Keys to the Kingdom (15 page)

Connally drained the glass and collected the papers from the table. He left a half dozen black and white photos of Worley in Northern Ireland. ‘Then I’ve wasted my time and yours. The beers are on my slate.’ He stood up. ‘Have a happy life, Mr Worley.’ He put his case under his arm and opened the door of the snug. ‘And don’t forget the story of Pandora. She wished she’d left that box closed. If you start chasing after Paddy Gallagher, I think you’re going to regret it.’ He left the snug and closed the door behind him.

Worley watched Connally leave the snug. He felt both elated and exhausted. Someone else believed that there was a more than an even chance that Gallagher was alive. The noise of the pub that had been background to his conversation with Connally intruded on him and he was struck by the quality of life in the music and the animation of drinkers. He suddenly realised how acutely aware he had become of life in all its manifestations. He opened the door of the snug and entered the bar. The early evening drinking party was in full swing. He wanted desperately to be part of it but a look into the sea of smiling unfamiliar faces convinced him that he could not. He felt embarrassed to be alone. He did not fit into the gregarious company. He had outstayed his welcome in London. It was time to get back to real life in Riyadh. Perhaps Gallagher was there. And maybe if he searched hard enough for him he would forget to look in the mirror at the monster behind his back.

THE FINANCIAL TIMES

The Saudi Riyal came under increased pressure yesterday. The past two weeks has seen an impressive fall in the value of the Saudi Riyal. The Riyal, which was trading at 3.75 to the US dollar earlier this year, has experienced a more than 20 per cent fall in the past two weeks. The Riyal hit a new low of 2.95 to the US dollar in trading yesterday. This fall is on the back of massive selling in the Saudi currency. The Saudi Ministry of Finance issued a statement yesterday that it considered the economic fundamentals of the Kingdom to be strong and are puzzled by the level of trading in the national currency. The Ministry has been the principal buyer of the currency and has already spent more than US $200 million supporting the currency. Despite the commitment to support the currency there has been increased speculation that the currency is under attack from a wave of speculation that will be difficult to arrest. Efforts have been made to identify the source of this latest round of currency speculation but so far it appears that the market is responding to signals that all is not well with the Saudi economy. Recent reports of improvements in the US energy dependency due to fracking operations with a consequent reduction in dependence on Saudi oil production may be at the heart of the speculative attack. There have been reports that the reduction in the value of the Riyal has led to food price riots in several Saudi cities.

