Keys to the Kingdom (21 page)

‘The King is still making up his mind,’ Al Tawil said finishing his tea. ‘You know how long that could take.’ His dark eyes twinkled. ‘The King is an excellent leader but he still thinks like a Bedouin. He considers many of these events including the devaluation of the Riyal as the will of Allah. Why should he intervene when a much Higher Power than he is responsible for the evolution of currency movements?’

Worley’s eyebrows lifted. It had been a long road from the ‘Mo’ of Berkeley to the Bedouin functionary who sat before him now. It was a fact that many of the Saudis who were educated in the West brought back with them many of the mores of a society they considered decadent. It was also a fact that the repressive nature of Saudi society aided and abetted by the baton-wielding members of the dreaded Committees for the Advancement of Virtue and the Elimination of Sin soon removed the sinful vestiges of the West from these young men. The change in Al Tawil was apparent. With every year that passed the ‘Western’ part of him was fading as the ‘Saudi’ part came to the fore. It was inevitable. 

‘You people aren’t seriously worried?’ Al Tawil said.

‘You know London -Yamamah two, billions of pounds in arms sales, security of oil supplies. We depend rather heavily on you to keep the home fires burning. Ever since the petrol queues of ’73, every government has had nightmares about a repeat performance. And I don’t suppose one can blame them.’

‘Tell them not to worry. I really do assure you that all is well,’ Al Tawil said. ‘Every government has its dissidents. You have the Irish. The Americans have their militias and the French have our Algerian brothers. Why shouldn’t we have some as well. I’m sure that you’re aware that you can get information on the Internet on how to make a bomb? Every fool and his friend has the capability to blow up something they don’t like. Remember Oklahoma and Atlanta. Tell Sir Richard and London that they can calm themselves. The poor Saudis have everything under control.’

‘I’d like to bring up another point,’ Worley settled himself in his chair. ‘I know that you have some responsibility for security. I’m quite sure that I saw a well-known and feared terrorist in Riyadh recently. His name is Patrick Gallagher. I was wondering whether you knew something about his being here. Of course, it may have nothing to do with the current events but then again.’

‘I presume that you’re joking, Arthur.’ There was no smile on Al Tawil’s face. ‘And if it is a joke, it is a very bad one. The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is very particular about who it admits to the country and that certainly does not include international terrorists. I might suggest that you were mistaken in your identification.’

Worley was tempted to remind the young Saudi that the former Ugandan leader and cannibal had been living happily on Saudi soil having been invited to do so by the regime.  But such a remark would show a level of truculence not part of Worley’s armoury.

‘I’d be grateful if you could look into it nevertheless. Stranger things have happened.’ He could see from Al Tawil’s face that the young man had become bored.  The Saudi was far too polite to ask him to leave. ‘I will pass on your message to both the Ambassador and to London.’ Worley stood to go.

‘And how was London?’ Al Tawil said ushering Worley to the door.

‘Grey and muggy in comparison to Riyadh,’ Worley said shaking hands with Al Tawil.

‘Ever the diplomat. Stay in touch, Arthur.’ He opened the door and saw Worley out.

Al Tawil walked back slowly to his desk. He had used all his self-control not to wince when Gallagher’s name was mentioned. How in the name of Allah had Worley recognised a man who had been considered dead for more than ten years? It had been the height of bad luck. But what did it matter. Worley was an ant running around in the sand. He had found a scrap of food and now he was searching for another. It had been pure coincidence that he had seen Gallagher and the chance of a second coincidence was highly unlikely. He would have to pass this vital piece of information to Prince Kareem. The Ikhwan would have to be informed that Worley had been alerted to Gallagher’s presence in the Kingdom. It had been so easy to toy with Worley. Once you understood the Westerner, it was easy to pander to their arrogance and greed. From the Saudis they wanted only oil and money. And to get them they were willing to suffer any personal indignity. How many Western politicians had grovelled at their feet whenever they threatened to raise the price of oil. Now their corrupt ways had infected the Bedouin. They had conspired with and corrupted the Al Sauds to make the people of the Prophet into their vassals. Soon it would all change. Soon the Crusaders would be driven from his land and the Ikhwan would be able to create a pure society based on the teachings of the Holy Koran. But first the streets would have to run red with the blood of their enemies.

