by Bob Graham
“I take small pleasures where I can find them,” Tony remarked.
Brewster waved him off dismissively. “In spite of what the presidential polls look like nine weeks out, our guy is closing in and I think will pull it out. If he does, his gang isn’t going to be out to advance the career of a Foreign Service officer who was trying to dredge up mud from the past. In spite of its stresses and late nights, this is a pretty good job. You don’t want to be discredited and on the streets as of next January.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Tony said looking at his watch. “Time’s up. Now please get the hell out of my office.” As Brewster slammed the door behind him, Tony’s BlackBerry hummed.
“Hello, this is Tony Ramos.”
“Hi, it’s Laura. I’m in Minneapolis. Hope I didn’t wake you this time.”
“No, I’m on the job. What are you doing there?”
“The convention’s wrapping up tomorrow, and I’ve been contracted to take the senator’s photograph for Time.”
“Good for you,” Tony said perfunctorily.
“I didn’t call to talk politics. I wanted to tell you the Saudis accepted my offer and invited me to take the royal family photograph. I’ll be off from London to Jeddah in about a week.”
“Great. But remember, Laura, this is dangerous stuff.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know what you’ve told me. But I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you think you can, but—”
“Just tell me what you want me to do over there.”
“It’s not that simple. Before you leave London, I’ll give you some specifics. But we’re going to have to play it by ear, because what I want you to do is get to someone inside the royal court and use your celebrity and charm to get a lead on information we haven’t been able to surface so far.”
“What kind of information?”
“As a for-instance, I heard in San Diego the king is cranking up a big science project. True? If so, what for and how far along is it? Does it have any military significance? That’s the kind of thing we need. I’ll call you with more.”
“I’ll be at my apartment on Monday. Call me in the morning, London time.” She hung up.
As Tony passed Ms. Wilkens’s desk, he thanked her for expediting his leave request.
“Don’t thank me. It’s all the ambassador’s fault.” Uncharacteristically, she smiled as Tony passed into Talbott’s office.
The ambassador was more refreshed and energetic than Tony had seen him in a long time.
“No U.S. or NATO casualties in Afghanistan this past week. The Taliban seems to be moving back to its base camps, at least for now. And I was able to recharge my batteries on the Vineyard over Labor Day weekend. So all in all, not a bad week. I hope you were able to get some time off.”
“Not much, but I’ll see some different territory next week. Thank you for the leave.”
Talbott invited Tony to sit and eased into his desk chair. “I know you’re going to Riyadh for John Billington. I doubt the people he’ll send you to see will be the most virtuous in Saudi society.”
He opened a file on his desk. “Tony, INR is not in the intelligence collection business, but you will have some unusual access in Saudi Arabia and Malaysia. The department would like some second- and thirdsource confirmation on issues that are probably not on Billington’s list but you know better than anybody—our darkest nightmares: that all of Central Asia will collapse into the hands of the Taliban and bin Laden. While you are doing your work for Billington, consider two lines of questions in Riyadh: We haven’t had much success in shutting down the Saudi money flow into Afghanistan. There’s been a lingering suspicion that much of it is coming out of the Golden Chain in Jeddah.”
Tony perked up. “When I was in San Diego in August, Nasir used the same phrase. But he was referring to the ownership of Ercan, a company where al-Harbi, the Saudi agent in Southern California, was a noshow employee.” He considered all of this for a moment and then added, “That ... is ... very interesting.”
Talbott raised his glasses to his forehead. “The second area is the Saudis’ assessment of the situation in Afghanistan. Raise both issues with your colleague Rizzo and backdoor it to al-Dossari.”
Talbott leaned back in his leather chair, glancing at the books in his official library. “Tony, when you’re in Kuala Lumpur, find out what their intelligence knows about the Indians’ take on Pakistan. The Malaysians’ intel is good, and they legitimately feel we embarrassed them about the al-Qaeda meeting there in January of 2000. They’ve been close to the Indians and might have a take on how New Delhi calculates the possibility of a Pakistani collapse, and what would be India’s response.”
