There was a time for attention, of course, particularly in nightclubs frequented by women.

But this time he was after only one woman. She was a Shia Muslim, she was rightfully his property, and he would have her or she would die, either option in accordance with the law.

He remembered watching his first stoning as a boy of seven. The Nizari sect had pulled the woman out of a wagon and pushed her roughly to the ground. The wagon was piled high with stones the size of a man's fist. After a short pronouncement of guilt, ten men started throwing the stones. He learned later that she was seventeen and her crime was flirting with a man. The punishment was a harrowing sight at first, seeing the stones bounce off her body as she waddled around on her knees. She wore her abaaya and veil, which only made the stoning mysterious. He tried to picture what was happening under those garments and then picked up a rock himself and lobbed it. Amazingly, it landed on her head and bounced off. The black cloth darkened with blood. His father laughed and handed him another stone. The woman passed out four times and was reawakened after each instance before she finally died.

The flight over the Atlantic had given him time to stew over the matter of his bride, and with each passing hour his anger swelled. This chase wasn't simply about his right to claim what belonged to him; it was about the future of Saudi Arabia. The future of a sacred culture in which man was ordained to rule and thereby ensure the worship of God. The future of Islam itself was at stake. Not the Islam followed by most Arabs, but the true Islam of the Nizari, a tiny minority now. In power, it would expand.

Someone had once compared the Nizari to the Americans' KKK, a small Christian minority. In truth, when he looked at America, all he saw was the KKK, and he hated them all.

Omar turned from the window. “This is from General Mustafa or from the scanners?”

“Both. The lead investigator on the case is making his way toward San Bernardino.”

Mustafa had filled them in on Hilal's meeting with the State Department. The fact that the Americans expected the NSA to track down his wife both pleased and angered Omar. They could be instrumental in leading him to her. The agent on the case reported to Hilal on the hour, and whatever Hilal learned, Mustafa learned. This was good.

No one had a right to the woman but him, however. Hilal's pursuit was not as large a concern as the American agent's involvement. Whoever found Miriam first would have to be killed, but the prospect of killing the king's man was like child's play next to killing the NSA agent. Even so, Omar wouldn't allow the Americans to take her into their custody and coddle her. They would return her to the king. His marriage to her would be lost.

Omar decided on a straightforward approach. “Then we go to San Bernardino,” he said, moving toward the door. This Clive would lead him to Miriam, and he would be the jackal, would close in after she'd been found. He would steal the prey, would make the prey his wife, and then extract payment for her insult to Allah. To Islam.

To him.

Samir stood at the gates to the great mosque in Mecca, dressed in a traditional white seamless
ihram
. He stared at the three-story cloth-covered cube known as the casbah, which sat in the sun sixty meters off, black and oddly plain considering its reputation as the most holy place on earth. Allah gave it to Adam after expelling him from the Garden of Eden and then later led Abraham to it. Through the ages, many idolatrous people had bowed at its base to any one of a hundred gods worshipped in Mecca before the prophet Muhammad claimed it.

The pagans came here to worship before dawn, stripped of their clothing, wailing. The mystery that lay behind that black cloth felt to Samir like a physical force that squeezed his chest every time he came to the holy mosque.

The courtyard boiled over with several thousand Muslims on pilgrimage. Mumbled prayers rose to the sky, a steady groan to God. But Samir wasn't concerned with their prayers; he sought his Creator's guidance for his own dilemma. Only now, eyes fixed on this most holy of holies, did he finally know the will of God.

Not once did the suras in the Koran call God a God of love. But he agreed with the teachers—this was because God's love was self-evident. One doesn't need to say that the casbah is black if everyone already knows its color. Muhammad had no need to expound on the love of God, because love is at the very heart of Islam. So then, Samir's own life would have to be a life led by love.

There could be no greater love than the love he felt for Miriam. Nothing mattered now except her.

Samir left the mosque and hastened toward the limousine that waited on the main street. His love for Miriam was as essential to life as the beating of his own heart. He'd never exposed himself to any other human being as he had to Miriam. The memories of their innocent touches in Madrid haunted him still.

In Saudi Arabia, where flesh was so deliberately covered, one tended to take note of the flesh one saw. Miriam had seen his bare chest and upper arms only three times, once by mistake when he was changing shirts in the garage, and twice when she'd pulled his thawb aside in curiosity. He'd never exposed himself beyond this, of course. That would wait for marriage.

But she'd seen more of him than any woman had. Tracing his chest with her index finger, she'd wondered aloud how a driver came to have such strong muscles. He made a joke about lifting all her heavy bags in and out of the car, and they laughed as only lovers can laugh at the slightest hint of humor.

What Miriam didn't know about him would shock her, if she didn't suspect his true identity already. Miriam's intelligence had first attracted Samir to her, before he even saw her face. Surely she would know that her true father, the most powerful sheik among the Shia, would not entrust his daughter to a common man. But he doubted Miriam knew that the man she'd fallen in love with was well-known in small circles as a warrior. An exceptional one, worthy of the task given him.