The Scorpion's Gate

by Richard A. Clarke

  The Situation Room conference room was suddenly empty. MacIntyre headed over to the Mess, where he stood at the take-out window and ordered two frozen yogurts. Balancing the two cups on a tray and his briefing book under his arm, he walked outside past the Secret Service guards, and headed over to Susan Connor, who was standing next to the black Chrysler on West Exec.

  “Rusty, it’s February. Who the hell eats ice cream in February?” Susan blurted out.

  “Glad to see you got over the Mr. MacIntyre thing. They’re yogurts, not ice cream, and after that meeting I wanted to cool down,” MacIntyre said, handing her a cup.

  “They’re nuts, boss,” Susan said, taking the cup of frozen yogurt. “The whole damn Pentagon is nuts!”

  The two got into the warm, waiting car. “The Pentagon is a building with about thirty thousand people. The Defense Department is about three million. Not all of them are nuts.” Rusty spooned the yogurt as the Chrysler and its two escort vehicles pulled out through the Eisenhower Building’s courtyard and crossed through a second courtyard to exit onto 17th Street. A Secret Service agent threw the traffic lights to red for the outside street traffic to stop as the lead Suburban pulled out of the gate.

  “Well, their Secretary certainly is certifiable,” Susan chortled. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Welcome to the big leagues.” MacIntyre smiled. “You missed the best part. Secretary Conrad is so gung-ho to get the Sauds back on the throne that he is willing to risk a shooting war with China. In the next few weeks.”

  “Where does he get off acting like God made him Viceroy of Earth?” Susan lisped, her tongue now frozen from the yogurt. “Where’d we get him anyway? Does he have pictures of the President and a goat or something?”

  “He was a takeover expert on Wall Street. Buy an ailing company on the cheap, fix it, then sell it for a multiple of six or seven what he paid for it.” MacIntyre looked out of the car at the few tourists on the sidewalk, all trying to see what big shot was in the car leaving the White House. “Then he ran for Governor of Pennsylvania, where he’s from. Some Main Line blueblood, out to ‘help the people help themselves.’ Or so his campaign claimed. Supposedly turned Pennsylvania around, too. And he delivered the state to the President, along with three hundred million in Wall Street cash. The President thinks Conrad is brilliant.”

  “What magic are you going to do?” she asked, again serious.

  “As Otter told the boys of Delta Tau Chi, it’s time for a road trip.” MacIntyre took a big bite of the frozen yogurt as their car sped past the Corcoran Gallery and headed toward Foggy Bottom.

  Susan Connor frowned. “Was that some kind of seventies reference?”

  Returning to the Intelligence Analysis Center, MacIntyre went straight for his boss’s office to debrief him on the meeting. Sol Rubenstein was poring over a draft analysis on North Korea. Without looking up, he welcomed his young deputy with “So I hear you got into a little contretemps with the almighty Secretary of Defense.”

  “Word travels fast,” Rusty said, plunking down into one of the two chairs next to the desk.

  “I got good sources,” Rubenstein replied, coming around into the other chair. “Rosie called me from the car. She said you stood up to him, the son of a bitch. Good for you. Fuck him.”

  Rusty smiled at the support from his boss. “I don’t believe his Defense Intelligence source about the Chinese. Selling missiles is one thing, but sending troops to prop up Islamyah, and then the nutty idea they would give them nukes. Shit, I don’t believe that Islamyah would even ask for that kind of help. More infidels in their holy land?” MacIntyre said, leaning toward his boss.

  “I dunno, Rusty, I dunno. Stranger things have happened. It’s possible, it’s possible,” the Director of IAC mused. “Listen, if you were running Islamyah, wouldn’t you want some protection right now? Your weapons don’t work because the Americans all left and won’t send parts. Secretary Conrad is giving a speech a week about how bad the people in Riyadh are. The Iranians are screwing around in Bahrain again. Tehran’s got the Iraqis on their side now. Who knows?”

  “I feel like there are an awful lot of moving parts right now, too many pieces on the chessboard, three-level chess,” MacIntyre suggested.