CHAPTER 29

Ras Tanura Oil Refinery, Saudi Arabia

Gallagher and Nasrullah crept closer to the corrugated steel clad fence that surrounded the tank farm at Ras Tanura. They could hear the gentle lapping of the waters of the Arabian Gulf and they could smell the ozone in the sea air mixed with the noxious smell of crude oil. The area beyond the wall was vast covering more than fifty acres. Arc lamps attached to the top of the fence at twenty metres intervals illuminated both the area in front of and behind the fence. Above their heads they could see the large circular tanks jutting into the sky above the fence. This part of their operation would be relatively simple. They had reconnoitred the tank farm during the afternoon and had spent the early evening completing the plan. The presence of Aramco security and the National Guard had been concentrated on the refinery therefore they decided that the tank farm would be the first to go. Both men were dressed in black and had covered their faces in camouflage paint. They each carried knapsacks containing limpet bombs that they had constructed themselves. Each bomb had a shaped charge capable of blowing a hole in the steel shell of the crude oil tanks and also included was a small charge of napalm used to ignite the crude. They reached the corrugated steel outer fence without being observed. Nasrullah punched a hole in the fence and using a small bolt cutter he began to open a hole large enough for him and Gallagher to pass through. The fence was poorly maintained with large patches of rust demonstrating the corrosive properties of the sea air. No oil terminal had ever been attacked in Saudi and security was lax. The bolt cutters chopped into the corroded steel and Nasrullah had soon cut a hole big enough for the two men to pass through. As soon as they entered the tank farm area they split right and left. Gallagher clambered down the earth bund wall surrounding the huge steel tank closest to him. He removed one of his limpet bombs from his haversack and stuck it to the side of the tank pulling out the small aerial as the bomb locked home. Nasrullah was performing the same operation on a tank at the other side of the farm. The two men worked their way along the rows of steel tanks locking on bombs as they went. Gallagher wondered idly how many barrels of oil were stored in the facility on that particular night. How long would it take a fire of fifty million barrels of crude oil to burn itself out? Days, weeks, maybe even months. Perhaps the Al Sauds would be lying happily in the graves before the flames that he was about to light in Ras Tanura would finally die out. Gallagher was breathing hard as he sprinted between the tanks. The physical exertion felt good but despite being fit for his age, he realised that he wasn’t the man he used to be. Regardless of the outcome of the operation, he was finished in this business. It would be his last operation, his baby, and his swan song. He envied Nasrullah. He would have enjoyed pulling the trigger on Mishuri. But this was never going to be a one-man operation. He clambered up the solid earth bund wall and almost ran straight into a man wearing the uniform of Aramco security. The man gasped as he saw the black clad figure appear over the rim of the bund. Gallagher saw the security man as he came over the top of the wall. He sprinted towards him at the same time pulling a knife from the sheath at his waist. The security man was reaching for the gun at his side when Gallagher hit him. Gallagher pushed the knife into the man’s heart as they collided. He used all his force to slam the knife through sinews and bone. At the same time he slammed his left hand onto the man’s mouth in order to stifle his shout. The security man was dead before he hit the ground. Gallagher removed the knife and cleaned it on the man’s uniform. Without taking a further look at the body, he began to run for the next tank in the line. Five minutes later the two exhausted men met at the hole that Nasrullah had cut. They smiled at each other as they clambered through the hole. Gallagher’s heart was pounding in his chest. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He was back doing what he was best at, the thing that he loved most in life. In a few short minutes he would bring death and destruction to the peaceful backwater of Ras Tanura. Many of those Saudis who had witnessed the execution of his wife on television would lose their lives tonight and he rejoiced in that fact. Soon many more would join them. The death of the Al Sauds would only be the beginning. The whole population of Saudi would pay a heavy price for murdering his family. They sprinted to the Landrover, threw the knapsacks into the rear seat and clambered in. Gallagher glanced at his watch. It was 2:25 a.m. They were right on the button. Nasrullah started the engine and drove away from the tank farm. He made for the position they had decided on earlier that day. Gallagher had chosen a derelict site with a slight elevation. There was a clear view of both the refinery and the tank farm but the position was at the limit of the radio control for the detonators and the RPG-7 that was in the rear of the Landrover. He might have depended on the fire at the tank farm to spread to the refinery but that would be leaving part of the operation to divine intervention. He didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance, even divine chance. As soon as they stopped, Gallagher withdrew the RPG-7 from the rear of the Landrover. Nasrullah removed one of the OG-7 rockets. Gallagher flicked up the sight on the RPG-7 and lined up on a distillation unit almost a thousand metres from where he stood. Nasrullah slipped the rocket into the mouth of the launcher and tapped Gallagher on the shoulder. Gallagher took in a deep breath and fired the rocket in the direction of the distillation unit. Beside him Nasrullah held the radio control in his hand. As soon as the rocket left the tube, Nasrullah pushed the button. To their left, the tank farm exploded with air being sucked towards the explosion with a giant whoosh. Gallagher threw the RPG-7 into the rear of the Landrover at the moment that the rocket tore through the steel of the distillation unit. The heat from the tank farm fire scorched their faces as they jumped into the car. The distillation unit leapt skywards like a roman candle showering the other refinery unit with chunks of molten metal and burning fuel. Gallagher and Nasrullah did not even look back as they sped towards the Dhahran Road. Behind them they left a scene from Dante’s Inferno. Flames shot hundreds of feet into the air as the tank farm became totally engulfed in flames. The lattice steel structures running from the farm to the loading facility buckled instantly and began to melt in the white-hot heat of the fire. Explosions thundered from the refinery sending shards of broken glass flying from windows in houses all over the town. The refinery workers on the night shift were incinerated seconds after the first explosion. The scene around the town was one of death and destruction. Gallagher and Nasrullah did not glance back until they had reached the outskirts of the town and the desert lay directly ahead of them. They smiled as they watched the flames lick the sky. This was something special. They had just hammered another nail in the coffin of the Al Sauds.

