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Authors: Richard A. Clarke

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BOOK: The Scorpion's Gate
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“No, business class,” Rubenstein said, going back to his papers on North Korea.
MacIntyre walked up to Rubenstein’s desk and quietly placed a small blue device on it.
“What the hell is that?” Rubenstein asked.
“It’s a BlackBerry. It’s already programmed for you with a Yahoo account in your name. It’s also programmed to send me PGPencrypted e-mail at a Yahoo address that only you and a few others know. In short, it’s our own private communications system. I’ll stay in touch that way while I’m on the road.” MacIntyre handed him the BlackBerry.
“I’ll never figure out how to work it,” Rubenstein said, holding the device as if it were some extraterrestrial artifact.
“I know. One of my new analysts will help you. Susan Connor— very tech-savvy. Unlike some.” MacIntyre laughed as he walked toward the door.
Finally, Rubenstein looked up. “You don’t mind, do you, going to talk to the Brits?”
“I already told Debbie to book the flight,” Rusty said. “Just came in here to persuade you.”
“Argh,” the Director bellowed. “Get the fuck out of here!”
Salmaniyah Medical Center
Manama, Bahrain
“
D
r. Rashid, I am so glad you have joined us, and I want you to know that if there is anything we can do to help you get settled, you have only to ask.” The cute young Pakistani nurse was positively effusive as she said good night to the new doctor. It was the end of Ahmed’s first shift and he was bone-tired, but he could not rest. He had a lot more to do tonight.
Ahmed bin Rashid walked to the nearly empty parking lot and started the battered Nissan that had been waiting for him, along
with the apartment, along with the job. His brother’s people had seen to everything. He drove to his apartment building on the Manama Corniche and parked on the street, near the long coastal promenade, with its sweeping views of the bay. Entering the lobby of the modern structure, he went down the stairs to the basement and exited into the alley behind the building. There he found the motorbike where someone had left it for him. He drove it three miles to an old high-rise apartment block on the al Lulu Road near the Central Market. Ahmed entered the building through the service door, conveniently left unlocked. As soon as he stepped through the portal, a pair of hands grabbed him by his shoulders and spun him around, locking him in a tight grip just above the elbows. Stunned, his eyes unfocused in the dark, Ahmed tried to pull away, but whoever was holding him was much stronger.
“A moment, please, Doctor,” a voice said calmly in Arabic. An instant later, another pair of hands expertly patted him down.
The men were apparently satisfied. The lock on Ahmed’s arms abruptly released, and the voice spoke again. “This way.”
The two men moved ahead and, with his vision adjusting to the dark, Ahmed followed the shapes becoming clear before him. As his racing heartbeat returned to normal, he gave silent thanks that he hadn’t embarrassed himself by acting like a scared little girl before what he presumed was his personal collection of spies.
Ahmed followed the man through another door and into a dimly lit basement storage room. Three more men were waiting. Now, he thought, now it begins. Suddenly, he was no longer tired.
The man who had grabbed him turned and spoke. “Welcome, brother. We are your team. My name is Saif, and we await your orders.” The man had broad shoulders and the look of a bodybuilder. Ahmed guessed Saif was in his mid-to late twenties, which probably made him the oldest of the group of young men.
Ahmed caught his breath, painfully aware that despite the fact that he was the amateur in the room, they were waiting for him to take charge, because he was supposed to be in charge. “Why don’t we start by each of you telling me where you work and how you came to the cause.”
They were all Bahraini Sunni, but not from the wealthiest families. They were from the second tier of Bahraini society, for whom good higher education was hard to come by, for whom good jobs were scarcer yet. Three had gone to religious training in Riyadh four and five years earlier. There they’d been recruited and sent back to Bahrain, where they had brought in two old friends.
“We are a small cell, but we believe there are other cells,” the one who was their leader, Saif bin Razaq, said. Ahmed said nothing. “Our strength is in the nature of our penetrations,” Saif continued, pointing to each man in turn. “We work at the travel office at the American Navy base, the telephone switching center for overseas calls, the Foreign Ministry, the airport, and I work at an Iranian import/export office in Sitra. It is actually a front for the Qods Force.”
“But why do you run these risks for us? What do you hope for?” Ahmed asked, straining to see the faces of the five zealots in the dim light.
“Not for you, Doctor, for Allah,” Fadl, the youngest-looking one, said softly. “We want Bahrain to be part of the new Islamyah. Now Bahrain is run by one family, who are Sunnis, yes, but they are threatened by the Shi’a majority here.”
