Page 168 of Enemy Within

Faisal gasped, and he rocked back, his hands rising, covering his face as fresh tears poured from his eyes. Sobs shook his body again as he pitched forward, falling into Adam’s arms.

Bahrain. The only country in the Middle East where homosexuality was legal. Where they could be together, without fear. Without looking over their shoulders every moment of every day.

Where only a sixteen-mile-long bridge separated the tiny island kingdom of Bahrain from the east coast of Saudi Arabia.

They would be closer to Riyadh, to Faisal’s family—theirfamily—than ever before.

And they could be open about their love. No hiding. Not anymore.

“The ambassadorship to Bahrain is a vitally important one,hafeed. You will be interacting with the Americans daily, and with their operations in the Gulf. Their Gulf headquarters is there. You will be involved in multinational defense planning. A key member of the Gulf security team.” The king smiled again. “Bismillah, you are more than ready for this.”

Faisal nodded, but didn’t speak. Sobs still tore through him as he clung to Adam. Even Adam didn’t know what to say. Where had this come from? Never, not in their wildest dreams, had they imagined such acceptance. He’d been ready to pack his bags and move anywhere, and try and console Faisal’s broken and bereft heart after.

Now, he was going to be the husband of the Saudi Arabian Ambassador to Bahrain.

“There is one more thing we must do before you move into your new ambassadorship.” The king’s expression softened, as did Uncle Abdul’s. “Alhamdulillah, we must bless your marriage. You will performnikahagain, here, with your family.”

“Yallah, Your Royal Highness….” Faisal shook his head, sniffing. His hand gripped Adam’s, and he leaned into him, as if he’d fall apart if Adam weren’t holding him up. Adam stroked his back. “There is no imam that would bless ournikah.”

“There is,hafeed. Do not despair.” The king turned, finally, to Adam.

Adam swallowed, stiffening under the king’s full focus. He still held Faisal in his arms, and his skin crawled, the exposure making him want to reflexively escape, run away, flee. Years before, he’d been banished from Faisal’s life. Now, he cradled him close and listened to the Saudi Arabian king plan their wedding.

“Adam bin Cooper… al-Saud,” King Faisal said, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Ummun to billah.”May Allah bless your marriage with goodness. He held out his hand. Adam leaned in, grasped his hand, and pressed a kiss to his thin, weathered skin. As he pulled back, King Faisal took his hand and drew it to his lips, kissing him in return. “Nahn eayila, Adam bin Cooper al-Saud.”

We are family.

73

Shipunovskaya, Russia

SHIPUNOVSKAYA, IN THE NORTHERN Arkhangelsk Oblast, was a weary, shitty place.

Sergey drove twelve hours north from Moscow, straight up the M-8. For the first time in too long, he was alone. No bodyguards. No staff. No Ilya.

No Sasha.

As he drove, the plains of Moscow gave way to thick forests, and then the northern hinterlands, the farming and logging lands of Russia’s wild north. Half-hewn forests rose and fell next to the road, and decrepit logging trucks rumbled by his sedan, rough logs balanced precariously on the back of rusted flatbeds. Children sometimes rode on top of the great piles of logs, waving to him with their hair flapping wildly around their heads. He grit his teeth and waved back, keeping his recriminations to himself.

Legislation to ban children on the backs of logging trucks would be added to the next session of the Duma.

Pastures opened between the trees, full of bored cows chewing on grass as they waded through ankle-deep mud. Overhead, the sky was the same steel gray as the Arctic. He was practically driving all the way back.

When he got to Shipunovskaya, he rolled through the dreary, drab town slowly, peering out his windows and searching for some sign that he was in the right place. Wooden houses slumped side by side, some with tarps thrown over half-sunken roofs. Paved roads turned suddenly to unpaved, muddy slush that nearly spun out his car. Cows wandered through the streets.

He would stand out, in his Moscow wool trench coat and cashmere scarf. Sergey tugged his hat down low over his forehead. A shitty disguise, but it was all he had.

Eventually, he found the mechanic’s shop, a plywood-and-rusted-steel claptrap just off the muddy main drive. A cow mooed at him when he drove in and stormed away when he parked too close.

The mechanic, the owner of the shop, didn’t want to talk to him until he passed over a bottle of vodka. Suddenly, he had loads to say. The man he was looking for, the man in his proffered picture, yeah, he worked there. Had come to town a few weeks ago, looking for work. Hitchhiked in. He worked long hours and never complained, and he made shit pay. The man was proud of how he stiffed his employees.

Had his employee fucked up Sergey’s car? Should he sack him? He’d be glad to, show that pretty-faced newcomer who was the boss.

No, no. Sergey rushed to reassure him that his car was in perfect order, thanks to the man in the picture. He’d helped him when his tire had blown and he just wanted to thank him. Could he see to it that the vodka was given to him?

Of course. The mechanic beamed, showing his rotten five teeth.

Also, did the mechanic happen to know where his employee lived?