by Ted Halstead
But when everyone in Riyadh turns the taps in their kitchens and showers and nothing comes out, I think we can count on panic."
Farhad frowned. “Surely the Saudis realize how vulnerable they are with so much depending on just two plants. Are there no planned backups?"
Abdul nodded vigorously. “Yes, there was a plan for a large solar-powered desalination plant to be built jointly by the Saudi government and a Spanish company, Abengoa."
Farhad's frown deepened. “And?"
Abdul smiled. "In 2015 Abengoa filed for bankruptcy."
Farhad nodded. “Ah. And you think my uncle can help us with this project too."
Abdul smile broadened, and he said, "Well, yes, Farhad. I think he can."
Cairo, Egypt
"Ok, you were right. They are following us," Abdul Rasool said with a grimace. "Do you have any idea how long they've been on our tail?"
Farhad Mokri shrugged, and shook his head. "That's just one of the many questions I plan to ask them."
Abdul snorted with suppressed laughter as they continued to walk down a crowded street in the center of Cairo. “And what makes you think they'll answer? Either one looks like he could take on both of us."
Farhad smiled. “Because we're not alone. Now, be quiet while I use this Bluetooth earpiece to finalize arrangements to receive our uninvited guests.“
Farhad continued to smile as he spoke in a low voice to his unseen friends, while continuing to look at Abdul and gesture as though his words were intended for him. Abdul concentrated on looking engaged in the conversation and occasionally nodding, while a part of his mind couldn't help thinking how odd this all was.
Finally, Farhad gestured for them to turn left into an alley. They had nearly reached its end when the two men appeared behind them. Being careful not to look behind them, Farhad and Abdul turned left out of the alley into another main street.
The two Russian agents were well trained, and knew an obvious spot for an ambush when they saw it. The problem was that they were looking ahead, behind, and on both sides.
They weren't looking up.
Which is where the sniper was waiting. To be fair, this was no ordinary sniper, and his weapon was just as unusual. He had been trained by the Mukhabarat, the Egyptian secret police. When he joined the Muslim Brotherhood after his conversion to what he now thought of as "true Islam" he had taken the rifle and its ammunition supply with him. Since he knew he'd never get more rounds, both he and the leaders he reported to were very particular about his targets.
The rifle used compressed air cartridges that were impossible to find in stores open to Egyptian civilians, but relatively easy to find in Europe. The dozen rounds he had taken with him when he had left the Mukhabarat were irreplaceable because they had been developed in Egypt by government scientists. Using tetrodotoxin extracted from the yellow boxfish, commonly found in the Red Sea waters off the Egyptian coast, they had developed a round that could somewhat reliably immobilize the target, while still leaving him alive for questioning.
In his training, the sniper had been warned about three variables. The first was body mass. A small man, or even worse a child, could die from respiratory arrest or a heart attack provoked by the toxin.
The second was allergic reaction. A small but unknown percentage of subjects would die from even limited exposure to tetrodotoxin.
The sniper wasn't worried about the first variable once he saw the size of the two muscular men who had been following Abdul and Farhad. There was nothing he could do about the second variable. The third factor he could control. Where on their body the round would impact.
The first shot was perfect. It impacted without a sound in the first man's lower back, and he dropped like a stone.
Unfortunately, the second man's reflexes were excellent, and he wheeled around and was looking up towards the third-floor window where the sniper had just fired his second round. As a result, the round impacted about an inch below his heart.
The sniper had no way to know for sure whether the man was dead when he fell. But his guess that he was turned out to be correct.
As planned, the sniper had already turned from the window and begun disassembling his rifle when four men emerged from one of the doors lining the alley to take the two men inside. He hadn't been told why it was necessary to shoot the two men, why it was worth trying to capture them alive, or what would happen to them now.
The sniper shrugged. He would be the first to admit he had no better reason than curiosity for wanting to know.