CHAPTER 21

Dhahran, Saudi Arabia

Nasrullah wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of the green Saudia overalls he wore. He cursed himself for having been born a fat man. The temperature in the small alcove that he had created for himself at the top of the hanger was in excess of one hundred and ten degrees. Although his head burned, his eyes never veered from the spot on the tarmac where the three Mercedes 360s sat with their engines running waiting for their passengers. He picked up his binoculars and scanned the sky above their head for the jet that would bring his target to Dhahran. He envied the men sitting in the cool interior of the cars. But he did not envy them what was about to befall them. Before darkness fell, they would be made to pay dearly for what was about to happen. Ins’ch Allah, he thought as the sweat continued to pour off him. Beyond the airport, he could see the rows of neat bungalows built to house the American oil workers who had flooded to Saudi Arabia in the nineteen fifties and sixties. And beyond them lay the huge American Army base built to ensure the security of Saudi Arabia and the continued domination of the House of Saud. The Americans had come to line their pockets with the black gold that rightfully belonged to all the Arab peoples. And now they would never leave unless they were forced off the holy ground of the Prophet. It was an abomination to him that the infidels should be allowed to live freely so close to the Holy Places. The previous day he had scouted the city constructed in the desert by the Americans and turned into ‘Smalltown USA’ with their pizza restaurants and their McDonalds. He glanced at the cheap watch on his wrist. The flight from Riyadh was already an hour late but this was Saudi Arabia. That rotten dog Kareem had assured him that the Prince would arrive and the presence of the Mercedes indicated that the swine’s information had been exact. He took a deep breath and felt the hot air burn his lungs. The flight would arrive and when it did he would be waiting. He waited with the patience of a man who had done so many times before. This was the first step in Abu Ma’aath’s plan and he had been given the honour to be the first to strike. Today he would toss the first pebble into the water. The ripple would be small at first then another larger pebble would be dropped and the wave would increase in size rebounding backwards and forwards until the pond was a heaving mass of water. The plan was so simple that it could have been conceived by a group of shepherds sitting around an evening fire. Little by little he would throw the state of Saudi Arabia into chaos. The chaos would create an environment where no man could trust his brother. They would bare the flesh of the Al Sauds and leave it to the rabid pack of animals to devour the rotting corpse. Neither he nor Abu Ma’aath had the time or the organisation to attempt a revolution. He started as the door of one of the Mercedes’ opened and a man wearing an immaculately white
thobe
got out. The occupant of the car looked around the private section of the airport from behind his dark glasses and seemed to have more than a passing interest in the hanger where he lay hidden. Nasrullah hawked and spat into the body of the hanger. The pig was probably a member of the Al Saud’s hated secret police. He lifted the Dragunov SVD that sat on his lap and sighted on the man’s head. He had calibrated the optical sight perfectly and he was confident that he could take out the man in the white
thobe
as easily as he could wring the neck of a chicken. He let his finger feel the pressure of the trigger. One shot straight through the head and there would be one less Saudi bastard on this planet. One less fornicating son of a whore who had betrayed their Arab identity in order to line their pockets with American dollars. Where were the Saudis when the Israelis were running wild in Southern Lebanon? Where was the much vaunted ‘oil weapon’ when he and his brothers had been forced first out of Jordan and then out of Beirut? He dredged up a second wad of sputum and shot it into the void below. A curse on them and their rotten corrupt progeny. They were the guardians of the Holy Places but they had consistently betrayed their Muslim Arab brothers. Allah would bring death and desolation to their house and Nasrullah would be Allah’s strong right hand. The man in the white
thobe
had re-entered the air-conditioned world of the Mercedes and Nasrullah had to wipe away another stream of sweat from his face. The minutes passed slowly and his body gave up its precious fluids as he watched the tarmac. Suddenly the doors of the two Mercedes cars were thrown open and four men exited. They took up positions on either side of the two cars and looked down the runway. Nasrullah smiled as the Lear jet banked and started to make its approach. He wiped his hands on the side of his overall and lifted his gun carefully. The Dragunov felt good to the touch. He stroked the long barrel of the gun as he would the thigh of a beautiful woman. He and the Dragunov were old friends. It had helped him to shorten the life of many Russian and American soldiers in Afghanistan. He was sad that this time his old friend would have to remain behind. He watched as the Lear touched down and started to taxi slowly in the direction of one of the Mercedes. The four men on the tarmac spread out in front of the approaching jet. Four pairs of eyes darted in each direction as the junior Oil Minister’s jet slowed down and eventually stopped ten yards from the waiting cars. The cars began to inch forward. It would not be that easy, Nasrullah thought as he wrapped the sling around his right arm and lifted the Duganov into position. He would only have the target in sight for a few seconds but that would have to be enough. Sweat poured down his face as he picked out the door of the Lear. He was roughly 700 metres from his target. The manufacturers of the rifle considered that to be well within the limit of the gun’s range but those, like Nasrullah, who were experts with the gun itself, generally gave themselves another 100 metres at least. His concentration was total as the door of the jet opened. The first body that exited from the cabin was clothed in a tunic so he ignored it. The man in the tunic stepped aside and Nasrullah’s target stood in full view. The junior Minister of Oil had the characteristic hawked nose and the high cheekbones of the descendants of Abdul Aziz. He stood framed in the door of the cabin for a milli-second while Nasrullah tightened the pressure on the trigger of the Dragunov. He fired twice in rapid succession continuing to stare into the sight only for the time it took for the first bullet to traverse the 700 metres between him and his target. The bullet struck the Prince in the centre of his forehead and his guthra flapped as the 37 X54 shell tore the top of his head away. Nasrullah whooped and immediately jettisoned both the Dragunov and the binoculars. He shimmied quickly down through the steel girders and quickly made his way out the back of the hanger. The sounds of blaring horns and shots being fired came from behind him but he ignored them. He passed quickly through the luggage storage area and arrived at the front of the main airport building in time to see the two Mercedes speeding off in the direction of the city.

CHAPTER 22

Langley, Virginia

The smell of freshly brewed coffee cut through the otherwise antiseptic smell of Alan Simpson’s office. The television in the corner was tuned to CNN and although the sound had been muted, Simpson was aware that there was one dominant piece of news – the assassination of the Junior Oil Minister of Saudi Arabia, one of the nephews of the current ruler. He could imagine the guys over at State in the Middle East Division would be drafting a public statement for the President. Wolf Blitzer was already reporting that the President had called the Saudi King to express the condolences of the American people.