Tony removed the notebook from his coat pocket and entered the ambassador’s requests. “I’ll get what I can. If there’s anything else I can do, you know where to reach me.”
As he reached into his left-side desk drawer Talbott said, “One more thing.” He placed a Glock 26 pistol and a package of Velcro on his desk. “With what the senator and I are asking you to do, there is a possibility you’ll need this. I assume a former special ops member knows how to use it.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s necessary, but, yes, I think I can handle it.”
“Ms. Wilkens will have the paperwork prepared that will make you legal.”
Holding and rotating the light personal handgun, Tony said, “Mr. Ambassador, thank you, I guess.”
“Thank you, Tony. When you get back we’ll have moved you into your new office down the hall.”
“Thanks, but ...”
“You’ve been here ten years and you’ve done superior work. I think it’s about time. Although it looks over our scenic parking lot, I’m sure you’ll find it comfortable. The only drawback is, you’ll be farther from your friend Ben Brewster.”
Rising, Tony shook hands with Talbott. “I’ll try to live with the disappointment. I’ll have a full brief when I get back.”
The Saturday morning brunch at Eastern Market was a tradition for Capitol Hill aficionados. Carol had spent the night before at Tony’s, and at shortly before nine they walked the five blocks to the nineteenth-century market east of the Capitol. Tony’s standard was two eggs over light on a three-stack of buttermilk pancakes. Carol settled for yogurt in preparation for the October Marine Corps Marathon.
Sitting on the benches abutting C Street, Tony thought his personal life had never been better. “It’s going to be tough being halfway around the world from you,” he said, “even for a few days.”
“At least I’ll be busy in the Caymans while you’re away.”
“Is that a follow-up to Zurich?”
“Primarily. The department has gotten the green light from the Anglo-Cayman Bank to open up the accounts of transactions involving BAE’s money shuffled back from Zurich and where that money went from the Caymans. I don’t anticipate the stonewalling I got initially at Zurich-Alliance; at least I’m hoping I won’t.”
“What else do you expect to be doing there?”
“Well, I’ve been told there is an eight-mile beach with lots of macho men. Just in case you revert back to form, I want to have some options in place.”
Tony smiled and reached out for Carol’s hand. “That’s good planning. I expect to be back on the 13th. But assuming you don’t fall head over heels for some of that meatloaf on the beach, will you hold space on your dance card open?”
“If you’re a good boy,” she promised.
Tony had scheduled a Saturday afternoon flight on Saudi Arabian Airlines from JFK, to arrive in Riyadh on Sunday morning. That would give him time to recuperate from jet lag and have a late dinner with Jonathan Rizzo, a colleague in the INR on temporary-duty assignment to the embassy.
Once airborne, he opened Billington’s memo and reviewed the relevant section.
Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia:
My suspicion is that the agents of the Kingdom who facilitated the 9/11 hijackers reached throughout the United States
, but we know they emanated from Riyadh. Two of those agents were based in Southern California.
Hamza al-Dossari was the officer for Islamic and cultural affairs in the Kingdom’s Los Angeles consulate in January 2000. While it is reported there were numerous contacts with al-Hazmi and al-Mihdhar in January of 2000, what al-Dossari knew of the purposes of their mission is still a secret. His relationship to Omar al-Harbi is even more so.
Al-Harbi, while living in San Diego, was described by the FBI in 1999 as an agent of the Saudi Kingdom. His portfolio was to monitor Saudi students attending colleges and universities in Southern California. From January to December of 2000, al-Harbi was the principal patron and protector and a significant financer of al-Hazmi and al-Mihdhar.
From INR sources Tony had augmented the senator’s memo.
Hamza al-Dossari has lived in Riyadh since he was declared persona non grata for alleged terrorist-related activities, terminated from the L. A. consular position he held 1998–2003, and deported from the U.S. in May 2003. He has a desk job at the foreign ministry, feels isolated, without a future, and is hostile to the Kingdom ...
