Arab Summer Read online

  Saif leaned down and whispered in Fahd’s ear, “Stop braying like a donkey. You are shaming your family. Are you a loyal servant of Allah? On the one true path?” Fahd nodded his head furiously. Saif could see himself in the video monitor placed on the ground beneath the camera tripod. He paced back and forth behind Fahd, making certain he stayed within the frame of the camera. Saif’s pulse was now pounding, his arms trembling with intensity. Not his first performance, but his first as commander in war. He channeled Rickman as he paced, looking toward the heavens and rolling his eyes back. He pulled his lips back from his teeth in a grimace, shaking his fists in the air. “My brothers! We are now at war. A holy war against the already rotting flesh of the al-Asad royals, who have defiled the two holiest sites in Islam with their decadent alliance with the infidel West, and who must be pushed from the Saudi peninsula into the sea, and all traces of their existence wiped from our holy soil. The Mahdi has come. He is among us and it is almost time for him to reveal himself to the believers. He has come to redeem us from the infidels, to restore the one true Islam to the Muslim world, to exalt the righteous and punish the infidels.

  “The prophecies say we will be victorious if we are virtuous and if we follow the one true path. The path the Mahdi guides us on. There is no God but Allah!”

  “La ilaha ilallah!” the men shouted.

  Saif turned around and picked up the sword that had been placed behind him on the bench. He began pacing back and forth again, waving the sword as he spoke. “Yes, we are at war. The Mahdi will lead us on our virtuous path, instruct us how to destroy our enemies, the enemies of the one true Islam.” Rashid led two men who dragged the Secret Police prisoner with them. His eyes showed terror. Saif leaned over again and said to Fahd, “On your feet.” Fahd jumped to his feet, then turned to face Saif. Saif handed him the sword. Fahd looked confused, then his mouth fell open and his eyes went wide. Rashid pushed the prisoner to his knees in front of Fahd. Saif said to Fahd, “Now show us you are among the righteous.” He grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around. He yelled to his men, “The death of our enemy will purify our souls. There is no God but Allah!”

  “La ilaha ilallah!” the men shouted.

  Fahd stood over the man, hyperventilating, staring at the sword. His body shook as he let out an animal howl, swinging the sword. The prisoner’s head fell sideways and his body toppled after it. The men roared. Saif held his arms aloft and pumped them, urging them on. Fahd turned, with sweat, blood and a look of horror on his face. Saif took the sword from him and said, “Now die like a man and go to paradise with your soul purified by the blood of your enemy.” He pushed Fahd to his knees again. Fahd angled his head forward, accepting his fate.

  Saif yelled above the men, “We are the warriors of Allah. And as warriors, we cannot tolerate any among us who would shrink from his duty.” Saif affected a wild-eyed stare at his men, now spitting as he spoke, channeling Rickman onstage as Henry V. “Shrink from his duty to Allah, to the Mahdi, and to his fellow warriors in the purification of the Muslim world. We are the righteous! There is no God but Allah!”

  “La ilaha ilallah!” the men shouted.

  Saif now grasped the sword in both hands, closed his eyes and turned his body as he swung it back to his right, praying to Allah for a clean kill, instant death and a dramatic finish to the tape with Fahd’s head severed in a single blow. He tensed all his muscles, opened his eyes and swung from his hips, his arms hurling the sword forward. Allah rewarded him. The sword swung through. Fahd’s head floated in the air momentarily and then flopped on the ground in front of his body in full view of the camera. Fahd’s body tilted sideways, then thudded to the ground. Saif felt blood on his face, held the sword aloft and shouted, “There is no God but Allah!”

  “La ilaha ilallah!” the men roared.

  Saif tossed the sword aside and stood with his legs apart, arms raised, to the sound of his men cheering. Cheering to Allah, to the Mahdi and to him.

  Sasha rode the elevator from the basement to the second floor of the embassy, trying to frame her thoughts. Tom had just pulled her out of weapons training, over Seth’s objection, telling her that Yassar was in the conference room and wanted to see her immediately. She’d thrown her black abaya over her skintight workout leotard, knowing that exposing every contour of her body would offend Yassar’s modesty. She was twisted up inside, aching to see Yassar, yet dreading what she expected would be a lecture over her inconsiderate behavior, probably deserved.

