“Omar was impressed?”

“No,” said Hanifa. “Omar wasn’t impressed. Omar was in love.”

There soon appeared in the pages of the Arab News many flattering articles about the dynamic young son of the Saudi monarch who went by the initials KBM. But Omar turned on Khalid not long after he became crown prince, when he ordered a roundup of scores of dissidents and pro-democracy activists, including several of Omar’s closest friends. The Arab News was editorially silent on the arrests, but Omar unleashed a barrage of criticism on social media, including a blistering Twitter post that compared KBM to the ruler of Russia. The chief of KBM’s court sent Omar a message instructing him to refrain from any further criticism of His Royal Highness. Omar responded by ridiculing KBM for purchasing more than a billion dollars’ worth of homes, yachts, and paintings while ordinary Saudis suffered under his economic austerity measures.

“After that,” said Hanifa, “it was game on.”

But in a country like Saudi Arabia, there was only one possible outcome for a contest between the royal family and a dissident journalist. The Royal Data Center monitored Omar’s phones and intercepted his e-mails and text messages. The center even tried to disable his social media feeds. And when that failed, they attacked them with thousands of fake postings from bots and trolls. But the last straw was the bullet, a single .45-caliber round, delivered to Omar’s office at the Arab News. He left Saudi Arabia that night and never returned.

He moved into Hanifa’s apartment, married her in a quiet ceremony, and found work at Der Spiegel. As his social media posts grew ever more critical of KBM, his number of online followers increased dramatically. Saudi agents brazenly trailed him through the streets of Berlin. His phone was besieged by threatening e-mails and texts.

“The message was unmistakable. It didn’t matter that Omar had left the Kingdom, they could still get to him. He became convinced he was going to be kidnapped or killed.”

Nevertheless, he decided to risk a trip to Cairo to write a story about life in Egypt under the new pharaoh, whom Omar despised almost as much as Khalid. And in the lobby of the Hotel Sofitel, he happened upon a minor Saudi prince whom Khalid had fleeced in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. The minor prince, like Omar, was now living in exile. They agreed to have dinner that night at a restaurant in Zamalek, an affluent quarter of Cairo located on Gezira Island. It was late summer, August, and the night was stifling. Even so, the minor prince insisted on dining al fresco. When they were seated, he instructed Omar to switch off his phone and remove the SIM card. Then he told Omar about a rumor he had heard concerning a plot to remove Khalid from the line of succession.

“Omar expressed skepticism over the plot’s chances for success. KBM had been the target of numerous assassination and coup attempts, and all had failed because he controlled the security services and the Royal Data Center. But the prince insisted this plot was different.”

“Why?”

“A foreign power was involved.”

“Which one?”

“The prince didn’t know. But he told Omar the plot involved Khalid’s daughter. The conspirators were planning to kidnap her in order to force Khalid to abdicate.”

“You’re sure it was August?”

“I can show you the text messages Omar sent from Cairo.”

“Did they contain any reference to the plot against Khalid?”

“Of course not. Omar knew the Royal Data Center was monitoring his communications. He waited until he was back in Berlin before telling me. We spoke in the Tiergarten, no phones. I’m afraid Omar didn’t care much for my reaction.”

“You wanted Omar to tell Khalid about the plot.”

“I said he was obliged to.”

“Because Khalid’s daughter might be killed?”

She nodded. “And because, despite all his faults and failings, Khalid was better than the alternative.”

“I take it Omar disagreed.”

“He said it would be journalistically unethical for him to tell Khalid what he’d learned.”

“What did he do?”

“He went back to the Middle East to try to turn a rumor into an actual news story.”

“And you?”

“I pretended to be Omar.”

“How?”

She created a Yahoo account with an address that was a play on Omar’s name: [email protected]. Then she sent a series of e-mails to the Saudi Ministry of Media requesting an interview with His Royal Highness Prince Khalid bin Mohammed. There was no reply—not unusual where the Saudis were concerned—so she dispatched a warning to an address she found in Omar’s contacts. It was someone close to KBM, a senior man in his royal court.

“You told him about the plot?”

“Not in any detail.”

“Did you mention Reema?”

“No.”

A few days later Hanifa received an e-mail from the Saudi Embassy in Berlin. Khalid wanted Omar to return to Riyadh so they could meet. Hanifa’s response made it clear Omar would never set foot in the Kingdom again. A week passed. Then she received a final e-mail from the address of the senior man in Khalid’s court. He wanted Omar to come to the consulate in Istanbul the following Tuesday at one fifteen in the afternoon. Khalid would be waiting.

45

Berlin

When Omar returned to Berlin, Hanifa told him what she had done in his name. Once again, they spoke in the Tiergarten, no phones, but this time it was obvious they were being followed. Omar was furious with her, though he hid his anger from the watching Saudi agents. His reporting trip to the Middle East had borne fruit. He had confirmed everything he had been told by his source in Cairo, including the involvement of a foreign power in the plot against Khalid. Omar now faced a difficult choice. If he wrote what he knew in the pages of Der Spiegel, Khalid would use the information to crush the coup and consolidate his grip on power. But if Omar allowed the conspiracy to unfold as planned, an innocent child might be harmed, or even killed.

“And the invitation to come to Istanbul?” asked Gabriel.

“Omar thought it was a trap.”

“So why did he agree to go?”

“Because I convinced him.” Hanifa was silent for a moment. “I’m to blame for Omar’s death. He would have never walked into that consulate were it not for me.”

“How did you change his mind?”

“By telling him he was going to be a father.”

“You’re pregnant?”

“I was pregnant. I’m not anymore.”

Their conversation in the Tiergarten occurred on the Friday. Hanifa sent an e-mail to the address of Khalid’s aide and informed him that Omar would arrive at the consulate the following Tuesday, as requested, at 1:15 p.m. He spent Saturday and Sunday turning his recordings and notes into a coherent story for Der Spiegel, and on Monday he and Hanifa flew to Istanbul and checked into the InterContinental Hotel. That evening, as they strolled along the Bosporus, they were followed by both Saudi and Turkish surveillance teams.

“On Tuesday morning, Omar was so nervous I was afraid he might have a heart attack. I managed to calm him down. ‘If they’re going to kill you,’ I said, ‘the last place on earth they would do it is inside one of their consulates.’ We left the hotel at twelve thirty. The traffic was so terrible we barely made it on time. At the security barricades, Omar gave me his phone. Then he kissed me and went inside.”