Keys to the Kingdom (29 page)

CHAPTER 39

Langley

Alan Simpson had had a bad day, a very bad day. As soon as he’d arrived at the office he had been hauled before the Director whose butt had just been kicked by the Secretary of State. The one thing that Simpson had learned in his thirty years of government service was that butt kicking was contagious. Once somebody at the top had their butt kicked they were obliged to pass the kick on to their subordinate who in turn carried out the same operation with his subordinate until the guard at the front door received a kick in the butt. It was the government way. Only this time it had been different. Simpson had taken his butt kicking like a mensch because he knew that it was one of the last he would ever receive. The only thing that bothered him was that the Director had called him an ‘incompetent fuck’. Maybe he would send the Director a postcard from his farm in Costa Rica. But that was for next year or the year after. Lucius and he would have to remain calm for a while. That might be difficult with a bank account bursting with dollars. However, conspicuous consumption had been the downfall of many a man who considered himself smarter than the system. There would be plenty of time to spend when the ‘Company’ presented him with his pink slip. The phone rang and Simpson picked it up. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Alan, it’s Mary Jo Rosinski in Riyadh. Can we put this one on the scrambler?’

‘Rosinski, good to hear from you,’ Simpson said with false jollity. ‘Sure let’s scramble it.’ He pushed the button on the electronic gizmo on his desk and waited until the line cleared. ‘I heard the news, Rosinski, how does it feel to fuck the American taxpayer?’

‘I didn’t expect shit like that from you,’ she had always liked Simpson. He was one of her more sympathetic colleagues. She could only guess what others would be saying. ‘I’m only getting what I’m due. Anyway, by the time the legal eagles take their cut I suppose I’ll have a couple of hundred thou. I won’t be retiring to the Caribbean.’

‘Better’n a slap in the face with a wet fish, as my old daddy used to say. I would have given you the Goddamned job if it had been up to me. You would have made a good station chief. But that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Now that you’re a civilian, what can I do for you?’

‘It’s a long story,’ she began. She told him about recruiting Nadia and the information she had fed them. She told him everything, the involvement of Prince Kareem and the new Ikhwan, Mohammed Al Tawil and the arch-terrorist Patrick Gallagher.  ‘It’s going down tomorrow. We aren’t sure of the where or the when. Shit we don’t even know the how but it is definitely going down. Somebody has got to get to the Saudis and warn them. This guy Gallagher is the probable hit man.’

‘Gallagher’s dead,’ Simpson said. His heartbeat had risen steadily as he had listened to Rosinski. Jesus Christ, they had buried her in Riyadh because of the court case. She was effectively out the door. Who the hell could have foretold that she would bother her ass trying to collect intelligence? In less than twenty hours he and Lucius would be home and dried multi-millionaires. The people of Saudi Arabia would be rid of a cancer that was steadily destroying them. It was all win-win and there, right in the middle, was super-agent Mary Jo Rosinski trying to fuck up the whole plan.

‘No he’s not,’ Rosinski knew she was asking Simpson to make a hell of a leap of faith. ‘He’s right here in Riyadh and to-morrow he’s probably going to try to put a bullet into the head of the King.’

‘What does Clark think of all this?’ Simpson asked.

‘Gilman doesn’t know shit about this,’ the bitterness was evident in Rosinski’s voice. The words streamed out of her mouth. ‘He thinks that the sun shines out of the Al Sauds’ asses. For Christ’s sake, Alan, time is running out. I’ve uncovered a plot against the Royal Family. Somebody has got to do something to stop it. It’s the Goddamned invasion of Kuwait all over again. You’ve got to believe that it’s going to happen.’

‘Calm down, Rosinski. Let’s say that I went upstairs with this story of yours. You’re not exactly flavour of the month here right now. In fact, as of this moment, you’re a civilian. Let’s look at what exactly you’ve got. A Royal Princess fingers her husband. He’s planning a plot against the King. The when is tomorrow but everything else is up in the air. You’ve got a dead terrorist who’s going to be the trigger man. Some Saudi ministry officials are involved in the plot but other than
Al
Tawil we don’t have any other names. Don’t get me wrong, Rosinski. I think that you’re one hell of an operative but I’ve got to sell this shit. I’d look like a half-ass. They’ll ask Gilman what he thinks and he’ll trash your story. Think about it for a second.’