CHAPTER 30

Riyadh

At six o’clock in the morning Rosinski watched from her apartment as the ambassadorial joggers made their way around the diplomatic enclave in Riyadh. She had already scanned her e-mails but there was nothing from her lawyer in Washington. The fact that there had been no word from Princess Nadia in more than three days worried her. The Princess had exposed herself to danger by confiding in her and Rosinski felt an obligation to a woman who had become her prime source. She had been examining the various options open to her for protecting Nadia. Gilman was out of the question. The son of a bitch had no value for women, so Nadia would never be safe in his hands. After considering all the other possibilities, such as trying to get Nadia and her children out of the country, she had decided on a novel course of action that should in the long run prove the safest. She would hand Nadia over to the British and that meant handing her over to Arthur St. John Worley. The early morning joggers made their way past the guard post at the entrance to the enclave and she caught a glimpse of Worley in the leading pack. Although she guessed his age at somewhere over fifty-five, he had the body of a man ten years younger. Vain bastard, she thought as she focused on him. Can I really trust you to look after my source? It wasn’t an option anymore. Any day now the lawyers would settle on a figure and she would be winging her way back to D.C. leaving Nadia and her kids high and dry. God, but I hate this fucking business, she thought. It was all about using and abusing people. Working for the ‘Company’ had been the equivalent to taking a doctorate in the psychology of dealing with scum. Most of the assets she had run had turned out to be petty, and not so petty, criminals, crooked bureaucrats and rapacious army officers. Nadia was that rare bird among the dross. She had come to Rosinski asking for nothing. She only wished to prevent what she considered a disaster and in so doing she had put herself and her children in mortal danger. Rosinski had witnessed the gargantuan efforts of Uncle Sam to save the asses of criminals and drug dealers and it pissed her off that this well-oiled machine could not be used to save her most precious asset. Nadia had lucked out when she had approached her. Rosinski was tired of the whole charade. Maybe it was just as well that the people at the ‘Farm’ had screwed her. At least she was getting out with half a brain and most of her conscience intact. The joggers were making their final turn back towards the embassy buildings. She went to the wardrobe and removed a pink suit that included a skirt terminating two inches above her knees. It was the kind of outfit that would attract a blow from a mutawain baton in downtown Riyadh or maybe it went far enough for a visit to the local CAVES prison. But up here in embassy land she might just get away with it. She wanted to feel like a woman when she made her pitch to Worley. A life in the ‘Company’ had taught her to use all her assets and if Gilman was wrong and Worley was a tits and ass man then that was what she was going to give him.