Omar al-Harbi separated or has been separated from Kingdom employment. His employment or pension status is unknown. ... Like al-Dossari, al-Harbi feels abused and used, in his case both by the Kingdom and the U.S.
High over the north Atlantic, Tony stretched his blanket over the vacant seats on either side of him and asked the attendant to awaken him for dinner.
SEPTEMBER 7–8
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Tony shook off the muscle stiffness from the nearly twelve-hour flight with a brisk walk from the Golden Tulip Hotel around Riyadh’s al-Dirah district. During his two years on the professional tour, it had been his habit to arrive at the site of the tournament a day early so his body could acclimate to the time zone and his mind could focus on the nuances of the new environment.
This was his first visit to Riyadh. In the stark contrast of modern office towers scattered among ancient buildings, their perpendicular corners anchored by spires from which came periodic prayer calls, Tony abandoned any pretense of direction and meandered from the modern boulevards to narrow, heavily shadowed alleys. The acrid smells of lamb barbequing on an overhanging patio melded with the heavy smoke from the narghiles in street-side cafés. Women in black burkas and veils strolled in groups of twos and threes, stepping into the gutter when men approached on the cobblestone walk. In the distance Tony heard the roar of a crowd.
At the end of the block, he turned left and entered a portal opening onto a sunlit square about the size of ten tennis courts. On the far side was an ornate three-story structure, its front inscribed with classic Arabic script identifying it as the palace of the provincial governor. From the upper balcony an elderly man dressed in silken robes solemnly observed the activities below.
In the center of the square was a platform, two meters above the ground. Ten wooden steps led up the side of the rectangular structure. Five rows of men encircled it and prevented Tony from drawing closer.
The murmuring of the gathered became a rising wave. What appeared to be a college-age youth, hands bound behind his back and a black-and-white scarf tied over his eyes, was being pulled up the steps. He resisted, tripped, and fell to his knees on the last step. Three men in military camouflage uniforms dragged him to the center of the stage. The noise from the crowd grew louder.
The youth was positioned in a squat, head pressed between his knees. A football lineman–sized figure, the details of his physique hidden by a loose black shirt and his face covered with the desert equivalent of a ski mask, emerged from among the functionaries assembled on the rear of the platform. He walked with assurance to the far side of the youth. He was cradling a curved sword more than a meter in length.
The youth had given up the struggle. Even if Tony had understood colloquial Saudi Arabic, the youth’s garbled utterances would have been indecipherable. His robes were stained with his own urine.
The burly man planted his feet at a distance equal to the sword’s length. Slowly he raised the blade over the center of his body as gracefully as the backswing of the most accomplished golfer, arched his back, and brought the weapon forward, accelerating as it neared impact.
The head of the youth fell between his legs, spewing deep red blood as it rolled over the front edge into the crowd. Amid shouts of exaltation, the onlookers surged forward to shake the hand of the executioner.
Tony felt his abdomen tremble. Lowering his head toward his now sweat-soaked chest, he turned away, his initial walking steps morphing into a jog until he reached the Golden Tulip.
He washed himself first in the shower stall and then soaked in the elaborate two-person bathtub. It took the better part of an hour before he could deflect his mind from what he had witnessed in the square, and ordered his sleep-deprived body into a near-coma.
He slept through his six o’clock wristwatch alarm, and it was almost seven when he rolled over to look at the bedside clock. Drowsily he recalled his dinner appointment with Jonathan Rizzo in the lobby bar in half an hour.
At the appointed time he stepped off the elevator into a lobby mixed with time zone–blurred men and others with the voices and body language of weekend celebrants. Tony spotted Jonathan sitting at one of the tables that separated the bar from the concierge desk. They embraced as old, long-separated friends. Jonathan led the way into the darker interior of the lounge. He ordered Chivas Regal and Tony, seeing no tropical options on the bar list, did the same.