“Iran is helping the Shi’a,” Saif joined in. “The mullahs have sworn that they will add Bahrain to Iran, just as the Shah wanted to do thirty years ago. Liberate the majority Shi’a from oppression.
Tppt.
” He spit on the floor. “From here they will move on the Eastern Province of Islamyah, where they say they will go to liberate the Shi’a majority there, too, but really they just want to seize the oil.”
“If Bahrain can become part of the greater Islamyah, we Sunnis here will be part of the majority of a great new Muslim nation, which can hold back the Persian forces,” Fadl finished the thought.
“The Persians have a very long memory and an equally long time horizon,” Ahmed responded. “They think that if they wait, and keep their hand in, these things will fall to them like ripened figs from the trees.”
“No, Doctor, they do not plan to wait.” Saif was excited. “This is the news we have for you! They are working on something big in the month of first Jamada. This is why they do these bombings now in Manama and blame it on us.” Saif pulled out an American newspaper. “Look at these lies that they spread, look here: ‘The work of Islamyah’s terrorist cells,’ they say!”
“Do you know for certain the bombings were done by the Persians?” Ahmed asked, taking the copy of
USA Today.
“As I said, Doctor, I work in the building that is the front company for al Qods, the Iranian special services. I repair their photocopier and the printers.” He smiled for the first time. “And sometimes I help myself to what they print.” Now Saif handed over a thick wad of paper in a red file folder. “The Qods Force here is to step up the bombing, targeting the American Navy. Then in first Jamada they plan to be ready to stage a coup, and a popular uprising, as they had planned to do in 2001. Only this time, they think the American fleet will not be here and the Persian forces will be able to land quickly to support the uprising.”
“The American fleet never really leaves Bahrain,” Ahmed scoffed as he opened the red file. “It only sails nearby in the Gulf.”
“Doctor, over the last several years, the Americans have pulled their soldiers and ships out of Lebanon, Somalia, Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, and Iraq.” Fadl looked up, smiling. “Maybe the Persians know when they plan to leave here, too.”
Yes, Ahmed thought. Maybe they do. He turned. “Saif, your cell must find out when and how al Qods Force plans to hit the American Navy Base.” He stood up to leave. “The Persians cannot be allowed to pin that attack on Islamyah. We cannot give the Americans an excuse to attack us.” Ahmed bin Rashid moved to the door. “Find out, Saif.” He walked down the darkened basement corridor and out to the motorbike in the alley.
Mounting the little motorbike, Ahmed was pleased by the quality of the men in his cell, and equally pleased by his inaugural performance as spymaster. He would use the contacts and abilties of his men to produce intelligence for Islamyah, to prove his worth to his brother, Abdullah. If he could prove that the Iranians were going to blame Islamyah for an attack they would make against the Americans... better yet, if he could stop the attack.
As he drove through the parking lot behind the high-rise apartment building, Ahmed’s image appeared on a small black-and-white screen in a Bedford step van parked across the street. “Well, thank you, Dr. Rashid,” an English voice whispered. “We had been wondering who was going to run that cell for Riyadh. Mr. Douglas will like this information.”
FEBRUARY 1
A government guesthouse
amaran, Iran
(North of Tehran)
“
T
he Elburz are beautiful in the snow,” the man in the business suit said.
“Yes, they are, General. The mountains are beautiful all year round,” the cleric replied. “Let’s sit by the fire and have some hot chai.” The two moved to large chairs by the stone fireplace. A teapot sat on the table between them.
“Phase One of Devil’s Fish Tank is complete. The pro-Islamyah website has claimed the credit, but the Bahraini secret police believe it was our Shi’a brethren. They will begin to take measures against them,” the General reported.
“Very good. So the Americans will think it was Riyadh that blew up the hotels in Bahrain, and the al Khalifas ruling Bahrain will crack down on the Shi’a.” The cleric smiled broadly. “Nicely done. What’s next?”
“We complete Devil’s Fish Tank. Then the Armenian and his boss will demand action against Riyadh for the slaughter of so many brave sailors,” the General said, pouring tea for himself and the cleric.
“You trust the Armenian and his boss? Completely?” the cleric asked.
“I trust no one but you completely.” The General smiled. “But they are gullible and greedy. And because they must know that we have our meeting with him on videotape, they will not risk exposure by double-crossing us.”
“You will use Iraqis in Phase Two?” the cleric asked, and the General nodded. “The Iraqis are proving to be useful?”
