Oil

by Jeff Nesbit

  They were willing to take the fight outside their borders to Gaza, the Golan Heights, or southern Lebanon when necessary. But Aqaba? That was insane, and Abdul knew it. Any rational person knew it. But the world was not a rational place just now, and there were many who would believe the Israelis were advancing the Zionist cause.

  Whoever wanted to cover their tracks for the attack had taken a time-honored route. Israel was an easy, convenient villain. The Jews had been blamed for the world’s ills on many occasions. What was one more fanciful story?

  What was more shocking to Abdul, though, was the brutal slaying of a retired Saudi National Guard general at his villa in Aqaba. The Israelis, of course, were being blamed for this as well. The initial reports identified members of the IDF who’d been seen advancing on the villa before the slaying.

  The speculation was that the Israelis had wanted to remove a radical leader only two miles from their borders before he took power in exile in the midst of citizen uprisings that threatened to destabilize the Saudi kingdom and spark a broader pan-Arab revolt across many nations.

  The reports recounted how Fahd had been the voice of the uprising that had led to the Day of Anger protests about to take place across the kingdom. He had become the de facto leader of an army in exile, and the rallying personage for the disaffected who threatened to overturn the monarchy in Saudi Arabia, just as uprisings had removed dictators in Libya, Egypt, and other Arab nations.

  The Israelis had no need of a radical leader a stone’s throw from their borders, especially one who had begun to give voice to the radicalized anti-Israel sentiment always below the surface in parts of the kingdom and who seemingly could reach out to other disaffected groups in the Arab world. So the IDF, or the Mossad, had neutralized him before he could assume power, the reports had said.

  Abdul knew this was absurd as well. There was no way it was true. Yes, the Israelis were known for their ability to reach inside a country such as Iran to assassinate scientists bent on helping their nation acquire nuclear weapons or to track down Hezbollah and Hamas leaders who dared expose themselves at inopportune times.

  But this particular assassination made no sense. Israel had no interest in the affairs of the Saudi state. It was far too dangerous for them to entangle themselves in whatever might emerge from a power struggle within the Saudi royal family. This, too, was a convenient lie, well told.

  Still, the news saddened Abdul. Fahd had been a good man. Abdul had enjoyed his company when he’d commanded the White Army.

  He’d been perplexed, though, as to why Fahd had suddenly taken a radical turn. Abdul had listened to several of his broadcasts, whipping up supporters of the Day of Anger that would take place this day in several Saudi cities.

  Fahd was no radical. Yes, he’d married a woman who’d come from a lower-class Shi’a family. He’d kept that fact hidden from others for most of his tenure in the White Army. But that was a personal choice, not a radical one.

  Becoming a leader in exile for what, by all accounts, appeared to be a mythical uprising made up out of boasts and child’s play did not seem logical to Abdul. He never would have ascribed irrationality and risk taking to Fahd. Loyalty to the White Army and the royal family, yes—but not this sort of lunacy.

  Abdul had wondered who, or what, might be driving Fahd. Had someone gotten to him, threatened his family? Or had he just decided to take advantage of a spontaneous movement in the kingdom and see if he couldn’t ride its coattails into the history books?

  Others had certainly done that in various parts of the world. Whenever there was revolution or sudden change in a nation, there were always winners and losers. And for those who guessed right and were on the right side of history, they were nearly always rewarded with leadership in the ensuing chaos. To the victor went the spoils. Perhaps Fahd had decided to roll the dice.

  Abdul doubted that, however. It seemed an unlikely scenario, given what he knew about Fahd and his loyalty to the royal family over the years. More likely was that Fahd had been someone’s useful fool, and now he had become a mere footnote in someone’s effort to disguise other actions and paint a target on the Israelis’ back.

  Abdul had been studying Israel closely. The recent attacks in southern Arabia, at the West Qurna oil fields, and at Iran’s vast Azadegan oil fields had forever changed the global economic landscape. The world’s oil economy was reeling. Saudi Arabia’s royal succession—and the protest in the coming Day of Anger—was only a small part of the chaos that had descended in various parts of the world.