FSB Headquarters, Moscow, Russia
Anatoly Grishkov and Alexei Vasilyev both looked as though they needed the support of the sturdy red leather sofa to cope with the meal they had just consumed. As well as the vodka toasts that had followed. Their host, FSB
Director Smyslov, smiled at them benevolently over a glass of strong black tea.
Grishkov had been told many times that he looked like his father, who had also been a policeman. Like him, he was shorter and more muscular than the average Russian, with thick black hair and black eyes. His wife Arisha said that his face gained more 'character' every year, whatever that meant. Since she patted his face when she said it and gave him a kiss, he didn't mind. His son Sasha was thirteen and his other son Misha was eleven, and though both had black hair otherwise they thankfully looked more like Arisha.
Circumstances had thrown Grishkov together with FSB Colonel Alexei Vasilyev on their last mission. Following that success, Smyslov decided to make Grishkov Alexei's partner. That had meant giving up his job as the lead homicide detective for the entire Vladivostok region, and being put on "indefinite special assignment", though he was now on the books as a Captain in the Moscow Police Department. It looked like Grishkov was about to find out what that meant in practice.
Grishkov thought Vasilyev was at least a decade older than his age of forty-three, but in fact he was even older. Vasilyev was still in excellent physical condition, in part because unlike most Russian men his age he rarely drank alcohol, and because he regularly practiced his hand-to-hand combat skills. At the FSB's gym many younger agents had learned painful lessons about the value of experience over youth. Since these skills had kept Vasilyev alive in the field more than once, he took keeping them up-to-date very seriously.
Vasilyev was about a head taller than Grishkov, but thinner. His true age was disguised in part by a full head of dark brown hair, which showed no signs of thinning. On his last mission he'd told Grishkov that he didn't even have a dog in his apartment, which was a true statement. Vasilyev had seen several agents suffer because the enemy decided to use family against them, and indeed that had happened to Grishkov during their last mission.
"So, I hope you are both sufficiently fortified to let us begin with your mission briefing," Smyslov said, his smile widening.
Vasilyev and Grishkov both nodded, and Vasilyev added, "I thought that the feast you laid on after we finished our last mission couldn't be surpassed, but you proved me wrong."
Smyslov's laugh rumbled from a frame that Grishkov thought for perhaps the tenth time helped explain the foreign stereotype of the Russian bear. "I'm sending my two favorite agents to a region where decent food and drink are hard to come by, so the memory of this meal will have to sustain you for some time. Nobody should have to face cardamom coffee without some reinforcement!"
Vasilyev smiled wryly. "On that point we're in complete agreement. So, the Middle East then?"
Smyslov's smile disappeared. "Yes. I had thought originally to send you both straight to Iran, but it looks like you'll need to go to Saudi Arabia first."
Vasilyev nodded. "Good. My Arabic was always better than my Farsi. This will give me more time to prepare."
Smyslov grinned and pointed at Grishkov. “And how has your Arabic refresher course been going?"
Grishkov scowled, and shook his head. "Refresher is the wrong word. I was one of a handful of soldiers in Chechnya who learned enough Arabic to make out most of what we ov
erheard from foreign fighters using handheld radios. But the vocabulary we learned was limited to what we were likely to hear on the battlefield. So, if anyone is setting up an ambush within earshot, I'll know. Polite dinner conversation, not so much."
Smyslov laughed and shook his head. "My friend, as usual you are too modest. Your instructors tell me you have made remarkable progress, and are the most motivated student they have ever seen."
Grishkov blinked, and then shrugged. “I'd like to make it back to Arisha and the kids."
Smyslov nodded. “Of course you shall. But I'd be lying if I didn't tell you the vocabulary you remember from Chechnya may come in handy."
Vasilyev frowned. “So, our target is aware of our interest?"
Smyslov sighed. "Possibly. The men we had following them both disappeared, and our efforts to locate them have failed. We have to assume they were captured, and were forced to tell the target everything we know.