  Yassar was now in his early 70s, and while he was still as active as ever at the Ministry and in the Council of Ministers, he lived more for the moments with his children, derived his highest emotional rewards through their triumphs and loves. This must be what it felt like to have a real father, one who grew more emotionally needy as he grew older. Even a few years ago, she’d found that Yassar had begun to need more pampering, wanted her to fuss over him. And while she loved him like no one else in the world, that sometimes could be a burden.

  Eighteen months. She would really have to sit through an earful. She then felt a rush of shame at thinking that.

  Yassar was seated at the table when she entered the room. He stood, his great, graying head a little grayer, his posture perhaps more stooped. He smiled, and she felt a swell of emotion. “Yassar!” She rushed across the room and hugged him, burying her face in his robe against his barrel chest. He stroked her hair, then leaned down and kissed her forehead. She walked him back to his chair and sat him down. She pulled up another chair facing his and sat, her knees touching his.

  “My dear, I’m concerned about you. I haven’t heard from you since your call from Switzerland after Daniel’s murder.”

  His words were like a spear in her heart. “I’m sorry, Yassar.”

  “And to learn of this reckless idea of yours about Saif third-hand? With no opportunity to counsel you?” His face looked pained.

  I’ve hurt him more than I thought. “I knew you’d forbid it. That’s why I didn’t call.” Sasha leaned farther forward and took one of his giant hands in hers, kissed it, then looked up into his eyes. “You know how much I value your advice.”

  “Hardly, based on recent behavior.”

  It hit home. God, is he going to pull out all the arrows in his guilt quiver? Sasha felt her throat start to burn and her eyes tear up.

  Yassar looked into her eyes and said, “You know how worried I am about you with what you’re planning to do, don’t you?”

  “Oh, Yassar.” She looked away.

  “Why must it be you? Can’t you let Tom find someone else?”

  “I have to.” She felt her mouth contort. “For Daniel.”

  “What if you’re wrong? What if Saif does want to kill you? You’ll be walking right into it. It’s an insane idea.” His eyes were earnest, pleading.

  “It’s the only way I’ll feel I’ve set things right.” She wanted to tell him she didn’t care what happened to her, but knew that would only make him worry more.

  “What about your teachings? What would your guru say?”

  “He would pray for me. As I know you will.” She stood up and hugged him where he sat. She felt him sigh, his muscles release, resigned to her decision. She’d known it would turn out this way, but knew she must at least allow him his say. She stepped around behind his chair, wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face against his cheek. They stayed in that position a while, neither of them speaking.

  Finally, Yassar stood up and said, “I must speak to Tom.” He walked directly out of the room. Five minutes later Tom walked in and said, “What did you say to him?”

  She didn’t respond, just looked at him, puzzled.

  “Yassar just told me he’s having Assad, the head of the Secret Police, contact me to provide us intelligence on Saif, everything they’ve got, including ongoing updates. And he’ll make as many men available to us as we ask for, within reason.”

  Dear Yassar, Sasha thought.

  After she left Yas
sar, Sasha returned to her weapons training. Seth sent her on a walking hunt for hostiles through a course within the firing range that was part obstacles, part maze. Pop-up cutouts of hostiles with weapons and unarmed citizens occurred at random, requiring her to either shoot to kill or pull up her handgun. She couldn’t stop thinking about Yassar. She’d been fine until she saw him, but now, after hearing his tone, seeing the wounded look on his face, she felt guilty.

  She passed through a doorway and another cutout popped up in her peripheral vision. She swung left and fired her Beretta.

  “No!” Seth yelled. “That’s the second unarmed Saudi you’ve killed in the last 60 seconds. Time-out.” She turned to him and saw his lips pulled tight, his chin lowered as he walked toward her. “This morning you were dead-on accurate, 96%, in your stationary shooting. Now you can’t get out of your own way. What happened?”

