It was late in the evening. The general had been back from his trip to Saudi Arabia for less than a day. The sun had set over the District, and the parking lot lights had clicked on. Brighton sat alone in his office and stared out the large window, lost in his thoughts as he pulled on his lip. Then came an urgent knock, and his White House aide pushed back the door. “Sir,” the colonel said as he rushed into the room.
Brighton turned wearily. “What you got, Dagger?” he asked.
Colonel “Dagger” Hansen took a step toward his desk and thrust out his hand. He was holding a red, covered binder. “Bad stuff in Saudi,” he said.
Brighton stood immediately and reached for the folder. “What is it?” he asked as he tore the classified seal on the envelope.
“Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal,” Dagger answered.
Brighton paused and looked up.
“He’s dead,” the colonel continued. “His chopper was shot down a few hours ago.”
Brighton’s stomach turned, and he took a quick breath, almost grimacing in pain. “What? Are you certain?” he demanded. “How do you know it was him?”
“We know,” the colonel answered. “And that’s not all, sir. I’m afraid the news gets much worse. But we’ve got to go. I’ll explain while we walk. The national security staff is assembling in the situation room and the president wants a brief in an hour.”
Dagger turned for the door and Brighton followed. The colonel explained what he knew as they jogged down the hall.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Major General Brighton was sitting at the situation room conference table, surrounded by the national security staff. He sat by himself, his head down, reading the transcript of the radio call:
“Mayday, Mayday . . . this is an emergency call to any U.S. (UNREADABLE) in the region. This is Saudi Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal with an emergency (UNREADABLE) for Major General Neil Brighton of the (UNREADABLE). Neil, my friend, all (UNREADABLE) . . . I only have one son (SIGNIFICANT UNREADABLE) . . . living. You (UNREADABLE) (rescue/rescued/resist??) him. The Agha Jari Deh Valley. (SIGNIFICANT UNREADABLE) . . . with my . . .”
Brighton checked the time of the transcription, then the time the interception took place. He studied the UNREADABLE portions of the transcript, trying to fill in the blanks, then turned to the communications specialist on the NSC staff. “Who picked up the message?” he asked.
“One of our recy birds out of Baghdad,” the staff member answered.
“It wasn’t broadcast to any particular receiver?”
“No, sir, it was not. It was a call in the blind. A couple dozen other U.S. aircraft reported hearing the broadcast, including half a dozen receivers inside of Saudi Arabia. The reconnaissance aircraft had its tapes rolling and was able to get it on tape, but the chopper was so low it impeded the range of the broadcast, and as you can see there are significant portions that are unreadable.”
“It wasn’t broadcast using Have Quick radio?” he asked.
“Negative, sir,” the young lieutenant replied. “No secure means of encryption were employed. Quite the opposite, the radio call was broadcast on the civilian guard frequency. It was the crown prince’s intention to get the message to as many people as he could, hoping it would eventually make its way to you. Clearly, that was his intention. He mentions you by name—that much of the broadcast came through loud and clear.”
“But if he was trying to send me a message, why not use his satellite radio?”
“Time, sir, or lack of it. It takes a couple of seconds to synch up to a satellite, and when Prince Saud made this radio call, he was already under attack. It was amazing he had the presence of mind to get this much out. We’ve gone back and looked at some of the reconnaissance information from one of our Looking Glass IIIs. When this radio message was broadcast, the crown prince’s helicopter was deep into evasive maneuvers. Missiles had already been fired. They were six, maybe eight, seconds from impact. The broadcast was terminated when the missiles impacted the target.”
Brighton sat back and thought, imagining the chaos in the chopper in the last seconds of the prince’s life as they tried to evade the inevitable. He considered the courage and calm the prince had displayed. “And the unreadable portions of the transcript?” he asked sadly, trying not to think of his friend.
“We’re still working on that, sir. There were a couple of times when Prince Saud slipped into Arabic, so our translators have been going over the recording, trying to complete the transcription, but as I mentioned, the chopper was low and portions of the transmission didn’t come through. It might be this is the best transcription we ever get.”
The general laid the transcript on the table and stared at the far wall. The staff worked busily around him, but his mind drifted back.
He thought of his conversation with Saud in the garden. The crown prince had warned him. But did he have any idea he was so close to death? A sudden chill ran though him. How much did the prince really know? He thought of the code word. Was this Firefall?
He turned back to his staff. “Who was with him in his chopper?” he asked.
An intelligence officer stepped forward. “So far as we know, besides the pilots he was alone,” he said.
Brighton shook his head.
The crown prince of Arabia. Alone. In his chopper. In the middle of the night. Out over the water. It was more than unusual—it was completely absurd. Turning to the transcript, he read it again. “I only have one son.” He stared again into space.
Colonel Dagger Hansen moved to the table and sat down next to Brighton as a small group of staff members gathered around them. The colonel’s face was taut, and he wet his lips quickly. He stared at the general, then leaned toward him. “Sir, we’ve been poking around since we intercepted this message,” he said. “Our consulate in Riyadh has been trying to talk with King Faysal, but he is staying low. However, he managed to send us a message. We are still trying to confirm its authenticity, but it appears to be real.” Dagger paused and wet his lips again.