  Through it all, Israel had emerged nearly unscathed. It was poised to take a seat at the world’s economic table. Whether Israel wanted the attention or not, all eyes were turning toward the tiny sliver of land at the eastern end of the Mediterranean.

  As someone about to become the Saudi foreign minister, Abdul had made certain that he was fully briefed on a regular basis by the intelligence chiefs. For this reason, Abdul knew that Israel had formed alliances with the Americans, the Russians, and the Chinese that placed them at the very center of the world’s vast natural resource economy.

  It was a curious position for the Israelis to find themselves in. They’d been dependent on the good graces of others for years. While it had only come to light in recent years, the Iranians had once secretly built an oil pipeline through the Negev so that Israel could import its energy—all while Iran was an avowed enemy of the state.

  And now, with everything changing rapidly, Israel found itself about to sit at the head of the table.

  But that still didn’t explain the actions in Aqaba. Abdul was certain the Israelis were not responsible for the explosions or assassination. But he also knew that history would swallow up the real perpetrators. Israel would remain a convenient, albeit unproven, scapegoat.

  Abdul stood up quickly from the desk in his study. Enough, he thought. There are some things beyond my grasp or understanding. But this thing today, with Nash, is something well within my control.

  “Take me to the quarters where they are holding Nash Lee,” he told his aide.

  His aide didn’t move. “I will, but you need to hear the rest of my news first.”

  “All right,” Abdul said. “I will hear your news.”

  The aide stood straight. “Saud has moved aside. He has already abdicated and given the title to another. It will be announced shortly, in advance of these Day of Anger protests.”

  Abdul was truly taken aback. The plan had been in the works for days, even weeks. But someone, perhaps the king, had apparently moved up the schedule in an effort to blunt the uprisings about to sweep through the kingdom.

  “Saud is no longer the crown prince?”

  “As of last night,” the aide said. “I have it on the authority of the White Army. They are now protecting a new crown prince.”

  “Natal?” he asked.

  “Yes, Natal,” said the aide, a veteran of palace intrigue. It was one of the reasons Abdul liked him so much. “But the statement will read, quite clearly, that this is an interim step, to make way for a new generation of leaders.”

  Abdul nodded. “So it has begun. This means that Muhammad is the new minister of the interior, and head of the White Army?”

  “Yes. The governor of Mecca has been notified, as of last night. And you are soon to become the foreign minister,” his aide said, beaming.

  “So where are the king and Natal at this moment?” Abdul said.

  “I’ve been told that Natal is on his way to Mecca,” the aide said. “He leaves this morning. The king is still in his quarters, conferring with Saud.”

  “Natal is going to Mecca? Why?”

  “To meet with the governor of Mecca, to discuss the transition, I believe,” the aide said. “But you know Natal. He never discusses those things, even with his closest aides. It’s always an educated guess with him.”

  Abdul gathered his outer garments. “Well, you’re right. This changes everything, save for one thing. Nash Lee needs to be allowed t
o leave, immediately. I intend to take care of that right now. And perhaps I’ll join Natal in Mecca.”

  “But the new crown prince has given orders to the White Army that the American is not to be approached,” the aide said.

  “I don’t care,” Abdul said. “It’s not Natal’s call. Let the king himself stop me, if he dares.”

  64

  Ar Rawdah, Saudi Arabia

  “This is insane, sir,” the soldier said. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “I know,” said the bone-weary commander, a close confidant of the internal security forces who surrounded Iran’s president. “But we’ve all been well paid. Mecca is only a day’s ride now, and we might be on the right side of history. Who knows? Maybe they’ll have a chapter in the history books just about you.”

  “But seriously, we’re riding into the Battle of Mecca—on horseback?” The soldier laughed. “Maybe I’d buy all of this a hundred years ago. Not now.”