The two friends reconnected over tales of their interwoven experiences as intelligence officers. Both had come into the State Department in the summer of 2000, Jonathan from graduate studies at Fletcher, and Tony having been eliminated in the second round at Monaco, his last pro tennis tournament. After the mandatory introductory training and six months of Arabic language school at Monterey, they were assigned to the Central Asia desk of INR. In a childhood bout with measles, Rizzo had suffered hearing loss that necessitated an aid in his right ear. This handicap had affected his ability to fully capture Arabic; thus his speech was distorted. Except for Tony’s sixteen months with Senator Billington, both had been desk-bound analysts until Rizzo was detailed to Riyadh to work on classified issues between Pakistan and Saudi Arabia.
“Tony, before we order another round,” Jonathan advised, “we should go to your room. I don’t know what you or your friend Billington have been doing, but it’s making some serious waves out here in Riyadh. Better we talk in a less public place. I’ve got a bottle from the embassy exchange. We won’t die of thirst.”
In Tony’s room, Jonathan poured the scotch and Tony added a splash of water. Jonathan turned the television to an Argentine-Brazilian soccer match and raised the volume. They sat on the facing sides of the room’s twin beds, speaking in a whisper with Jonathan’s right ear tilted toward Tony.
Tony detailed the beheading.
“That’s the way they do it here: swift, public, and violent.”
“What’s the point?” Tony asked.
“The place you stumbled into is known in Riyadh as Chop-Chop Square. The kingdom and its religion believe in maximum punishment as maximum deterrence. What distinguishes this culture is the number of criminal acts that carry the death penalty. The kingdom is committed to public violence for its chilling effect on deviant behavior and dissent.”
“Do you have any idea what that poor bastard might have lost his head for?”
“Who knows? There’s been an increase in sentences for people—did you say he looked to be in his twenties?”
“Yes.”
“Probably for acts the kingdom considers threatening. Whenever there’s an uptick in anti-royal behavior, the executioner comes out. Since Iraq almost caved and we had to send our troops back in, the princes have been concerned that an emboldened al-Qaeda might surface. I don’t know, you could have witnessed the last moments of a suspected bin Laden follower.”
“Will we ever find out?
”
“Oh, yes. Part of the chill is to broadcast the bloodiest details on national radio and TV. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”
Tony and Jonathan took a full swallow from their hotel glasses. Tony went to the bathroom.
When he returned, Jonathan was reading a paper he had sequestered in his inside coat pocket. “There are at least three pieces of intelligence relevant to the current situation in Saudi Arabia that could be helpful to you,” he offered in an even more guarded tone. “With the avalanche of dollars from the run-up in oil prices, the Saudis have increased their support of extremist factions. We have not been able to confirm he is a beneficiary, but there have been sightings of Osama bin Laden in Jeddah.”
Tony straightened. “Are you serious? And none of this has been reported publicly?”
“Way too sensitive for this administration.”
“God damn, I hope we have better sources than we did before we started the war in Iraq.”
“We do. Since we started to let more Americans of Arab ancestry into the agency, our intelligence has dramatically improved. Also, we have vetted assets within the palace and, more recently, two foreign NOCs.”
Tony was familiar with the increasing use in this part of the world of nonofficial cover assets, such as businessmen or professionals who had a second job: spying for the United States.
“The king was stunned by the renewal of terrorist attacks, especially against the royal family. It’s been over two years since the attack on the oil facilities at Aramco. The response to that was typically Saudi: conflicted. An increase in enforcement, as you witnessed this morning, coupled with an effort at reconciliation.”
Jonathan walked to the door and cracked it open. He stuck his head into the hallway. When satisfied, he resumed his seat on the bed. “Now it looks like a third way is again on the table: capitulation. As you know from the congressional inquiry, two years before the attack, bin Laden threatened the kingdom with revolution unless al-Qaeda’s operatives were given access to and support from the Saudis’ agents in the U.S. The old king capitulated. We’re not sure what the ask is this time, but we’re concerned the current king will also give in. That’s why we’re taking to ground the rumors about Osama.