Keys to the Kingdom

by Bob Graham

  Tears began to well in his eyes as Nasir’s head dropped to his chest. “Jorge called me about four years ago. He had been diagnosed with prostate cancer and the best treatment was in Houston. He asked for my help in securing a humanitarian visa. I called on our Senator Goldstein to help. Jorge was denied. Last August, while I was away, I received a message from his widow that, after years of suffering, he had mercifully passed.

  “That is the way your country treats its friends. That is the way it has treated me. I tried to be a loyal citizen of your nation, a country I used to love. After four years held out of my home and against my wishes, your Mr. Kelly told me I was no longer of any value to the FBI and gave me a check for $100,000. That was the end.”

  To let the old man collect himself, Tony asked permission to use the guest bathroom. When he returned, Nasir’s eyes were red, moist, and he had slumped back in his chair.

  “Doctor, this will be my last question,” Tony said, with a furtive look to Terri. “And I hope it is not too intrusive. Terri has mentioned that you had been visiting Saudi Arabia since the end of the First Persian Gulf War, then suspended your travel for six years, and now you are going again. Could you tell me the purpose of the trips?”

  Enveloped by the upholstered chair, Nasir looked at the ceiling of his patio. He could not have missed seeing the twists of peeling paint that scarred the surface. His head and eyes dropped until he was looking directly into Tony’s dark eyes.

  “In the final year before my retirement, I was asked by a colleague if I would visit the kingdom to discuss possible involvement in a scientific project within my professional expertise. Curious, and frankly anxious to supplement my pension, I agreed.”

  Tony leaned forward, “Dr. Nasir, what was the nature of the project?”

  Terri gave Tony a stern glance. Before she could intervene, for the first time since their arrival the professor evinced a smile. “Mr. Ramos, I respect your governmental position. You must understand that I am not at liberty to disclose details of my employment with the kingdom. I can say I worked on the project for almost seven years, finally becoming disconcerted as to its direction. When the divorce was final, I left the project, returned permanently to my home, and shortly thereafter began my work with the FBI.”

  “You said that was about 1999?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your agent in charge or any other FBI official question you as to your repeated trips to Saudi Arabia?”

  In an increasingly strained voice, Nasir replied, “I told them about the trips, I remember giving them the airline tickets from my last one in 1999. Mr. Kelly didn’t seem to care.”

  The doctor asked to suspend the interview for a few minutes and walked to the kitchen, returning with a plate of nan khatai cookies. He explained how these had been his mother’s favorite in their Bombay home, and then continued. “After I was released by the FBI, my financial condition was worse than it had been in 1999. The kingdom urged me to rejoin the project. It was only to be for a few months and I accepted. Because of a setback several years ago, the project was extended but now is on track and approaching its final stages.”

  Tony rose. “Thank you. Your hospitality is very much appreciated, Dr. Nasir.”

  With a halting step, Nasir accompanied them to the front door. He waved as Tony closed the driver’s door for Terri and climbed into the passenger’s seat.

  Tony thanked Terri for arranging the meeting with Dr. Nasir. “He gave me some exceptionally candid information and insights. But the thing he said which most struck me was his reference to the United States as ‘your country.’”

  “I had the same reaction,” Terri agreed. “That a highly educated intellectual who has been a naturalized American for decades would disassociate himself like that speaks volumes about the state of our relationship with the Muslim world.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t be all that surprising. Our standing in the world in general has taken a pounding with Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib, allegations of torture, and all the rest, not to mention the flap over putting the mosque near Ground Zero and that minister in Florida threatening to burn Korans on the anniversary of 9/11. And Terri, your profession hasn’t done us any favors by focusing on the superficial minutiae of foreign relations and underreporting things like those that will shape our future.”

  Terri demurred, and followed a right-lane sign announcing it was five miles to the airport.

  After additional moments of silence that Tony interpreted as his punishment for having gone over the line, he said, “OK, we’ve gotten that off our chests. Before we get to the terminal—you’ve told me your life story up to your job with the newspaper. What’s happened since then?”

  With the same directness she would give to a newspaper story, she related, “I married John McKenzie four years after we graduated from San Diego State. It was a shock for the Martinez family. Before me no one had ever married a non-Latino. The first three years were the forever honeymoon. But after our first child was stillborn, everything changed. We both felt responsible. A year later we separated, and five years to the day after we were married, the divorce became final.”

  Tony said, “I’m sorry. I hope you find a new happiness.”

  Terri eased the Acura into an open slot on the departure level. Removing his overnight bag from the trunk, Tony took her hand. “I have a lot to thank Senator Billington for, and you’ve given me an additional reason.”

  With a slight hand squeeze, Tony moved to the revolving door and the gate beyond.

  AUGUST 2

  Long Beach

  Less than seventy-five miles to the north, as Tony’s United flight was taxiing to the runway, a blue and gold Gulfstream 550 was touching down at the Long Beach municipal airport.