  “There are. Lotta balls in the air at the moment. That’s when America needs really good analysis,” Rubenstein said, and then he sat up straight. “Here’s what I suggest you do. Fly over to London. They have smart guys there on this stuff, with good contacts, better than ours, stuff they don’t share through normal liaison channels with CIA. For someone of your rank, they’ll open up. Besides, it’ll give you a chance to buy Sarah something nice on Portobello Road. She’s into antiques, right?”

  “You are well informed,” Rusty said, rising out of his chair. “Does someone of my rank get to fly first class this time?”

  “No, business class,” Rubenstein said, going back to his papers on North Korea.

  MacIntyre walked up to Rubenstein’s desk and quietly placed a small blue device on it.

  “What the hell is that?” Rubenstein asked.

  “It’s a BlackBerry. It’s already programmed for you with a Yahoo account in your name. It’s also programmed to send me PGPencrypted e-mail at a Yahoo address that only you and a few others know. In short, it’s our own private communications system. I’ll stay in touch that way while I’m on the road.” MacIntyre handed him the BlackBerry.

  “I’ll never figure out how to work it,” Rubenstein said, holding the device as if it were some extraterrestrial artifact.

  “I know. One of my new analysts will help you. Susan Connor— very tech-savvy. Unlike some.” MacIntyre laughed as he walked toward the door.

  Finally, Rubenstein looked up. “You don’t mind, do you, going to talk to the Brits?”

  “I already told Debbie to book the flight,” Rusty said. “Just came in here to persuade you.”

  “Argh,” the Director bellowed. “Get the fuck out of here!”

  Salmaniyah Medical Center

  Manama, Bahrain

  “Dr. Rashid, I am so glad you have joined us, and I want you to know that if there is anything we can do to help you get settled, you have only to ask.” The cute young Pakistani nurse was positively effusive as she said good night to the new doctor. It was the end of Ahmed’s first shift and he was bone-tired, but he could not rest. He had a lot more to do tonight.

  Ahmed bin Rashid walked to the nearly empty parking lot and started the battered Nissan that had been waiting for him, along

  with the apartment, along with the job. His brother’s people had seen to everything. He drove to his apartment building on the Manama Corniche and parked on the street, near the long coastal promenade, with its sweeping views of the bay. Entering the lobby of the modern structure, he went down the stairs to the basement and exited into the alley behind the building. There he found the motorbike where someone had left it for him. He drove it three miles to an old high-rise apartment block on the al Lulu Road near the Central Market. Ahmed entered the building through the service door, conveniently left unlocked. As soon as he stepped through the portal, a pair of hands grabbed him by his shoulders and spun him around, locking him in a tight grip just above the elbows. Stunned, his eyes unfocused in the dark, Ahmed tried to pull away, but whoever was holding him was much stronger.

  “A moment, please, Doctor,” a voice said calmly in Arabic. An instant later, another pair of hands expertly patted him down.

  The men were apparently satisfied. The lock on Ahmed’s arms abruptly released, and the voice spoke again. “This way.”

  The two men moved ahead and, with his vision adjusting to the dark, Ahmed followed the shapes becoming clear before him. As his racing heartbeat returned to normal, he gave silent thanks that he hadn’t embarrassed himself by acting like a scared little girl before what he presumed was his personal collection of spies.

  Ahmed followed the man through another door and into a dimly lit basemen
t storage room. Three more men were waiting. Now, he thought, now it begins. Suddenly, he was no longer tired.

  The man who had grabbed him turned and spoke. “Welcome, brother. We are your team. My name is Saif, and we await your orders.” The man had broad shoulders and the look of a bodybuilder. Ahmed guessed Saif was in his mid-to late twenties, which probably made him the oldest of the group of young men.

  Ahmed caught his breath, painfully aware that despite the fact that he was the amateur in the room, they were waiting for him to take charge, because he was supposed to be in charge. “Why don’t we start by each of you telling me where you work and how you came to the cause.”

  They were all Bahraini Sunni, but not from the wealthiest families. They were from the second tier of Bahraini society, for whom good higher education was hard to come by, for whom good jobs were scarcer yet. Three had gone to religious training in Riyadh four and five years earlier. There they’d been recruited and sent back to Bahrain, where they had brought in two old friends.