  Sasha looked at the cardboard cutout of a woman carrying a baby, a hole in the center of her chest. “I guess I’m distracted.”

  “Distracted? By what?”

  “My conversation with Yassar.”

  Seth stepped over to her and stopped with his face six inches from hers. “That distraction also caused you to miss a hostile holding an AK-47. Out in the field you’ll have lots bigger distractions than that, and if you don’t get your mind right, one of Saif’s men will take your head off without you even knowing it.”

  Sasha hung her head.

  “How about you snap out of it and we start this exercise all over again?”

  Sasha didn’t respond, just took her position at the start of the course. Seth walked past her, stopped at a table, picked up a revolver and handed it to her. “Here, switch weapons, so you don’t get too used to the feel of only the Beretta.” It was a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum. She handed him the Beretta Cheetah and took the Smith & Wesson from him. It weighed almost twice as much. She swung out the cylinder and checked that the chambers were loaded. “Remember to compensate for the recoil so your second shot isn’t high. That’s an angry monster. Okay, now go.”

  CHAPTER 11

  SAIF RODE IN THE PASSENGER seat of a jeep next to Rashid, who drove them toward the center of Buraida. Three of his men rode in the backseat. All had AK-47s concealed beneath their robes. Saif checked his watch. Seven minutes. He was talking on one of his disposable cell phones with Noor, his wife, giving her the names of the men who would be checking in on the family over the next three days at the safe house he’d moved them to. The conversation was tearing at his heart. He was worried about them with the obvious increase in Secret Police presence following the firefight the other night. He missed Noor’s gentle support, her tenderness. He could hardly bear to hear of Indira, his little daughter, he missed her so much. He noted the elapsed time of the call had reached eight minutes, said good-bye and felt a sting of longing. He left the circuit open, handed it to Rashid, who slowed the jeep and tossed the phone into the bed of a pickup truck heading in the opposite direction. Saif smiled. He knew the Americans had sold the Saudi royals equipment that could triangulate to cell phones within ten minutes. In the event they had picked up his disposable cell phone, they would track it to the outskirts of Buraida and beyond until the battery died.

  Saif turned and looked behind them. Two other SUVs followed at a safe distance, containing more of his men. Added to their group would be 20 more men who would meet them at the courtyard outside the mosque in Buraida. Thirty-five in total. More than enough for the job.

  Rashid parked the jeep a block from the mosque. Saif and his men got out and walked, not waiting for the other SUVs. They’d all meet at the courtyard. He checked his watch again. Noon prayers would have ended about five minutes ago. It was a Friday, and execution of gisas—Islamic law punishments—always occurred in the courtyard of the mosque after noon prayers. The Islamic Liberation Front’s sources said that Mohammed ibn Gafar and Suleiman al-Saad, two members of the ILF who had been convicted of sedition and treason, would be beheaded in the square today.

  When Rashid and his men entered the granite courtyard, a line of ten soldiers in their tan uniforms stood with their legs apart, arms in front of them clutching automatic weapons. Behind the soldiers at the center of the courtyard was a rectangular grate over a drain. An unmarked tan van was parked ten meters behind the drain, two more soldiers stationed at the rear of the van. Saif stopped close enough in front of the soldiers to see beads of sweat on their foreheads. He glanced to his right and saw the first group of his other men reach the square. He felt a knot of tension in his stomach, his hands perspiring. A few more men filtered in from the right. He recognized one of them as Rahul, one of the leaders of the ILF. He glanced to his left, saw five more. Just then the mosque doors opened and the worshipers began filing out, many of them stopping in the courtyard to watch the proceedings. After another ten minutes the courtyard was filled. Saif watched as the rear doors of the van swung open and two more soldiers stepped out, then reached up to guide two men out of the van dressed in white robes, blindfolded, with their hands tied in front of them.

  Saif heard his pulse throbbing in his ears as he reached inside the slit in his robe and felt for the stock of his AK-47, then slipped his finger onto the trigger. Wait, he told himself. The soldiers led the condemned men forward, pressed them into a kneeling position in front of the drain, their heads bowed. The soldiers stepped away. A man in a white robe and a red-checked headdress stepped out of the van, a curved sword still in its scabbard in his hand. As he approached the condemned men he removed the sword from its scabbard, its steel gleaming in the sun.

