“Effendi,” Hadi called in return. The men embraced and kissed in the manner of their culture.
“How was your flight?”
“All four were fine but tiring.” Hadi took the time to look him in the face. The voice made him more recognizable. The face did not. Saif Rahman Yasin was transformed. The nose, the hair, even the eyes somewhat—Or were they? he asked himself. Only the expression in them. Clearly he was pleased to see his childhood friend, and the mirth they contained was so different from his formal face seen on TV and in the newspapers. “You are well, my friend,” Hadi said.
“It is a gentle, comfortable life I live here,” the Emir explained with a rare smile. “Praise Allah, we have no hills to climb. There is much happiness in living under their noses, as they say.”
“When I learned of this, I thought you mad, but now I can see your wisdom.”
“Thank you.” The Emir pulled him into the house. “You choose to travel as a Jew, do you not? That is well. There are many of them here.”
“Is this city as corrupt as they say?”
“Much more so. The population is very transient. People here do not recognize anyone, except perhaps their closest friends; it is as Lebanon used to be.”
“Or Bahrain still is?”
“That is far too close to home.” He didn’t have to explain. Many Saudis drove there in their chauffeured cars to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, but too many of them might recognize his voice, if not his new face. The Saudi royal family wanted him as dead as the Americans did. Indeed, they’d set up viewing stands in Chop Chop Square in Riyadh for the infidels to see his last minutes with their mini-cams and other recording systems. There were many prices on his head. . . . And the American one was not nearly the highest. “Come. Let us find you a proper bed.”
And Hadi followed him through the kitchen and into the house, thence left toward the bedroom wing.
“You are secure here?” Hadi asked.
“Yes, but in a few minutes I can be away. It is not perfect, but it is the best a man can arrange.”
“Do you test your escape route?”
“Weekly.”
“So it is for me in Italy.”
“Rest!” the Emir said, opening the door to the bedroom. “Do you require anything?”
Hadi shook his head. “I could eat, but I need sleep. I will see you in the morning.”
“Good night, my friend.” A shake of the shoulder, and the Emir closed the door. The man had flown almost six thousand miles. He’d earned the right to be exhausted.
51
BELL AND GRANGER were waiting in Hendley’s office when Jack and Clark walked in. “Washed out in Chicago,” Clark told them, falling into a swivel chair. “He flew as far as Las Vegas. After that, who can say? McCarran has flights to everywhere. Maybe L.A., San Francisco, hell, back to the East Coast, maybe.”
“His traveling name?” Bell asked.
“Joel Klein. Jewish, would you believe? Makes sense, I suppose. I suppose we can surf the computers to see if he booked a flight on from there, but who’s to say he doesn’t have numerous other identities?”
“Already being checked,” Granger assured him. “No hits yet. I’m fresh out of ideas.”
“If I had to bet, I’d say he’s bedded down somewhere, maybe scheduled to continue his travel regimen tomorrow. Not enough manpower, Rick. We need more bodies and more eyes to do this.”
“We got what we got,” Bell said.
“Yeah.”
“There is another possibility,” Jack said. “What if Las Vegas was his destination? Then what?”
“Damned scary thought,” Granger replied. “It means we’ve got an operational URC cell here.”
Tell us about Peshawar,” Hendley said a few minutes later.
Clark dug into his carry-on and laid Masood’s drive on the desk. He gave the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the trip. “Why they didn’t toss the house I don’t know,” he said. “According to Masood, he copied everything he did for the URC. Have to assume the guy who helped them move was the Emir.”
“For now we will.” Hendley nodded to Bell. “Rick, can you get that down to Gavin? Have him send up the contents asap?” To Clark: “You want to call Mary Pat?”
“Already did. She’s on her way.”
Hendley picked up the phone and called the lobby. “Ernie, Gerry here. Got a visitor coming. Mary Pat Foley. Right, thanks.”
Mary Pat appeared in Hendley’s doorway forty minutes later. “Nice digs,” she said. “Looks like I’m in the wrong business.” She