  “We are a small cell, but we believe there are other cells,” the one who was their leader, Saif bin Razaq, said. Ahmed said nothing. “Our strength is in the nature of our penetrations,” Saif continued, pointing to each man in turn. “We work at the travel office at the American Navy base, the telephone switching center for overseas calls, the Foreign Ministry, the airport, and I work at an Iranian import/export office in Sitra. It is actually a front for the Qods Force.”

  “But why do you run these risks for us? What do you hope for?” Ahmed asked, straining to see the faces of the five zealots in the dim light.

  “Not for you, Doctor, for Allah,” Fadl, the youngest-looking one, said softly. “We want Bahrain to be part of the new Islamyah. Now Bahrain is run by one family, who are Sunnis, yes, but they are threatened by the Shi’a majority here.”

  “Iran is helping the Shi’a,” Saif joined in. “The mullahs have sworn that they will add Bahrain to Iran, just as the Shah wanted to do thirty years ago. Liberate the majority Shi’a from oppression. Tppt.” He spit on the floor. “From here they will move on the Eastern Province of Islamyah, where they say they will go to liberate the Shi’a majority there, too, but really they just want to seize the oil.”

  “If Bahrain can become part of the greater Islamyah, we Sunnis here will be part of the majority of a great new Muslim nation, which can hold back the Persian forces,” Fadl finished the thought.

  “The Persians have a very long memory and an equally long time horizon,” Ahmed responded. “They think that if they wait, and keep their hand in, these things will fall to them like ripened figs from the trees.”

  “No, Doctor, they do not plan to wait.” Saif was excited. “This is the news we have for you! They are working on something big in the month of first Jamada. This is why they do these bombings now in Manama and blame it on us.” Saif pulled out an American newspaper. “Look at these lies that they spread, look here: ‘The work of Islamyah’s terrorist cells,’ they say!”

  “Do you know for certain the bombings were done by the Persians?” Ahmed asked, taking the copy of USA Today.

  “As I said, Doctor, I work in the building that is the front company for al Qods, the Iranian special services. I repair their photocopier and the printers.” He smiled for the first time. “And sometimes I help myself to what they print.” Now Saif handed over a thick wad of paper in a red file folder. “The Qods Force here is to step up the bombing, targeting the American Navy. Then in first Jamada they plan to be ready to stage a coup, and a popular uprising, as they had planned to do in 2001. Only this time, they think the American fleet will not be here and the Persian forces will be able to land quickly to support the uprising.”

  “The American fleet never really leaves Bahrain,” Ahmed scoffed as he opened the red file. “It only sails nearby in the Gulf.”

  “Doctor, over the last several years, the Americans have pulled their soldiers and ships out of Lebanon, Somalia, Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, and Iraq.” Fadl looked up, smiling. “Maybe the Persians know when they plan to leave here, too.”

  Yes, Ahmed thought. Maybe they do. He turned. “Saif, your cell must find out when and how al Qods Force plans to hit the American Navy Base.” He stood up to leave. “The Persians cannot be allowed to pin that attack on Islamyah. We cannot give the Americans an excuse to attack us.” Ahmed bin Rashid moved to the door. “Find out, Saif.” He walked down the darkened basement corridor and out to the motorbike in the alley.

  Mounting the little motorbike, Ahmed was pleased by the quality of the men in his cell, and equally pleased by his inaugural performance as spymaster. He would use the contacts and abilties of his men to produce intelligence for Islamyah, to prove his worth to his brother, Abdullah. If he could prove that the Iranians were going to blame Islamyah for an attack they would make against the Americans... better yet, if he could stop the attack.

  As he drove through the parking lot behind the high-rise apartment building, Ahmed’s image appeared on a small black-and-white screen in a Bedford step van parked across the street. “Well, thank you, Dr. Rashid,” an English voice whispered. “We had been wondering who was going to run that cell for Riyadh. Mr. Douglas will like this information.”

  FEBRUARY 1

  A government guesthouse

  amaran, Iran (North of Tehran)

  “The Elburz are beautiful in the snow,” the man in the business suit said.

  “Yes, they are, General. The mountains are beautiful all year round,” the cleric replied. “Let’s sit by the fire and have some hot chai.” The two moved to large chairs by the stone fireplace. A teapot sat on the table between them.

