The Secret Soldier jw-5

by Alex Berenson

  “How much?”

  “A hundred twenty thousand.”

  His greed impressed Wells. The trip would take less than eight hours each way. And one hundred twenty thousand dollars was probably more than the boat was worth. Wells had to haggle a little bit, if only to prove that he wasn’t a complete sucker. “For that I can buy my own boat and ditch it.”

  “You told me name the price.”

  “Make it eighty thousand.”

  “One hundred. Last offer.”

  Wells couldn’t waste more time. “Done. But it has to be tonight.”

  “Then tonight it will be. Nine p.m. Be sure to wear black. Shoes, gloves, jacket, pants.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  WHEN WELLS ARRIVED AT 8:55, Nicholas stood waiting beside his ship. Wells walked up the pier, picking his way through the fish guts and trash, and saluted Nicholas. Nicholas saluted back. And without a word, Wells stepped on board.

  CHAPTER 12

  RIYADH

  IN THE DAYS AFTER PRINCESS ALIA’S ASSASSINATION, LIFE BEHIND the walls of the U.S. embassy seemed unchanged. The consular officers rejected visa requests. The cultural affairs secretary moved ahead with his long-shot plan for a visit to Riyadh by four lesser-known American Idol finalists. Barbara Kurland played tennis with Roberto, whose shorts were as short as ever.

  But the façade of normality went only so far. A permanent scowl twisted the lips of Dwayne Maggs, the embassy’s head of security. And Graham Kurland, the ambassador, understood why. Kurland had grown only too familiar with the acronyms in the CIA’s internal cables.

  The OPFOR, opposing force, was probably not AQAP — Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. No, the OPFOR was UNK, unknown. But it appeared HT/HC, highly trained and capable. The SIM, Saudi Interior Ministry, had not asked for TECH/LOG, technical or logistical help. The CIA and NSA judged that the SIM was not close to catching the OPFOR.

  The reports made Kurland’s HH, head hurt. But no acronym was needed for the last bit of bad news, which landed two days after Alia’s death. “MORE ATTACKS JUDGED HIGHLY LIKELY. RECOMMEND MAX SECURITY POSTURE.”

  “Thought we were at max posture already,” Kurland said.

  “We are.”

  “They want us to put up a force field?”

  Maggs didn’t smile. “The women who visit your wife are going to have to take off their burqas before the marines go near them.”

  “We’ll get them a tent or something.”

  Along with the warnings, the State Department, CIA, and White House kept asking the same questions: What’s happening? Why these targets? Is Abdullah still in charge? Kurland was short on answers. Abdullah and Saeed responded to his condolence messages with brief thank-yous sent through their offices. Even Prince Turki, a thirdgeneration royal who was pro-reform and friendly to the United States, had stopped returning Kurland’s calls.

  At least the folks in Washington were too polite to ask What’s the mood on the ground? What’s the average Saudi thinking? They knew full well that Kurland didn’t have a clue. On the fourth night after the bombing, Kurland found himself venting to his wife. They were watching television in bed, a day game at Wrigley, nine hours behind. Barbara was snuggled in the crook of his arm, eyes closed, her face covered in the white wrinkle cream that he’d learned not to joke about.

  “You know, for all the good we’re doing, we might as well be there.”

  “Where?”

  “There. Chicago.”

  Her eyes blinked open. “I told you, I’m not going home.”

  “I don’t mean you. I mean us. Useless as tits on a bull.”

  “You know I hate that expression.”

  “Sorry. But we’re stuck in this cage, pretending we have some idea what’s happening here. When we go home, everybody asks, ‘What’s it like? What are they really like?’ I hope those ladies are giving you some idea, Barb. I know they’re not a representative sample, but they’re something. ’Cause I don’t have a clue.”

  “You’re doing the best you can, Graham. Not like you can drive through Riyadh in the back of a convertible, dressed like Uncle Sam and waving the flag.”

  Kurland had to smile. “Wouldn’t that be great? Bring in a Sting Ray and a fire truck and some cheerleaders and have a real parade. Wave our pom-poms on the way through Justice Square”—also known as Chop-Chop Square, the courtyard in downtown Riyadh where public executions were carried out.

