by Bob Graham
After a pause, al-Harbi concluded the tale with a question. “Was anybody deceived by such behavior?”
“Yes, almost everybody,” Tony replied. “Your king was pretending to be offended, and our president boasted that he was defending national security. My friend Senator Billington saw this as just another chapter in the U.S.-Saudi cover-up. The surprising thing is that this third-rate soap opera got by most of the U.S. press and virtually all the American public.”
The afternoon heat was becoming oppressive. Al-Harbi suggested they adjourn to the living room. There, Tony began the questioning. He thought the directness, the absence of al-Dossari’s circuitous responses, gave credibility to what al-Harbi was recounting.
In 1995, while he was an auditor with the Saudi Civil Aviation Authority, al-Harbi was recruited to serve as an agent of the kingdom, monitoring the activities of Saudi college students. With approximately twenty others, he was given six months’ training in the craft of clandestine personal surveillance, a crash course to enhance his English, and an overview of American culture. He was reassigned by the Civil Aviation Authority in the summer of 1996 to a shell position with the CAA’s U.S. office and two years later transferred to a “ghost” job at Ercan, a Saudi subcontractor to the aviation authority in San Diego.
“What do you mean by ‘ghost’?” Tony asked, seeking confirmation for what Billington had written and he had heard from Nasir.
“I never showed up except to get my paycheck and allowances.”
Al-Harbi didn’t know how many of the other trainees had been placed in the United States, but it was his impression that most had shared his English-language and American-culture training.
“When I left for Birmingham, I was replaced by Ahmad al-Otaibi, who I had mentored in San Diego. He had received similar preparation in Saudi Arabia. He left after 9/11. I have been told al-Otaibi’s current successor went through the same courses we had but also had an intelligence background. The kingdom seems to be continuing a policy of surveillance, but with enhanced capability to take on other assignments.”
Al-Harbi confirmed the January 2000 meeting with al-Dossari at the kingdom’s Los Angeles consulate. At that meeting he was told by al-Dossari that two Saudi men on an unknown mission were in Los Angeles and the consul had been directed to provide them with sanctuary and support for an indeterminate time. The two would be having lunch at the Mediterranean Restaurant at one o’clock that afternoon. Al-Harbi and his traveling companion, who was waiting in the lobby of the consulate, were to meet them and urge them to relocate in San Diego. When the two Saudi men agreed to do so, arrangements were made for al-Harbi’s monthly allowance at Ercan to be increased by an amount thought to be sufficient to cover their expenses while they were living in San Diego. Several weeks later al-Harbi determined the amount was not adequate for their lifestyle plus flying lessons, and additional funds were made available through an account at the Saudi embassy under the control of the wife of the ambassador.
“I was not given a voice in the decision to place these two men, al-Hazmi and al-Mihdhar, under my supervision. It was a distraction from my surveillance responsibilities. And they did not conduct themselves as followers of Allah.”
Al-Harbi confirmed Professor Nasir’s description of the two men’s inability to control their vices. “They both became regulars at the strip clubs of San Diego. And they weren’t any better at what they were here to do. Both took flying lessons, but they were so inept—their trainer called them ‘dumb and dumber’—they were pulled out of the flight school.”
Tony glanced at his watch. It was approaching 2:30. “How did Professor Nasir get involved?”
“Both, particularly al-Hazmi, were—what is the English word?—finicky. He didn’t like the apartment I had found and paid for. He had heard of the professor who took in young Saudi men as boarders and demanded to move. Al-Mihdhar was a boarder at Professor Nasir’s home for only a few weeks. He was recalled to Yemen to recruit additional hijackers, the ones Americans call the muscle men. Al-Hazmi stayed seven months. I was unaware Professor Nasir had become a paid informant for the FBI. If I knew then what I know now I would never have let them stay.”
Tony asked, “I’ve heard rumors of an organization called the Golden Chain. While you were in San Diego did you have any awareness of such a group?”
