Arab Summer Page 4

  Yassar said, “Perhaps one day that will be an appropriate gesture. For now,” and he extended his hand, “this will have to do.” Reem shook it and clasped her other hand over his.

  “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for us.”

  “My pleasure,” Yassar said, and showed her to the door. If only she knew. Yassar had used every ounce of his persuasive abilities to cajole his cousins into agreeing with this step, and still they’d backpedaled after he convinced King Abdul to issue the royal decree two months earlier. It had exhausted him. As did the list of issues assaulting him daily.

  Two years. That’s how long it had been since his successful collaboration with the Americans and their allies in thwarting the al-Mujari’s terrorism against the oil industry and the Saudi government. In his exhilaration at the virtual beheading of the al-Mujari’s top echelon, including the assassination of Sheik bin Abdur, Yassar had believed that Saudi Arabia would by now be on the path to a revival. But even before the death of King Abad, his fellow royals had become complacent with the primary provocateurs of social dissent in the country removed. The kingdom had returned to its old ways with a vengeance, treating the country’s oil income as the cash flow from a family business. Even more profligate spending by the royal family, less money for social programs, virtually ignoring Yassar’s “jobs creation” programs for the average Saudi, and a shorter fuse and harsher response regarding any civil protests. His cousins on the Council of Ministers continued to nod in agreement as Yassar urged them, but it didn’t take him long to realize they were simply “yessing” him into irrelevance.

  He saw the other Arab nations being forced to adopt more democratic approaches as a harbinger of troubles to come in Saudi Arabia. It could very easily completely unravel for his royal cousins, lead to a violent overthrow of their regime. It would result in chaos, spell the end for all of the programs he had worked so hard for over the last dozen years, programs that would rebalance their budget, give the Saudi people well-paying jobs, and restore the spirit of a once-great culture that could become greater still. So much for his plans to make the Saudi royal regime a model for the Arab and Islamic worlds.

  He glanced at the clock, sighed and thumbed an eyebrow. Fifteen minutes. He expected his upcoming meeting with King Abdul to be a waste of time: more of the same. He breathed deeply, took a moment to ground himself. Then: Not this time. He turned to his computer and clicked on his contacts. He found the number, picked up his phone and dialed.

  Saif sat in a darkened corner of a mosque in northeast Buraida. He kept off to the side of his brother-in-law, Sheik Qahtani, not wanting to be conspicuous. This was Qahtani’s moment. A chance for Qahtani to prove to the twelve assembled imams and Koranic scholars from the seven southern Saudi Arabian provinces that he was, in fact, the Mahdi. It was the sixth such meeting Saif had organized, and by far the most important. Most of the Shiite population in Saudi Arabia resided in the six northern provinces, and they had fallen in line easily with Qahtani’s Shiite message. The support of the primarily Sunni southern provinces was harder to win. Particularly since Riyadh Province, the most influential, was home to the city of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia’s capital, and to the Sunni royals. The group of bearded men in black robes, dusty from their journey north, sat around Qahtani on the cool marble floor, their hushed voices reverberating off the 40-foot domed ceiling of the mosque. It was going well, and Saif felt a sense of calm, in part because of the atmosphere in the mosque. Not that it made him feel unusually close to Allah. It was because the minimal light filtering in kept the place dark and cool, a respite he always welcomed from the harsh Saudi elements outside. No heat, no sand.

  Saif focused his attention back on the group as he heard Qahtani say, “The prophet Muhammad said, ‘The world will not come to an end until the Arabs are ruled by a man from my family whose name is the same as mine and whose father’s name is the same as my father’s.’”

  One of the scholars looked skeptical. He said, “The Mahdi’s aim must be to establish a moral system in which all superstitious faiths have been eliminated.”

  Qahtani said, “In the same way that students enter Islam, so unbelievers will come to believe.”