Both fortunately and unfortunately, that's not much."
Grishkov’s and Vasilyev’s eyebrows both rose, but they said nothing.
Smyslov shrugged. “So, here's what we know, and what we suspect. We know that an unknown organization is gathering men and weapons for the purpose of overthrowing the Saudi monarchy. We know that they have help from elements of the Iranian government. We know that they have been planning their attack for over a year, and that the attack will happen soon."
Smyslov paused. "That's what we know. We suspect that Iraq may also be involved. We suspect that the attack will be on Saudi oil production, and that there may be another target as well. I have been informed by the President himself that preventing these attacks is a top national priority, and that we may request any resources necessary towards this goal."
Grishkov and Vasilyev looked at each other, but said nothing.
Smyslov nodded. “You're wondering why we care so much about an Arab monarchy that has been America's closest Middle Eastern ally for generations. In fact, it was just before the collapse of the Soviet Union that we resumed diplomatic relations after a gap of over fifty years. Why the Saudis are important to us is a complex matter."
Smyslov frowned, and pointed to Grishkov. “What is Russia's most important export?"
Grishkov answered almost immediately, "Oil and gas."
Smyslov nodded. “And Saudi Arabia's?"
Grishkov’s answer was even quicker. "Oil and gas."
Smyslov nodded again. "So, what does that give us in common?"
Grishkov looked thoughtful. “Didn't I read that a Russian company was involved in gas exploration in Saudi Arabia?"
Vasilyev’s eyebrows flew up as rapidly as Smyslov's.
"Excellent!” Smyslov said. “And quite right too. LukOIL signed a contract good for 40 years in 2004, suspended operations in 2016, and resumed gas exploration last year. But that's not why this matter merits the President's attention."
Vasilyev nodded and said quietly, "Supply coordination."
Smyslov nodded vigorously. “Exactly. The pact we made with the Saudis in 2018 has had its ups and downs, but it's been successful in maintaining an oil price high enough to keep our economy in reasonable shape for years.
Two of the largest petroleum exporters limiting production did what OPEC failed to do for decades — keep prices stable at a sustainable level."
Grishkov shook his head. "So, if something happens to Saudi production wouldn't that reduce supply further and drive prices up, giving us a windfall to spend here at home?".
Smyslov clapped his hands and grinned. “Yes, it would — for a while. And then what would happen?"
Vasilyev said quietly, "The West would ramp up production again."
Smyslov nodded. “Just so. The Americans with their fracking. The Canadians with their tar sands. The Brazilians with their new offshore oil deposits. But this is only a secondary concern for the President."
Vasilyev cocked his head. "The German model?"
Smyslov looked grim. "Exactly. By 2012 a quarter of Germany's power came from renewable sources. By 2016 that had increased to nearly a third.
It’s now over half. Push the price of petroleum high enough, and even the Americans and Japanese will turn to renewables. And once the renewable infrastructure is in place, petroleum will never come back."
Grishkov frowned. “But aren't we supposed to be moving away from petroleum anyway? I read that we supported the Paris climate change agreement, and that there had been a change in the government’s thinking about global warming."
Smyslov snorted. "Well, yes and no. The May 2017 storm that killed sixteen in Moscow, the worst storm to hit the capital in over one hundred years, was hard to ignore. The thawing of the permafrost supporting much of our petroleum infrastructure in Siberia, causing it to sink into a new sea of mud, also helped focus attention on the problem. However, we have so far failed to identify a candidate to replace the role petroleum serves in our economy. Right now, our only other export generating significant earnings is weapons systems. We have other possibilities, like civilian nuclear power plants and aircraft, software and other technology. But we need time to make this transition. If the terrorists are successful, events are likely to spin out of control before we have that chance."
Grishkov looked puzzled. "You said that Iraq might be helping elements inside Iran to attack the Saudis. Don't the Americans control Iraq? After all, it's not so long ago that the Americans saved them after ISIS came within an hour's drive of Baghdad."
