Arab Summer Page 15

  Zafar said, “But nationwide, we’ll be up against a SANG force of 150,000 and the Royal Army of 75,000.”

  “We had 70,000 demonstrators a week ago in Buraida alone. That’s only one city,” Saif said.

  “All of them armed?” Zafar said. “Trained for combat?”

  Anwar said, “Enough of this, Zafar. We have all been building up to this for years. Are you in or out?”

  For once Zafar didn’t waver. “I am in. My men will be there, but I am only trying to minimize the number who will die.”

  Saif nodded, then reached over and clapped Zafar on the arm. “As you should, my friend,” he said, “as we all should.”

  Shahid said, “And consider this, Zafar, we’ll be moving our camps around, making us very difficult to locate.”

  “Kind of poetic, don’t you think?” Anwar said.

  “Poetic?” Saif said.

  “Yes, we’ll be operating from our tents in the desert, striking on the fly, exactly as the al-Asads did to conquer and rule Saudi Arabia when they were Wahhabi tribesmen 90 years ago.”

  “I don’t care much for poetry,” Saif said, “I just want to crush the royals and return Saudi Arabia to the people.” That, and to get this over with quickly. Saif knew this would be bloody and ugly, wondering if the others in the room had his appreciation for that fact. He’d watched the YouTube videos on his Kindle Fire throughout the other Arab Spring revolutions. Egypt, Libya and Syria had been particularly brutal. Saudi Arabia would be worse. How many months until they were successful? How many months of chaos following that until he was able to establish himself, with Qahtani’s blessing, as the new prime minister? Zafar, Shahid and Anwar had agreed that Saif would serve first, for at least four years, followed by a decision among themselves as to who would be next, unless they agreed the country was stable enough for elections. Saif glanced around the table at each of them. With Qahtani in his own pocket and with the people’s support of Qahtani as the Mahdi, Saif would serve as long as he chose to.

  Rashid was antsy, waiting in the anteroom for Saif to finish his meeting with the other leaders. This all-night drive to Mecca with no prior notice was becoming Saif’s modus operandi. Lately he’d even taken to insisting that his instructions to his senior lieutenants be kept confidential from each other, including the locations of their half dozen other camps surrounding Buraida. Saif’s increasingly obsessive secretiveness was making Rashid’s job of passing information on Saif’s activities and whereabouts more difficult by the day. But the bigger reason Rashid was antsy was the confluence of recent events. Yesterday, Saif had given instructions to break down the camp and move half the men to a new camp northwest of Buraida, and half to a camp ten kilometers outside of Mecca. Saif had let it slip to Rashid that the camp outside Mecca held a thousand of their men. It was also the first time Saif had met face-to-face with all three of the other dissident leaders in at least six months. All those meant something big was imminent.

  That also meant Rashid was unprepared. He was out of prepaid cell phones to use to report to Ryan in Riyadh. And with millions of pilgrims for the annual Hajj in Mecca, getting around the city to locate a shop with phones in stock might be impossible. Now the business of helping this Sasha woman into their camp didn’t seem at all annoying and dangerous. He only hoped Ryan would get word to him that she was arriving soon.

  Rashid looked around the room. It was a ragtag group. Rashid had commandeered Talib and Hassan to serve as additional drivers before they left Buraida. Talib was asleep, Hassan dozing. Neither had bathed, and they were covered in dust from the desert, as was Rashid. The roughly 12 other men in the room looked similar, and the air was close from too many bodies and too much garlic emanating from too many pores. What a life. If he had family waiting for him at home he wouldn’t be here. But that was why he was here at all: his family was no longer on this earth. He moved his chair back, leaned his head against the wall and resolved to get some sleep. The way things were moving, he was certain he’d need the rest.

  He heard the door open and saw Saif step out. He motioned Rashid over. “We’ll be another hour or so,” Saif said. “You and the men get something to eat.” He ducked back inside.

  Rashid let his breath out, relieved. He told Talib and Hassan to eat, then left to buy some cell phones.

