Arab Summer Page 5

  Tom knew Harmon by reputation. He was a right-wing Southern Republican, a self-righteous evangelical Christian, and vocal about it. He was taller in real life than he looked on television. Older, too, and stuffed into a three-piece suit that fit him 20 pounds ago. Harmon didn’t wait for any other preliminaries. He said to Tom, “As I’m sure Harold told you, we had a briefing on your memo on the situation in Saudi Arabia yesterday. We’ve spent most of our time here talking about what our options are. Before we decide anything, we need to know if your intelligence is any good. You sure you’ve got your facts lined up?”

  “I wouldn’t have written the memo if I didn’t.”

  “What’re your sources?”

  “Our people on the ground in Saudi Arabia, NSA eavesdropping and satellite imagery.”

  “You have people inside the al-Mujari?”

  Tom glanced over at Ross, who showed no change in expression. “Some. And some of our intelligence is from the Saudis’ Secret Police, some from informants.”

  Ross said, “All this is standard practice, and most of our facts are corroborated by at least one other source. This is good intelligence, Warren.”

  Harmon never looked away from Tom. He said, “Okay, let me hear it from the horse’s mouth. Impress me.”

  Tom cleared his throat. He felt his pulse pick up. “Let’s call it the summer after the Arab Spring. One we don’t want to let get too hot. Arab Spring. Ben Ali in Tunisia overthrown by populist uprising. Same with Mubarak in Egypt. Libya, with a little help from us and our friends, gets rid of Qaddafi. Over a dozen other Arab states have at least some level of civil unrest challenging their governments.”

  Harmon said, “But those are good things.”

  Tom said, “Three governments overthrown, all run by bad guys who kept the average Joe held down. Tunisia and Egypt through revolutions, Libya through civil war. Civil uprisings in Bahrain, Syria and Yemen, major protests in Algeria, Jordan, Iraq, Kuwait, Morocco and Oman. Minor protests in Lebanon, Mauritania, Sudan, Western Sahara, even Saudi Arabia.”

  “Old news,” Harmon said.

  Tom said, “Iran still with its nuclear program. And making noises on and off about cutting off oil shipments through the Strait of Hormuz—”

  “After spending over $1 trillion in Iraq, we aren’t likely to get ourselves involved in something like that again,” Harmon said. “And after Ron Paul’s election agenda—Occupy Wall Street values, the 99% versus 1%, no foreign wars, no US role as world policeman, no military presence abroad—it’s never going to happen.”

  Tom said, “I think we’ve got a big problem in Saudi Arabia.”

  “Why?” Harmon said. “It’s a stable regime. One of our closest allies. In fact, we sell them all our current military hardware. This Arab Spring thing’s been going on for years. Why all of a sudden should we be worried about the Saudis?”

  Tom was thinking, What the hell is Harmon’s agenda? He gets Ross to bring him here to hear what I have to say and starts taking potshots at everything that comes out of my mouth? What’s going on?

  Ross looked at Harmon and said, “Go on, Tom.”

  “We can’t afford for the Saudi royals to topple. The al-Asad family has been in charge for over 90 years. After King Abad died, Crown Prince Abdul took over, but even though Abdul is a moderate, and works through the Council of Ministers, nothing’s really changed over there in decades. It’s still a we/they society. The al-Asads still have their gold-domed Royal Palace, Boeing jets and diamond rings for their multiple wives and concubines. Half the workforce in the country is still foreign workers, a third of the populace is illiterate, most Saudis are out of work. They’ve still got over $100 billion in debt and they’re running deficits every year to pay for their social welfare programs to keep the Saudi people from blowing the lid off the country. But their grip is slipping. Protests over labor rights, release of prisoners, and for equal representation in key government offices have been held in a half dozen cities, some with 100,000 protestors. Saudi Secret Police have used live rounds in containing some of them and a number of protestors have been killed. Women have protested for voting rights and the right to drive, and have gotten arrested and flogged for it. Add to it the Shiite versus the Sunni Muslim thing. Blood hatred going back centuries. The al-Mujari whips the Shiites into a frenzy and puts the Sunni Saudi royals in the crosshairs.”

  Harmon was making faces. “The al-Mujari is in shambles,” he said. “All their top people, including Sheik bin Abdur, were killed two years ago. You know that better than we do—you ran that operation.”

