We were seventy-five minutes north of Riyadh when Khalid turned the wheel of the Land Cruiser sharply to the left, off the asphalt and onto the desert. Except for an abandoned tire and a piece of wood reading KM 23, there were no indications why we should turn here onto the unmarked sands. “Have you ever heard of Wahhabis?” Khalid asked me. “My family are the original Wahhabis.”
“Fantastic!” I said, thinking that this was perhaps not the best time to tell him I was the grandson of two rabbis.