The Scorpion's Gate (9 page)

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Authors: Richard A. Clarke

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BOOK: The Scorpion's Gate
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Although she was based in Dubai, her best source in the region was her friend Brian Douglas, the British diplomat stationed in the British embassy in Bahrain. She knew he was more than the regional energy affairs section chief, which was how he was listed in the embassy directory. But despite a few overnight sailing trips together on his 32-foot
Bahrain Beauty
, Douglas had never broken cover. He had never admitted to his other job. Last week he had called and suggested to her, somewhat cryptically, that she should meet “another Dubai friend” of his. So that was what she was about to do.
Waiting at the bar was Jassim Nakeel, a scion of one of the families that were building the new city of Dubai, soaring office towers, offshore islands of villas and condos, tourist theme parks. He did not wear traditional Arab clothing but looked instead like a transplant from Malibu or Laguna Beach.
“You thought because my name is Delmarco I would like an Italian restaurant?” she said as he led her to a table outside on the balcony. Kate Delmarco looked as though her family came from southern Italy, with slightly olive-tinted skin and long black hair. Although she would be forty-five later in the year, Delmarco was fit and exuded a Mediterranean allure. She had managed to finagle an open invitation to go riding at the Dubai royal stables anytime she wanted. It had become her Saturday-morning ritual.
“No, actually, I thought you’d like this place because it has a great view of the sound and light show the Burj al Arab hotel does every night,” Nakeel said as he seated Kate facing the giant sail-shaped hotel. “Besides, it has a great wine list.”
“Wine list! Is there anything about Dubai that is still Arab? Wine lists, theme parks, high-rise condos filled with Europeans, you in Armani . . .” Kate stopped as the seventy stories of the Burj turned purple, stars sparkled up one side of the tower and then down the other, and then the building faded to pink.
“Dubai is the center of the new Arab world, Kate, cutting-edge, business-smart, and cosmopolitan,” Nakeel said, taking the wine list. “For most Europeans, it’s more affordable than the South of France and a lot more fun. Besides, it’s cold there this time of year. The 1999 Barolo, please,” he told the waiter without consulting her. “After what happened in Riyadh, most global companies moved their regional offices to Dubai. It’s safe, secure, modern, and efficient. Besides, there are no taxes. They all love it here.”
Kate frowned. “Yes, but isn’t it a little close to the
old
Arab world? Islamyah? Iran? You can see the lights of the Iranian oil platforms from the bar on the top of the Dubai Tower.” She stabbed a pepper on the antipasto plate that had appeared.
“Yes, that’s why we’re a little worried,” Nakeel said, putting down the menu. “That’s what I want to talk with you about.”
“I’m all ears.”
“For generations, the mullahs in Iran have wanted to unite the Shi’a world into a single power, ruled from Tehran or Qom, the seat of their religious leaders,” he began. “Right after they took power in 1979, they started to stir up the Shi’a majority in Iraq. That’s why Saddam attacked them in 1980.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Kate replied, breaking a breadstick. “Or maybe he just thought he’d grab their oil province while they were weak after the fall of the Shah.”
“The point is,” Nakeel continued, “that almost a million people died in that war over eight years, until both sides quit from exhaustion, and nobody won. Fifteen years later, the U.S. Army comes along and topples Saddam in three weeks. Three years later and the Shi’a are practically running Iraq under Iranian guidance. Washington did Tehran’s work for them. While all the American attention was focused on car bombs in Baghdad, the Iranians secretly built nuclear weapons while denying it and tricking the Europeans and Americans into thinking that they were five years away from a bomb.”
Kate looked bored. “Jassim, that’s your version of history. I think we prevented Iraq from getting WMD again and we gave it democracy. Democracy means majority rule, so the Shi’a rule, but that doesn’t mean Iran is in charge of Iraq. So what else is new?”
“The next steps, Kate. They are about to happen.” He tasted the splash of Barolo the waiter offered for his approval and nodded for him to pour for the lady. “Now they want the Shi’a majority in Bahrain to take power and facilitate Iranian activity across the Gulf. Do you really believe that Pentagon crap that it’s Islamyah behind the bombings in Bahrain?” Nakeel scoffed.
“No, I don’t, but my editors seem to. They spiked my story blaming it on Tehran and ran a piece by our Pentagon reporter demonizing Riyadh,” Kate admitted.
“Your Defense Secretary Conrad has been demonizing them since the day they drove the Sauds out.” He paused and looked her in the eye. “We think Conrad is on the al Saud payroll,” Nakeel said softly.
“ ‘We’? The Dubai real estate development board?” Kate shot back. “Or do you have another job, too?”