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. The al-Mujari is like jock itch: you can suppress it, but you can never actually get rid of it. Right now we have the perfect conditions for the same thing to happen in Saudi Arabia as happened in Tunisia, Egypt and Libya, and is happening elsewhere right now in the Arab states. The al-Mujari almost pulled it off last time, but we stopped them. We may not be so lucky next time.”

  Harmon said, “So where’s this going, Tom? This whole discussion seems to be wandering around.”

  Tom turned to respond to Harmon but Ross put his hand up to stop him. Ross stared at Harmon from behind his desk for a long moment. Finally Ross said, “You know, Warren, I have a pit bull at home. He’s a really sweet dog, but sometimes he plays too hard. The trainer told me that when he gets too aggressive, I should say to him, ‘Enough.’” Ross paused, continued to look at Harmon. “Enough, Warren, please. Let the man talk,” he said. He turned to Tom and said, “Go on.”

  Tom said, “The al-Mujari has reorganized. There was enough of a core left of the organization and conditions were ripe to support it.”

  Ross asked, “What are they up to?”

  “For the moment they seem to be zeroing in on the Saudi royals,” Tom said.

  Harmon was squirming in his chair.

  Ross asked, “How so?”

  Tom said, “We’ve intercepted multiple transmissions talking about something planned in the next month or two. The conversations are networked from all over the Saudi peninsula, so there’s major coordination. We’ve been tracking training operations for the al-Mujari in northern Saudi Arabia and in Yemen.”

  “How long?” Ross asked.

  “Four months,” Tom said.

  Ross said, “Sounds like a prelude to terrorist activity.”

  “We don’t think so,” Tom said. “The al-Mujari has aligned itself with the Ikwan, the Muslim Brotherhood and the Islamic Revolutionary Party, other Islamic dissident groups with large followings, both Shiite and Sunni. Based on that and the chatter the NSA is listening to, we think they’re training and organizing for a move against the Saudi government.”

  Ross said, “So they’ve reorganized. Who’s in charge?”

  Tom said, “Saif Ibn Mohammed al-Aziz. He was recruited into the al-Mujari in his early 20s, came up through the ranks and has been there for 20 years. Now he’s a major force. Saif’s brother-in-law, Sheik Qahtani Ibn Muhammad al-Najd, is a cleric. Saif has convinced his followers that Qahtani is the ‘Redeemer of Islam,’ who the Islamic prophecies call the Mahdi. The Mahdi’s supposed to be the new spiritual leader of the Muslims who’ll rid the world of all nonbelievers. Saif is the operational guy, the brains who’s calling all the shots. Qahtani is the spiritual leader. Saif is dragging Qahtani around by his nose, although he’s positioning it for the masses that Qahtani’s the head of the organization in order to recruit the Muslim faithful to the cause. Now we’re worse off than we were before under Sheik bin Abdur, the al-Mujari’s former leader, who believed his own bullshit.”

  Ross was nodding.

  “Now we’ve got a shrewd one in Saif who doesn’t care if it’s all bullshit: we think he’s working Qahtani and his followers to provoke an uprising that will overthrow the Saudi royals and allow him to grab power for himself.”

  Ross said, “So is this just some Islamic mumbo-jumbo or should we be scared?”

  “Petrified,” Tom said. “I
am.”

  Ross looked over at Harmon.

  Harmon said, “Is everything you know about this fellow Saif in your memo?”

  “Pretty much. He’s young, charismatic and he’s demonstrated he’s clever enough to know what buttons to push with his use of his brother-in-law, Sheik Qahtani.”

  “You think he can pull off organizing a full-blown revolution?”

  Tom could feel Harmon’s gaze boring in on him. He didn’t hesitate. “I’ve seen dumber guys pull off worse.”

  Harmon seemed taken aback. He paused for a moment, then said, “And it’s clear in your memo? This thing looks pretty long.”

  “Twenty pages, with a two-page Executive Summary.”

  “Even the summary’s too long. Draw me a map. In grammar school English, since I’ll be briefing the president and the National Security Council,” Harmon said.

  Tom said, “Saudi government toppled, the al-Mujari takes over. Oil disrupted, then the price goes to $200, maybe $300 a barrel. The Saudis either take over or annex Iran. The Saudis become a fundamentalist Muslim terrorist regime funded by 25% of the world’s oil reserves, armed by Iranian nukes. That do it for you?”

