My name came up in the discussion. Someone must have been reading one of my books.
Hiring an American to investigate a problem that originated in Europe—questionable, even if yours truly does have an international rep. After all, the word “international” is part of my company name, Red Cell International.
Encouraging me to wrap up the investigation quickly, then barely cooperating with the work?
I smelled a well-perfumed rat. And my suspicions were strengthened when Junior discovered that the accounts had been erased from the American side of the operation.
Should what seemed like a carefully orchestrated attack on the bank remove the scent of an inside job?
Not yet.
“Can you break into the Berlin police systems and find out what’s going on?” I asked Shunt.
“Can I? You have to ask?”
“I was being polite.”
“Wow, Dick. That’s a change for you. Are you jet-lagged or something?”
“Get your ass in gear. I expect a report in two hours.”
“I’ll have it in one.”
You have to know when to pat ’em on the back, and when to kick ’em in the arse.
* * *
Forty minutes later, Shunt was on the line, and sounding like he had been drinking even more cherry cola than usual.
“Year ago,” he sputtered. “Ethiopia—government office—bombing used a combination of explosives and fire bombs—took out computers—interior ministry—files—terror orgs.”
“English is your first language, isn’t it?” I asked.
That stopped him short.
“Uh, yeah. That and Perl. Well, maybe HLASM assembler.3 Why do you ask?”
“Maybe you could try using it? English, I mean.”
By breaking into the police system, Shunt had managed to get pictures and details of the remains of one of the devices. He had then run a simple search in the databases we maintain cataloguing terror incidents around the world.
He came up with an 85 percent match with attacks in Somalia and Kenya two years before by a group whose Arabic name translated into English as Allah’s Rule on Earth.
Shunt went on to say that the group responsible had at least a tangential relationship to al Qaeda—it had received some money from a charity that had been used as a front by bin Laden in the late 1990s, and two men associated with the group were at a guerilla camp in Pakistan sponsored by al Qaeda around 2008.
An al Qaeda camp in Pakistan?
Goodness. Who would have thought?
“Maybe it wasn’t embezzlement at all,” said Shunt. “Maybe it is a legit group, trying to cover their tracks.”
It wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong—not even that day.
The contemplation of my fallibility, as well as the conversation, were cut short by another incoming call. I glanced at the ID, thinking it might be Veep. I immediately recognized the name, though: Flushing Taylor.
I would venture to say that not too many people in the world have the first name of Flushing. It just so happens that I know one of them: Chief Petty Officer (Ret.) Flushing J. Taylor, former SEAL Team Six and Red Cell member, personal security maven, and sometime drinking companion to yours truly.
“I have a little problem, Commander,” he said. “I don’t know where else to turn.”
* * *
Flushing’s son is Garrett, and you’ve already met him—we’ve almost come back full circle to where we started.
Garrett had just been arrested in Saudi Arabia for drug trafficking. Flushing said Garrett had gone to Saudi Arabia on a vacation, and while in the capital of Riyadh come across a man selling hookahs, those fancy water pipes used to smoke flavored tobacco. They’re common enough in Riyadh, where you can find dozens of small cafés dedicated to their use.
You can also find dozens of policemen anxious to make arrests, which are magically “forgotten” once the proper fine is paid—to the policeman, of course. When it turned out that the dealer had included a substance other than tobacco as a deal-sweetener, they pounced.
“It musta been a setup,” said Flushing. “The cops asked him for a bribe—not in so many words—but he had only a hundred bucks. It didn’t cut it. Now to get him out, it’s going to cost a small fortune. I’m desperate. I can’t let him stay in jail.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Someone at the State Department told me to hire a fixer,” he said. “But that’s a rip-off, too. What should I do?”
“Don’t do anything until I talk to some people.”
“Thanks, Dick. I knew I could count on you.”
Garrett’s arrest and our bank job should have stayed two different story lines, and probably would have, had I not called a not-to-be-named source in the Saudi royal family, who owed me a personal favor for reasons that cannot (yet) be given. He took my call, listened to the situation, then promised an aide would get back to me.
By now it was pretty late—or very early—in Berlin. It was an hour later in Saudi Arabia. You can judge how much of a favor he owed me not by the fact that he took my call, but that the aide called back within a half hour.
“Your friend is in a very bad situation,” said the aide, whose accent was somewhere between Oxford and Cambridge. “He is involved with a drug-smuggling ring that we believe funds a terror group.”
“He is?”
“I am sorry to tell you. Yes, there is evidence.”
“What group?”
He used the Arabic name, a tongue twister that sounded like PeterPiperPickedaPintofPickledPotheadPenisHeads.
Then he translated it for me.
“The Arabic means Allah’s Rule on Earth. They are not so famous yet, but have acted in Somalia and Kenya. Very dangerous, indeed.”
2
(I)
We have now reached the educational part of our program. I believe the following will be of use to members of the general public, informing them of the “business side” of international terrorism. But if you’re anxious to get back to my little tea party in the Saudi jail yard, or just can’t wait to see me squealing like a baby pig-boy, you have my encouragement to skip ahead.