He ignored her question. “If you want a story your editors can’t spike, Kate, talk with my friend in Bahrain.” As he spoke, the Burj al Arab and the hotel next to it that was shaped like a giant wave both erupted into a galaxy of twinkling stars, fireworks shot from their roofs, and the speakers in the souk played “Rocket Man.”
“I’m actually booked there on Gulf Air tomorrow afternoon, but I appreciate the advice, Jassim,” she said flatly.
“Well then, may I suggest someone you might want to interview there, a tip from the Dubai real estate board?” He smiled as they brought his veal scaloppine and her roasted pork loin. The music switched to ABBA.
FEBRUARY 5
The Ritz-Carlton Hotel
Manama, Bahrain
“
Y
ou’re not afraid to be in a hotel lobby in Bahrain, Ms. Delmarco?” Ahmed said as he sat in the chair opposite her in the coffee shop. He was wearing a blue blazer and khakis, and looked like a thin, young American assistant professor.
“Should I be, Doctor?” she asked as she extended her hand, testing to see if he would take it. He did.
“Perhaps. Many people died in the Diplomat and Crowne Plaza, but not, as your paper claims, at the hands of Islamyah,” he said quickly, settling into his seat.
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Rashid. I know you are a busy man at the hospital and...everything else,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I met an American naval intelligence officer today at the base, who told me that Riyadh was definitely behind the terrorism, part of a plan to push the Navy out of Bahrain.”
“We have to ban smoking in Bahrain,” Ahmed joked. “And lies. You should have better sources than this Navy intelligence man.”
“I guess everyone has their vices,” she said, snubbing out the Kent after two puffs. “That captain’s vices apparently include trying to pick up female reporters. We’re having dinner tonight. What are your vices, Doctor?”
“I have an addiction to American television comedies.” He smiled. “My family would never understand. Do you know
Frasier
?”
Kate thought Ahmed had a warm, genuine smile, and that the spy business was definitely a second career for him. As much as she
liked Brian Douglas, it was going to be a lot easier getting information out of the good doctor. “
Frasier
? But you’re not a psychologist, you’re a cardiologist. You worry about hearts.” She signaled for the waiter. “And minds?”
“Some people are trying to sow fear in the minds of Americans, Ms. Delmarco, but America does not need to fear the new government in Islamyah. We have replaced a corrupt, undemocratic government with one more in line with our traditions and beliefs as a people. We still sell oil on the world market. We do not attack Americans. Why not let us alone?” Again, he flashed the charming, boyish smile.
“ ‘We,’ Doctor? I thought you were a physician who just happened to have a highly placed brother in Riyadh, a brother from whom the Islamyah embassy press attaché assures me you are estranged. What does that mean, ‘estranged’?” she said, taking out her digital recorder.
“May I call you Kate?” he asked. She nodded. “Then, Kate, let’s stop the dance. I was told I could trust you, and you were told the same about me. I have known the Nakeels for twenty years. My parents have owned a vacation house next to theirs in Spain forever. Yes, many people in our new government would not talk to an American reporter, a woman reporter, but because I support that government, I will. I will try to help you see the truth, assuming you will report it.” Ahmed stopped abruptly and touched his cell phone’s Bluetooth earpiece. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”
Kate sipped her coffee, trying to hear something of what was being said into Ahmed’s ear. His face had changed; he looked concerned, almost afraid.
“I apologize. I have to get back to the intensive care unit. May we meet tomorrow? May I call you?” he said, placing Bahrain dinars on the table.
She smiled and handed him her card, with the Dubai cell phone number. “Anytime, Doctor.”
In a moment, he was gone. Kate Delmarco turned off the recorder and wondered what could happen at the ICU to put fear into such a pleasant young man.
The beat-up Nissan was no more. He had ditched what the cell had given him and purchased something more to his liking. Ahmed Rashid’s new BMW 325 was supposed to be parked at the hotel door, thanks to a small contribution he had made to the doorman, but it was nowhere in sight. A young man in a valet’s uniform ran over, key in hand.
“Excuse me, sir, but we had to move your car. It’s just around the corner. Should I bring it or would you like to follow me?”
Impatient, Ahmed waved him forward. “Let’s go.”
The valet nodded and stepped smartly, Ahmed behind. The valet turned the corner and disappeared. Ahmed could see the front of his BMW as he moved past the building’s edge. He vaguely wondered where the valet had gone when he spotted something moving to his right. As he turned his head, he saw the valet, hand out in front. But instead of car keys in his hand, the valet held something large and metal and black. As Ahmed realized it was a gun, the valet suddenly lurched and fell to his knees and then on his face. Ahmed now faced Saif, breathing rapidly, eyes narrow and dark.