Rosinski felt like she was about to explode. If Simpson were standing in front of her she would certainly have tried to throttle him. And yet there was a kernel of truth in what he was saying. She had a credibility rating of less than zero while Clark Gilman was Station Chief Riyadh. ‘Don’t go upstairs,’ she knew she was clutching at straws. ‘You’ve got contacts in the Saudi Security Forces. Get them to call the Majlis off. For Christ’s sake, Alan,’ there was a note of desperation in her voice. ‘Back me on this one. It’s the last time you’re going to have to do it.’

Simpson was beginning to relax. In a way he pitied Rosinski. She was a hell of a bright woman and an excellent field agent. Only she could have found the entrance to the labyrinth and found her way to the crock of gold. Thank God that Gilman didn’t have half her talent. But she was walking away with a bundle of money so what was there to pity. ‘Sorry, Rosinski, it’s a bridge too far. Have a happy life.’

The phone went dead in her hand. The rotten bastard, she thought as she slowly replaced the handset. She’s been shafted. Instead of exposing Gilman for the incompetent that he was she was going to be completely ignored. The assassination attempt would go down to-morrow but nobody would ever know that she had been ahead of the game. There was nothing on paper, no memos warning Washington and no taped conversations with her superiors. She was fucked in spades. And so was the Princess. It all hinged on Worley. She had been watching him carefully at the Intercontinental. The guy‘s nerves were frazzled. He was also a very scared man. What a crapper. Just when she needed a macho asshole. Get with the programme, Rosinski, she told herself. You’re no longer in the game. You did your best but the club closed the door on you. Now you’ve crapped out big time. She suddenly felt very tired and the warmth of the beaches of the Caribbean was beginning to beckon to her. What the hell did she care about Saudi Arabia and the Al Sauds. The Princess was another matter. Something told Rosinski that there was major grief down the road for that woman. And there was nothing that she could do about it. If she didn’t get with the programme, it was going to be Istanbul all over again. She closed her office door for the last time. Life sucked.

CHAPTER 40

There had been a strong military presence at the Al-Hokm since the early hours of the morning. The heart of Abbas bin Naseem had soared like an eagle when he had heard that the King’s majlis would take place in the Palace later in the day. In his tiny room at the rear of the Palace, Abbas gave thanks to Allah as he prepared to carry out his destiny. This was to be his wedding day. When he had awoken and heard that he had been chosen and today would be the day of his martyrdom, he had shaved and bathed meticulously. Later in the morning he would visit the mosque and say a
shaid
prayer. His family had no idea about his mission. The news would be broken to them by one of his Hezbollah comrades. He had already prepared his video at the training camp in Swat. He had remained totally calm while giving his final message and had urged his family to live in the love of God. This evening, after he had completed his mission, his family in the Bekaa would watch this reminder of his previous life. His death would bring great honour to them. Then the celebrations would begin. There would be music and dancing, the tables would be piled high with cakes and lamb with yellow rice. He thought of his mother. She would surely cry but the rest of his family would comfort her and in the end she would accept that he had died for his Faith. He was at the end of a long line of Islamic martyrs. The principle of devastating the enemy by suicide went back to the assassins of Alamut, who wreaked havoc among the Persian caliphate in the 12th century. His body tingled with excitement as he went about his normal duties at the Palace.

Patrick Gallagher had slept well just as he always did prior to an operation. Soon it would be over and he would be on his way home. His dead wife and child would finally be avenged and he would be free to spend the rest of his days in the warm Caribbean sun. Who knew he might even pen a record of his life, what a read that would be. He washed at a hand basin in the bathroom of the mud house in the old town of Riyadh. In the palaces in the suburbs the princes would be bathing in bathrooms tiled in marble and adorned with gold fittings. None of them would be aware that he was taking his last bath or shower. He looked down at his torso. He traced his finger along the scars of a life spent fighting. On his left shoulder was the livid scar he had received in Gurteen when he had taken out three SASmen. The bastards had put two rounds into him but he had still managed to get them all. A series of scars along his left side had been caused by an Israeli fragmentation bomb in Lebanon. His hand moved to the white mound on the right side of his stomach where a dope crazed Russian soldier in Afghanistan had shot him accidentally. But he had survived. He raised his head and looked into his eyes. You look fucked, my lad, he thought and smiled at his own reflection. It was certainly time to get out. Once in, never out had been the credo of the old IRA. He looked at his watch. The Majlis had been organised just as he and Kareem had arranged. Everybody would be on station at four fifteen. At four sixteen there would be a rush at the gates of Hell.