“They are, but our friends in Baghdad are having difficulties with the Kurds and Sunnis. Some of our people think it may soon be time to break off Basra.”
The cleric rose, arranged his robes, and walked slowly to the window looking out on the snow-covered spruce. He turned back to the general. “You and the Qods Force have done so much for us, so well, for such a long time: chasing the Israelis out of Lebanon using the Hezbollah, the Buenos Aires bombings, all the things Mugniyah has done, merging Zawahiri’s group into al Qaeda, the covert support to bin Laden, getting the Americans to back our man and throw out Saddam, then the Baghdad government...
“But your big plan, this is much more complicated, much riskier. There are many moving parts, including now, perhaps, the Chinese.” The cleric fingered his beads.
“With respect, sir, they all know we have the nuclears.” The General rose and walked toward the fire. “They do not know how many and they do not know where. If for some reason the big plan does not go well, we are still secure. Allah will provide.”
The cleric nodded. “I believe it is our destiny to be an agent for Allah, to unite the Shiites and bring for them a golden age,” the cleric said, his enthusiasm returning. He walked toward the Qods Force commander and placed his hands on the General’s shoulders. “Yes, you are right. Allah will provide.”

 

U.S. Navy, Administrative Support Unit
Juffair, Bahrain

 

B
rian Douglas drove his own car, a green Jaguar, from his beach villa out of town to the Juffair district, home to ASU Bahrain, as the American Fifth Fleet headquarters was known. The sixty-acre compound was surrounded by a high sand-colored masonry wall. A Marine in combat gear stopped the Jag and directed Douglas to pull into the vehicle inspection lane.
“Please open the hood, trunk, all four doors, and back away from the car, sir,” a female Marine with an M16 rifle said, as another Marine approached with a German shepherd. As he stood aside and watched the dog sniff its way through the Jaguar, Douglas heard a helicopter engine getting very close. A matte-gray Black Hawk flared down onto the heliport on the other side of the wall, kicking up a small sandstorm near the soccer field.
Cleared to proceed, Douglas drove to the stucco archway that was the main gate. It looked as though it had been left on some
Hollywood back lot from the set of
Gunga Din.
Flashing his Navyissued ID, Douglas was directed to Building 903, with its typical U.S. Navy gobbledegook signage: “HQ-COMUSNAVCENT.”
Douglas had no sooner been seated in the waiting room when a large man in a Navy flight jacket bounded into the suite and right up to Douglas. “Brian Douglas, it’s good to see you, you old bloke.” His thinning strawberry blond hair and baby face made him look like anything other than the Fifth Fleet commander.
“Come on in, Bri. Ensign, two big mugs of coffee. Just choppered in from two days on the
Reagan
.” The British SIS station chief followed in the admiral’s wake into the cavernous office.
“Sorry I haven’t had you over since I got in last month, but it’s been a whirlwind of get-to-know-you meetings up and down the Gulf. I’ve memorized more royal family trees in the last week than I did studying European history,” Admiral Adams continued, moving across the room. “Here, let’s sit at the conference table. You know my N-2, the intel guy here, Johnny Hardy.” The three men sat at the long staff table.
“Johnny, Brian Douglas and I first got to know each other back in twenty-oh-three in the Green Zone, chasing bad guys, when I was assigned to CENTCOM staff in Iraq. Hangin’ out together in the HVT Bar out at the airport after hours. He has more embarrassing information on me than you guys in Naval Intelligence will ever have, so whenever he says he needs to see me like he did this morning, he gets right in. I’m here for you. You’re the best ally we’ve got left, almost the only one we got left, right, Johnny?”
“Well, Admiral, I appreciate your willingness to see me on such short notice.” Douglas looked down at the giant coffee mug, to which somebody had already added a great deal of milk.
“You’ve been stationed in Bahrain for a while. Real expert on the region. How long you been here now, Brian? Tell Johnny your career,” the admiral said as he reached for the tray of cookies.
“Well, sir, as you know, I served here as a station officer during Desert Storm, then Baghdad after the Second Gulf War, now back here as SIS station chief for Bahrain, Qatar, Oman, and the United Arab Emirates. I’m completing twelve years in the Gulf, ’fraid to say.” Douglas tried to sound modest.
“You must like it here in Bahrain.” Captain Hardy dunked a ladyfinger in his mug.
The admiral jumped in. “Lots of people do. “Hell, I wouldn’t be an admiral without Bahrain. They came up with the word
amir,
meaning the guy in charge of the dhows. Shit, they were sailing dhows to Africa and India when we Anglo-Saxons were still painting ourselves blue and fighting the Romans.” He turned to Douglas for affirmation.