  “That’s a wonderful idea.” She closed her eyes, nestled into the gray hair that covered his chest. “Good night, sweetheart.”

  “Good night.”

  That night Kurland imagined his Memorial Day parade. But the dream turned into a nightmare. Instead of a convertible, he stood on an old tanker that leaked Saudi crude into the desert. The cheerleaders and firefighters disappeared, and he was alone. Except for Barbara. She was driving. But when he called out to her, she didn’t answer.

  He woke tired, ready to dress down his staff just to clear his throat. As he was showering, his phone rang. It was Clint Rana, Kurland’s personal aide. “Mr. Ambassador. Prince Saeed’s office called. He’d like a meeting.”

  “When?”

  “Today. Didn’t say why.”

  Even so, the call lightened Kurland’s mood. At least he’d have something to tell D.C.

  * * *

  THE MEETING WAS SET for 12:30 at the prince’s offices in the Defense Ministry, in the center of Riyadh, two miles from the embassy. A fiveminute drive. Even so, Maggs insisted on a “hard armored” convoy — two vans and three Suburbans, all retrofitted to survive ambushes. Their doors had been replaced with inch-thick steel plate, their windows swapped for smoked Plexiglas that could stop a.50-caliber sniper round. To protect them from roadside bombs, their chassis had been reinforced and raised three inches. Not all the modifications were defensive. The welders had cut narrow ports in the skin of their armor to allow the marines inside to fire out without opening windows or doors.

  Four Marine guards traveled in each van, three in each Suburban. In all, the convoy had seventeen marines, locked and loaded with enough firepower to level a village. Kurland, Maggs, and Rana rode in the lead Suburban, while the convoy’s communications officer and the marine captain in charge of the squad followed in the second.

  At 12:15, the convoy cleared the north exit gate from the Diplomatic Quarter. Two Saudi police cars and an unmarked Mercedes waited just outside. Lights flashing, the eight vehicles rolled south, then made a quick left onto a six-lane divided highway that ran through the center of Riyadh.

  Outside, the muezzins were calling midday prayers. Riyadh had thousands of mosques, ranging from one-room boxes to giant shrines. It needed even more. Through the Suburban’s smoked-glass windows, Kurland glimpsed men bowing to the west, toward Mecca, in a parking lot. They looked African, with dark black skin. “Why are they praying outside?”

  Rana glanced over. “Immigrants. Probably don’t have a mosque.”

  Immigrants in Saudi Arabia couldn’t become citizens and were generally considered disposable. Employers often confiscated their passports and travel documents, and the police jailed them for being in the country illegally if they complained. If they were caught selling or using drugs, they faced the death penalty. Saudi Arabia chopped off an average of one hundred heads a year, and more than half of the executed were noncitizens. American and European workers avoided the worst harassment, but even they were monitored. If they failed to renew their visas, they found their ATM cards blocked, a good way to ensure that they didn’t overstay their welcome.

  “Nasty place, isn’t it?” Kurland said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Like they say in West Texas, there’s no oil in paradise.”

  THE DEFENSE MINISTRY WAS housed inside Riyadh’s strangest building, an oval office tower, widest at its midsection with a relatively narrow base and roof. At night, the building was lit a faint yellow. Saudis and foreigners alike called it the egg.

 
; Kurland had visited the egg once before, for his welcome-to-Saudi round of introductions. He’d listened to Saeed mouth platitudes about the importance of the Saudi relationship with the United States. Saeed was a small man with heavy jowls, bulging eyes, and a trim mustache that looked to Kurland like it belonged on a Colombian cartel chief. Though, to be fair, many Saudis favored mustaches.

  Unlike King Abdullah, Saeed had been distinctly cool to Kurland. Despite his age and infirmities, Abdullah had talked for hours and invited Kurland and his wife to see his stable of camels and his prize falcons. Saeed had stayed precisely thirty minutes and then checked his watch. “I must go, Mr. Ambassador,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

  Back at the compound, Kurland asked Rana if he’d somehow offended the prince. “That’s just how he is,” Rana said. “Plays it close.” And makes sure we know who’s a child of Allah and who’s an infidel visitor, Kurland thought.

