The Cyprus police found the person who placed the backpack inside the cab of the truck. It was a middle-aged female airport employee who was blackmailed anonymously over the internet. Somebody had hacked into her phone and threatened to reveal risqué pictures the woman had taken with her gay lover. Rather than expose her indiscretions to a husband and two small children, she opted to cooperate. She claimed she didn’t know the small backpack that was delivered to her via courier contained a bomb. She had been told it was drugs that were going to be smuggled onto an aircraft by the refueling crew.
I spent a week alone piloting the Sam Houston through the Suez Canal, down the Red Sea, past the Bab al-Mandab Strait, and into the Gulf of Eden. I was through the conflict areas contested by the Iranian-Houthi and Saudi coalition in the narrow strait between Yemen and Africa. It was open sailing to the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Gulf. Being on the boat alone was a great opportunity for introspection. It was my responsibility to protect my team and I had failed miserably.
I had no idea what I was up against. At this point, I was confident it was more than Prince Turki. The CIA was equally befuddled. It was time to regroup and come up with a plan of attack. I hoped that a revelation would come to me that would allow me to end the madness. I had a conference call scheduled with Cheryl and Mike the next day. The intelligence pros were hard at work doing what they do, which is mostly collecting data and analyzing it. I would be most grateful if one of the big human brains aided by an even bigger computer brain made sense of it all.
I was off the coast of Oman when I dialed into the conference call via satcom. It was 8:00 a.m. in Langley for Mike, 1:00 p.m. for Cheryl in Scotland, and 5:00 p.m. for me. I was inside the wheelhouse, as it was just too hot and muggy outside to pilot from the flybridge.
“Where are you?” Cheryl asked.
“I’m twenty miles off the coast of Muscat. I just refueled.”
“Osama Attiyais is off the target list. Change your destination to Abu Dhabi,” Mike said.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“The operation was briefed to POTUS and he invited the State Department to opine on the plan. Osama Attiyais is a board member of the Qatar Investment Authority, and they manage three hundred and forty billion dollars in assets. If we grab him it will to too high vis; the White House doesn’t want the fallout.”
“The White House or the State Department?” I asked.
“State made the recommendation, but the finding to go forward with the operation was pulled by the White House.”
“Do we need this Qatari? Where are we on figuring this thing out without him?” I asked. Cheryl cut into the conversation.
“So far, the common thread is the Muslim Brotherhood. Grey Wolves launched the attack in Idlib and seized the Quran. An Egyptian content farm managed an information operation against Saudi Arabia to destabilize it. Qatar is funding at least part of the operation,” she said.
“What about Prince Turki; he’s not Brotherhood?” asked Mike.
“No, he’s not, but because of his experience at the hands of his cousin MBS, he shares a common enemy.”
“Have we learned anything from Sahkowi and Zahron?” I asked.
“Yes, a lot. They’re the architects of the Saudi rebellion. Both are brilliant social scientists who masterminded an audacious plan to overthrow Saudi. The Qibla controversy was the catalyst, and once they got the protests going, they just built on them by manipulating information. The social media plan they used to generate the unrest is nothing short of genius. Both are now CIA assets.”
“Seriously?” I said.
“Yes. What they’ve done is beyond sophisticated. They turned millions of Saudis into marionettes,” Mike said.
“What’s going on in Saudi? There’s very little on the news,” I asked.
“Full-scale civil war. Four different sides are making a run for control,” Mike said.
“It’s not just the government versus the Wahhabis?” I asked.
“No; once the wheels came off, a group of loyalists to the previous Crown Prince made a move. Prince Abdullah, who commands the Saudi National Guard, has also decided to make a run to be the next King. His father died at the Ritz,” he said.
“Did the two Shriners give us any hints on who’s calling the shots? Is it Prince Turki or the Qatari?” I asked.
“We don’t know for sure, but it may be neither. The cyber-attack and bombing of the Trident facility are way too sophisticated to have come from a Saudi Prince in hiding or a Qatari Investment Authority extremist.”