  Laura had taken full advantage of its spacious accommodations. After sleeping over the Atlantic to well north of James Bay, she had had ample time for a rejuvenating workout and a warm shower. She stepped off the aircraft as if walking across from her flat to the Dorchester for afternoon tea.

  She emerged from the back of a black Peninsular Mercedes and was directed to the front door of The Pacific restaurant. It was less than three blocks from the firm’s headquarters and the only five-star restaurant in Long Beach. Jeralewski was waiting at a table.

  He made some perfunctory recommendations for the dinner fare and waited patiently while the waiter took their orders. As soon as the young man had collected their menus, Jeralewski leaned slightly forward and said, “Ms. Billington, I want you to become a Peninsular associate.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s an arrangement we have with a select few individuals who can provide us with—shall we say—‘strategic’ information.”

  “What kind of strategic information?”

  “First, let me say we are aware of your regrettable financial challenges.”

  “How—how—?” Laura’s stammer quickly asserted itself.

  Jeralewski waved her off with a flick of his hand. “We make it our business to know things. Though I suspect when the story hits the gossip circuit, it will be difficult for most people to fathom how someone of your celebrity and earning power has managed to get herself fifteen million dollars in the hole.”

  Laura could feel herself begin to tremble.

  “Be that as it may,” the chief executive continued, “we are prepared to buy the note you signed before such an eventuality takes place. If the services you perform for us are sufficiently, shall we say, ‘valuable,’ ... we might be persuaded, in the fullness of time, to cancel the note and consider the matter resolved.”

  Laura struggled not to stammer. “What—services?”

  “Ms. Billington, your profession and the exceptional celebrity you have achieved through its practice have given you access to many of the world’s most important persons. In turn, those are the people who frequently have access to information our firm would find useful.”

  Laura bristled. “I am an artist. This is a matter of profession
al integrity.”

  Jeralewski leaned back and sighed, as if he were trying to make a simple point to a rather slow child. “It is also a matter of fifteen million dollars. You will have to decide how you wish to balance the two.”

  “What—what—specifically are you—?”

  “Well, to begin with, you have befriended a young man, Tony Ramos by name.”

  She felt as if she had just been stripped naked. She wondered how long they had been watching her.

  “We are interested in knowing this Mr. Ramos better, and believe you could be of material assistance.”

  “What—what would you want to know, Mr. Jeralewski?” she asked.

  “At present, whatever you can tell us. Based on that, we might perhaps give you more ‘directed’ assignments. And please call me Roland.”

  AUGUST 4

  Washington, D.C.

  Senator Billington had directed that Tony report the results of his far-flung inquiries to Senator John Stoner. Although his San Diego stop was only the first of Tony’s assignments, he felt he should use his experiences there as an opportunity to reconnect with Senator Stoner and share what he had found.

  Stoner’s career had paralleled Billington’s. Both had served as governor of their states and moved directly to the United States Senate. Their shared interests included intelligence. When Billington retired, Stoner became chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

  Tony walked the seven blocks from his townhouse to the Hart Senate Office Building. The edifice was a product of more than a century of competition between the White House and the two houses of Congress. President Theodore Roosevelt built a new wing on the White House without congressional authorization or appropriation. Feeling hurt and ignored, the congressional leaders responded by building the first office buildings for the House of Representatives and the Senate. In the 1960s, a modest addition to the White House led to the erection of the brutally massive Rayburn Building on the House side. Hart’s clean and marbled exterior and the Calder sculpture Mountains and Clouds in the soaring atrium were the Senate’s bid for parity.

  Senator Stoner was waiting for Tony at the door to his elegant suite. The interior decoration indicated that the senator maintained his family’s interest in modern art and his own in the native quilts and handicraft of the rural state he represented.

  He greeted Tony with the warmth of family members long separated.

  Stoner was the tallest member of the Senate; his hair almost brushed the doorframe as he escorted Tony. “It’s so good to see you,” he declared, motioning Tony to the white sofa. “Have a seat, my friend.”

  After they sat down and Tony gave him a quick update on his life, Stoner said, “Well, you’ve covered everything that isn’t personal.”

  “I didn’t want to waste your time,” Tony responded.

  “Horseshit! Is there a special woman?”

  Tony was taken off guard and slightly embarrassed. “There is one I’ve been seeing since March. I hope it will amount to something.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you need me to impress her on your behalf with my well-documented charm. Now, what else can I do for you?”

  “I have some troubling questions Senator Billington surfaced and presented to me just before he was killed.”

  Tony paused to allow Stoner to reflect on the tragedy of his friend and colleague’s death. Tony recounted the telephone call the day before Billington’s hit-and-run death. He shared the memo transferred to him by Mrs. Billington.

  As Stoner read, Tony stood and walked over to the window with a panoramic view of the Capitol. As many years as he had been living and working in its shadow, the building still filled him with emotion. The events since Billington’s death had sharpened his patriotic impulses.

  With Stoner having read Billington’s memo, Tony related his San Diego experiences and the disclosures of Professor Nasir.