  Tom was at lunch in a local restaurant with Zac when his cell phone rang. “I just got a text from Archer,” Ryan said. “Something’s up. I think we need to move up our schedule, put Sasha in as soon as we can.”

  “I’m on the way.” Tom hung up and waved for the waiter.

  Twenty minutes later he was back in the conference room at the embassy with Ryan and Zac.

  What’ve you got?” Tom said.

  “Archer says—”

  “Just read it,” Tom said.

  “SAIF MET YESTERDAY IN MECCA WITH 3 OTHER GROUP LEADERS.”

  Just give me one smart bomb. Take them all out at once, Tom thought.

  Ryan continued reading the text. “OTHER LEADERS NOW GONE. NOW SAIF IN TENT CAMP OUTSIDE MECCA WITH 1K MEN. BIG PLANS, SOMETHNG SOON, GET SASHA IN NOW.”

  “Where’s Sasha?” Tom asked Ryan.

  “Downstairs training with Seth again.”

  “Get them up here, now.” Then before Ryan could leave, he said, “You got a GPS fix on Archer?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom motioned to Zac. They both left the room.

  Never enough time. Tom remembered his last debriefing with Seth, who’d said Sasha was coming along fine, but the more time he had with her the better. He thought of calling Yassar, then realized he couldn’t offer any information beyond Archer’s text, and so he couldn’t very well ask for support based on it.

  He thought for a moment, checked his watch, then picked up the phone to call for a chopper.

  Twenty minutes later Sasha sat in the communications room facing Zac. “There are six of them sewn into the end seams,” Zac said, holding a black abaya in his hands. “This abaya is just like yours.” He held the abaya out to Sasha, his fingers on the seam. “Feel it?” he asked. She had her fingers on the seam between his hands, felt a few small lumps beneath the surface of the fabric.

  “Yes.”

  “Feel right here,” he said, guiding one of her hands. “Feel that? It’s a little squishy, because there’s fluid inside the plastic bubble.”

  She felt it between her fingers and nodded.

  “Squeeze it hard and break it. You’re breaking a bubble within an outer plastic pouch.”

  She did it.

  “That releases the acid, creating a battery that will last for about twelve hours to power the transmitter.”

  “It’s not detectable?”

  “Not by just frisking you, or even feeling the seams on the abaya. You can attest to that,” Zac said. “And probably not by any kind of metal detector, although if they have sweepers for bugs, you’re hosed.” His Southern drawl extended his last word, his smile taking the edge off the point. Sasha didn’t take any comfort from it. Hosed meant hosed, no matter how softly or gentlemanly it was put. Zac added, “But we’re dealing with men running around in the desert. They’re not likely to have that kind of equipment.”

  “So after I squeeze one of the batteries, I’ve got a signal that lasts for twelve hours, right?”

  Zac said, “Yes, give or take. They operate on five volts, same as a cell phone. Only they’re ten times more powerful than a cell phone, so I can pick you up from just about anyplace, even if a cell phone can’t get a signal. And you’ve got six of them.

  “And after they’ve died, what?”

  “There isn’t much more we can do for you.” Now he frowned. “So just pray they don’t take your abaya from you. It may be the only way we can locate you.”

  Sasha’s neck went cold.

  Saif stood with his legs spread wide apart in the desert camp north of Mecca, affecting a posture of command, much as he imagined Alan Rickman would if playing Lawrence of Arabia or Field Ma
rshal Rommel. He looked out on a patchwork of tents, Land Rovers and other SUVs parked beneath desert camouflage screens held up by poles, everything flapping in the wind that, but for Saif’s sunglasses, would have blasted the sand into his eyes. It looked like a military encampment on the verge of the beginning of a war, as it was. It housed about a thousand men. Dozens of other such camps were located around Saudi Arabia, strategically positioned outside major cities, all ready. But are they enough? They would have to be.

  He walked back inside his tent to the table where his top 20 lieutenants sat. “There is no God but Allah,” he said, and sat at the head of the table.

  “La ilaha ilallah!” his men repeated.