  They’d arrived at the small town of Ar Rawdah, fewer than twenty miles north of Mecca the night before, after three days in the sand of northern Arabia. The men were sick of travel. But they were also a bit mystified as to why they’d never been stopped by the Saudis. It was as if they were ghosts, traveling through the desert.

  They ditched and then torched their trucks. The commander radioed his counterpart leading the “white flag” troops from the south. Sa’id Nouradeen told the northern commander they were ready as well and would join up with them at the Kaaba in Mecca. Nouradeen wondered a little about the fact that the “black flag” troops were led by one of Ahmadian’s men. It was a risk, but one that Ahmadian and his advisors had been apparently willing to take.

  This was the last leg. None of them knew what the end of the day might look like—either here in Mecca, or in other parts of the kingdom where student-led Day of Anger uprisings were planned.

  “So who, exactly, are we going after again when we get to Mecca?” the soldier asked. “It’s not like the old days of the kingdom of Hejaz, when the sharif or the caliph could be found in Mecca. I mean, it’s mostly just a bunch of pilgrims and such now.”

  “Yes, but it’s symbolic,” the commander said.

  “Okay, then, who’s the symbol?”

  “The governor of Mecca,” the commander answered. “I told you that.”

  “I know, but I just wanted to hear it again—to make sure. He’s a Saudi prince,” the soldier said. “So why him?”

  “Our patrons have their reasons,” the commander said.

  “So if he’s a Saudi prince, then we can assume the White Army will be there to protect him. How do we get past the guard with just these swords?” The solder held the Zulfiqar aloft, waved it ominously, then burst out laughing. “Seriously. How are we supposed to win a battle against the guard with these things?”

  “They’ve said that others will join us, and that there will be surprises,” the commander said. “We just need to make it to Mecca.”

  The soldiers left on horseback at dawn. They’d be in Mecca well before day’s end and would join up with the southern troops at that time.

  Those from the north would be carrying black flags and Zulfiqars. Those coming from the south would be carrying white flags and double-edged swords as well.

  And what neither group—the “black flag” mercenaries led by a commander from Iran’s internal security forces and the “white flag” group of Shi’a and Sunni warriors led by Yamani—knew or much cared about was that they would be fulfilling ancient prophecy as they stormed Mecca.

  65

  Hejaz Mountains

  Saudi Arabia

  Mehmet Osman was thoroughly confused. As he stood on a front porch deck overlooking the holy city of Mecca, he’d already forgotten why he was here.

  He’d been suffering from dementia for several years. It had crept up on him even before he’d considered retiring from the public library he’d worked at in downtown London for more than twenty years. There were days when he’d forget what he’d been doing earlier that day.

  Osman had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he was the last of the heirs to the long-dead Ottoman Empire caliphate. He’d never married, and he had no children.

  But he did not regret that. He’d never had any desire, really, to live in Turkey. And he’d certainly never had any thought of entering politics or becoming involved in affairs of state.

  No, Osman had always been content with his small, uneventful life. Every so often, for a bit of fun at a cocktail party or a small gathering, he would reveal that he was an Osman and an heir in the succession of caliphs who’d ruled the Ottoman Empire. He’d get a laugh, a lifted brow, several questions about the job requirements for a caliph, and then the conversation would move on.

  In fact, Osman had never truly studied the Ottoman Empire or what caliphs did. He’d heard stories from his parents and grandparents growing up, of course. But they’d all seemed so distant and remote. It had never occurred to him that he’d need to pay any attention to the stories of his childhood.

  Until today. That’s why he was confused. Osman wondered why someone had bothered to fly him halfway across the world, to a place in the Hejaz mountains overlooking the holy city of Mecca. He could see Mecca from where he stood. The sun was beginning to rise in the east, so the outlines of the holy city were becoming visible.

  The two men who’d come to see Osman at his flat in London had produced identification papers indicating that they were members of the Saudi National Guard. The princes of Saudi Arabia wanted to honor him at a ceremony, they said, and they were willing to pay handsomely if he would agree to accompany them to the kingdom.

