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“I suppose you’re right,” Kennedy reluctantly agreed. “And what a shame,” she added under her breath. Ross was too busy looking above the crowd to hear her, but Jonathan Gordon laughed softly. Kennedy turned to look at him.
“Prince Muhammad does not strike me as someone who is very receptive to change.”
Ross left them to go shake hands with someone.
“He’s a dyed in-the-wool Wahhabi. Change is not in their lexicon.”
“That’s what I tried to tell him, but he thinks his personality can win anyone over.”
Kennedy knew the type. The best politicians were all that way. They honestly believed in their personal power of persuasion. These were the men and women who never stopped campaigning. Every dry cleaner, bar, and café they stopped in, every golf outing and fund raiser they hit, they shook hands, smiled, remembered an amazing number of names and convinced people through nothing more than their personality that they were likable. These men and women excelled in politics. They were willing to make concessions and be flexible so others thought them reasonable. On the international stage, though, these types got taken to the cleaners. Neville Chamberlain, the British prime minister at the onset of WWII, was the classic modern example. He had met Hitler, looked him in the eye, made him laugh, and concluded that he was a decent chap despite the evidence to the contrary that had been provided by the British intelligence services. Hitler took Chamberlain for a fool and played him through the occupation of Austria, the invasion of Poland, and right on up to the invasion of France. Somehow Hitler had been able to resist the irresistible charm of Chamberlain.
Kennedy had dealt with Prince Muhammad in the wake of 9/11.
Her station chief in Riyadh as well as her counterparts in Britain, Germany, France, Israel, and Jordan all came to the same conclusion about him. While they couldn’t prove that he knowingly provided money to al-Qaeda and other terrorist organizations, they did know that he had given more than twenty million dollars to charities that were linked to terrorist organizations. Across the board the intelligence chiefs agreed that Muhammad was far too cozy with the religious extremists in Saudi Arabia to be trusted to run the Kingdom’s intelligence services. The leaders of America, Britain, France, and Germany all convinced the king to move his half brother to a different position on his council of ministers. The official Saudi position was that Mohammad was quite chastened over the whole thing. Unofficially, Kennedy had heard that Mohammad did not go quietly.
Kennedy watched Ross work his way across the room. Prince Mohammad had decided to eschew the diplomatic receiving line, a major breach in protocol, and something that was sure to be noted by all. He instead went straight for Ross, who was roughly in the middle of the room. They met and clasped hands, Ross with more enthusiasm than the prince. They were roughly the same height; both a little over six feet tall. Ross wore an expensive handmade suit, and Prince Muhammad wore his robes and ornamental headdress. Kennedy looked on with great interest as the prince broke into laughter. His perfect set of white teeth contrasted against his black goatee. Prince Muhammad clasped Ross’s shoulder with his free hand and continued to smile warmly. His gaze wandered and for an instant he looked straight at Kennedy.
“You don’t seem too excited to meet him,” said Gordon.
“Excited.” Kennedy continued to observe the two men talking. “There aren’t many people at CIA who would be excited to meet Prince Muhammad.”
“You don’t trust him?”
What a question, Kennedy thought to herself. “We’re not in the trust business, Jonathan. We’re in the business of espionage.” She was well aware that whatever she said would be repeated to Ross so she chose her next words carefully. “Prince Muhammad is no ally of ours. He is a man who in his heart supports everything al-Qaeda stands for. Don’t forget that, no matter how pro-America he acts on this trip.” Kennedy looked at Gordon. “If your boss has any future political aspirations, I’d advise him to not get too cozy with Prince Muhammad.”
36
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
R app sat on the edge of the exam table and looked down at the swathe of smooth skin that ran from the middle of his left thigh to the middle of his shin. He was proud of the fact that he’d managed to shave it without cutting himself. He knew they would have done it for him, but he wasn’t all that crazy about people touching him with sharp objects. The reality that he was going to be put under for the procedure gave him enough anxiety as it was. As much as he hated it, though, he knew it had to be done. He’d put it off long enough.
Anna was in the room with him, but as usual she was talking on her cell phone. Sometimes Rapp wondered if the device was surgically attached to her head. He had no doubt, if the roles were reversed, and she was about to go under the knife and he was chatting away on his phone, she’d be shooting him daggers with her eyes. Rapp pointed at the sign on the wall above the small desk. There was a cell phone with a red circle and a line going through it. Anna frowned at him. Rapp pointed at the sign again. She stuck her tongue out and turned her back on him. Rapp laughed to himself.
According to his watch it was three minutes past seven in the morning and he was hungry as all hell. He was under strict orders, though. No food before surgery. They didn’t want him puking on the operating table. Anna got off her phone and turned around.
“That was Phil. He says good luck.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“My boss, Mr. Smart-ass.”
Rapp had never met the man even though his wife had worked with him for nearly a year. “Where’s the love, honey?”
“It’s right here.” Anna rubbed her belly.
Rapp smiled and motioned for her to come closer. She was wearing a dark brown Juicy Couture sweat suit. He placed his hand on her stomach and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“A little constipated, but other than that, fine.”
“Lovely.” He made a face.
“You asked.” She sat down next to him and leaned back. She tugged at the ties on his hospital gown. “I can see your butt crack.”
Rapp shook his head. “Why in the hell do they make people wear these things?”
“You don’t know?” she asked sounding a little surprised.
“No.”