  Saif paused, looked around the table into each man’s face, dragging it out. Finally he propped himself on his elbows and said, “Soon.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I have met with our fellow leaders in the last days, not far from here in Mecca.” He turned to Rashid at his right and nodded, expecting and receiving a nod in return. It was a sign to the others that Rashid was his confidant, his top lieutenant. “Our liberation struggle is almost at an end, where we strike out and crush the royals. Then we reclaim our country, our beloved Saudi Arabia, for our people.”

  Saif stood and began walking around the table. “Each of you has your specific instructions, your individual command, and your own responsibilities to your men. After the Mahdi has been revealed to the people, we and our brothers will strike. We will strike in unison. We have strength in numbers. We will overwhelm the seemingly insurmountable forces of the royals with our passion, our commitment and our willingness to die for our cause. We will sustain casualties. Many of us will die. But we will die for a better future for our parents, our wives, our children. Saudi Arabia can be a great nation again, with all of you leading us into her future.” He had finished encircling the table and now stood behind his chair at the head. He raised his arms, spread his legs. “Stand with me now, my brothers, stand for the future of our country, our people. Fight, die, if necessary, to destroy the royals, and return our country to greatness and holiness under the Mahdi.”

  Saif watched as his men stood, raised their arms and cheered in support of him. It wasn’t the resounding thunder of emotion he’d hoped for. Never mind. There would be time for that, after many of them had been wounded or seen their brothers die. With the taste of blood in their mouths they could not help but be more passionate.

  CHAPTER 12

  SASHA, ZAC, RYAN, SETH AND Tom were seated in a private hangar at the airport in Riyadh, waiting for word that the army Black Hawk helicopter that would ferry them to Mecca was finished refueling. Tom had been watching the pilot since he walked into the hangar and sat by himself near the door, looking disgusted. He knew the type. He could see the bars on his uniform, a captain. Grizzled old guy, in his mid-50s, Tom guessed, sitting with his back straight, no paunch on that hard body. Army-issued haircut, short on the sides like the kids Zac and Seth who had been assigned to Tom’s operation. Tom figured it was worth going over to talk to the guy, make sure he understood the importance of what they were about to do.

  Tom walked over to him and said, “Thanks for helping us out here.” He extended his hand. “Tom Goddard.”

  The man glanced up at Tom, hesitated as if trying to decide if he would shake his hand, then extended his and said, “Jaworski. Captain Steve Jaworski.”

  Tom sat down next to him. “You in from Dhahran?”

  Jaworski seemed annoyed. “That’s the only place we keep these big Black Hawks on Saudi soil anymore.” Jaworski looked away out the window, as if the refueling process on the chopper was something that needed his attention.

  “And I’ll bet you’re pissed that you got requisitioned to run some errand, huh?”

  Jaworski turned back to Tom. “Yeah, you might say that. This hardware is a little expensive for taxi duty, don’t you think?” When Tom didn’t respond, Jaworski said, “Don’t you State Department guys have your own embassy choppers?” When Tom still didn’t respond, Jaworski said, “That is, if you really are with the State Department. I don’t mind telling you that I don’t appreciate being a bag man for some spook escapade without being told who I’m transporting or why.”

  Tom shrugged. He said, “I’m not in a position to tell you, but I can say it’s important enough for my boss to have Rusty Baldridge arrange this through Admiral Raven at Special Ops.”

  Jaworski’s head went back a couple of inches.

  Tom motioned to their group seated with Sasha. “The two guys over there with haircuts like yours are on assignment from Raven, too, authorized by Rusty.”

  Tom could see he had Jaworski’s full attention. Jaworski said, “So it’s that little black-haired piece of ass we’re...” He stopped, searching for the word.

  “Inserting is the word we use. And my boss calls her my prize mare.”

  “And your boss would be?”

  “The director.” Tom smiled. “And now that I’ve met you, I guess that’s why Rusty arranged for you to chaperone us. I feel like we’re in good hands. Experienced, pissed-off good hands.” Jaworski didn’t change his expression. Jeez, Tom thought. This guy never cracks a smile.

  “That all you can tell me?”

  “Yeah, except that my little black-haired prize mare is our neutron bomb against a potential Arab Spring uprising against the Saudi government. Consider her precious cargo.”