Worley was exhausted but felt good by the time he had arrived back at his apartment,
mens sana in corpore sano
as the Romans used to say. He went into his American kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle. His meeting with Al Tawil had been going around in his head for the past day. There was something that hadn’t been quite right. He would have expected most Saudi government officials to have played down the currency situation as a temporary aberration and maybe even to dismiss the assassination of Mishuri and the bombing in Dhahran. He hadn’t been sure but he thought that he had seen Al Tawil flinch at the mention of Gallagher’s name.  The slight facial movement had not been significant but it had been there. He had found it strange that Al Tawil made no enquiry concerning Gallagher’s background or as to why the Saudi government should be worried that an international terrorist was present in their country. The switch on the kettle flicked. Worley put a camomile teabag into a cup and poured the boiling water over it. The phone rang as he set the tea down on his small kitchen table.

‘Arthur,’ Ellis’ voice had a higher pitch than normal.

‘Yes, Peter,’ Worley picked up his tea and sipped it.

‘Can you come around in an hour or so?’ There was a definite shake in Ellis’ voice.

‘Of course,’ Worley said. ‘Anything I should know in advance?’

‘Ras Tanura disappeared off the map last night, the refinery, the tank farm, the loading facility, hundreds of casualties. The fires are still burning but the town has effectively ceased to exist. They can see the fires in Dhahran. It’s a bloody mess.’

‘Accident or design?’ the hairs on the back of Worley’s neck were fully erected. This was the kind of act that only someone with Gallagher’s credentials could pull off. 

‘The Saudis are saying accident. You remember that there was a major fire in one of the distillation units at the refinery several years ago and they were only bringing it back to full capacity now. The official Saudi line is that this is a repeat performance. There’s a complete clamp down on news, nobody in or out of Ras Tanura. Before the phone lines went dead we had a call from a British engineer who was in the town and he says he distinctly heard a series of explosions. The Ambassador is worried. He wants you to find out whatever you can.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I get showered and changed.’ The line went dead.

Worley sipped on his tea as he digested the latest piece of news. Events were beginning to accelerate. He could just imagine the consternation that the disappearance of Ras Tanura would cause in the ranks of the Saudi Royal Family. They could ignore the fall in the currency and a few other minor irritations but a strike at the life’s blood of the Saudi economy would be another matter. Ras Tanura would not be so easy to replace. The disappearance of even a small quantity of Saudi oil from the market would cause oil prices to increase. Most of the other members of OPEC would delight in the Saudi misfortune. They had been straining at the leash looking for possibilities to increase their production without sending the price through the basement. The disappearance of Ras Tanura would be a Godsend to them. He thought about the movements in the oil market. Those who had bought forward must have been visiting their clairvoyants. Either that or they were party to last night’s events. It was not inconceivable that a renegade member of OPEC had hired Gallagher. That was a possibility but there would have to be a local connection. It was not possible to operate in a closed society like Saudi Arabia without the assistance of an ‘important person’. Worley was contemplating on the recent events and his upcoming shower when there was a ring on his bell. The day had only just begun and already it was turning out to be a busy one.

He opened the door and his eyebrows rose as he took in the figure of Mary Jo Rosinski. Her dark hair and skin were perfectly complemented by the pink outfit she wore. Worley was aware that Miss Rosinski was already the subject of several of his colleagues’ wet dreams. He wondered what effect she would have on them right now. A little bell began to ring inside his head. He was used to a certain amount of attention from females and he wondered whether Rosinski was about to proposition him. He shuffled uncomfortably.

‘Am I intruding?’ Rosinski asked. She had noticed Worley’s discomfort at her appearance. The first doubts of her decided course of action struck her. Maybe she had been too keen to grasp the first solution that appeared to her.

‘Not at all,’ Worley said standing aside from the door. ‘I’m not used to greeting such beautiful ladies in a sweaty vest and running shorts. Come in.’

‘Thanks,’ Rosinski entered the small well-appointed apartment. The living room was about three hundred square feet. She smiled. His apartment looked just like hers. It was ironic that the Brits had an American kitchen while her apartment had a separate one. The place was so Goddamned neat it was unreal. Her apartment was littered with clutter. Books and magazines were strewn all over the place but Worley’s apartment was spick and span. It looked like nobody actually lived here. Worley was going to make some lucky woman a marvellous husband.  ‘I see the British Embassy uses the same furniture store as good ol’ Uncle Sam.’

Worley smiled. ‘Choice was probably limited when they were buying.’ He was wondering why Rosinski was visiting him so early in the morning. She was dressed to impress. He could not imagine her wearing such apparel outside the Embassy compound. So what did she want with him? ‘I was just about to have a shower. The kettle is hot. Why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea or something while I make myself presentable.’