“Yes?” Brighton demanded.
The colonel looked around anxiously. “I’m sorry, sir, but we think Crown Prince Saud’s family has also been killed.”
“Killed!”
“Assassinated. A political hit.”
“His family?”
“His sons from Princess Tala, Prince Saud’s most senior heirs. And maybe Princess Tala and their daughter as well, all of them killed a little more than forty-eight hours ago.”
Brighton’s face drained of color, and he blinked his eyes suddenly. He shook his head in doubt. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“I’m sorry, sir. I know you and Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal were good friends. It’s a kick in the gut, especially with his family . . .”
“I don’t believe it!” Brighton repeated, his voice growing sour. His thoughts came to him slowly, thick tar in his mind. “Why would anyone kill his family? That doesn’t make any sense! With the security that’s around them, I don’t see how they could!” His staff members stared at him, none of them willing to reply.
Dagger tapped a finger on the table, pointing to a line on the transcript. He didn’t say anything, but his impatience was clear. “I’m sorry, sir, but it happened,” the colonel finally said. “I know he was your friend, but the prince was taken out, along with his family. We know they’ve been killed. Now what are we going to do?”
Brighton turned toward him, and Dagger tapped the transcript again, the surety of his action enough to bring Brighton’s disbelief to a close. “We are seeking confirmation, turning over every stone,” the colonel continued, “but from what we are hearing from our friends at the Israeli Mossad, and Ambassador Bandar in Syria, it looks like one of King Faysal’s sons is making a move.”
The general shook his head, his face draining of color.
A power struggle in the kingdom. It was impossible to overstate the danger this could mean to the United States. The instability in the Persian Gulf wou
ld send the price of oil to $100 a barrel, money that would be used to breathe more money and life into al Qaeda. It would destabilize the entire region, including the fragile government in Iraq, while bringing out all the snakes and spiders in Syria, Iran, and Lebanon. It could shut down the Gulf to international shipments of oil while increasing the opportunities for nuclear proliferation in the most dangerous part of the world. It would mean the military forces in Israel would be on hair-trigger alert. It would mean . . . on and on. He felt a sick knot in his throat.
He took a deep breath. All right. It was here. He would deal with it; they would deal with it; they would do what was needed to see this thing through. He rubbed his face, then his hair, then took a deep breath again.
He stared at the transcript and thought clearly for the first time since walking into the situation room. “The prince’s son?” he wondered, “ . . . the Agha Jari Deh Valley.” A light began to flicker inside his head.
“Princess Tala?” he asked. “She was killed, along with all of her children.”
“Yes, sir. That is what we have been told.”
“But there were no other assassinations?”
“Not that we know of right now.”
Prince Saud had a second wife. Another child. One more son who still lived. “You know that Prince Saud had another son?” Brighton asked.
The colonel didn’t answer. That was something he didn’t know.
“They are taking out his heirs,” Brighton said. “They’re claiming stake to the kingdom—”
“Sir?” Dagger interrupted, then stopped and let Brighton think.
Brighton shook his head; then it hit like a slap on the head. “Get me a map,” he demanded.
A map was laid out before him, and one of the specialists pointed at the crash site in the Gulf.
Alone . . . in his chopper . . . out over the water?
The general stared, thinking again of what the crown prince had said, the warning he had given and the fear in his voice. “Where is Agha Jari Deh?” he asked. Dagger pointed at the map. The general drew a line with his finger between Saud’s personal heliport in Riyadh . . . the border . . . across the Gulf to Iran . . . through the mountains to Agha Jari Deh. The line was almost perfectly straight and he swallowed hard. “He hid him!” he said.
Dagger looked at him and wondered.
Brighton pointed again. “He was hiding his last son, his last heir. He took him to Iran.” His voice was so certain, no one dared argue with him.
Brighton moved toward an illuminated map on the wall. The small group of advisors followed him, Dagger staying at his side. “Prince Saud knew it was coming,” Brighton explained. “He even tried to warn me.” He pointed to the small village with his finger. “He was over the Gulf, on his way back from where he had hidden his son in Iran.”
Dagger stood in silence beside his boss, then cracked the fragile bones in his neck, as Brighton turned away from the wall map.
“We’ve got to help him,” Brighton demanded as he turned to his aide. “What’s the closest special operations unit?” he asked.
Dagger shook his head. “You know how thin we are, sir. All of our special ops units are committed to ongoing operations. I’m not sure who’s available . . .”
“Find out,” Brighton said. “We’ve got to get them to Agha Jari Deh before it’s too late. We’re looking for a young boy . . . four, maybe five. And Princess Ash Salman will be with him as well. Agha Jari Deh looks like a tiny village; if Saud took them there, then someone will know. But we’ve got to move quickly. If we picked up the radio broadcast, then Prince Saud’s enemies inside Arabia certainly picked it up as well. They will be moving. We’ve got to get there before they do.”