* * *
Allah’s Rule on Earth typifies the multi-faceted terror organizations that present the greatest challenges in the twenty-first century. It was small, highly secretive, and, most importantly, self-sustaining. It had associates in Africa, Asia, the Middle East, and Europe, which gave it the ability to strike in any of those areas.
Allah’s Rule was led by two different figures—one a Pakistani expatriate thought to live in Egypt named Haji Khan Noor Muhammad Kalhoro, usually known as Noor Muhammad; the other Sameer Haddad, a Yemen cleric who at last report was holed up somewhere in the southern portion of the country.
Sameer had once been associated with al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula—today one of the most powerful terror groups in the world—but split with them over some perceived slight. Both men had various “intersections” with al Qaeda over the years, though neither seems to have actually met Osama bin Goatherder before his timely demise at the hands of SEAL Team Six.
Noor and Haddad had different abilities, and while their roles occasionally overlapped, in general Haddad recruited members and set goals for the group; Noor trained and did tactical planning. The two men were rarely together, but communicated through emissaries and the occasional cell phone and e-mail link. They were smart enough not only to vary their routines but to constantly get rid of anything that might help lead investigators to their doors. A cell phone might be used only once or twice; a sympathetic mosque might host a week’s worth of sermons and classes, then never be visited again.
Terror operations are relatively cheap. Still, like all organizations, they need some money to run. An operation like Allah’s Rule, with connections over a wide area of the earth and ambitions to match, needed more than many. So where did they get their funds?
Drug smuggling. Having all those connections makes it much easi
er to get things from one side of the world to another. And the most lucrative things to move are drugs. Not just for Allah’s Rule, but for many terror groups with serious ambitions.4
In the case of our friends, poppies grown in the mountainous regions of Afghanistan and Pakistan were processed into heroin in Pakistan, then transported by ship to locations around the world. The routes were rotated, presumably to lessen the chances of detection, but the final destination was generally Europe.
We were able to turn up a number of Egyptian contacts among suspected Allah’s Rule “associates,” and the presumption was that the drugs went from Egypt to Turkey or Greece, and from there to the rest of Europe. Getting the drugs to Egypt was a bit tricky—not because of police activity, but because other groups had already monopolized the ports. Therefore the network used overland routes—including one from Saudi Arabia.
On the surface, driving drugs overland through Saudi Arabia was dangerous—the Kingdom has rather draconian penalties for drug trafficking. But these penalties only apply to the person caught. And even that’s not much of a risk if you have the right connections.
Money from the operation flowed in several different directions. A good portion went to buying and moving the drugs. What was left over went to a small number of members as stipends, and to schools and mosques sympathetic to the cause. Only a very small portion went to actual operations.
In fact, compared to the damage done, the amount was, and is, shockingly small.
Except for 9/11 and some of the attacks on India that received state backing, the bombing in the Madrid subway system in March of 2004 was one of the most successful operations of all time. Four separate trains were attacked with a total of thirteen improvised explosive devices (IEDs). Three of the bombs failed to go off and were later exploded by bomb disposal experts, but the ones that did ignite killed 191 people; another 1,800 were injured. Estimates of the cost to Spain begin at 17.62 million euros and go way up.
How much did that attack cost the perpetrators?
Between ten and fifteen thousand dollars, using the exchange rate prevalent at the time. Or about $78.53 per life.5
A few more numbers before we return to the mayhem: a kilo of heroin will fetch about one thousand dollars for a farmer in Afghanistan. That’s just about twice the annual per capita income. When that kilo reaches Europe, it’s worth in the range of one hundred thousand.
* * *
Mecca and Medina, holy cities of Islam, are altogether different. It’s not simply that they are ancient Muslim cities. Both cities regularly handle crowds that put the Super Bowl to shame. Of course, if you’re not Muslim, don’t try making a reservation; they don’t want you. In fact, they’ll arrest you if you try to get in.
Riyadh, the capital, is open to all religions—as long you don’t practice them. Like most of Saudi Arabia, worshiping any God other than Allah will get you a quick trip to jail.
Riyadh looks like a very modern city, nothing like you might expect if you’re focused on camels and dust storms. Though it is by reputation more puritan than John Smith, you can find a fair amount of vice if you know where to look. Of course, with no house numbers, and street names written only in Arabic, looking is not as easy as you’d think. Even if you know where you’re going, driving can be a hassle. Perfectly paved roads seem to be against the law, and the authorities have an annoying habit of throwing up checkpoints to harass citizens and foreigners at irregular intervals. The biggest landmark in the city is a giant zipper latch (Kingdom Centre); I’m still trying to figure out what that says about the place.
Mongoose, Shotgun, and I flew in through Dubai, and after running the gamut of louts and touts at the airport, found an “official” taxi to take us out of the city to the home of Prince X, a (distant) member of the royal family whom I won’t name in hopes of staying somewhat in his good graces.6
Like most members of the extended—and in his case, extremely extended—royal family, Prince X is very wealthy.
How wealthy?
I met him on an indoor ski slope in his backyard.