  Saif smiled. Qahtani spouted the second half of Umm Salama’s prophecy right back at the old man. Qahtani must’ve been staying up late at night, studying. Saif was coming to believe that Qahtani had convinced himself that he was, in fact, the Mahdi. Was it the power of Saif’s suggestion through two years of focus on the prophecies, or had Qahtani always believed it? Saif wasn’t sure he cared. It was working.

  Qahtani went on. “The Mahdi will return with a company of his chosen ones. He and his enemies’ armies will fight one final apocalyptic battle where the Mahdi and his forces will prevail over evil.”

  One of the other imams said, “The Mahdi is the protector of the knowledge, the heir to the knowledge of all the prophets, and is aware of all things.”

  Qahtani responded, “The dominion of the Mahdi is one of the proofs that Allah has created all things; these are so numerous that the Mahdi’s proofs will overcome everyone and nobody will have any counter-proposition against.”

  The silly game of reciting prophecies back and forth—proof of nothing, but all-important to the participants—was almost at an end. Volley, return. It was like the tennis matches he watched while at university in England. That seemed like forever ago. Not just in time, but from another life. A time when his father, then a member of the wealthy merchant class and a respected importer of oil drilling equipment, was able to afford to send Saif to university. A time in Saudi Arabia when a father was able to have the ambition for his son to achieve more than he had in his lifetime.

  Saif remembered the day when the reality that was no longer true smashed him in the face.

  It was upon his return from university, a graduate from Eton in economics, an educated young man who would help bring Saudi Arabia into the 21st century. The ride from the airport in Riyadh to Buraida took five hours. Five hours of baking in the Saudi heat in a bus with broken air-conditioning, smelling diesel exhaust, tasting the omnipresent dust, yet still excited to be home. He had to admit English ale was a delicious discovery, English girls were wonders, many of whom would have sex with you on the first date, and visits to London strip clubs were extraordinary experiences. But Saudi Arabia was home, and those days in England were behind him. Now it was time to use the knowledge he’d gained to do something with his father’s business. Modernizing. Expanding the product line to import other types of equipment. Opening new offices.

  The bus entered his neighborhood on the outskirts of northeast Buraida and he paid attention now, looking out the window to take in the low-slung concrete and cinderblock rows of shops in muted grays and browns. He smelled the aromas of halal meat grilling on skewers on the grills of the street-side vendors, mixed with the scent and taste of the Saudi dust from the unpaved streets. As he entered his own street, the spaces between the buildings grew, now homes with side yards between them, many with fenced-in pens for goats and sheep. His heart raced as he approached his home. A little disheveled looking. Could use a coat of paint. Things Saif could take care of within a week.

  When he carried his bags through the door, his mother greeted him with a howl of delight. As he hugged her, he saw over her shoulder that his father was home, seated in the living room in his upholstered lounge chair. “Father!” he said and rushed to him. When his father stood to receive him, Saif saw that he’d lost weight and even seemed stooped. Had he been sick? A major change in the eight months since Saif had last seen him. When Saif hugged him, slapped him on the back and kissed him on the cheek, his father felt unsteady on his feet. “Home so soon from work today?” Saif said, smiling at him.

  “Yes, well,” his father said. He shot a glance over Saif’s shoulder at his wife. Saif turned and saw his mother retreat into the kitchen.

  Saif felt a rumble of dread. “What’s wrong?”

  His father
pointed to the chair adjacent to his and sat. “Business has not been good,” his father said. “In fact, we’ve lost most of it.”

  “How could that happen?”

  “We lost most of our customers to another company. All our higher-margin product lines. Drill bits, specialty valves, pumping equipment.”

  Saif’s limbs felt heavy. “But that’s where all the profits are.”

  “Yes, very little profit left now.”

  “But your customers. Why did they leave you? You had such long-term relationships.”

  “Politics.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Saif’s father shrugged and looked at the floor.

  Two hours later Saif learned the full story when his older brother, Farid, who worked with his father in the business, arrived. “It’s the royals,” Farid said, squinting with anger. “They’ve been systematically moving in on any international trade that just happens to be too profitable.”

