The New Girl. Daniel Silva

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      “Something I can’t possibly give them. Which is why I need you to find her.”

       11

       NEJD, SAUDI ARABIA

      THE RANSOM NOTE WAS SEVEN lines in length and rendered in English. It was accurately spelled and properly punctuated, with none of the awkward wording associated with translation software. It stated that His Royal Highness Prince Khalid bin Mohammed had ten days to abdicate and thus relinquish his claim to the throne of Saudi Arabia. Otherwise, his daughter, Princess Reema, would be put to death. The note did not specify the manner of her execution, or whether it would be in accordance with Islamic law. In fact, there were no religious references at all, and none of the rhetorical flourishes common in communications from terrorist groups. On the whole, thought Gabriel, the tone was rather businesslike.

      “When did you receive it?”

      “Three days after Reema was taken. Long enough for the damage to be done. Unlike my father and his brothers, I have only one wife. Unfortunately, she cannot have another child. Reema is all we have.”

      “Did you show it to the French?”

      “No. I called you.”

      They had left the encampment and were walking in the bed of a wadi, with Sarah between them and the bodyguards following. The stars were incandescent, the moon shone like a torch. Khalid was fussing with his bisht, a habit of Saudi men. In his native dress he looked at home in the emptiness of the desert. Gabriel’s Western suit and oxford shoes gave him the appearance of the interloper.

      “How was the note delivered?”

      “By courier.”

      “Where?”

      Khalid hesitated. “To our consulate in Istanbul.”

      Gabriel’s eyes were on the rocky earth. He looked up sharply. “Istanbul?”

      Khalid nodded.

      “It sounds to me as though the kidnappers were trying to send you a message.”

      “What sort of message?”

      “Maybe they’re trying to punish you for killing Omar Nawwaf and chopping his body into pieces that could fit inside carry-on luggage.”

      “It’s rather ironic, don’t you think? The great Gabriel Allon moralizing about a little wet work.”

      “We engage in targeted killing operations against known terrorists and other threats to our national security, many of them funded and supported by elements from your country. But we don’t kill people who write nasty things about our prime minister. If that were the case, we’d be doing nothing else.”

      “Omar Nawwaf is none of your concern.”

      “Neither is your daughter. But you’ve asked me to find her, and I need to know whether there might be a link between her disappearance and Nawwaf’s murder.”

      Khalid appeared to consider the question carefully. “I doubt it. The Saudi dissident community doesn’t have the capability to carry out something like this.”

      “Your intelligence services must have a suspect.”

      “The Iranians are at the top of their list.”

      The default Saudi position, thought Gabriel. Blame everything on the Shiite heretics of Iran. Still, he did not dismiss the theory out of hand. The Iranians viewed Khalid as a primary threat to their regional ambitions, second only to Gabriel himself.

      “Who else?” he asked.

      “The Qataris. They loathe me.”

      “With good reason.”

      “And the jihadis,” said Khalid. “The hard-liners inside the Saudi religious community are furious at me for the things I’ve said about radical Islam and the Muslim Brotherhood. They also don’t like the fact I’ve allowed women to drive and attend sporting events. The threat level against me inside the Kingdom is very high.”

      “I doubt that ransom note was written by a jihadist.”

      “For now, those are our only suspects.”

      “The Iranians, the Qataris, and the ulema? Come now, Khalid. You can do better than that. What about all the relatives you pushed aside to become crown prince? Or the one hundred prominent Saudis and members of the royal family you locked away in the Ritz-Carlton? Please remind me how much you managed to extort from them before letting them leave. The figure slips my mind.”

      “It was one hundred billion dollars.”

      “And how much of it ended up in your pocket?”

      “The money was placed in the treasury.”

      “Which is your pocket by another name.”

      “L’état, c’est moi,” said Khalid. I am the state.

      “But some of the men you fleeced are still very rich. Rich enough to hire a team of professional operatives to kidnap your daughter. They knew they could never get to you, not when you’re surrounded day and night by an army of bodyguards. But Reema was another story.” Greeted by silence, Gabriel asked, “Have I left anyone out?”

      “My father’s second wife. She opposed changing the line of succession. I placed her under house arrest.”

      “Every Jewish boy’s dream.” The air was suddenly very cold. Gabriel turned up the collar of his suit jacket. “Why did you send Reema to school in Switzerland? Why not England, where you were educated?”

      “The United Kingdom was my first choice, I must admit, but the director-general of MI5 couldn’t guarantee Reema’s security. The Swiss were much more accommodating. The headmaster at the school agreed to protect Reema’s identity, and the Swiss security service kept an eye on her from afar.”

      “That was very generous of them.”

      “Generosity had nothing to do with it. I paid the government a great deal of money to cover the additional costs of Reema’s security. They’re good hoteliers, the Swiss, and discreet. In my experience, it comes naturally to them.”

      “And what about the French? Did they know Reema was spending weekends at that ridiculous château of yours in the Haute-Savoie?” Gabriel lifted his gaze briefly to the stars. “I can’t remember how much you spent on that place. Almost as much as you paid for that Leonardo.”

      Khalid ignored the remark. “I might have mentioned it to the president, but I made no request of the French government for security. Once Reema’s motorcade crossed the border, my bodyguards were responsible for her protection.”

      “That was a mistake on your part.”

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