‘Be my guest. I’ll just make myself comfortable.’ She moved into the kitchen. Everything was exactly where it should be. She was willing to bet that the tea was even in the box marked ‘TEA’. She watched Worley leave through the door at the end of the room. For a man of his age he had it all. Good body and a face to die for. He reminded her a bit of Robert Redford. Aging more than gracefully. She popped a tea bag into a cup and poured hot water over it. Time to do a little snooping. Never leave an intelligence operative in a room alone unless you actually wanted them to snoop. Worley obviously didn’t care. She looked around the room. No photos of lady friends. So far, so good. In fact only two photos graced the shelves of a bookcase. She picked up her cup and moved to the bookshelf. One photo was black and white, maybe forty years old and showed two small boys holding hands with a woman in a flower print dress. The elder of the boys was obviously Arthur Worley. The fine features that were to become his handsome face were already present. The younger boy was the complete opposite of the elder. She assumed it was Worley’s younger brother. Arthur had a strong look of his mother so perhaps the younger son favoured the father. The younger brother looked like the ragamuffin of the family. The mother was attractive rather than beautiful in that fay English way. She reminded Rosinski of the type of English lady one found in a Jane Austen novel. She noticed that nobody in the photo was smiling. The Worleys did not project the happy family image. The second photo was even older and showed a group of men. She immediately recognized Abdul Aziz al Saud in the centre of the photo. To his left stood a European wearing a pith helmet. She assumed that this was the fabled British spy Sir Harry St. John Worley.

She moved quickly around the rest of the room. An Apple laptop stood on a desk. Lots and lots of books of every type. Novels, biographies, books on politics and the Middle East, books in French, Arabic, and Spanish. They were not the kind of books that she would have chosen for herself. She preferred thrillers and detective stories. There was enough serious shit in her real world. She didn’t need to read it to relax. In the corner beside the T.V. was a stack of DVDs. She flipped through them quickly. Humphrey Bogart, the complete Hitchcock collection, Il Postino, the complete BBC Shakespeare Plays. At least the man had taste when it came to movies. She was relieved to find no flesh mags. Her fingers flicked through the compact disks beside the small stereo unit. All classical titles and operas. She sipped her tea and moved on to the glass display case that stood against one of the walls.

‘At least now I feel almost human,’ Worley said re-entering the living room.

Rosinski whirled quickly almost spilling her tea. The man moved as quietly as a cat. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt open at the neck and a pair of loose fitting grey slacks. His blond hair was gelled and perfectly coifed. A tinge of red from the shower was visible beneath his tan. He looked pretty damn good to Rosinski at that moment.

‘Just doing a bit of snooping,’ she said feeling the colour rise in her face. She was unsure whether her colour was the result of being caught or her thoughts about Worley. ‘Occupational hazard,’ she added with a smile.

‘I don’t have too much to hide.’ Worley liked her straightforwardness. He had always found Americans, with the possible exception of Clark Gilman, to be refreshing.

‘Is this stuff genuine?’ Rosinski asked pointing at the contents of the display case.

‘As far as I’m aware,’ Worley came close to her. He smiled at her use of the word ‘stuff’ for priceless Oriental art.

She tried to concentrate on the artefacts in the display case but her senses were aroused by his smell. His aftershave had a faint musk odour and just beneath it there was a hint of the shower gel he had used. ‘I’m no expert on Islamic art but I’d be willing to bet that that jug and mug are
Iznik
.’ She stared at the two pieces on the top shelf of the display case. Both were decorated in a brown, white and blue Arabic motif. The handle on the mug was decorated with blue Arabic lettering on a white background.

‘Magnificent,’ she said turning the mug gently in her hands.

‘You know your Arabic art. They’re both
Iznik
. The jug is from the sixteenth century and the mug is from the last great phase of
Iznik
ware, something around 1580.’

She stared at a drawing on the second shelf.

‘It’s a drawing of Riza-i-Abbasi by one of his pupils. Probably dated 1676,’ he said before she could offer an opinion. ‘Exceptionally rare, should really be in a museum but I can’t bear to part with it.’

‘This stuff must be worth a fortune,’ she said taking her eyes off the drawing with difficulty. ‘How the hell did you build up a collection like this on a civil servant's salary?’

‘My grandfather and father had a habit of collecting bits and pieces of Oriental art. Most of it has been donated to museums but we managed to keep a few pieces.’