“Who did it, then?”
“We have no idea. The cyber-attack, the bombing, and the manipulation of the social media algos are beyond the known capabilities of the players we have on the table.”
“Will Osama Attiyais know the answer?” I asked.
“He may; he’s the last clue we have, which is why we wanted to bring him in,” Mike said.
“That stinks. What else do we have to talk about?” I asked
“What’s your timeline for rebuilding Trident?”
“Six months. Maybe longer, depending on materials. It’s going to be expensive and my insurance company is not being very receptive.”
“I’ll see what we can free up out of the black budget.”
Chapter 29
Doha, Qatar
I docked the Sam Houston at the Ritz Carlton Marina in Doha. I finished tying up the boat and then I walked over to the hotel and checked in. I wasn’t going to get any support from Cheryl or Mike on this. Just by being in Doha, I was violating my orders from Mike. Right after our conference call, I went into stealth mode and made sure nothing electronic was telegraphing my location. I knew being off the grid for a day or two would make them suspect that I was in Doha.
My room on the seventh floor had a decent view of the Pearl. The Thabi clan woke up one day and learned that they had twelve trillion dollars in natural gas under the sand of Qatar. Ever since then, they’ve been desperately trying to buy relevance. Doha embarked on an ambitious plan to match Dubai in the architectural department. Buildings are going up so fast, the skyline changes weekly. The two cities combined have all the culture of a Vegas imitation of a Renaissance city, but that doesn’t stop them from trying.
Even though I wasn’t going to get any help from either Cheryl or Mike, I still had the target package workup that was sent to me before the abort order. Getting to Osama wasn’t going to be easy. The Qatar Investment Authority was a fortress, and his house a palatial dedication to paranoia. My best shot at Osama was going to be a daylight snatch-and-grab while he was on the road going to work.
I spent two days outside his home and his office. His movement patterns were inconsistent. Most people depart and return to work every day at roughly the same time, but Osama was random. He drove around Doha in a chauffeured two-tone white and black Rolls Royce Phantom. Tracking him once he was out and about was never difficult because of the high-profile car. On day three, I decided to make my move. I checked out of the hotel the night before. I moved the Sam Houston thirty miles south and anchored two hundred yards off the coast in the town of Mesaleeb. I took my tender and beached on the shore of Mesaleeb and walked a half mile down the road and rented a Chevy Suburban. I drove to Doha and parked where I could see the gated entryway to Osama’s mansion. I had no idea when he was going to exit his home and go to work, but since he didn’t go to the Qatar Investment Authority yesterday, I was marginally confident he would need to today.
It was almost twelve when I saw the Phantom pass through the black iron gates. It was a Wednesday, and the traffic flow was moderate. I pulled in behind Osama’s vehicle and followed. The Rolls stopped at a red light two blocks from his mansion. I waited until the last second to apply my brakes. I skidded briefly and bumped the Rolls from behind. It wasn’t hard enough to deploy my airbag, but it was hard enough to dent both of our bumpers. I got out of my car and walked forward as if to survey the damage to my Chevy. Moments later, an Indian driver
exited the Rolls and walked back to have a look. Traffic was flowing around our two cars, with the occasional horn honk to express displeasure at the inconvenience we were causing.
“I’m sorry. I accidentally hit the gas instead of the brake,” I said to the Indian driver. He just stared at me. “I’ll pay for the damage; can I see the owner?” He led me to the Rolls. As I walked, I pulled the Walther PPQ from my back waistband. The rear window of the passenger side of the Phantom rolled down. The tinting was so dark I couldn’t see into any of the back windows. While the window was still rolling down, I noticed two people in the rear seat. One was Osama, the second looked like security. I brought the pistol up and fired a single round into the head of the fit-looking man seated next to Osama. The window quickly reversed, and I heard the doors lock. The vehicle was running. I stepped over to the driver’s side and fired a bullet into the window and punched my fist through the shattered glass and unlocked the doors. I aimed the pistol at the Indian driver and told him to get in and drive.