Smyslov nodded. “Yes, you would think that a trillion dollars and thousands of casualties would have bought the Americans at least a little Iraqi loyalty. In the real world, not so. In 2016 Iraq bought 73 T-90S and SK tanks from us, after the Americans started asking the Iraqis why some of the Abrams tanks they had provided to the Iraqi military had been given to Iranian-backed Shi'ite militia. They took delivery of the first 39 T-90S tanks in 2018, and have now fully converted to Russian armor. There are even reports of Iranian troops stationed inside Iraq, and we know that Iran has had troops stationed next door in Syria for years."
Grishkov shrugged and spread his hands. "Fine. The Iraqis have no loyalty to the Americans. What do they have against the Saudis?"
Vasilyev grunted. “I always thought it was interesting that the Saudis waited until 2016 to reopen the embassy they had closed in 1990 after Iraq invaded Kuwait."
Smyslov nodded. “There is little love lost in either direction. The fundamental issue is, as usual in the Middle East, religion. Iraq and Iran are majority Shi'a, in Iran's case almost exclusively so. For some time Sunnis have been leaving Iraq, a trend that has accelerated over the past few years.
That has made possible the election of increasingly radical Shi'a controlled Iraqi governments, starting with one in 2018 dominated by Shi'a cleric Moqtada al-Sadr. He was an enemy of both the Americans and Iran, but after his death other Shi'a leaders have moved closer to Iran. They all share one belief with Iran — Shi'a religious leaders should control Mecca and Medina, not the Sunnis running Saudi Arabia.“
Grishkov smiled. “So, at least we know that the attack will take place in either Mecca or Medina, or both."
Smyslov sighed and shook his head. "No, my friend, this is the Middle East. Matters are never so direct. In fact, what our agents have learned so far suggests that the attack — or attacks — will take place in the Eastern Province, on the other side of the country."
Grishkov scowled. "Right, you said one attack focus would be on Saudi oil production, which is mostly in the Eastern Province. But what about the other target? You said it looked like more than one. Couldn't that be either Mecca or Medina?"
Smyslov shook his head again. "We can't be sure of anything, but we don't think so. Iran and Iraq would face universal condemnation in the Muslim world if an attack on either Mecca or Medina were traced back to them. More to the point, it's hard to see how such an attack could endanger the Saudi royal family's grip on power. It's more likely that such an attack would make ordinary S
audis rally to their defense. Besides, our agents reported that the attackers were focused exclusively on the Eastern Province, but it appeared in more than one location."
Vasilyev nodded. "So, where do we start?"
Chapter Three
University of Tehran, Tehran, Iran
Kazem Shirvani knew he really had no reason to complain. When the US had signed the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) ending Iran's progress towards its rightful place as a nuclear power in 2015 it had been over Kazem's strident objections. He had been joined by every single scientist working on Iran's nuclear program.
It had made absolutely no difference. All Iran's corrupt politicians cared about was money, and the sanctions levied against Iran were costing it about forty billion dollars per year in lost oil revenue. Kazem, his fellow scientists and even the few honest politicians had argued that Iran was within reach of a nuclear capability, and that just a little more time would let them take Pakistan's path.
In 1998 Pakistan had tested its first nuclear weapon, and was promptly sanctioned by the US. The month after the 9/11 attacks the US abandoned the sanctions after it became clear Pakistani help would be necessary to remove the Taliban regime in Afghanistan. So, the sanctions against the first Muslim country to obtain nuclear weapons lasted… three years.
But the politicians eager for immediate sanctions relief pointed out that the Americans were unlikely to need Iranian help, and Iran would be unlikely to give it. Kazem and others wanting to get nuclear weapons for Iran argued that the greed of American and European countries eager for access to Iran's market could be counted on to weaken their resolve. Besides, how long would Russia and China really go along with sanctions once their only point was to punish rather than prevent?