  A loudspeaker from the mosque that announced the call to prayers crackled to life with a blast of static. A voice came on and began reciting the list of the men’s crimes. Saif said, “Now!” to Rashid on his right, swung his AK-47 up and fired, flattening the soldier standing in front of him with a short burst, then turned its muzzle to the left and dropped the next one in line. By the time he aimed at the next in line the soldier had already been shot dead. Saif charged forward, seeing the executioner sprinting away across the courtyard. He couldn’t see the other soldiers who had guarded the van and escorted the prisoners, so he raised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed and sprayed bullets up and down the length of the van. He kept firing until this clip was exhausted, dropped it and loaded another. By then a group of men had liberated the prisoners, pulling off their blindfolds and rushing them away. Saif pulled a grenade from the pouch at his side, yanked the pin and rolled it under the van.

  He turned and ran, yelling, “God is great!” just as the grenade exploded. He heard panicked screams, saw people running from the courtyard, smelled blood and cordite in the air. He couldn’t see Rashid but headed back to the jeep, the plan for each man to escape in the vehicle he had arrived in.

  Rashid was already revving the engine in the jeep when Saif arrived. The other three men were in the backseat. Rashid gunned the engine and the jeep was speeding down the street by the time Saif pulled the door closed.

  God is great, Saif said to himself, his chest heaving.

  Saif’s shoulders curled over in his fatigue as he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on the table. His ears still rang from the shootout in Buraida the previous day. He was dead tired, aching and dusty from the 12-hour drive from Buraida to Mecca, and yet exhilarated. He looked around at the other three men seated at the table—Zafar from the Ikwan, Shahid from the Islamic Revolutionary Party and Anwar from the Muslim Brotherhood—fellow Islamic dissident group leaders.

  They were seated in a back room of a restaurant in Mecca, across the square from the al-Masjid al-Haram, the Grand Mosque, the holiest place in Islam. A fitting spot for the group to be collaborating on what, Allah willing, would be the future of Saudi Arabia.

  “So we are in agreement on our respective geographic areas of responsibility?” Saif said. He looked around the table at each of the men, who all nodded. Anwar was responsible for the western provinces, including Makkah, where they were currentl
y located. Shahid had the massive Eastern Province, the primary oil-producing region, and Zafar the southern provinces. Saif was in charge of the central and northern provinces.

  “What about additional weapons?” Zafar asked.

  Saif said, “We don’t expect any more shipments of artillery. It’s too risky at this point. We are getting in more AK-47s and ammunition on a daily basis.”

  Zafar made a sour face.

  Anwar said, “We have two weeks to take as many as we can from the royals’ armories. We hit two more last week for more automatic weapons and ammunition.”

  “If we are too aggressive, it will alert them to the fact that something is imminent,” Shahid said.

  “All the more reason to be as aggressive as possible, then,” Saif said. “It will be our last chance.”

  Zafar said, “I am still concerned about the SANG. They have a standing force of over 125,000, with additional tribal militia of 25,000. I think we are underestimating them.”

  The SANG was the Saudi Arabian National Guard, a force independent of the Minister of Defense, US-trained, and a counterbalance to the ruling Sudairi wing of the royal family. Saif smiled and said, “If we play this right, we can have the SANG take on the Royal Army, Navy and Air Force. Royal faction against royal faction.”

  “And if we don’t play it right?” Zafar said.

  Zafar was beginning to annoy Saif. Saif had also noticed Anwar and Shahid glance back and forth at each other during Zafar’s earlier whining. Saif said, “In that case we still have them all outnumbered. The Navy and Air Force are largely useless to them in street fighting, and most of the Army’s armored equipment will be of limited use unless the royals choose to blast all our major cities apart. Look at the pattern of the uprisings in the other Arab nations.”

  Anwar said to Zafar, “And we have some local SANG troops sympathetic to our cause who sneaked weapons, ammunition, gas masks and provisions into the Grand Mosque compound over the last few weeks.”