Rosinski woke to the ringing of the telephone. It had only been in the early hours of the morning that she had managed to fall asleep. As she struggled towards the annoying sound she thought this was a hell of a beginning to what was possibly her last day as a CIA field agent in Saudi Arabia.  ‘Hello,’ she held the phone in her right hand as she wiped the sleep from her eyes with her left.

‘Miss Rosinski,’ the voice was that of a young girl.

‘Yes,’ Rosinski hadn’t recognised the voice but she could tell that the owner had been crying. There was an instant lump in her stomach. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I am Fatima bint Kareem. My mother, Princess Nadia, gave me your number. She said that I was to call you if anything happened to her.’ The girl’s voice collapsed and she began to cry uncontrollably.

‘Oh shit,’ Rosinski said. She wanted to scream at the top of her voice. The girl didn’t need to tell her. She was suddenly very awake and feeling like the greatest shit in the world. She had pushed Nadia too far and had lost her because of it. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ Rosinski said calmly. ‘How did it happen?’

‘My father drowned her in the swimming pool,’ the girl blurted out. ‘I watched.’ Fatima’s voice collapsed into crying again.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Rosinski said sighing. This was one that she would carry with her for a while. Eventually she would be able to rationalise it but she would never be able to get away from the fact that she was, at least in part, responsible for whatever had happened to Nadia.

The line went dead and Rosinski slammed down the phone. ‘Fucking bastard,’ she screamed. ‘You rotten fucking bastard.’ She had been trained to accept cultural differences but this was too damn much. The bastard Kareem had murdered Princess Nadia and nothing would be done about it. She would simply be another statistic. A non-person buried in an unmarked grave. There would be no legal requirements. No police enquiry. No post mortem. No trial. After all she had only been a woman. Rosinski wanted very much to be back home in the States. It certainly wasn’t paradise but at least people counted. The phone rang again.

What?’ Rosinski said sharply into the mouthpiece.

‘You don’t sound like a woman who just passed ‘GO’ and collected more than a million bucks. You on your monthly or something?’

‘Fuck you too, Clark,’ Rosinski said.

‘You’re outta here, Rosinski.’ There was joy in Gilman’s voice. ‘The word came through from Langley that your ass is grass. Pick up your things from the reception. The farewell drink has been cancelled by popular request. The administration will let you know how they want the apartment left. Have a happy life.’

Rosinski was getting over her anger. She didn’t need to be angry with Kareem, she needed to get the bastard. And if Gilman was the answer then so be it.

‘Have you spoken to Simpson in Langley?’ she asked.

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Something’s going down here to-day. There’s going to be an assassination attempt on the King at the majlis.’

Gilman’s laughter boomed across the connection. ‘Give it a rest, Rosinski. You’re history so just accept it. The only thing going down here today is that the Agency is finally gettin’ rid of one major pain in the ass. Go peddle it.’ The line went dead on her for the second time that morning.

Rosinski flopped into a chair and held her head in her hands. She was responsible for Nadia’s death. Even worse, she had died for nothing. They were within hours of whatever Kareem and his friends were planning and there was nothing that she could do about it. She had played the game too close to her chest. There had to have been a way to protect Nadia. God, she wished that she had half of her courage. She wondered whether things would have been different if she hadn’t been so intent on sticking it to Gilman and his buddies. It galled her that Prince Kareem would just go free. She had never felt so powerless and so frustrated. It was only a matter of hours before the administration at the embassy would punch her ticket and she would be bundled out of the Kingdom. Indignation rose in her. The bastard wasn’t going to get away with it without a fight. Maybe her colleagues in Langley wouldn’t listen to her but there had to be someone who would. And there was always Worley and the British.

Worley spent more than three hours after midnight examining maps of Riyadh and trying to find what might constitute Allah’s breast. The javelin had to be some kind of sniper’s rifle. It was the firing position that was the conundrum. He had finally fallen asleep across his desk. His sleep had been fitful. He had woken with a start at about four o’clock. When he cleared his eyes he saw his mother standing in the corner of his living room. She smiled at him and extended her arms. He looked at her and felt tears running down his cheeks. He wanted to rise and accept her embrace but he knew that as soon as he moved she would vanish. He knew she was a hallucination but wanted so badly to go with her. He was so tired. Why the hell had Gallagher come along at just that particular moment? His judgement had been completely clouded by his desire to bring Gallagher to justice. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said softly. He felt very vulnerable and very alone. He wondered how long he could continue to function. He looked in the mirror. He looked like shit. He walked shakily to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. The crystal glass containing the dregs of last night’s brandy lay on the desk where it had fallen from his hand. One thing was for sure. Alcohol was one thing he didn’t need. He poured the hot water over a teabag before picking up the glass and depositing it in the sink. He showered and dressed before sipping the tea. The tepid liquid refreshed him. If he survived today he would head straight back to London. His savings would cover him for a couple of years at least and he could always translate Arabic for a living. He sat on the sofa and sipped his tea. Things were not so bleak anymore and Patrick Gallagher had receded into the back regions of his mind. The thought of Gallagher reminded him of the meeting with Princess Nadia. What could he do to stop Gallagher? The ringing of his doorbell interrupted his thoughts.