  Harmon pursed his lips. He ruffled the corners of the pages on the briefing memo. “Are you aware of the implications of this if we take this up through diplomatic channels with the Saudis?”

  The guy was finally starting to piss Tom off. “Yeah. And also aware of the implications if we don’t do anything about it. If a revolt leads to disruption of Saudi oil production, there’s no way to replace over nine million barrels of oil a day in the world supply that doesn’t result in all kinds of mischief.”

  Rusty Baldridge leaned forward in his chair. Even out of uniform in a business suit he looked like a four-star general. As big as a football tackle, hands as big as baseball gloves, crew cut showing scars on his scalp. He said, “The Saudis are armed to the teeth, with a lot of our hardware. About three hundred aircraft, mostly our F-15s, armored vehicles, artillery. But they aren’t prepared for an all-out Libyan-style revolution. Any revolt would be a hand-to-hand combat affair in the streets, where their hardware won’t do squat. And we couldn’t help them out. We pulled out all our troops almost a decade ago. Force on our part could only be a last-ditch option. If we absolutely had to, we could go in there and occupy the oil fields to turn the spigot back on, but we’d need to launch a full-scale invasion to do so.”

  Harmon said, “You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Rusty. And that’s never going to happen unless, God forbid, everything else fails.”

  Tom said, “Even if we did it, that would mean occupying Muslim holy soil. It would be a declaration of war on a billion Muslims, and incite a Muslim-West conflict that would make the jihad that bin Abdur launched two years ago seem like some playground scuffle.”

  Tom shot a glance at Ross again. No reaction.

  Francis, the national security advisor, asked, “But we aren’t looking at an immediate threat to US interests, are we?”

  Tom said, “I’d say we’re a few steps away, but things could escalate quickly.”

  Harmon said, “We’re looking at a situation that calls for good old-fashioned diplomacy. I’ve gotten to know King Abdul over the last two years, and he’s met President Santorum at least once.” Harmon looked over at Baldridge. “I don’t see any reason for an immediate alert, do you, Rusty?”

  Baldridge said, “Alert is too strong a word. We’ll brief our commanders on the situation and dial up our preparedness a notch.”

  Harmon said, “Alright. The president and I should be able to see King Abdul within the next few months.”

  Tom felt a bolt of alarm. Is he kidding me? He said, “If I may, I think the situation could come to a head sooner than that, and it may be dangerous to wait that long.”

  Harmon glared at Tom, said, “I think you’re wrong. We’ve been after the Saudis for a while now on cutting the little guy in on their oil prosperity, ramping up their social programs. Not only do we have a moral responsibility to see those things happen, we’ve now got a tangible reason to see them done. No, this is a matter that we’ll be handling through diplomatic channels.” Harmon looked over at Francis, said, “This is a situation that needs to be defused by the Saudis themselves. We’ll inform the president, and I’ll put in a call to King Abdul.” He looked over at Ross. “Keep us informed, please, Harold.” He turned to Tom, said, “Good work,” stood up and left, with Francis on his heels.

  Ross walked over and closed the door, turned back and said to Tom, “Diplomacy, my ass. So how do we really fix this?” He walked back to his desk and sat down.

  Tom glanced at Baldridge and then back at Ross.

  Ross said, “You can talk candidly. We’re on the same side here.”

  “The simplest solution would be to do what we did two years ago. Take out Saif and Qahtani.”

  Baldridge said, “A Special Ops SEAL team could get in and out before anybody knew about it.”

  Ross said, “In your dreams. You heard Harmon. He wouldn’t support it and Santorum wouldn’t authorize it. Saif and Qahtani haven’t done anything yet, certainly not to us, to justify deadly force under US law. If we did it on our own we’d get crucified. Can we get the Saudis to do it?”

  Tom said, “Not likely. Islamic brother against brother. They’d have to get a sheik to issue them a fatwa—a religious exemption—which they’d never get unless the al-Mujari committed some atrocity against Islam that the Saudis could prove.”

  Ross said, “Alright, so what channels have you got to get some attention to this at a higher level in Saudi intelligence? And without it getting leaked out to Harmon, or running into him and the president going directly to King Abdul? We need to be the ones jointly figuring out how to handle this with the Saudis.”

