by David Lender
Daniel’s phone rang: “Mr. Dieudonne is ready for you.”
Showtime. And the son of a bitch is twenty minutes early. His stomach turned over.
July 2, This Year. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Prince Yassar raised his eyes from his morning prayers to a vision that stiffened his back. Through his window a jangle of traditional, low-slung buildings huddled in subdued browns, tans and orange patches of the sunrise, framed against modern skyscrapers. That wasn’t what sent the shiver of unease through him. What affected him was something he couldn’t see on the horizon, a horizon that would soon be obscured by waves of heat under the sun of a 100 degree day. I must again admit failure. He relaxed his muscles and settled down again onto his haunches. The earthy scent of the wool of his prayer rug soothed him.
He bathed in a moment of silence, prolonging the moments before the cares of the day invaded his consciousness. He raised his head, again, at the expanse of desert that was the kingdom of the Al Mamlakah al Arabiyah as Suudiyah: Saudi Arabia. A forbidding sight to contemplate. A giant field of sand—harsh, mostly uninhabited desert—sitting atop unfathomably large oil fields. Questions came to Yassar against his will, as they did every morning: how long before the unfathomable becomes fathomable, and the oil deposits deplete; how long before the oil revenues that constitute three quarters of the government budget stop? When we are out of oil, we are out of oil.
Yassar wished he could ponder them as an ordinary Saudi citizen might, rather than as the Finance and Economy Minister, the most powerful of the twelve members of the Council of Ministers, mostly royal family members appointed by his cousin, King and Prime Minister Abad. Would that I did not bear this responsibility. The thought brought back his own words to his fellow ministers and King Abad almost two decades ago. His words after decades of unrestrained spending of unspeakable oil profits by their regime, when they’d begun running government deficits: “We must adapt to life in a normal economy.”
Yassar felt the tension in his forehead, even this early in the day. He dreaded his upcoming meeting with the king and Council of Ministers. “It is not just our pride at stake, but ultimately our survival. I will conceive a plan for diversifying our economy away from oil revenues,” he heard himself say to them decades ago. Words forged in his mind.
He turned from the window, straightened his back and looked to the end table at the photograph of his son, Prince Ibrahim. Ibrahim had been the eldest of his twelve children, the son of Nibmar, the first, still favorite and most loving of his four wives. The familiar wooden frame on the photograph was stained with the oil from Yassar’s hands, rounded at the corners from his touch. He’d be in his mid forties, old enough to be a Deputy Minister. Yassar remembered the hopes he had held for Ibrahim, and through him great hopes for the Saudi people. Harvard-educated, a blending of the cultural, religious and educational heritage of Saudi Arabia and the Western ways of their chief ally, the Americans. Ibrahim would be a fine young man now. Immediately Yassar’s thoughts turned to his old adversaries, the extremist Shiite Muslim fundamentalists blamed for his son’s murder. That conjured the image of Sheik bin Abdur, the man he held liable for Ibrahim’s death, the spiritual and day-to-day leader of the al-Mujari, their terrorist organization. You are as responsible for where we are as our government policies. Yassar knew that on top of the budget deficits and recessions, the fundamentalist preachings of the Sheik now captured the emotions of a restive Saudi people. Sheik bin Abdur, a man…and Yassar’s thoughts trailed off as his memories were linked in a struggle in his soul, his Islamic values versus revenge; shari’a—Islamic law—versus blood-hatred; self-control versus obsession.
Now he thought of Sasha, the young concubine he had brought to Ibrahim from Switzerland three years before his death. Sasha had dominated Ibrahim with her fierce pride and energetic loins. Sasha, the last person to see his son alive.
Time to get ready. He turned and walked to his desk, settling in for a full day of preparations for his meeting. Again, he thumbed through his worn and dog-eared manila folders, the top one bearing the name “J. Daniel Christian Youngblood III,” files on individuals and institutions who would figure into Yassar’s plans for redemption. The redemption of the Saudi people from their downward spiraling economic situation. Yassar’s redemption from his decades-old unfulfilled promise to solve their problems.
