Kyle asked, “So since the king is dead, who’s really in charge?”
“The government is still in control, very truly so, but no successor has been chosen. Without the king to keep them in line, the Religious Police are getting pretty harsh and that’s building resentment among the locals. Some gangs are running around claiming to be enforcing their sharia law, through the quasi-governmental outfit called the Committee on Virtue.”
“So the extreme clerics are grabbing power,” Swanson observed. “That’s a pretty familiar song.”
“Looks that way. They ain’t the Taliban yet, but some of the fanatics want to see how far they can push. That squeezes the government, which has been allied with the guys in the mosques from the very start of modern Saudi Arabia.”
“Are we talking about civil war?” asked Henry Tsang.
“Not quite to that point, buddy. Not even with the assassination of the king. The princes are still in charge, so they will pick a successor pretty quickly, but the trouble is growing. Take right here in Khobz. A teenaged girl was murdered a few days ago at the biggest mall in town by the religious cops for talking with a boy on a cell phone. She pulled a knife and carved up one of them so badly that the bastard died, good for her, and she hit a second one with pepper spray. Normally, the Saudis would blame the girl for causing the trouble, but the muttaween went too far and dozens of witnesses saw her beaten to death by those mean bastards.”
“Are we safe?” The Belgian was almost frantic.
Homer Boykin waved a big hand and smiled. “Oh, yeah. Y’all just be careful and keep yourselves informed through your company security teams and international news channels; don’t expect any straight answers from the government. Information has never been available on almost anything in Saudi Arabia; they block Internet sites and they don’t like reporters. The truth is getting hard to come by, but you boys are oil dudes. They aren’t about to start killing off the guys who bring in the gold.”
“They shot at us!” The Belgian protested.
Boykin just chuckled, and the minivan coasted to an easy stop. He led them into the customs area. The large room was patrolled by uniformed soldiers with machine guns, and all new arrivals stood in line to be thoroughly searched and have their papers carefully examined.
Kyle went through the process with disinterest, having anticipated the heightened arrival security procedures. His first task had just been to get into Saudi Arabia, which he was doing. Somehow, between Sybelle and the Lizard in Washington and some spec ops magic, weapons and assistance were to be provided.
He used the time in line to watch what was happening in the terminal beyond the customs area, where a crowd of civilians milled about. Worried men were talking with airline representatives and women tended crying children. Couples were embracing as if they would never see each other again, and the tension was almost electric. Civilians getting their families out, he thought. Little private planes drawing fire. Not good. There has been no warning by either the American or the Saudi governments for noncombatants to leave the area, but the foreigners who live here obviously feel trouble is on the way and are heading for safety.
Their group finally cleared customs and the Belgian engineer and the Chinese accountant drifted away to find their companies. Kyle went to the airport’s small restaurant, bought a sandwich and a soda, then moved to a table near a big window to continue his surveillance. Women, kids, and a few men were loading onto small charter planes that were lined up in a row, awaiting their turns at the two departure gates. Baggage carts were stacked to overflowing. Lot of folks getting out of Dodge, not many coming in, and nobody seemed to be enjoying their day. He bit into a soggy egg salad croissant with lettuce and tomato sliding out of the middle and sipped the warm Coke.
Boykin, the big American with the crew-cut hair approached his table with a Pepsi in his hand and sat down uninvited. “Welcome to a brewing shitstorm, brother.” Boykin fished an ice cube from his glass and used it to write XUSMC by tracing water on the smooth blue plastic tabletop. Then he wiped it away with his palm, found a fresh cube and drew a crude symbol that looked like a pitchfork: TRIDENT. Boykin wiped that off, too, and broke into a friendly grin. “I’ve been in contact with my boss and Sybelle Summers, so let’s get you gunned up and take a ride around town.”
25
THE BOYKIN GROUP WAS headquartered in a nondescript building in an industrial district cluttered with small warehouses, stacks of steel shipping containers, and pyramids of pipe and other oil line gear. The company sign was painted on a weathered wooden door behind a little screened entranceway that kept out the flies. Jamal, a short and muscular man who moved with smooth efficiency, went into the screen enclosure, unlocked the wooden door and pulled it outward. Behind it stood a strong steel door with two heavy locks that threw bolts into the surrounding steel frame.
The office was nothing much. A floor of bland greenish linoleum with some of the tiles torn, and plaster walls covered with many coats of cheap white paint. Two second-hand desks faced each other. Thick shades covered the windows on each wall to keep out the sun, but if he chose to look outside, Boykin had an almost 360-degree view of the surrounding area. Bulletin boards were peppered with pinpoint holes, some hanging notes and a few old clipboards hanging on nails, their jaws chomping wads of paper. Overhead fluorescent lights hummed and flickered. The place looked as common as the dirt.
“This joint was built years back when construction was booming around the new port and nobody raised an eyebrow,” Homer explained. “Lots of weird construction was going on back then and our contractors and laborers were flown in along with the necessary specialized equipment, did their jobs, then left. No locals were involved. Did it all in less than thirty days.”
