“I’m not sure you have much of a choice.” Gabriel glanced at the bodyguards. “Tell them to take a walk, they’re making me nervous. And give them that phone of yours. You never know who might be listening.”
“My experts tell me it’s totally secure.”
“Humor me, Khalid.”
The crown prince handed the phone to one of the bodyguards, and all four withdrew. “I assume Sarah told you why I wanted to see you.”
“She didn’t have to.”
“You knew?”
Gabriel nodded. “Has there been any contact from the kidnappers?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How much are they asking for?”
“If only it were that simple. The House of Saud is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a trillion and a half dollars. Money is not the issue.”
“If they don’t want money, what do they want?”
“Something I can’t possibly give them. Which is why I need you to find her.”
11
Nejd, Saudi Arabia
The ransom notewas 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 hisbisht, 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.”