From the passenger seat, I alternated between pointing the pistol at the driver and Osama. When we pulled into the beach parking lot of the Mesaleeb beach, I knocked the driver out with a brutal swipe with the butt of my pistol. Osama was a thin man in his fifties and his eyes were round with terror. He wasn’t leaving the security of the vehicle without a fight; I could see that plainly. I stunned him with a lightning-quick left jab to the jaw, then I jumped out of the passenger seat and opened the rear passenger door. He covered his face expecting another punch but instead, I dragged him out of the vehicle by his feet. On the way out, he twisted his right leg free and landed a solid kick against my upper thigh. I pulled him closer with his left leg and crushed his nose with a straight right. I dragged the unconscious body fifty yards across the sand to the waiting tender. I pushed the boat into the water, started the engine, and headed out to the Sam Houston.
I steered the eleven-foot tender onto the stern hydraulic ramp and then elevated it. I dragged Osama onto the stern deck. I used duct tape to bind his hands and feet. I intended to drag him into the salon, but his broken nose was still bleeding badly and I didn’t want to make a mess. Instead, I taped him to the stern deck next to the couch. I walked through the sliding doors and the salon on my way to the wheelhouse. I started the engines and headed away from Qatari waters and into UAE territory at thirty knots. I positioned the boat off the coast of Abu Dhabi, equidistant between Iran and UAE. I ate a tuna fish sandwich and diet coke for lunch and went out to the stern to check on my prisoner.
Osama’s white kandura was covered with blood. The bleeding from the nose had finally stopped, but there was a lot of swelling. He had a very short razor-cut beard, curly black hair, and a thin face with coal black eyes. Osama had a weak chin, but his teeth were gleaming white and perfect.
“Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll triple it,” was the first thing he said to me.
“I don’t want money. Only information,” I said.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asked.
“That’s up to you.”
“I need water.”
I went into the galley and returned with a cold bottle of water and poured it into his mouth. His hands were bound behind his back and he couldn’t do it himself.
“Promise me that if I give you what you want, you’ll let me go.”
“If you tell me what I need to know, I’ll head back toward Doha and put you out on the tender and you’ll be free.”
“Deal. Can we go inside and talk?” It was at least one hundred and ten outside and Osama was very uncomfortable. The deck was burning hot. I decided to stay outside. I set up the video function on my iPad, aimed it down at the hogtied Qatari lying on the stern deck and began the interrogation.
“Why is AMS targeting Saudi Arabia?” I asked.
“To overthrow the government,” he answered.
“I’ve already captured and interrogated Sahkowi and Zahron. Know that before you answer this next question. How did you come to work with Prince Turki?”
“I don’t know Prince Turki,” he answered.
“Who else is involved in the content-farming operation besides Sahkowi, Zahron, and Prince Turki? Where’s the platform-level tech support coming from?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I employed a group of people to broadcast news over social media into Saudi Arabia. It’s no different from Radio Free America. I did nothing wrong; it’s not illegal. Why are you treating me like this? This is outrageous! I’m a Qatari citizen; who do you think you are?”
“I had hoped we could have a civil discussion and afterwards I could set you free. It’s obvious that’s not going to be the case. We’ll talk later.” I went back into the salon and made a list of the questions I wanted Osama to answer. I cooked spaghetti with garlic shrimp and Bolognese sauce for dinner. I opened a bottle of Ruffino Chianti. When I was finished, I went back out to the stern deck. Osama was non-communicative. He was seated with his back to the couch, his knees were bent, and his head was resting against them. I took a piece of twenty-foot line I used to tie down the yacht, and made and end-of-the-line bowline knot and lassoed it around his waist.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a panicky voice.
“I told you before, I need answers and I’m sick of you lying to me.” I picked up Osama, lifted him over my head, all one hundred and forty pounds of him, and tossed him as far as I could into the Gulf. I waited thirty seconds and stepped down beside the tender and slowly began pulling on the line. It didn’t take long before I had Osama’s panicked, drowning body back onto the hydraulic lift.