  Now, as the high steel gates to the ministry compound opened and the upside-down building loomed, Kurland wondered why Saeed had asked for him — and whether the king knew of the meeting.

  Saeed’s top-floor office looked north and west to the two skyscrapers that dominated downtown Riyadh, the Kingdom Tower and the Faisalia Tower. He and his son Mansour, the head of the mukhabarat, stood at the window as Kurland and Rana walked in.

  Saeed wore a crisp white ghutra and a smooth golden thobe. He smiled at Kurland as though they were best friends. They settled themselves, and after greetings and offers of tea, Saeed leaned in and grasped Kurland’s arm. “These are difficult times for our kingdom, Ambassador. These terrorists have dealt us a great blow.”

  “America is prepared to provide whatever assistance you need,” Kurland said in English, as Rana translated.

  “And we thank you. But our security forces are capable of handling the situation. We have a photo of the assassin, as you know. He was traveling under a Jordanian passport. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his real name. But the Jordanian GID”—General Intelligence Directorate—“is working with us to trace him.”

  “Is your assumption that he was Jordanian? Or Saudi?”

  “We don’t believe any Saudi would commit such a vile act. Of course, we’re examining our files, comparing the photograph with known terrorists and criminals, to be certain. But we haven’t found anything yet. And if such treason occurred, we’re certain that the evildoer’s family would come forward.”

  “That’s reassuring.” Kurland wondered if Saeed and Mansour would pick up the irony in his voice. If they did, they ignored it.

  “Meanwhile, we’ve sent a dozen agents to Amman,” Mansour said. “And I’ve told Prince Nayef that if he needs help, he’s not to hesitate to ask.”

  “That’s a great relief. And when you speak to Abdullah, please tell him I’m sorry I haven’t been able to express my condolences to him personally.”

  “Of course you know he hasn’t been well.”

  Kurland wondered why Saeed had brought up the king’s health, a taboo subject in Saudi Arabia.

  “It may be nothing to worry about. Abdullah is a lion. But what happened to Alia upset him terribly. She was his favorite.”

  “She sounds like she was a wonderful woman.”

  “Certainly,” Saeed said indifferently. “Though not everyone agreed with her views.”

  Sounds like you’d care more if your favorite pet camel died, Kurland wanted to say. He settled for: “The United States did. And does. We believe that Saudi Arabia needs a full dialogue on women’s rights.”

  “Unfortunately, what you believe is irrelevant. The laws pertaining to women, what they can and can’t do, Allah has given those to us. Our kingdom is guided by the Quran.”

  “The Quran has many verses. And even your brother doesn’t necessarily agree with the strictest interpretations.”

  Rana looked at Kurland, silently cautioning him against arguing about Islam with Saeed. Kurland didn’t appreciate the warning. He would have to remind Rana that Rana’s job was to translate. Not to second-guess him in front of the other side. But the lesson would wait until the ride back to the embassy.

  After an awkward few seconds, Rana went ahead. When he was done, Saeed waved a hand dismissively, as much as saying: Save your opinions about women’s rights for Hillary Clinton. I couldn’t care less. “Abdullah has his views, you have yours, I have mine,” Saeed said. “These issues, let’s not let them sidetrack us. I won’t say they aren’t important. But I hope you remember that our kingdom has always been a partner to America.”

  “And vice versa.”

  “We do everything we can to keep oil at a reasonable price. We know what that means to your economy.”

  Kurland hid his irritation at this lecture. “Of course, Prince.”

  “Abdullah and I want you to know that our family will always be a friend.”

  “You and Abdullah.”

  “And those who will follow us. Just as Abdullah followed Fahad, and Fahad followed Khalid. All along, the oil flowed. One day, my brother won’t be here. It’s foolish to pretend otherwise. One day I won’t be, either. But whoever’s king, the House of Saud will always be loyal to America. And the oil will still flow.”

  At least now I know why I’m here, Kurland thought. “I wish I didn’t have to be so blunt, Prince, but is Abdullah seriously ill?”

  “There are many kinds of illness. Some more obvious than others.”