‘It’s really goin’ down,’ Lucius Adams hadn’t bothered to knock before entering Simpson’s office.

Simpson turned quickly at the sound and a splash from his coffee cup narrowly missed his desk and his trousers before creating a brown line on the carpet beneath his desk.

‘You’re a mite skittish,’ Adams moved to the coffee machine and poured a large black coffee.  ‘I thought that you were on top of this thing.’

Simpson pointed to a dossier on his desk. ‘Are you following events? That’s the file on what we know of Linkletter’s operation and it’s getting bigger by the day. Congressman Bradley is putting pressure on Congress to piss on Saudi Arabia, Timms and Dichof are playing their parts to perfection. That was Terman’s part of the plan. But it’s what we don’t know that bothers me. Terman’s out of it and has dropped off the planet. Only one man - Gallagher, knows the rest of the plan. Treasury has just issued a report that something is going on in the market on the Saudi Riyal. A shadowy group is trying to drive the currency into the ground. Either these guys have spotted that something is going down or they’re part of the plan. Treasury has been trying to find out who’s behind the attack on the Riyal but so far they’ve drawn a blank.’ Simpson pointed to the television screen. ‘And now the Saudi Junior Oil Minister and senior member of the Family has been assassinated. I’ve got to be honest. I never thought that things would go this far.’

Adams drained his coffee and sat down. ‘This ain’t about money to Gallagher,’ he looked directly at Simpson. ‘This is personal, right.’

Simpson sighed and turned to his computer. ‘Watch the screen while I narrate. Gallagher converted to Islam in ‘78. He didn’t give a rat’s ass for religion so he did it because he was crazy for this Arab lady called Leila Otteibi. He married her in ‘79. Everything was going peachy for them. You know the kind of thing, some bombing, a bit of hijacking and kidnapping. They were pretty much the perfect terrorist couple. Then in November 1979, Mrs Gallagher’s brother Juhayman Muhammed Otteibi, a well known religious fanatic, occupied the Grand Mosque in Mecca for two weeks.’ A series of pictures were flashed up on the screen. ‘Otteibi led 300 armed men into the Grand Mosque,’ Simpson continued. ‘Most of them were killed by French paratroops who flooded the place with water and applied electricity to it. Gallagher should have been among them but for some reason he missed out on the action.’ Simpson pressed the button on the remote control and a picture of the Grand Mosque in Mecca came on the screen. ‘The rebellion at the Grand Mosque was costly: 227 people were killed and over 400 wounded. Juhayman was killed and sixty-three of his followers were distributed to cities all over the country and beheaded publicly, without trial.’ He pressed another button and a piece of video began to roll. ‘Saudi television broadcast the executions live to teach the people a lesson. What you are watching is the death by execution of Mrs Patrick Joseph Gallagher in the public square in Jeddah.’ They watched in silence as the giant black executioner wielded the curved sword through the air before bringing it down on the neck of the very young woman kneeling before him.

‘Did you know that Terman was going to recruit this guy to lead Linkletter’s operation?’ Adams asked.

‘No,’ Simpson said.

‘This is what we try to accomplish with our agents,’ Adams said leaning forward. ‘You make it personal then there’s no limit to how far the agent will go.’

Simpson put his head in his hands. ‘I thought the Linkletter thing would only shake the Saudis up.’

‘Well he’s about to fuckin’ succeed in spades,’ Adams said. ‘Is this operation on your books?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you seek approval for the stakeout on Terman?’ Adams asked.

‘No, it’s my operation.’

‘Then you’ve got an easy way out. You gotta burn this operation of yours. Terman’s gotta go. He’s a loose end. Linkletter’s with his Maker so we don’t have to worry about him and Gallagher is not your boy. Bradley, Timms and Dichof don’t know that you exist.’

‘We should have brought the Linkletter operation upstairs.’

‘Don’t you go wimpin’ on me now. I’m already big in oil futures and I assume you are too. I’ll try to get a line on Terman and ensure that the loose end gets cleared up. We get to make some money on this deal and then we move to Brazil or the Dominican Republic when the shit goes down,’ Adams black face was glistering. ‘This shit makes Watergate and Iran-Contra look like a Sunday school picnic,’ Adams laughed. ‘Jeez, Alan you about to be rich if you don’t get your balls out of the way. If you wimp, then you go to jail. Get fucked and Jesus in equal measure and make millions from the book.’

Simpson looked into Adams’ face. ‘Get me out of this, Lucius,’ he said quietly.

Adams stood up. ‘Call your broker. I’m goin’ to get on to mine.’