“Well, one of its members owned Ercan, so I assume he was aware of what I was up to. Occasionally, there were wire transfers to al-Hazmi from Jeddah, which I suspected, but had no evidence, were from the Golden Chain. It is very rich.”
“One final question, please,” Tony requested. “I understand you were questioned by representatives of what we in the U.S. called the 9/11 Commission—correct?”
“In late 2003 or early 2004, I did talk with a man from the commission, but only under the condition there be a member of the Saudi intelligence service in the room at all times. His questions were not all that deep; not like yours.”
“What were some of the questions?”
“It’s been a long time, but as I remember, they were mainly about my assignments before al-Hazmi and al-Mihdhar arrived. How many students was I monitoring? Did I detect any activities that could have been threatening to the kingdom? What did I do with that information? None related to 9/11. I got the sense he wanted to say he had interviewed me but without going to the places your questions have.”
Tony thanked al-Harbi and his wife. He was returning to the television as Tony closed the door and began the first steps down the staircase.
In an alcove on the ground floor Tony called Jonathan on his encrypted BlackBerry.
“Tony, are you secure?”
Hesitating slightly, Tony answered, “Yes.”
“Our lead foreign NOC in Jeddah is Jaime Sayfie, designation 100 407 3672 88. Ask for Petra. Tell him Micca sent you.” Tony’s cell went dead.
SEPTEMBER 9
Tallahassee
“Detective Martinez, look, I’m doing the best I can to get your stuff processed,” Keith Whitten, an agitated Florida Department of Law Enforcement lab technician, barked.
Detective Hidalgo Martinez of the Miami-Dade Police Department had been around too long to be put off by bureaucratic whining. “Keith, that’s not good enough. We’re all under pressure. I’ve been on this case from the beginning. I was at the wall as the ambulance was leaving; the blood was still oozing on the sidewalk. Now it’s been almost eight weeks since the senator was run over, and I get regular calls from a Herald reporter, ‘When are you going to make an arrest in the Billington murder case?’ And then my boss gets the same question from the Billington family, and he asks me the same question. My question to you is, Where are you with the evidence we’ve sent?”
Whitten examined the inventory on his desk at the FDLE’s forensic laboratory. “We’ve wrapped up the work on the paint chips from the right front fender of the truck the highway patrol dragged out of the canal. They’re a match to the scrapes on the wall in The Lakes. I’m satisfied the truck was the vehicle that ran down the senator.”
“What about the identification of the owner of the F-150?” Martinez asked.
“Mixed bag. The VIN number on the truck’s engine block is registered to Tropical Nursery in Redlands. The license tag is more complicated. The tag that was pulled out of the water doesn’t match the VIN number or the tag that was on the truck when it left the airport parking garage.”
“These guys were real pros,” Martinez commented. “They knew that there would be a BOLO out for a vehicle with the Nissan tag. So somewhere between the airport garage and the canal they swiped the tag from an honest-to-God F-150 and slapped it on the stolen truck.”
“One place the pros screwed up was after the collision,” Whitten observed. “They ran a red light at 154th Street and the Palmetto Expressway. The intersection cameras there got a clean shot at the rear of the truck. The plate was the one taken from the Nissan at the parking garage, so they rode around with the potentially incrim
inating plates from Saturday until at least Tuesday morning. The forward camera got a shot of the passenger and driver, and it may tell us something.”
“Any idea as to who these guys are?” Martinez asked.
“We’re working on it. We’ve sent the garage and red light photos to the FBI for more advanced photo analysis. You know about budget cuts in Miami-Dade; we’ve had the same here and our enhancement equipment is out-of-date. Most times, the FBI takes forever to do photo enhancement, but given that the victim was a former U.S. senator, maybe they’ll give us a break.”
“What about the ammo box?”
“Now there we made some progress. The bar code on the box told us it was distributed by a wholesaler in El Segundo, California, and the retail sale was at a San Diego gun shop this past June. We sent a request to the San Diego PD asking for an inquiry at the shop. But they’re in worse financial shape than we are, and it could be a long time before the request works its way up the SDPD’s food chain.”