  “Phase One of Devil’s Fish Tank is complete. The pro-Islamyah website has claimed the credit, but the Bahraini secret police believe it was our Shi’a brethren. They will begin to take measures against them,” the General reported.

  “Very good. So the Americans will think it was Riyadh that blew up the hotels in Bahrain, and the al Khalifas ruling Bahrain will crack down on the Shi’a.” The cleric smiled broadly. “Nicely done. What’s next?”

  “We complete Devil’s Fish Tank. Then the Armenian and his boss will demand action against Riyadh for the slaughter of so many brave sailors,” the General said, pouring tea for himself and the cleric.

  “You trust the Armenian and his boss? Completely?” the cleric asked.

  “I trust no one but you completely.” The General smiled. “But they are gullible and greedy. And because they must know that we have our meeting with him on videotape, they will not risk exposure by double-crossing us.”

  “You will use Iraqis in Phase Two?” the cleric asked, and the General nodded. “The Iraqis are proving to be useful?”

  “They are, but our friends in Baghdad are having difficulties with the Kurds and Sunnis. Some of our people think it may soon be time to break off Basra.”

  The cleric rose, arranged his robes, and walked slowly to the window looking out on the snow-covered spruce. He turned back to the general. “You and the Qods Force have done so much for us, so well, for such a long time: chasing the Israelis out of Lebanon using the Hezbollah, the Buenos Aires bombings, all the things Mugniyah has done, merging Zawahiri’s group into al Qaeda, the covert support to bin Laden, getting the Americans to back our man and throw out Saddam, then the Baghdad government...

  “But your big plan, this is much more complicated, much riskier. There are many moving parts, including now, perhaps, the Chinese.” The cleric fingered his beads.

  “With respect, sir, they all know we have the nuclears.” The General rose and walked toward the fire. “They do not know how many and they do not know where. If for some reason the big plan does not go well, we are still secure. Allah will provide.”

  The cleric nodded. “I believe it is our destiny to be an agent for Allah, to unite the Shiites and bring for them a golden age,” the cleric said, his enthusiasm returning. He walked toward the Qods Force commander and placed his han
ds on the General’s shoulders. “Yes, you are right. Allah will provide.”

  3

  FEBRUARY 2

  U.S. Navy, Administrative Support Unit

  Juffair, Bahrain

  Brian Douglas drove his own car, a green Jaguar, from his beach villa out of town to the Juffair district, home to ASU Bahrain, as the American Fifth Fleet headquarters was known. The sixty-acre compound was surrounded by a high sand-colored masonry wall. A Marine in combat gear stopped the Jag and directed Douglas to pull into the vehicle inspection lane.

  “Please open the hood, trunk, all four doors, and back away from the car, sir,” a female Marine with an M16 rifle said, as another Marine approached with a German shepherd. As he stood aside and watched the dog sniff its way through the Jaguar, Douglas heard a helicopter engine getting very close. A matte-gray Black Hawk flared down onto the heliport on the other side of the wall, kicking up a small sandstorm near the soccer field.

  Cleared to proceed, Douglas drove to the stucco archway that was the main gate. It looked as though it had been left on some

  Hollywood back lot from the set of Gunga Din. Flashing his Navyissued ID, Douglas was directed to Building 903, with its typical U.S. Navy gobbledegook signage: “HQ-COMUSNAVCENT.”

  Douglas had no sooner been seated in the waiting room when a large man in a Navy flight jacket bounded into the suite and right up to Douglas. “Brian Douglas, it’s good to see you, you old bloke.” His thinning strawberry blond hair and baby face made him look like anything other than the Fifth Fleet commander.

  “Come on in, Bri. Ensign, two big mugs of coffee. Just choppered in from two days on the Reagan.” The British SIS station chief followed in the admiral’s wake into the cavernous office.

  “Sorry I haven’t had you over since I got in last month, but it’s been a whirlwind of get-to-know-you meetings up and down the Gulf. I’ve memorized more royal family trees in the last week than I did studying European history,” Admiral Adams continued, moving across the room. “Here, let’s sit at the conference table. You know my N-2, the intel guy here, Johnny Hardy.” The three men sat at the long staff table.