  Tom said, “I just happened to have a couple of interesting developments in the last 24 hours. I just had breakfast, at her request, with Sasha Del Mira, an agent I recruited 25 years ago, and who helped us stop the computer terrorism on the oil business two years ago. I also got a phone call this morning from Prince Yassar, the Saudi Finance and Economy Minister. In his call, Yassar said he has a proposition for me that he thinks can help resolve what he called the ‘simmering internal conflicts’ within Saudi Arabia. He’s flying in tomorrow.”

  “Man of the Year,” Ross said.

  “Yeah. Sasha had married a guy named Daniel Youngblood, an oil and gas investment banker whose clients were at the center of the computer terrorism two years ago. A shooter was waiting for them in their apartment in Geneva 18 months ago. He killed Daniel. Then Sasha got him. She hung out in an ashram since then to clear her head. Now she’s convinced—you won’t believe this—that Saif ordered the hit on her husband and she wants back in. She’s willing to have us recruit her again and go undercover to get Saif.”

  Ross said, “You think the two contacts are related?”

  “I don’t think so. Sasha didn’t mention Yassar, even though she considers Yassar to be like a father to her. After he brought her to Saudi Arabia, he schooled her in Islam, got her tutors in Arabic, indoctrinated her into the culture.”

  Ross laughed. “I’ll say he indoctrinated her. Didn’t he bring her there as a concubine for his son?”

  “Yeah, Ibrahim. But that’s not as crazy as it might sound to us in the West.”

  Ross shifted in his chair, looking impatient. He said, “Can you trust Sasha?”

  “Absolutely. I recruited Sasha all those years ago to keep an eye on Ibrahim, Yassar’s son, while she was Ibraham’s concubine. Ultimately, Ibrahim got turned by the al-Mujari and was gonna kill Yassar and be installed as the puppet ruler for the al-Mujari. Sasha helped stop the plan by giving our death squad access for a hit on Ibrahim, which went bad, and so Sasha finished Ibrahim herself.”

  Baldridge said, “Christ almighty. And you say she’s like his daughter? Some couple.”

  “She forgave him and he forgave her, in part because she was able to prov
e the al-Mujari had Ibrahim all whipped up into assassinating Yassar as part of the plan to bring down the royal family.”

  Baldridge said, “Sounds like a Shakespeare play.”

  Tom turned to Ross. “I think we may be able to use Sasha again. I suggest I get a new security clearance in motion for her, just in case. I also think we should reconvene after I find out what Yassar has to say, then decide next steps.”

  Ross said, “Go ahead on Sasha, and yes, let’s get together again after your meeting with Yassar.” He paused, thinking. “Keep this on a Need-to-Know basis, limited to the three of us in this room. This is too sensitive for any fingerprints to wind up on it.”

  After the meeting, Tom sat in his office, thinking. He hadn’t had time to reflect on his breakfast with Sasha before his meeting in Ross’ office. Now he thought back, seeing her smiling at him across the breakfast table, but distant. Then her eyes growing hard in her determination. He tried to compare it to how she behaved two years ago, during that computer terrorism mess, then realized he’d been in such an emergency mode that he hadn’t really taken her in. Maybe that’s how it was for her, too, everything happening at warp speed, like an entire life crammed into a few days.

  But he knew this woman, only a girl of 18 when he’d first worked her in Nice, 25 years ago. Observing her at those beautiful-people parties Nigel Benthurst threw on his yacht, then that lunch at the Baron David where they’d first met, then a half dozen other meetings before finally pitching her. He’d pitched her that sweltering August day, seated atop the retaining wall along the Promenade des Anglaise, the central street of Nice, over a simple lunch of cheese, bread and burgundy drunk from paper cups. She knew it was coming, welcomed it. By then she knew Ibrahim was dirty with the al-Mujari. As an agent she was a helluva catch. Sleeping with the scumbag who was plotting to kill his father, placed right in the eye of the storm. The perfect source, too good to pass up. And she had nerve. Brains.

  That brought back that grungy feeling he’d gotten whenever he’d let himself reflect over the next year or so as she’d fed him intelligence, then ultimately helped him take out Ibrahim. An 18-year-old kid, screwed over by her drug queen guardian, used by Yassar, and then by him. Not the kind of low-life scum he usually recruited as agents. It had made him feel soulless.