Kyle Swanson recognized it for what it was as he stood in front of an air-conditioning vent and let it blast the sweat on his back. “CIA safe house,” he said. The intelligence-gathering outpost was created because the Agency wanted trained eyes and ears in one of the world’s most important oil installations.
“Come on downstairs,” Boykin said, pushing a panel button. A section of the wall folded back, revealing a staircase. “The builders had a hell of a time drilling and pouring support columns for the basement. They kept striking oil. Damn stuff just oozed out of the sand and would fill the holes overnight if they didn’t pump it out.”
The basement was larger than the house above it and was cooler by being below ground level. Fans kept filtered air moving around the communications suite along one wall where secure computers, printers, speakers, and security camera feeds were in place. Cupboards containing emergency rations and boxes of bottled water were built along another wall and a chemical toilet and a small shower were curtained off in a corner. Folding cots leaned against one cabinet. At the far end, a steel ladder ascended one corner up to a hatch that exited into a rusting shipping container anchored on a concrete pad that was separated by a small driveway from the headquarters. It was maintained to appear to be a storage shed for tools. Emergency exit.
Another section of the basement was sectioned off with a locked cage of steel wire and contained the armory. Boykin twirled the combination lock and swung open the gate. “I understand you’ve done some work for us before,” he said. “We probably have anything in here that you will need, but let’s keep it to a sidearm until we finish the recon drive.”
Kyle found another Colt .45 and took a quick and approving look around the armory. It was spotless and the weapons were perfectly maintained. Crates of ammo were neatly stacked and explosives were sealed in plastic. The city of Khobz had been under construction for more than four decades. Swanson figured the Boykin Group and its predecessors in this little CIA operation had been modernizing and accumulating gear throughout that entire time.
Another result of that long tenure was that the intelligence specialists based here over the years had created a cartographic masterpiece that was secured to a nearby table. “Impressive,” Kyle said.
“You got that right,” said Swanson.
Boykin pulled up a chair and sat down and Jamal poured a cup of coffee for himself. “Major Summers told me this was a one-trick mission and that you would pass along the instructions. Langley approved. So here we are. What’s up?”
“No offense, but I assume Jamal has been vetted?”
The Jordanian laughed, showing white teeth and a sense of humor. He dropped the façade of being a semi-ragged Middle Eastern hired hand. “My family comes from Jordan, but I’m first-generation American, born in Tennessee,” he said. “The Agency recruited me eleven years ago straight out of law school at Mister Jefferson’s University in Virginia because of my languages. Obviously my cover works. What are we supposed to be doing with you?”
“There’s a missile with a nuclear warhead hidden around here somewhere. My job is to destroy it,” Kyle said. His statement sucked the air out of the basement room.
“Be damned.” Homer Boykin shot a look at Jamal. “We’ve been telling Langley for months that something was strange with that Saudi anti-missile battery just outside of town. Our reports have been totally ignored.” He shook his head in disgust. “Those second-guessing fuckers thousands of miles away drive me nuts.”
Jamal agreed. “That’s a good place for a nuke missile. Hide it among a bunch of other missiles that are allegedly protecting the oil fields.” He placed his finger on a map location about three miles south of the city center. “It’s got to be right there, alongside the living quarters for about a few hundred soldiers who guard the production facilities.”
THE BITE HAD GONE out of the scorching sun when they set out to drive around the city, Jamal at the wheel and Kyle in the passenger seat. Homer Boykin was on the long seat in the middle row of the van, leaning forward between them to talk in a normal voice.
“This place has always had a bit of nastiness to it. Used to be a rest stop for the foreign fighters going into Iraq. By the time one group was trucked off, a new batch of those hard-eyed sumbitches would be gathering,” said Boykin.
“Any of them still here?” Kyle adjusted the pistol tucked in his belt.
Boykin pointed. “You bet, and Jamal hears that some of those outlaw militia types from over in Basra have come in from Iraq for a change. Let’s go over near the mosque, Jamal.”
The minivan went around a corner and edged through the narrow street of an outdoor covered bazaar. The food stalls were doing the most business, swirls of anxious shoppers and women carrying plastic sacks that bulged with goods. “More people out this evening than normal,” Jamal commented.
“Like last-minute shopping before a hurricane,” said Kyle. “Everybody stocking up.”
Boykin’s trained eyes saw more. “Despite the increase in business, the shopkeepers are shutting down early. Not as many tents in the streets and the doors and shutters on a couple of stores are already closed.”
Jamal reached the broad road that was the main axis through the urban area. Boykin pointed. “There’s the main mosque up ahead at twelve o’clock. It’s the headquarters of the Committee on Virtue and that’s where the fighters stay.”
Oil money and political favoritism had been lavished on the mosque, which had a classical Arab architecture of graceful arches and long, straight lines. Men streamed in and out of the three entrances that were open behind the stone columns, and tall towers rose from the sides, where the muezzin could call the faithful to prayer. The towers also provided sentries with high perches from which they could see everything around the mosque. The building marked the separation point between the commercial district and the residential area. Nobody up in the towers. Only one guard at the entrance, Kyle thought. They’re overconfident.