Dagger turned to an army liaison who had been standing with the circle of advisors a few feet away from the men. The army colonel stepped forward. “We’ve got a Delta team R&Ring in Germany,” he said. “They were supposed to get another couple of days of rest, but we could load them up and get them in-country if needed. If we can get airlift and transports, they could be in Iran within twelve hours or so.”
Dagger turned to Brighton. “Sir?” was all he said.
“Do it,” Brighton commanded. “Twelve hours may be too late, but we’ve got to try. Coordinate with the Chairman, the SecDef, and the CINCS to get the orders in place. We need their support. If they have any questions, tell them to call me. And point out this will be a search and rescue mission only; the unit will avoid a firefight if possible, but we might meet up with hostiles, so we have to be prepared to accept casualties. Then prepare the talking papers so I can brief the president. We will need his authorization before we can move into Iran.”
The army colonel nodded and moved toward his console. Dagger went with him, all the time talking in his ear. Brighton watched them go, his mind drifting away.
Sam’s unit was in Germany. He knew they were the only Delta unit there.
He had just ordered his son into combat. No man should have to do that.
* * *
Prince Abdullah listened to the young communications specialist intently, boring his dark eyes into him. “You are certain?” he demanded, his voice deadly but calm.
“Sayid, yes, I am.”
“He said the Agha Jari Deh Valley?”
“I am certain, Prince Abdullah, that is what he said.”
“That’s in Iran?”
“Yes, my Sayid.”
Prince Abdullah closed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “My older brother has been murdered,” he said carefully. “I need to know everything. I need to know every detail of the radio call. Now try to remember. Did he say anything else?”
The young soldier didn’t move as he thought intensely. “I have told you everything,” he finally answered. “Everything that I can recall.”
“And there are no survivors?”
“No, my Sayid.”
“No survivors . . . no survivors . . .” Abdullah’s voice choked with pain. He forced a look of grief and deep sadness that pulled the corners of his lips into a tight frown. His eyes teared and his lip trembled—it was a spectacular display, with just the right mix of rage and shock and sadness at his brother’s death. Every head bowed in respect for his pain. Always emotional, his Arab brothers recognized Abdullah needed a private moment to grieve.
The young prince wiped his hand across his eyes, then dismissed his staff with a wave of his hand. “Leave me,” he whispered. “I need some time alone.” His aides left without comment, the last one closing the heavy door to his office.
The room was silent a moment before Abdullah lifted the phone. “He went to Iran,” he said immediately when his officer picked up the line. “Agha Jari Deh.”
A long moment of silence followed before the officer replied. “Iran?” he muttered slowly.
“Yes. It has to be. And I want to move now.”
“Prince Abdullah, I don’t know that we can . . .”
“Of course we can. And of course we will. Many powerful Iranian officers are indebted to me. Start with General Sattam bin Mamdayh. He’ll know exactly what to do.”
“Prince Abdullah,” the general started to plead, “we have eliminated Prince Saud. His son is no threat to us now. By the time he is old enough, it will be far too late!”
“You will do as I tell you. I want all of his children killed!”
“But Sayid, he is but a child, little more than a baby. He poses no threat to you. Why can’t we just let him be?”
“Because he will grow up, you fool! Because he knows who he is! He will remember his father, and he will come after us. And his mother is with him. Do you think she won’t act? Are you stupid, my friend, or have you just lost your mind? I want all of them killed. None of Saud’s children can live.”
“But, my prince, if you will just consider for a moment . . .”
“I want them dead!” Abdullah screamed into the phone. “Now, are you going to do it, or do I have you replaced? There are others who
will follow my orders, General. You are not irreplaceable. Now you either bring me the son, or I’ll mount your head on my wall like the female sheep that you are. Choose now, but choose wisely, for I am not in a good mood. And I don’t want to hear any more whining about how he is just a child!”
* * *
Iranian General Sattam bin Mamdayh truly did know what to do. As director of the Iranian internal special security forces, he was a good friend of Abdullah’s and one of the hundreds of powerful and evil men who owed him or feared him or depended on his money.
Prince Abdullah called the general on a secure satellite phone. Abdullah didn’t exchange pleasantries but got right to the point. “I need your help,” he instructed. “And I need it now.”
“Anything,” the general answered. “I will do what I can.”
“There is a small village on the west side, not far from the sea. Agha Jari Deh. Are you familiar with it?”
The general thought a moment, searching his memory. Yes, he was familiar. The village was nestled in the crest of the mountains. And there was a young man who lived there, a grandson of the former Shah, the traitor Pahlavi, friend of the Great Satan himself. All of the offspring of Pahlavi living inside Iran were under surveillance by his men, though Rassa Ali Pahlavi had spent a meaningless life of herding and farming so far as he knew.
“Pahlavi!” Abdullah breathed upon hearing the name. “Are you certain?” he demanded, his voice strained and tight.
“Absolutely,” the general answered. “I have been there myself. He is a dirt farmer, a peasant; my dog lives better than he. He lives in a shack I wouldn’t stable my horses in. He is nothing; I assure you.”
Abdullah was silent, his breathing heavy and slow. “Pahlavi,” he repeated like it was a bad taste in his mouth. “Pahlavi, my cousin . . .”
The Great and Terrible Page 46