After two swims, Osama became a chatty Kathy; he talked so much, I could hardly shut him up. After he had answered all of my questions, I debated shooting him, but ultimately decided against it. There was no tactical benefit gained from killing the Qatari. His testimony made it clear he was a minion doing the bidding of the Qatari national leadership and I thought it would give me an advantage if the Qataris knew that the secret was out. My identity was going to be discovered anyway. I knew that when I’d let the driver live and snatched Osama in a public setting. I took the boat back to the border between Qatar and UAE and sent Osama on his way with my tender back to Doha.
I set a heading for the Yas Marina in Abu Dhabi. I downloaded the video of Osama’s interrogation to my Mac and sent an encrypted link of it to Mike and Cheryl. I’m sure Mike was going to hit the roof when he learned of what I had done. I’ve never been able to understand why Mike chooses to work inside the DC Beltway with the swamp creatures and the constant treachery. Mike will, I’m sure, take a beating because his contractor violated a direct order, but his opponents in the State Department were going to have a lot more to explain because according to Osama, some of them were up to their necks in a conspiracy to overthrow the King of Saudi Arabia.
Chapter 30
Abu Dhabi, UAE
It was early morning when I tied down to a slip at the Yas Marina. It was lunchtime when the UAE customs agents finally got around to inspecting my boat. I walked over to the neighboring Viceroy Hotel in the fiery summer afternoon heat. The Viceroy has a unique curved glass design, which to me looks like it was inspired by the shape of a snail. The hotel straddles the Abu Dhabi Formula 1 racetrack and the Yas Marina. I managed to get a room overlooking my boat, and then I headed to lunch at the nearby Crown Plaza to meet with Migos at the Stills Bar.
Stills advertises itself as having the longest bar in Abu Dhabi, which seems a poor indicator of a bar’s quality. It’s a gastropub with a menu that’s familiar to most Americans. I had a draft Stella and the blackened Norwegian Salmon. Migos had a rib eye and a bottle of Heineken. Looking across the table at him, it was obvious the sparkle and the usual levity were missing. He was taking the loss of Jankowski and Burnia very hard. Migos and I had been friends and teammates for a long time. The reason I didn’t take him with me to Doha was because I wanted to keep my distance from him. He and I deal with loss very differ
ently. I try my best to ignore it, while Migos does the opposite. He dwells on the subject, constantly injecting it into conversations to the point where it makes me crazy. He’s an extrovert who, I’m sure, scores very high in those emotional IQ self-tests you find in magazines; me, not so much.
“Did you grab Osama?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Is the agency sweating him?”
“No, I handled the interrogation myself and then I let him go.”
“Why didn’t you hand him over?”
“Mike terminated the op while I was still on the way to Doha.”
“Why?”
“Politics; the State Department didn’t want to offend our friends in Qatar.”
“You did it anyway?”
“Yes, to hell with the State Department.”
“What did Mike have to say about that?”
“I don’t know. I sent him a copy of the interrogation video and haven’t heard from him.”
“You’re in big trouble, aren’t you?”
“Probably; definitely, if I didn’t get anything worthwhile from Osama. But the residents of Camp Swampy can’t defend Qatar on this one. Osama is on the board of the Qatar Investment Authority and he confessed to using his fund to sponsor the Muslim Brotherhood and some other lesser known, but much deadlier, groups. The Qataris’ blood feud with Saudi has Americans paying six bucks a gallon for gas. Nobody in DC is going to defend that.”
“You’re expecting forgiveness, then.”
“I’m hopeful, but I sent the video eight hours ago, and up until now nobody’s contacted me, so maybe I should be expecting a visit from a wet team instead.”
“Did you get any closer to learning who killed our guys?”
“Whoever it is, Osama wasn’t dealing with them directly. Hopefully, Clearwater or the Agency analysts can figure something out. Osama threw out a lot of names.”
Arabian Collusion Page 15