“Go around,” said Boykin, and Jamal swung through traffic. An irregular ring road circled the big mosque and as they approached the back, they found a line of pickups and flatbed trucks, some minivans and small cars. “Convoy,” he said.
“Trouble, Boss,” said Jamal. “Police roadblock.”
“Turn through the alley,” said Boykin. “We’ve seen enough here. Those are cops, not soldiers, obviously there to stop people from being too curious about those trucks.”
Jamal waved to the few uniformed men at the roadblock as he made the turn and accelerated away. “You guys stay low. We don’t want to be showing white faces around here,” Jamal said. “I’ll take a shortcut back to the foreign compound. Then we can head south to the missile base.”
The first rock sailed up from behind them and clattered on the metal roof of the van, followed by a flurry of stones and bricks from the sides. “Gangs of kids are coming from all around. Get us out of here,” Boykin called.
Rocks and soda cans and debris of every sort rained from the rooftops, doorways, and the mouths of alleys as the minivan passed. No adults were out, just kids, their eyes wide in excitement, bombing Satan.
“What the fuck? Are we in Somalia?” yelled Kyle, covering his head with one hand and grabbing the pistol with the other. A rock the size of a softball smashed through the back window. People whistled and yelled.
“We ride out here all the time and never have trouble. These people know us,” Jamal responded, spinning the steering wheel. They flew around another corner and the crowd disappeared, evaporating as if nothing had happened. “The kids are the early warning system to keep outsiders away from the mosque,” he said. “Something’s coming down.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Jamal drove through the gate to the foreign compound, nodded to the single soldier on guard, and entered a different world. It was a neat layout with straight roads and cookie-cutter, Western-style homes, cars in the driveways and TV satellite dishes bolted on the rooftops, a complete opposite of the nearby communities of square mud huts interspersed with a few grand homes of the local residents. The people of the desert lived out beyond the wire.
“Mostly only guys are still living here,” Boykin explained. “Khobz is not pleasant for Western women, and absolutely no place to try to raise a kid because the muttaween religious cops rule outside the fence and really influence what can go on inside this perimeter, too. This is not a diplomatic quarter with any sort of immunity, so Saudi law rules. Families are better off in nearby countries where Daddy can go see them on a long weekend and spend the big oil paychecks.”
Many of the houses seemed empty and forlorn with no lights on, although darkness was beginning to fall. Kyle mentioned the exodus at the airport and Boykin said that unofficial withdrawal had been going on for several days. “Anybody with a brain and a choice is leaving,” Homer said.
The supermarket in the mall was still open, but the bowling alley was closed, as were the public swimming pools and the clubhouses, as if the little community was holding its breath.
“We need to pick up anything from our house, Homer?” Jamal asked, pausing at the driveway of a two-bedroom home that was identical to its neighbors in every way.
“No. We’re good. Let’s get on out to the military pad before the light gives out.”
Kyle shook his head. “Let’s not. Judging by what we just saw, they won’t let us anywhere near the place and we don’t want to seem to be overly curious. I can go out tonight for a look.”
Homer said, “Okay, if that’s what you want. You up for some pizza?” he asked. “Got a place down by the beach run by a Chinese family. They operate 24/7 because the oil business never shuts down. Make more money selling thick crust slices than they would sweating out on the rigs. We’ll pick some up and go back to the shop.” He took out his cell phone and hit a speed dial number for Dragon Pizza. “Hope you ain’t a vegetarian.”
They returned to the safe house with two large pizzas stacked
with meat and redolent with onions and peppers, went through the steel door and down to the basement. Boykin grabbed a slice as he booted up his computer, typed in his password and checked the e-mails. Nothing.
Jamal was telling a joke about camels when his cell phone rang with a Stones tune. He looked at the caller ID, raised his eyebrows and answered, “The Boykin Group.” He listened, closed the connection without responding and tossed the phone on a counter.
“The convoy is leaving the mosque,” he said, stuffing one more bite of pizza into his mouth and opening the armory cage. The first salvo of explosions could be heard dully stomping around the foreign compound.
Jamal and Homer actually watched Kyle Swanson change before their eyes, as if some motion picture special effect stunt was turning an ordinary man into an icy machine. A steadiness settled over him like a cloak and his eyes sparkled, the mind racing. He was instantly amped and ready, went into the armory cage for an MP5 submachine gun and a couple of spare magazines. He also picked up a set of bolt-cutters and a combat knife. Jamal handed him a headset radio.
“I’m going to use the noise and distraction as cover to check out the missiles.” Swanson was up the stairs and gone.
Homer finished the pizza while helping Jamal load up the van.
26
RIYADH
A FEW HOURS AFTER dark on the day the king was murdered, small processions of expensive automobiles began to arrive at a restaurant on the outskirts of Riyadh. As usual, the chairs around small tables on the sidewalk out front were occupied by men drinking sludgy gahwa Arabian coffee from tiny cups and sharing the pipes of hookahs filled with rosewater. The men were the outer cordon of guards for the meeting that was about to take place on the second floor of the plain-looking building.
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