  Was Saeed saying that his brother was losing his mind and could no longer govern? Abdullah hadn’t struck Kurland as demented when they’d last met. Kurland didn’t see how he could ask, and anyway, he wasn’t sure he could trust Saeed’s answer. Instead he stalled. “Abdullah’s been a great friend to the United States. As you say.”

  “Of course. But whatever happens, I want to reassure you that our oil will always be our gift to the world.”

  Ambassadors were supposed to be diplomats. Even so, Kurland couldn’t let that last sentence pass. “Not exactly a gift, though, is it, Prince?”

  WHEN THEY’D LEFT, SAEED looked at Mansour.

  “Do you think they understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ll reach out to Abdullah.”

  “They already have,” Mansour said. “We’ve logged the calls. But he’s not talking to them right now. Or anyone. He’s too angry.”

  Or he’s planning a counterattack, Saeed thought. “Sooner or later, he’ll talk.”

  “If he raises his suspicions without any evidence, the Americans will think him a rambling old fool. Especially after the hints you’ve given them. There’s no need to worry, father.”

  Mansour’s reassurances grated on Saeed. His son increasingly treated him as a nervous old man who needed to be managed rather than obeyed. In truth, Saeed was already Abdullah’s equal. Besides the Defense Ministry, he oversaw the Ministry of Transport, which distributed tens of billions of dollars in contracts every year, and headed the Supreme Hajj Committee, a job that kept him close to the Kingdom’s senior clerics. Only Abdullah’s control of the National Guard kept Saeed from dominating Saudi Arabia. The Guard, and the genuine affection that tribal chiefs and ordinary Saudis felt for Abdullah. Saeed knew that he and Mansour would never generate such feelings. He didn’t care. Better to be feared than loved.

  But still he wanted the throne, for the power and the title both. When Abdullah took power in 2005, Saeed knew he was next in line. He imagined his brother would last only a couple years. Age and time had visibly worn on Abdullah. Saeed didn’t like waiting, but he was a decade younger than Abdullah, and orderly successions were the Saudi way.

  But Abdullah had proven stronger than Saeed expected. And last year he had told the senior princes that he wanted his own son, Khalid, to be the next king. Foolish old man. Saeed and Abdullah rarely spoke anymore, but when he learned of the plan, Saeed called Abdullah himself. The conversation was short and blunt.

  “You can’t do this.”

  “You think our family wants you
in power, my brother? Now that they see an alternative? You know what they call you? A scorpion.”

  In the weeks that followed, Saeed waited for his brothers and nephews to tell him that they were against the plan. Some had. But not enough. Most, including Nayef, the third most powerful prince, had remained silent. They were canny, too cautious to choose a side until they knew the winner, Saeed thought. But he was realistic enough to admit other possibilities. Maybe the other princes disliked him too much to give him more power. Maybe they believed that as king he would install his sons as heirs. Maybe they simply were showing their love for Abdullah.

  Saeed knew that he shouldn’t have cared. All his life, his ability to control his emotions had served him. But age seemed to have softened his iron will. An unceasing rage overtook him when he realized that his brother might keep him from his prize. The sun boiled his blood. I will be king. By right and custom. And even more elementally: Mine. Mine. Mine. A bell rang in his head morning until night. Even his ultimate relaxation, swimming laps in the Olympic-sized pool in his palace, failed to calm him.

  Saeed believed he’d hidden his anger. But Mansour knew. A few weeks after Abdullah revealed his plan, Mansour arrived at Saeed’s palace. “This won’t stand, father.”

  “Nothing’s certain yet.”

  “I can stop him.”

  “How?”

  Mansour explained. For a moment, Saeed was almost frightened of his son. Of the vision that had led Mansour to create this private squad of killers. And then Saeed realized: This is how the world sees me.

  “You’ve been building this for years, and you never said?”

  “Putting the pieces in place. I wasn’t sure I’d ever use it.”

  “What if the Americans found it?”

  “I could roll up these men tomorrow. And no one can connect them to me.”

  “The funding—”

  “Goes through a dozen different places. It’s airtight. I hid it from you, didn’t I?”

  “And how do you propose to use these men?”