July 2, This Year. Buraida, Saudi Arabia. In the commercial section of Buraida, 200 kilometers north of Riyadh, the man was certain everyone knew he was a nonlocal, despite his dark Arab complexion and features. He was tall and muscular, and didn’t try to hide his walk with an erect military gait. He crossed through an alley toward the main street, his hands thrust into the pockets of his green windbreaker. He wore long tan slacks and heavy black boots. The dust kicked up by dozens of other feet hung in the still morning air and deposited in his nostrils and throat. The sun from the cloudless sky burned on his head. Damn desert. The man wanted to spit to clear the dust from his throat but knew that was frowned upon by the Mutawwa’iin, the religious police, the only law in this Islamic fundamentalist northern province. His eyes darted from side to side, not out of fear but from his years of training as a mercenary, now an instinctive component of his military equipment.
He rounded the corner of a butcher shop and entered the main street. Amid the cries of shopkeepers pronouncing their wares, he passed Arab men dressed in robes and headdresses seated in groups on the street in front of shops, conversing, sharing bowls of food or meditating. The smell of spices intermingled with the scent of cooking meat in the smoke and dust that hung in the stifling air. The man walked another fifty feet past a group of skinny Arab kids and stopped in front of the first building after the mosque. He looked around to see that no Mutawwa’iin were apparent. He knocked.
An Arab man in traditional dress opened the door, then moved out of the way to allow the man to enter. He pointed to a doorway into a back room and the man walked into it. Sheik bin Abdur was seated in a half-lit corner. The man smelled the odor of spices on the breath and skin of the five other men in the room. He knew they would be silent, but that he would have to tolerate an hour-long speech from bin Abdur. The man reminded himself of the premium he charged the al-Mujari, because very few others would do business with them. The risk/reward was worthwhile if all he needed to do in addition to his usual services was tolerate being regaled by this despot.
It’s a living. And a good one.
Bin Abdur’s robe formed a table of his lap, in which he held a pile of papers. He wore the traditional headdress. His beard was mottled with gray and untrimmed in the conservative Islamic fashion. His face was craggy and his dark Arab skin sunburned, wrinkled, and coarse; his eyes gleamed with energy and intelligence. He motioned for the man—who used the name Habib—to sit down. He did so in the corner.
The Sheik removed his Koran from its special stand in front of him, wrapped it in cloth, and gestured to the man who had admitted Habib. The man approached, retrieved the book from the Sheik and placed it on a shelf high in a corner of the room. The Sheik closed his eyes in contemplation for a full two minutes, moderating his breathing to relax himself, almost meditating. Damn. The Sheik seemed to be preparing himself for a long speech. He wasn’t just the al-Mujari terrorist organization’s day-to-day leader, he was its spiritual head as well. The al-Mujari, the dominant terrorist force in the Muslim world now that al Qaeda was no longer a factor.
The Sheik exhaled and looked up at Habib. “Greetings.”
“Thank you, Sheik bin Abdur. Greetings to you as well.”
“There is no God but Allah!” the Sheik said.
“La ilaha ilallah!” the others repeated.
“These are historic times,” Sheik bin Abdur said. “Not since the first Caliph, Abu Bacr, the successor to the Prophet Muhammad himself, have the Shiites and Sunni Muslim brothers been united in our spirituality or our way of life.”
Sheik bin Abdur’s audience leaned forward, expectant.
“Since
the first dynasty, we Shiites have claimed that Sunni Islam is not the true Islam at all, but the creation of the lax and worldly first generation Caliphs,” the Sheik began. “Shiite Islam is the true way, based on the practices of the Prophet Muhammad and his original four successor Capliphs.”
He bent his head knowingly toward his colleagues, who returned his gesture. Habib sat in silence, motionless.