Housed inside what looked like a huge spaghetti box held at an angle by toilet paper rolls, the slope was some 230 meters long, with enough width for a separate mogul section toward the bottom. The facilities at top and bottom rivaled anything you’d find in an Aspen condo, though I suspect the waitresses that work in the States wear a few more clothes than the attendants my friend had working that day.
Prince X was entertaining a few foreigners when I arrived, including a junior member of the American diplomatic corps, who was a charter member of the “terrorism is no longer a threat” crowd. It’s marvelous what they’re doing with the developmentally disabled these days.
Prince X and I spoke between salmon egg canapés. He provided a few contacts in the prison administration that he thought would come in handy, along with the name of the engineering firm that had constructed the jail where Garrett was being held. I didn’t tell him exactly who I was there to get, but given the paucity of foreigners in Saudi jails, it surely wasn’t hard to guess.
“Before you do anything rash,” Prince X told me, “first allow me to tell my lawyer, and he will arrange release immediately. For you, justice moves swiftly.”
This naturally sounds like the matter would be taken care of quickly, but in fact, not even an immediate order from the prince himself would have gotten the young man out of the prison in less than a month. Going through his lawyer would mean using the courts, which might result in an “immediate” order to get the kid released in the next twelve to eighteen months.
Admittedly far better than the usual grinding wheels of justice, but not exactly fitting the definition of what I would call swift.
And so I returned to Riyadh, dabbed some gray in my beard and hair, and began spreading the word of Coptic Hinduism. My original plan was to set up shop at As-Sufaat, aka Deira Square, aka Chop-Chop Square, the picturesque plot of concrete and stone where convicts have their heads chopped off. But there didn’t seem to be any police officers in sight when we drove past, and even fewer people to preach to. So instead I headed to Batha, one of the immigrant areas of the city, populated by so many Pakistanis that they call it Little Karachi.
I found a little patch of grass across from the Pia theater and set up poster and bullhorn. The poster featured the religion’s (naked) patron saints ascending to heaven to join other (naked) saints. This immediately attracted the attention of the dozen or so men already in the triangle. Within moments, the nearby traffic had stopped.
I’m sure they were more interested in my preaching than the photos, but who’s to say?
It took the police about ten minutes to arrive, and all of ninety seconds to arrest me. If I’d have known I would last that long, I would have passed a hat—I’m sure I could have gotten a few hundred riyals from the crowd.
(II)
Those were happy times.
A little more than twenty-four hours later, I had my back pressed against the chain-link fence in the Saudi prison as three men with grimaces and hard fists walked toward me. They didn’t look like they wanted my autograph.
The best advice I have ever heard about fighting against overwhelming odds came from a wise old sea daddy whose name escapes me at the moment:
Run!
Unfortunately, that option was not open. So the first order of business was to even the odds with a preemptive strike against the most vulnerable goon, a stocky and swarthy Arab whose nose looked as if it had been sliced off and relocated a half inch to the right of its original position.
I tried to do the same thing for his head. Grabbing his shirt with my left hand, I pulled him forward as my right hand swung with the shiv across his neck. Then I pushed him backward with my knee, dumping him in a heap on the ground.
The knife was too small to go all the way through his neck. In fact, it barely looked as if he was scratched when he first fell. But then blood began spurting out like the Disney fountain at Epcot, a perfe
ct quartet of jet streams.
The other two lugs didn’t seem to notice. The nearest lunged with both fists flailing. I ducked, then jerked up quickly, aiming my knife at his belly. But he was faster than he looked. He ducked and I missed his stomach, flying forward.
The other managed to trip me, and as I hit the ground I lost the shiv. Until now, the rest of the crowd had been feigning disinterest, an admirable survival technique in a confined space like a jail yard. But the knife was too much to resist; a naked female would have gotten less attention. Everyone in the yard dove for the shiv, swarming over myself and my assailants. Unable to spot the blade in the scrum, I crawled for daylight, propelling myself through the squirming crowd on my knees and elbows.
Somehow I made it to the side of the building, where a pair of jail guards were waiting out the fight. Seeing me as easy pickings, they grabbed hold of my legs and dragged me without ceremony into the building, through a hall, and up a pair of steps to a luxurious lounge complete with a sauna and bargirls, very soft pillows, and a masseuse whose fingers should be numbered among the ten wonders of the world.
At least, that’s how my fevered brain remembers it. The reality may have been slightly grittier. In any event, I soon fell into an undisturbed slumber, and didn’t wake until the next morning, when we were summoned for prayers by the blare of the prison loudspeaker.
My eyes opened into the dim blue light of predawn filtering through the window above my head. There were only two other inmates in my cell; even though it was about half the size of the one where I’d initially been locked up, the lack of nearby bodies made it feel like a hotel.
“Come, come,” whispered one of my companions, nudging me gently. He was Pakistani, and spoke in English. “Do not be caught in the cell. It would be worth many lashes to dally. Come.”
I followed along to the yard, did the prayer thing, then wandered around in search of Garrett. He was standing near the fence about where I’d seen him the day before, away from the other prisoners. It was still relatively dark, but I noticed that he had some bruises to his eyes and the side of his face that hadn’t been there before.
[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel Page 4