‘Good morning,’ Rosinski said as she passed Worley at the door. She noticed that he didn’t look so good but decided that she shouldn’t bother passing the message. He was intelligent enough to know how he looked.

‘You’re becoming a regular early morning visitor,’ he said closing the door behind her. ‘Can I offer you a tea or a coffee?’

‘Thanks I just had breakfast,’ Rosinski installed herself on his sofa. ‘The Princess is dead. The message was a bit garbled but I gather that her husband was responsible, something about drowning her in the swimming pool. Anyway I failed her and she’s paid for my failure with her life. Number two; I’m out of here. Gilman wants me on the first flight out tonight and my ass is banned from the Embassy. I already knew it yesterday. I called Langley last night to short-circuit Gilman. The Head of the Middle East Division laughed at me. Gilman says that everything out here is cool. The feedback I got is that nobody is going to listen to some half-crazed broad who just lost her job. I guess I’m already history.’ She was going to add that they’d be sorry they got rid of her but she didn’t want to expose her fury at having been dumped. ‘So since nobody is going to listen to me, I guess it’s down to you.’

Worley almost smiled. He wished he felt so confident. It didn’t shock him that the Princess was dead. Life was cheap in Saudi Arabia, particularly female life. Husbands kept a pretty tight rein on their wives and it would have been unusual for Kareem not to have known what his wife was up to. The poor woman, Worley thought. At least she had died for her convictions. ‘Since the Princess is dead, we must presume that they know that she’s been talking to us,’ he said carrying his cup and saucer to the kitchen. He wondered whether Gallagher and his friends would be so willing to let them live now. ‘They probably also know exactly what she’s told us. That means they know we are aware of the assassination plan and that we might try to stop it.’

‘If I know Patrick Gallagher and he’s been contracted to assassinate the King, he won’t waver from his plan. We have no idea where to find him and we really don’t know the salient details. We’re like a couple of blind mice trying to find our way to the centre of the maze.’

‘Let’s get to the bottom line. What can you or your people do?’

He looked at his watch. ‘We have a wet team arriving at Dhahran in a few hours but they’ll be confined to the base until we locate Gallagher. I’m an intelligence operative not a hit man,’ Worley moved to the centre of the room. ‘Normally we could count on our Saudi allies to deal with an event on their soil but if an individual like Mohammed Al Tawil is involved in the plot then who can we trust? We know that Kareem has good contacts in the Army and the National Guard. It’s safe to assume that the plot extends to them. The only way I can see to stop the Majlis is to get the Ambassador to make a direct appeal to the King or the Crown Prince.’

Rosinski leaned forward. ‘Then let’s do it.’

Worley picked up the phone and dialled the Ambassador’s office.

‘Ellis.’

‘Peter,’ Worley said. ‘It’s Arthur, can I speak to the Ambassador. It’s urgent.’

‘Sorry, old boy. No can do. The Ambassador left on the BA at quarter to three this morning. Urgent recall to London to discuss deteriorating Saudi situation with the big chiefs. Very, very important pow-wow by all accounts. I’m in charge while he’s away so if there’s something urgent you wish to discuss then I suppose you’ll have to confide in me.’

‘Are you free right now?’

‘Good Lord, it really is urgent. Come over immediately.’

Worley put down the phone. ‘Let’s go,’ he said to Rosinski.

As they crossed from Worley’s apartment to the embassy, the sun was already warm and shone from a perfectly clear azure sky. It would soon be time for the affluent Saudis to make their annual pilgrimage to their palaces in Taif where the fierce heat of summer was modulated by the mountains. The Princes of the Royal Family and their entourages would venture further afield to the fleshpots of the South of France or Southern Spain in their flight from the one hundred plus degree temperatures.

‘Peter,’ Worley said as they entered Ellis’ office. ‘You remember Mary Jo Rosinski, she works for Clark Gilman.’

‘Ah yes. Our resident Mata Hari,’ he didn’t move from behind his desk. ‘Now what’s so urgent that you’ve come rushing over here?’