“And the bullets?”
“Standard S&W .45s. Our lab is looking at the particulates to see if they give us a trail. No report so far.”
“Anything on the two I sent you from the intelligence guy?”
“Well, these two are from the same lot as those in the ammo box. I’d suspect they came from that box. And surprisingly, we got something from the Times op-ed in which the bullets were wrapped. The newspaper stock on which the Times printed this is from the printing shop that does Southern California distribution. So we’ve got double confirmation as to where the bullets came from.”
Detective Martinez had no further questions. “Good job, Keith. I know you’re under a lot of strain, and I do appreciate you getting on this so quick. When you get any more information let me know ASAP. And please give the FDLE commissioner my best wishes from down here deep in the swamps.”
SEPTEMBER 9
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Calling on the BlackBerry from his room in the Jeddah Hilton, Tony said, “Petra, please. This is a friend of Micca.”
“Micca has alerted me to your arrival. Come to 93 Il Abogado at 8:30. It’s about twenty minutes from your hotel. Look for a black Land Rover.”
The address was the parking lot of a strip shopping center. Tony spotted the vehicle as he was paying the taxicab driver. Covered in mustardhued sand, the door panel on the driver’s side was painted in white Arabic lettering: Gulf Engineering—Dubai, UAE. The driver waved Tony to the passenger’s seat. He exchanged introductions with Jaime and Jamal Sayfie, both late twenties, dressed in grey overalls embossed with the Gulf Engineering name and logo, an oil-drilling rig.
Jaime maneuvered the vehicle onto a four-lane concrete highway, heading south. A kilometer beyond the center, Tony asked, “Is this clean?”
“We swept it this morning.”
“OK. I’m here because I’ve been told by several sources there is a clandestine science project under way in Jeddah. Do you know anything about it?”
“Somewhat,” Jaime answered as he slowed to reach for a file on the backseat. “Our firm has been providing specialty metals in the kingdom since 1995. A year ago we became a service provider to the Prince Sultan Research Center.”
Tony had great admiration for non-official-cover spies. Most spooks had an official affiliation, commonly as an innocuous diplomat at an embassy. If they were busted for their real job, the worst that could happen would be declaration as a persona non grata and deportation. NOCs had no such protection. If a businessperson or professional was also assisting an intelligence agency on the side, his sanction could be the loss of his head.
“As foreign NOCs gathering sensitive information in another country for a third without any diplomatic or other cover, you’re doing the most dangerous job in the intelligence business. How did you get involved?”
Settling into the left lane and accelerating to one hundred kilometers per hour, Jaime answered, “Our family has been in metallurgy since after the Great War. We started in our home country of Yemen and migrated to Dubai in 1991.”
“What caused you to leave?” Tony asked.
“We had a good business there milling parts for businesses in the oil and gas industry, particularly the Americans. Then, after the war in Kuwait, radical groups began to take control in Yemen. When my older brother was killed as a bystander to a firefight and my cousin Jamal here,” motioning to the man in the rear, “lost part of his leg, the whole family decided to leave. We were able to continue to do business with our former customers from our new base in Dubai.”
Tony turned and saw three one-by-one-meter wooden boxes in the backseat next to Jamal and in the far back of the vehicle. “And what are those for?”
“They’re going to the Prince Sultan Center. You’ll see what for.”
Approaching the Red Sea port district of Jeddah, Jaime swung on to a narrow two-lane road through warehouses and industrial buildings. He parked the Land Rover near a storefront with the same designation as on its door panel.
“What are we doing here?” Tony asked.
“Changing you into a Gulf uniform,” Jamal answered from the rear seat.
