There had been a time when Saudi women could leave the country with their faces covered. Those days were gone, but still they were only obligated to reveal themselves to female officials. Normally, one would be on hand to check facial features against passport photos. Apparently, the rules were a bit more relaxed for people who drove Rolls-Royces and flew in the top of Bombardier’s range.

“Because of air traffic control, we have no choice but to make a true flight plan to take you out of our country. You need an exit stamp in your passport. I don’t think we will have problems.”

“And if we do?”

“I am told that you know how to solve these kinds of problems. The plane is parked so cameras cannot see us. I can take the body and hide what has happened for the hour it will take for you to leave our airspace. After this I do not know what happens to you. I have not been told.”

“Understood.”

His driver slowed, focusing for a moment on the rearview mirror. “You look good, yes?”

“Yeah. Good enough to sell it, I think.”

The fat suit fit perfectly and was doing a good job obscuring his V-shaped torso. The fact that he’d dropped some muscle weight in order to return to endurance racing didn’t hurt, either. His face and hair were completely hidden by the burqa, leaving only his made-up eyes and neatly groomed eyebrows visible behind a light mesh. Overall, the effect was solid—right down to eyelashes a little heavy on the mascara.

His driver seemed to agree, nodding approvingly before gliding to a stop near the jet. Stepping out, he moved to the rear door to open it. His garb was just as traditional—red checkered headgear and a spotless white thobe that stretched over his stomach in a way that made him look vaguely pregnant.

Rapp had transferred his belongings from his duffle to a couple of Gucci shopping bags that were more in keeping with his disguise. Combined with the fat suit, though, they made it a little difficult to get out of the car. The fact that his driver felt compelled to guide him onto the tarmac by the elbow would serve to make the whole thing look even more authentic. Just a couple of wealthy Saudis doing the things that wealthy Saudis did.

No neck snapping or jugular slicing turned out to be necessary. The official barely even looked at him, flipping the passport to an empty page and stamping it before wandering back toward the terminal.

Rapp didn’t wait for the inevitable good-bye hug from his driver, instead ending their brief relationship with a nod and heading for the jet. His glittery shoes squeaked relentlessly as he climbed the steps and walked along the rows of plush leather seats. Once through a divider at the back, he dropped his bags and closed the door behind him.