  “But why?”

  Farid scowled at him. “Because they can. They set up their own company and told Father’s customers they would do business with them now. The royals only left us the dregs. Now our business consists largely of selling drill pipe.”

  “A pure commodity.”

  “Exactly. The lowest-margin product in our business. So now we just limp along.”

  It was Saif’s first realization that he hadn’t returned to the Saudi Arabia he’d expected.

  That was 20 years ago. Saif’s chest constricted as he thought of the ensuing two years, watching his father crumble and die. Then a year later his mother withered and died, undoubtedly from a broken heart. His own heart now felt like it would burst from the pain. Since then things had gotten steadily worse. The al-Asad royals had succeeded in mismanaging the country’s economy, and squandered its oil billions on their self-indulgent lifestyle and the military toys they bought from the Americans. He clenched his jaw, reenergized by his anger.

  Saif was certain that the old days could return in his lifetime. Days when their Muslim traditions and laws governed behavior in the kingdom. Days before the West’s increasing influence gradually dissolved the Saudi Arabian culture, before decency and trust gave way to a ruling class that would destroy an honest merchant’s business. He was closer than ever before to bringing about a return to those days. Only two years ago he had been frustrated, working his way up through the al-Mujari to become a confidant to Sheik bin Abdur, only to be blocked by Abdul and Waleed, forced to wait his turn. Forced to watch as Abdul and Waleed steered the sheik in the wrong direction. The plan they launched had been too ambitious: cripple the rest of the world’s oil supply, overthrow the Saudis and all the other Western “puppet” regimes in the Muslim world, bring the infidels to their knees by controlling the only remaining producing oil wells in the Middle East. It was just too broad to work, even though the execution of it was beautifully simple. They hired only a few top-notch computer hackers, keeping the plan contained from leaks, and attacked the world’s oil infrastructure. The hackers infiltrated the computers of the largest software vendors to the oil industry. Then they deposited logic bombs in the software that controlled the industry’s operations, carried in trojan horse programs they inserted into routine updates sent online. They should have been less greedy, starting by going after the al-Asad royals, taking over Saudi Arabia and its oil production first, then moving out in stages. Even controlling just the Saudi Peninsula would have allowed them to have their way with the West. Just as the addict will pay any price for his heroin, so would the West for its oil. But by overreaching they had failed, and the net result was the murder by the West of Sheik bin Abdur, the al-Mujari’s leader, and most of his top lieutenants.

  Now the return of the old days was within reach. Just a little more time. He focused his attention on the group encircling Qahtani in front of him. The imams and scholars were nodding in agreement. Saif would have his army. An army of restive Saudi citizens who were out of work, stripped of their rights, poorly educated and weary of an indifferent al-Asad regime. An army that believed that the Redeemer of Islam was among them.

  Saif watched as Qahtani, followed by his entourage, left the mosque for a meal prior to returning for evening prayers together. Saif drove to his home on the outskirts of Buraida, arriving just before evening prayers. He entered his house—his father’s house, the house of a once-wealthy merchant that now was home to the families of his brother, Farid, and his, eight people in total. Saif greeted his wife, Noor, felt a spasm of guilt as he kissed his five-year-old daughter, Indira, and hurried into his study, the tiny room that had been the servants’ quarters in his father’s more prosperous days. He locked the door. He rolled out his wool prayer mat and turned it west, toward Mecca.