In the small office, Tony was handed a cardboard box with a uniform, soiled like those worn by Jaime and Jamal, white socks, and wellbroken-in, over-the-ankle lace-up work boots. He replaced his khaki pants, golf shirt, and loafers with the Gulf uniform and boots, folding and placing his own in the box. Tony removed the wallet from the overalls’ rear pocket and, noting the identification cards, was impressed with a quite acceptable likeness of himself and his new name, Khalid Khoury. Now that he was properly dressed, Jaime instructed Tony as to his work assignments.
Back on the highway Tony asked, “How did you get in this business?”
“Last year, the manager of one of our customers, Union Oil of Houston, told us about a project under way here in Jeddah. He said it required a considerable amount of special metal fabrication and that he had recommended us. We were contacted by a representative of the Saudi Ministry of Defense and Aviation. He must have checked us out, because a week later he offered us a contract and we’ve been working for them ever since.”
“Okay. But what about your present job as NOCs?”
“The situation in Yemen continued to deteriorate. Al-Qaeda was even more a force there than in Afghanistan. It wasn’t a coincidence that the attack on the U.S. destroyer in 2000 took place in Aden. After al-Qaeda affiliated with a local gang that adopted the name al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula, it was getting an ever greater pile of pounds from the Saudis.”
“What does that have to do with what you are doing now?” Tony asked.
“About the time of the failed bomb attempt over Detroit, our payment checks stopped coming from the ministry and instead were from a Jeddah organization called the Golden Chain. We knew it was a big part of the money flowing to bin Laden in Yemen. We were offended by the relationship and figured there was something more than science going on at the center. It was shortly after that first Golden Chain check that I walked into the U.S. consulate in Jeddah.”
The Prince Sultan Research Center was hidden in a grove of cedar trees on the far side of an abandoned military air base twenty-five kilometers from the city center. It was surrounded by a five-meter-high fence topped with concertina wire. Jaime stopped at the security gate. Five armed soldiers dressed in the ubiquitous camouflage military fatigues encircled the vehicle. The tallest one, with the single gold bar of a master sergeant, commanded the three to exit the Land Rover. The other four soldiers, in a well-practiced routine, examined the undercarriage of the vehicle with a mirror on a pole, opened the hood and inspected the engine, and recorded the license tag, ministry permit, and block numbers. As the sergeant inspected their papers, he asked, “What is your mission?”
Pointing to the three wooden boxes, Jaime offered, “To deliver and install this shipment of recast parts.”
The sergeant stared at Tony. “Khoury. Lebanese?”
“Yemeni.
”
“My records do not indicate you have been here previously. What is your purpose?”
In his best Arabic, Tony responded as he had been rehearsed to do, “This order required my particular expertise with forming vacuum tubes. I have come from Dubai to deliver and assist in their installation.”
Apparently satisfied, the sergeant returned to the security hut, placed a call, listened, and waved them through.
Circling the perimeter of the otherwise abandoned military air base, they passed twelve warehouse-like structures. When they reached the one designated E, Jaime said, “That’s where we have been working. The crew from the main plant would bring us devices to be reworked or replaced. Today is the first time we have been given access to the hanger.” He nodded toward a three-story concrete semi-cylindrical structure the size of two American football fields.
“I’m not sure why, but it may be that they are close to completion of the project and need the repairs to be done on-site to save time.”
In front of the hanger were five rows of military aircraft. Tony assumed these were mothballed, reduced to service as a spare parts inventory. In the back row were nine of the BAE Tornados. He wondered if the kingdom was ready for another round of under-the-rug payouts.
As the three were unbuckling their seat belts Jamal admonished, “Talk only if absolutely necessary inside the facility. If there are questions, they will be answered later.”
Approaching the main entrance, each man carrying one of the wooden boxes, Tony noticed Jamal walked with a distinct limp. Passing a bronze sign designating the facility as the Prince Sultan Research and Development Center and dated 1992, they entered. The clearance process was even more demanding than at the gate: the boxes were taken into a separate room for inspection while the men were strip-searched by civilian security and fingerprinted, which caused Tony a “the game is up” moment until Jaime signaled his would be accepted; then they waited twenty-three minutes for the documents to be validated.