“Since King Abdel Aiziz al-Asad led the Sunni religious brotherhood from the local tribes over a half century ago in conquest, and created our current monarchy in Saudi Arabia, the al-Asad family succession has relied on the support and approval of our religious leadership. We—the clerics, the religious leaders of the Muslim faithful—act as a protector of the Muslim principles on which our kingdom was founded, and upon the guidance of the Koran and the guidance of shari’a, our Muslim law. And it was with our support that the al-Asad kings have assumed the title of Imam, the law giver.”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…Habib drifted into his thoughts as the Sheik went on. The skinny kids in front of the mosque reminded him of himself when he was growing up, South Side of Chicago. Rough neighborhood, all blacks and Arabs. Getting kicked around every day until his brother, Muhammad, helped him bulk up: protein shakes three times a day and weights four times a week. Back then he thought getting the hell out of there was the best thing he ever did. But after the Black Ops boys in Langley made him into a soulless tool that could never go home again, he realized having a place to call home was something he never should have given up. And now…He refocused as it looked like the Sheik was winding down. Looking at the Sheik now, Habib had to admit the old man did have a presence that could will men to extraordinary feats. His eyes gleamed with an intensity Habib had rarely seen in the class of murderers and fanatics Habib encountered in his trade.
“And now the al-Asads have betrayed the laws of Islam. They have permitted the infidel Western troops to inhabit our sacred Arabian Peninsula, site of Islam’s two holiest places. We declare this government illegitimate. We declare them to be infidels. As infidels, they, like the Western infidels, must be expelled or destroyed!”
Fifty-six bottles of beer on the wall, fifty-six bottles of beer, take one down and pass it around…
Minutes later, Sheik bin Abdur paused; Habib thought he was finished at last. But then the Sheik started up again, this time with eyes burning in a manner that made even Habib uneasy. “And since they will not go, they will be destroyed in our holy Islamic war. We will collapse this infidel Saudi regime and reestablish the great Muslim Caliphate that once unified the Middle East, Northern Africa and Islamic Europe under shari’a, our holy Islamic law. And we will go further!”
Habib saw the Sheik’s followers swaying as they listened.
“In our jihad we will strike at and destroy the enemies of Islam throughout the world. We will extend the Caliphate to the infidel United States, Britain, to all the Christian nations. We will show the American infidels in particular, who have invaded our Islamic soil, that Osama bin Laden’s September eleventh was only a taste. Now the true jihad is conceived!”
Habib saw balls of spittle at the corners of the Sheik’s mouth.
“Our own believers and our hired warriors like our friend Habib who joins us today will strike the oil facilities of the infidel nations, chiefly the Americans, and of the infidel Saudi government. We will strike at the oil facilities of the Saudi government to cripple the royal family’s ability to maintain their illegitimate hold on our people. Throughout this we must continue our efforts to educate our people, to urge them to protest, to undermine and topple these infidel royals.” Bin Abdur shook his fists at the heavens. “We must expel the foreigners that the royals give our Saudi jobs to! We must expel the Americans who caused the wars of Islamic Arab brother against brother! We must continue to punish their military forces who are a stain on our holy Saudi soil! We vow the ultimate destruction of the Americans who are a stain on the Islamic world! There is no god but Allah!”
“La ilaha ilallah!” the Sheik’s followers repeated.
The Sheik fell silent. The lesson was over. It hadn’t been so intolerable, Habib thought, less than twenty minutes.
After another minute, the Sheik’s retinue got up and left, closing the door behind them. Habib waited for bin Abdur to arouse from his meditation. Finally the cleric opened his eyes.
“You know of our efforts in the United States?”
“I have heard,” Habib said.
“Good. You are well connected. As usual, Habib, or whatever your real name is.” The Sheik’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps it is time for you to reveal your true identity.”
In your dreams, old man. You’d have your people slit my throat and hang me by my feet until I bled out like a halal sheep if you knew I was American-born and CIA-trained.
“I think not, Sheik.”
The Sheik hesitated, smiling. He went on, “I will pay you to recruit some additional, shall we say, ‘committed individuals’ in the United States.”