“I think it may have been my people, the Picts, who painted themselves blue, but yes, this is a very ancient, well-fought-over piece of turf. Which is why I wanted to see you, sir,” the station chief said, trying to get the conversation back on track.
“Yes, Brian, you’re not here to discuss history. What’s up?” Adams sat back in the chair at the head of the table and focused on his guest.
“I’ve already been on to your embassy and told my brethren from the Agency, but I wanted to pass it directly to you as well.” Brian Douglas withdrew a paper from inside his suit coat and read, “ ‘Highly reliable SIS sources have revealed that the Iranian Qods Force has designated ASU-Bahrain as a target for a terrorist-style attack, probably within the next four weeks. The sources also reveal that Iran may be planning to stimulate a Shi’a uprising in Bahrain, as it attempted to do in 1996 and 2001.’ ” Douglas passed the paper to Captain Hardy, thinking of how successful his monitoring of Ahmed Rashid had been.
“Interesting. You’re the second group to tell me today that my little base here will be the target for an attack. That’s why we are on a high force protection status, Threatcon Charlie. Of course, I did that myself after the Diplomat and Crowne Plaza attacks.” Admiral Adams took the report from his intelligence officer. “But the Pentagon seems to think the attack will be carried out by agents of Islamyah.”
The British spy coughed and sipped the heavily milk-laden coffee. “With all due respect to the Pentagon, the import of our report is that Tehran may be intending that you believe the attack comes from Riyadh. But Riyadh? Their lot couldn’t stage a successful attack on the ASU. Al Qods is capable of it. Moreover, and this is not in what we gave Washington or the Agency here, we have reason to believe that Islamyah knows that the Iranians are setting them up to get the blame.”
“Well, whoever it is, they will have a hard time. This place is buttoned up tight, Admiral,” the N-2 asserted.
“Maybe, Johnny, maybe, but any place can be struck. I can step up protection, but the way to handle this is to get them before they get us.” The admiral leaned across the table toward Douglas. “Can the Bahrainis do that? Can you and the Agency find these guys, whoever they are?”
“The Bahraini Security Service is very good, SIS-trained.” Douglas smiled. “And we and the Agency each have our own sources as well. If we can find the attack team, the Bahrainis can wipe them up.”
“I also have SEALs and a Fleet Anti-Terrorism Security Team here if they need any help.” Brad Adams got up out of his chair. “They prefer the offense to sniffing around diplomats’ Jags.” Brian laughed; Adams had done his homework. As they walked to the door, Adams changed his tone and style. He said softly to Douglas, “We can’t have another Baghdad here. I can’t stand the thought of more U.S. troops KIA. I wasn’t in Iraq as long as you, but you remember those nights out at the HTV, drinking away our sorrows with the Agency guys and the Special Forces. I was there two years, working the Sunni insurgency, trying to counter the Iranians.”
“Bloody mess, tragedy really,” Douglas said as he looked at the floor and shook his head.
“Yes, yes it was, Brian. I thought it was the right thing to do. Shit, everyone thought they had WMD. But with us gone, it’s still a mess. The Shi’a aren’t going to be able to put down that Sunni insurgency. It’s been going on for years and no sign of letting up. The Kurds are probably going to formalize their independence and then we’ll see what Baghdad tries to do about that. They won’t let Kirkuk go. It’s all been an awful waste of men and money. And for what, so that Iran can tell the democractically elected government of Iraq what to do?” Brad Adams was not playing the part of an American admiral now. “Listen, Bri, I’m supposed to leave tomorrow for a week in Tampa and Washington. Should I go or is this attack on the base here going to happen that fast?”
“I’m leaving for London tonight myself, Brad. We think it’s a couple of weeks off, but we can’t find any sign of an Iranian al Qods Force here in town yet, just reports. If we find out otherwise, we’ll shoot up a flare.” Douglas was thinking he was glad to be working again with this big Baby Huey–looking American sailor. He was Ivy League, not off the Annapolis cookie-cutter assembly line, and he had proven again and again in Iraq that he could be trusted, and could get things done.
As Brian Douglas drove out through the Hollywood stage-set archway, a second armored Humvee was pulling into place. The Marine sticking through the roof cocked the M60 machine gun and pointed it down the access road.
Capitol Hill 
Washington, D.C.