  “Senator, of the three questions on Senator Billington’s mind, what I learned on Saturday points to deeper Saudi involvement than either the congressional or the 9/11 Commission investigators unearthed. And the reason for those failures to detect seems to be a cover-up by our government.”

  “What were your take-aways for those points?”

  “Professor Nasir confirmed that al-Harbi was an agent of the kingdom, his income came from sources with close ties to the kingdom, and he was the principal interlocutory with Hazmi and Mihdhar while they were in Southern California.”

  “Do you have any primary-source evidence from al-Harbi?”

  “No sir, but I hope to meet with him in Riyadh in September.”

  Stoner leaned back on the ornate rural-fashion sofa pillows. “Could I tag along?”

  “As you like.”

  The senator sighed. “With the last days of the congressional session and my reelection campaign, I’ll have to pass. But I’m anxious to hear what you find out.”

  “Of course. The second take-away was that the cover-up that kept us in the dark was not just the result of individual incompetence or deceit. That Nasir had simultaneously been a paid asset of the FBI and the landlord of Hazmi and Mihdhar, and that both inquiries were denied access to the professor, was a systematic withholding; I suspect the order came from the top.”

  “You mean,” Stoner hesitated as the significance of his yet unasked question sank in, “the White House?”

  “Yes.”

  “Apart from the professor’s trips to Saudi Arabia, which are a mystery to me, what you have unearthed is exactly what Billington and I thought had happened. You could be on the road to answering the secrets the Joint Inquiry could not. Where are you going from here?”

  “To complete Senator Billington’s itinerary. Assuming events in Afghanistan allow it, I hope to be in Riyadh and Kuala Lumpur early next month.”

  Stoner stood and paced the lush carpet. “Let me give you some unsolicited advice. Avoid the ambassadors in both places. They’re political appointees due to their money and hard-wired neo-con views of the world. Both are very loyal and will not take well to your nosing around.” Stoner removed a Senate business card from his coat pocket and scribbled on the back. “These are my personal numbers and email address. If you have any difficulties, contact me.”

  As Tony prepared to leave, Stoner placed his hand on his shoulder. “Tony, what you’re doing is very important to the security of the nation and very dangerous for you. Let me help wherever I can. And when you complete this next stage of your mission, let’s talk again.”

  “Senator, I look forward to that.” With a handshake, Tony left the building and started walking in the bright midday sunlight.

  By noon, Tony was at his Truman Building office. By 4:30, he was down to the telephone messages. At the top of the pile was one from Carol Watson.

  “Carol, how are you?”

  “Tony, we’ve got some issues.”

  Surprised, he asked, “After the night we had last Monday, what do you mean with a comment like that?”

  “Well, to start with, that was then and today is two weeks later, and I have hardly heard your voice.”

  Attracted by the rising volume of Tony’s voice, Ben Brewster leaned in the partially opened doorway.

  Tony waved him away and continued, “Look, Carol, you know how overloaded I’ve been in the office. Plus I had to go to Tallahassee for Senator Billington’s funeral and San Diego to find some of the answers to his questions.”

  “And that’s another thing: you could have clued me in on your schedule instead of me having to find out from the bureau’s receptionist. And, finally, you said you would find out why Justice had suddenly gotten so interested in this case. Tony, I know how important the senator was in your life. I appreciate that. I’m sorry he was killed in the accident. But it’s totally unacceptable for you to fly across the country, not even tell me you’re going, and leave me hanging without the information you promised to deliver.”

  Struggling to keep his temper in check, Tony slowly stated, �
��Senator Billington was one of the most influential men in my life. Given that, what he was working on, and the circumstances of his death, I owe him my respect and best efforts to get the answers to his questions. And, yes, I haven’t had time to do any checking on Justice, but I promise you my failure is no signal that it was just a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am night.”

  There was no reply. Tony continued in a quieter and warmer voice, “Carol, I think I’ll get out of here by nine. Could I meet you then?”

  The phone went dead.

  Now aware that Brewster was still eavesdropping from the doorjamb, Tony exploded, “Get the fuck out of here, Brewster; this is none of your damn business!”

  With a satisfied sneer, Brewster backed away. “You could be right, or, Mr. Ramos, you could be wrong.”

  AUGUST 12

  Washington, D.C.

  Tony had not seen Carol for three weeks. It was not for lack of trying. He had called her every day, even sent roses on her August 10 birthday.

  At his regular tennis match with Mark, it was obvious after four points that Tony had never played worse.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Mark inquired across the net.

  “I’m just getting warmed up,” Tony replied without conviction.

  Mark lowered his racquet and motioned Tony over to the net. “Take it from Uncle Mark: there are only three areas of major concern in life—work, health, and love. I know you too well to think that work would get in the way of your game. So it has to be one of the other two. So, which one? Are you okay?”

  Tony wiped his already sweat-soaked forehead with his towel. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Okay then, what’s the name of the young lady in question?”