  The two men had then given him a considerable sum as a gesture of good faith. Osman had nothing better to do, so he’d decided on a whim to travel to Saudi Arabia with them. He’d already decided he would buy two new suits with the money they’d given him.

  The men had not explained Osman’s role in the ceremony, and he hadn’t asked. The sum of money and their identification papers had been convincing. They’d left in a small jet, from a private hangar at Heathrow. There had been no waiting, no checking bags, and no need for security. It had been just the three of them, and two pilots, on the private aircraft.

  Osman had stared out the windows for most of the trip. It had been a very long time since he’d come back to this part of the world. He’d lived in London for so long that he’d forgotten how breathtakingly gorgeous the Arabian Peninsula was.

  They’d landed the night before and had taken private vehicles up into the Hejaz mountains. When he’d asked about the activities that would occur in the morning, the two men had merely smiled and told him that all would become clear soon enough.

  Osman asked about a banner and flag propped up in the corner of the safe home they’d brought him to. It was a unique flag, with a red triangle and green, black, and white stripes. He did not know that it was the last flag of the old kingdom of Hejaz, that it had been used as their symbol for the Arab Revolt early in the twentieth century, or that it had later emerged as the modern Palestinian flag.

  As a librarian, Osman should have known that the colors of the Hejaz flag had come to be known as the unofficial pan-Arab colors—should a day ever arrive when there was a reemergence of a pan-Islamic caliphate that crossed country borders and looked like the old Ottoman Empire.

  Had he ever inquired about his own heritage and his connection to past events, he would have learned about the disappearance of the kingdom of Hejaz in 1925, when an Emir drove the Hashemites out of Mecca, creating the modern kingdom of Saudi Arabia. The House of Saud had ended any hopes of a pan-Islamic caliphate when it made Arabia a monarchy.

  Now, as Osman looked out from Hejaz at Mecca, he noticed men fanning out in all directions across the eastern slope of the Hejaz mountainside. Carrying torches, they set trees on fire as they made their way through the forest. It was a sight to behold.

  Osman turned to the two men who’d brought him here
. “What is that?” he asked them.

  “It is of no concern,” said one of the two men.

  “But…”

  “They are clearing brush,” said the second man. “They’re firefighters, and they’re simply clearing out dead wood in an old growth forest. They’re making way for new growth.”

  Osman nodded. It didn’t make sense, but the men were right. It was of no concern. The two men then beckoned to him, urging him to return inside, out of the early morning air. They all needed to rest up for the day ahead, they told him.

  Good, Osman thought. Then I will have time for a nap.

  Several of the larger trees exploded as the raging fire spread throughout the forest that overlooked Mecca. Within hours, the fire would move from the mountains of Hejaz toward Mecca. This, too, would fulfill prophecy about events that must immediately precede the return of the Mahdi.

  66

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  It had clearly been a long, difficult night for the young American. Nash’s clothes were rumpled. His hair was unkempt. The bottom half of his face was dark from two-day-old stubble. He’d been forced to sleep in the conference room. His jacket was folded on top of the backpack that he’d tried to use as a pillow on the hard floor.

  “I am so very sorry, Nash. I truly am,” Abdul apologized. “There is no justification for this.”

  Nash stared back at the Saudi prince through haggard, bloodshot eyes. “These things happen. But a bed would have been nice,” he said with a lopsided grin. “This floor is awfully hard.”

  Abdul extended a hand. “You are a good soul, my friend. You have a marvelous spirit of adventure and goodwill about you. That anyone could smile under such circumstances…”

  “Hey, it’s fine. Really. I’ve slept in some pretty awful places before. I once had to spend the night in a phone booth in London for an entire evening while it poured down rain. And I spent the night behind the furnace in a boiler room at an apartment complex in Paris.” Nash glanced down at the hard floor and then the backpack he’d been forced to use as his pillow. “So this is a piece of cake. I got a few hours of sleep.”