 

R
ussell MacIntyre got out of the beat-up taxi on Delaware Avenue, on the north side of Capitol Hill, where that gentle rise falls off toward Union Station. It was cold and damp, threatening to snow, so it did not look unusual that he had on a hat, pulled down low. None of the staff exiting out the back doors of the Senate office buildings were looking up anyway; they were rushing to the Metro station to get home, or at least to a warm bar.
MacIntyre entered through the back door of the Hart Senate Office Building, the newest of the three edifices that housed the personal and committee offices of the one hundred United States Senators. The sign on the door said “Staff Only.” MacIntyre flashed a badge to the three Capitol Hill policemen who stood around the magnetometer and X-ray machine. “It’s okay, sir, just step through,” the tall African-American police sergeant said, waving his arm. “Don’t worry if it goes off.” The value of the badge was that in some places where it was recognized, the security force expected that you were armed and didn’t mind. MacIntyre was not carrying, although he was entitled to. The Intelligence Analysis Center he helped to manage was really not an operational unit, so he thought it would be a little odd and unnecessary to carry the Glock that he had been issued.
He had entered the Hart Building Senate Office through the back door into the basement level, but instead of taking the elevator up, MacIntyre opened a door and took the stairway down. At the B-2 level, he entered a corridor with a maze of pipes hanging under the low ceiling. It was not an elegant part of Capitol Hill.
Halfway down the corridor, he paused before a door with a sign that said only “SH-B2-101.” He went to pick up a phone on the wall, but before he could place the receiver to his ear, the door lock buzzed and he pushed it open. Inside, a woman who looked to be in her sixties smiled at him from behind her desk and said, “Go on in, Rusty. The Senator’s waiting for you.”
Inside, the office was elegant: dark wood paneling, thick maroon carpeting, green leather chairs, brass fixtures. MacIntyre thought this is what Santa Claus’s office would look like if Saint Nick became the CEO of the North Pole. It was, in fact, the hideaway office of the Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, Paul Robinson. Every senior Senator had a hideaway, an anonymous office where they could go to work without bumping into constituents and reporters. It was also a place where meetings could occur without there being records of the get-togethers, without prying eyes noticing whom the Senator was seeing. It was a good place to get campaign contributions from lobbyists with an interest in a committee’s work. Robinson, however, didn’t take contributions from anyone who lived outside of his native Iowa. He didn’t really need to. No one had opposed him in his last reelection.
Robinson was standing by a bar trolley pouring two Wild Turkey bourbons, neat. As he handed one to MacIntyre, he said only, “Getting a little raw outside? Here, warm up.”
Before he accepted the drink, MacIntyre pulled a paper out from inside his suit coat and placed it on the desk. “It’s the estimate of Chinese oil consumption you asked for.” He took a big gulp of the Kentucky whiskey. “You were right. They are consuming almost as much as we are. Lots of cars now. Booming industry. And they have few long-term contracts, so they often get stuck paying the higher spot market prices, like we do now.
“The Pentagon is all in a fever over China. The growth of their navy, their export of the missiles to Islamyah. And by the way, it was the Sauds who bought the missiles before they got thrown out, not the new Islamyah crowd. Defense Intel even has some uncorroborated story about a Chinese People’s Liberation Army expeditionary force secretly going to Islamyah.”
The Senator twisted about. “Tell me you’re kidding. The PLA in Arabia?”
“Well, I think somebody is probably kidding Defense Intel, but they all believe it over at the Pentagon. And it’s very hush-hush. We aren’t supposed to brief you and the committees yet,” MacIntyre admitted, following the Senator to the stuffed leather chairs next to the artificial fireplace.
“So what’s so important that we have to do our weekly little private session tonight, when I could be enjoying a boring reception for the Future Fucking Farmers of America?” the Senator joked.
“I won’t be here the rest of the week. I’m off to London to see if I can learn anything from the Cousins. I just think something’s up,” MacIntyre replied, sipping what was left of the Wild Turkey. “Number one, we’ve got our fearless Secretary of Defense talking about some bullshit Defense Intelligence source that says the Chinese Navy deployment in the Indian Ocean is cover for Beijing moving an infantry division to Saudi—ah, Islamyah.”
“Well, you just said the Chinese need oil, but I can’t see the Islamyah Shura Council agreeing to let a lot of infidels into their precious desert, can you?” the Senator said, leaning back in the chair.
“No, I can’t. Moreover, no other source has noticed a Chinese division moving. But there’s more. Number two, Secretary Conrad is planning a gigantic amphibious and airborne exercise on the Egyptian Red Sea coast next month.”
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