  Prepared, he sat down in front of his desk, opened the drawer and pulled out his tablet computer. He felt another stab of guilt, thinking of little Indira. Saif led her in prayers this morning and knew Indira would have wanted to share evening prayers with her father as well. But five times a day was too much for Saif. Even before he’d gone to London to university he’d believed he could be just as committed a Muslim by honoring Allah once or twice a day. He plugged in his ear buds and switched on the Fire. He scrolled in the carousel to the movie Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. He was three-quarters of the way through, just at the point the genius, Alan Rickman, as the Sheriff of Nottingham, erupts into his near-demented rant, exhorting his men to crush Kevin Costner as Robin Hood, his men leaving inspired by the intensity of Rickman’s charismatic leadership. As the movie resumed play from where he had paused it the day before, Saif remarked on the brilliance of these Americans. With his tablet computer and Netflix subscription, he could log onto the Internet from anywhere in the world and instantly access almost any movie. More importantly, he could watch 27 movies in which Rickman appeared. Rickman, a superb actor who could be either hard or soft, but particularly showed his genius as a maniacally driven leader of men. A leader who exhibited the passion and commitment that could only be expressed through the ferocious intensity of his three most magnificent portrayals, the Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin Hood, Hans Gruber, who similarly inspires his men in Die Hard, and Severus Snape, a being who strikes fear in all who encounter him in the Harry Potter series. A fearsome and courageous leader that Saif had witnessed—no, absorbed, from the third row, including being sprayed by Rickman’s spittle in his fervor—live on the stage of London’s Royal National Theatre as the charismatic Henry V. A performance that stirred Saif to believe he possessed similar greatness within him if only he could school it properly to bring it out.

  He’d settled in to watch the movie just as he heard the evening call to prayers droning from the minarets at the local mosque, taking in yet another lesson from Rickman.

  CHAPTER 4

  AFTER BREAKFAST WITH TOM, SASHA had her driver take her back to the Willard, her hotel in Washington, DC. Entering the lobby, she didn’t bother to put her hair up, cover it with her scarf and wear her sunglasses as she had on the way out. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, it was just that, at the moment, she felt fatalistic. If Saif hadn’t taken his shot at her 18 months ago, he wouldn’t now. And if he does, so be it.

  Back in her room, she dropped her handbag on a chair and threw herself on the bed. She knew Tom as well as she knew anyone, but she hadn’t been able to read him. On the plus side, he’d seemed curious about her knowledge of Saif. He wasn’t just curious, he was focused, intent. As if his mind were piecing it into whatever else he knew, things she couldn’t be aware of. Then when they’d parted after breakfast, he’d asked her where she was staying and for how long. When she’d said it depended on his answer, he’d nodded.

  She felt a wave of dread. God. What was she doing? Trying to talk Tom into helping her put herself in a life-threatening situation. She felt a tremor in her chest. Second thoughts? Fear? She’d sworn to Daniel, to his memory, that she’d make certain he hadn’t died needlessly. She’d had 18 months to decide that
was more important than her own safety. But was she getting cold feet?

  Or was it another form of that dead feeling inside that now dominated the ache? Swami Kripananda told her that feeling was part of her path. She’d need to experience it, live through it, see what came up for her afterward.

  Would what came up for her afterward matter? Maybe. The way she felt right now, whatever came next in her life would only matter if she righted this wrong. And she only saw one way to do that. Like she’d said to Tom: good versus evil. Get Saif.

  She let out a sigh. What if Tom said no? Yassar would never help her do it, never put her life in jeopardy, even for this. And if Tom didn’t agree, she didn’t see how she could do it on her own.

  She felt another tremor, this one anger. If Tom wouldn’t help her, she’d have to figure out a way anyhow. But Tom will come through, she told herself. She recalled that intense look in those blue, blue eyes of his as she talked about Saif. Yes, she had something he needed.

  When Tom arrived at Ross’ office after breakfast with Sasha, Ross’ assistant asked him to wait outside. Tom noted four serious-looking guys in suits standing around. They wore earpieces with wires extending down into their collars. Secret Service. That meant a couple of big guys were inside meeting with Ross. Tom wasn’t one to get nervous over important meetings, but after a while his collar started to feel tight.

  After forty-five minutes the assistant’s intercom buzzed and she sent Tom in. Ross introduced him to Secretary of State Warren Harmon, National Security Advisor James Francis, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff John “Rusty” Baldridge.