  “You expecting any excitement?”

  “Nope. But we may not be flying into friendly territory, which is why we asked for a Black Hawk instead of the embassy chopper.”

  Jaworski stood up and walked outside without another word. Tom could see him through the windows talking with urgency to his copilot and gunner.

  Sasha saw Tom and the pilot talking, then the pilot abruptly get up and walk outside. Tom walked back over and sat down next to her. Sasha felt lightness in her limbs. Nerves. She closed her eyes and appealed to Ganesha, her Remover of Obstacles, to calm her, keep her safe. She could feel Tom’s energy, his leg touching hers. She wondered what he was thinking. Was he feeling anything? She remembered their conversation in the conference room a few days earlier, then told herself that of course he must be. A moment later she felt his hand find hers and squeeze it.

  Tom turned to Sasha and said, “How about we step out for a few minutes to stretch our legs?” They walked to the door and Tom opened it for her. The heat blasted her in the face. Her calves ached from tension as she stepped outside. “You okay?” Tom asked.

  “Fine. You?”

  “I’m not the one who’s heading into the dark.”

  “That’s not what I asked, friend.”

  Tom smiled. “I’ll feel better when this is over. And I don’t suppose it would help for me to tell you I’m worried about you.”

  “In a way, actually, it does help.”

  “Then I guess I’ve at least contributed something to this operation.”

  Sasha walked over to him, brushed the hair off his forehead. “You’re still scruffy, you know.”

  “Some things never change.” She saw the intensity in his eyes, those blue, blue eyes. She wanted him to let them go, his feelings for her, then in the moment she thought it, she wasn’t sure.

  “Maybe they do, Tom.” She felt a tug of emotion, not quite sure what it was, and then Tom looked away, awkward. After a moment she said, “My God, I’m roasting. Let’s get back into the hangar.”

  When they sat back down with the team, Zac turned to Sasha and asked, “We’ve been talking. So what’s this Hajj?”

  Sasha said, “It’s an annual pilgrimage that all faithful Muslims are expected to go on at least once in their lives.”

  “Where do they go?”

  Sasha said, “They walk to the Grand Mosque in Mecca, and to other places near Mecca with significance to the Islamic religion, to perform seven different holy rituals.”

  “Like what?”

  “Seven counterclockwise circuits around the Kaaba, the squar
e structure in the courtyard of the Grand Mosque, which all Muslims turn toward in performing their daily prayers. Drinking from the sacred Zamzam Well inside the mosque. Three ritual stonings of the devil, symbolic of the prophet Ibrahim’s rejection of the devil’s three attempts to convert him to evil.”

  “They walk all the way?”

  “Yes. About 4 million pilgrims each year. That means there can be up to 800,000 pilgrims inside the Grand Mosque and up to 3 million camping in thousands of tents the Saudi government sets up at Mina, near Mecca.”

  Zac raised his eyebrows.

  “The Grand Mosque compound is almost 90 acres.”

  Tom said, “The Hajj occurs on the eighth through the twelfth days of the last month of the Islamic year, which is a little different each year, because the Muslim religious calendar is shorter than ours by about 11 days.”

  Sasha got a flash of insight. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.” She turned to Tom. “The start of the new year, that’s it.”

  Tom stared at her, waiting.

  “The prophecies said the Mahdi would appear just before the beginning of the Islamic New Year. Saif could be planning to start the uprising around the time of the New Year, after revealing to the masses that the Mahdi has arrived.”

  Tom said, “And according to Archer, Saif is at an encampment only 10 kilometers north of Mecca.”

  “Which could mean they’re planning to start things off in Mecca, with the city full of pilgrims who would undoubtedly respond to the Mahdi’s appearance,” Sasha said.

  Seth said, “That ought to give them hundreds of thousands more committed rebels.”

  “Try millions,” Sasha said. “You’re talking about a holy war.”

  “If you’re right, that gives us, what, ten days?” Tom said.

  Sasha shook her head, thinking. “Eight days. Today’s the final day of the Hajj, the 12th day of the month. The prophecies say the Mahdi will reveal himself on the 20th day.”