“I understand. Go on.”
“And we would like our identity to be kept secret.”
“Of course.”
“Good. I need you to recruit professionals who can provide us with access for our plans.”
Habib nodded.
“Our plans to cripple the Americans’ oil production.”
“You need me to handle that, too?”
“No. That is a different kind of specialist. Computers. I will involve you in coordinating their work with the professionals you recruit, but later. Can you help us?” He handed Habib a paper he held in his lap. “These are the organizations we need access to.”
“Yes.” Habib didn’t look up from the paper.
“I want to know the details after you have thought it through. Today I wish to agree on your engagement and to know that I can look to you for delivery of results.”
“Always,” Habib said.
“And I know where to find you if you don’t deliver.”
The men sat in silence for a minute. Finally the Sheik spoke again. “I do not wish to be difficult. I merely wish to stress that I would like to continue our relationship on a basis which maintains the level of confidentiality and satisfaction with results that has existed in the past.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I trust you’ll understand that these new efforts must not be traceable to the al-Mujari until we wish to claim responsibility for them. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good, then I’ll arrange for an initial wire transfer to your bank account of one hundred thousand dollars.”
“We haven’t agreed on my compensation yet,” Habib said. “What you ask is difficult. And dangerous.” The Sheik offered no reaction. “Orchestration won’t be easy. Security has never been so tight. This requires planning. Subtlety.”
“That’s what I pay you for.” Sheik bin Abdur’s eyes penetrated Habib’s. “Are you saying you’re not up to the task?”
“You know better than that,” Habib snarled. He remembered the rumored oil billions that funded the al-Mujari’s terrorist activities. What’s it worth? Two million? Ten? “One million advance against ten million upon completion.”
The Sheik blinked as if in disbelief. “Five hundred thousand against two million completion.”
“This will require that I recruit very specialized professionals.”
“Seven hundred fifty thousand against three million.”
“It will require significant travel, expenses and coordination with people we must grow to trust.”
“One million advance against three million success.”
“I think perhaps you should find another vendor. At that level, I must respectfully decline.”
“One million advance against seven million success. That’s final.”
He offers three million, then bumps right up to seven. Quite a move. He must really need me for this. Habib put his hands on his knees and shifte
d his weight forward as if ready to rise. He saw the Sheik’s eyes widen as he did so.
“I accept,” the Sheik said. “One million advance against ten million success.”
Habib leaned back again. “Thank you, Sheik bin Abdur. I’m grateful you’ve seen things in an appropriate light. I will not disappoint you.”
CHAPTER 2
JULY 2, THIS YEAR. RIYADH, Saudi Arabia. An hour after finishing his morning prayers, Yassar walked with his characteristically erect posture from his private chamber into the exterior office of his suite. Assad al-Anoud, the head of the Saudi Secret Police, already sat waiting in front of a simple desk, ensconced in the cool marble of the oversized room. A pile of well-worn manila folders sat on the desk, identical to the ones Yassar carried. The two men praised Allah.
“We begin,” Yassar said. “Final oil and gas investment banking advisor candidates. Our OPEC colleagues will rely on me for the interviews for final selections.” He placed his file folders on the desk and opened the first: “J. Daniel Christian Youngblood III.” Yassar thumbed an eyebrow, thinking. He was certain of this one. “One of the best. A top priority.” Yassar looked at Assad, who kept his gaze on his folder. What did Assad think?
“Smart, experienced, self-confident and quick to react under pressure—a powerful combination,” Assad said. “Regarded by his peers as a great investment banker. A creative deals man. Good at solving complex financial problems, structuring merger and acquisition and financing transactions. A superb strategist and negotiator. A motivator of his own people. Team leader.”
Yassar was pleased Assad shared his view. Still, Yassar mused, “A hired gun like all his peers.” He looked up at Assad, who now knitted his brows together. Yassar felt anticipation. Had Assad’s agents come up with anything? “What is it?”
“Personal life. A recent widower, then a series of unstable relationships with women.”