Ahmed looked down at the valet. A knife was sticking out of the base of his head, blood gurgling out from the wound and onto his uniform and on the concrete. The thought floated through Ahmed’s mind that Saif knew his business: the valet, or whoever he was, had been half dead before he had hit the ground.
“Iranian,” Saif said. “Qods. He’s been shadowing you for a couple of days. Waiting for the right opportunity.”
And you’ve been shadowing him, Ahmed thought. Or me.
“Thank you,” Ahmed said simply, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky as he felt.
Saif nodded. “Go. I’ll clean up and follow.”
Ahmed got into his BMW and drove quickly through the Manama traffic, fighting his shock, increasingly feeling a sense of vulnerability and dread. What if Saif hadn’t been there? How long had the Iranians been planning to kill him? Would they try again? He had been so stupid: the amateur spymaster. Ahmed violently shook his head, refusing to give in to fear. There was no time. Not now. So this was what his brother dealt with every day of his life. So now it was his turn. Good.
He wove rapidly through the late-afternoon flow, south toward Sitra, the industrial area near the refinery. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled another cell phone from the console between the front seats and hit a speed-dial number. “Two blocks out,” he said and disconnected.
As the blue BMW approached the faded warehouse, a metal door rolled up. It closed again after Rashid was inside. He took the stairs inside the warehouse two at a time to an office looking down on the darkened interior.
“You used the emergency code phrase, Fadl,” Ahmed said as he came through the office door. “What is your definition of an emergency?”
“Saif ’s device in the Qods Force office...he put it in their printer, we downloaded it...two hours ago and it . . .” Fadl was flustered, stammering. He handed a paper to Ahmed bin Rashid.
Ahmed took the paper and studied Fadl. He was certain that the young man’s distress had nothing to do with what had happened at the hotel. Fadl didn’t know. Ahmed decided to keep it that way. He looked at the paper.
“This is incomprehensible, Fadl. What am I supposed to...” Ahmed said, squinting at what looked like some sort of message format. Fadl stood next to him and pointed at a paragraph toward the bottom of the page and read aloud, “ ‘Karbala team to move to site by 16 this day, board and take down without alarm, and set sail no later than 1730. Jamal 2157 will proceed out as normal to marker red twelve, then turn north with maximum speed to ASU. Ram DD if possible or drive on to land, then ignition.’ ”
The doctor stared at the earnest young man in front of him. “What is that supposed to mean, Fadl? Who is Jamal 2157? Do you even know him? And Karbala, why do I care what happens at some Shi’a shrine in Iraq?”
The door opened and Saif joined them. “
Jamal
is not a person, brother Ahmed. It is a Japanese ship with 2157 painted on its side. The Qods drove two trucks to a pier here in Sitra this afternoon. Taha, from our group, followed them. He said the Qods had Iraqis with them. He said they took two harbor service boats out to the ship an hour ago. He is on a roof near the dock now, keeping watch.”
Ahmed swallowed. “Let me see the message again. What kind of a ship is this? What are they smuggling into Bahrain, explosives?”
“Type? Taha said it is very large . . .” Saif responded.
Ahmed looked anxiously around the office, filled with books, boxes, and papers. “The computer, is it connected to the Internet?” He typed “www.google.com” and then “Jamal 2157.” In twenty seconds, the screen changed and a list of Internet pages appeared. Ahmed clicked on the first listing. Another screen appeared with a picture of a large ship with five spheres protruding from the deck. On the side of the red ship were the white letters “LNG
Jamal.
”
“Allah help me,” Ahmed gasped. “Liquid natural gas! Where is this ship now?”
“Taha said it is offshore, tied up to a special floating dock or point of some kind. I will call him.” Saif quickly changed the SIM chip in the back of his phone and punched in a number. He mumbled a few words into the mouthpiece, listened for a minute, then quickly disconnected. “They are beginning to move the ship, to untie lines. They did not unload explosives into Bahrain. Taha...Taha thinks they brought explosives
out
to the ship. Some of the Qods people left the ship, left the Iraqis on board.”
Fadl had taken a maritime map down from the office wall and was laying it out on the table in front of Ahmed. “Here is where they are now,” Fadl said, pointing to a channel off the Sitra oil and gas facility.
Ahmed looked at the navigation chart and saw a red triangle with the notation “R-12” east of the ship’s location. From there the channel went east to the Persian Gulf. Directly north of that buoy, however, was a notation, “NOMAR: Permanently Restricted Military Area.” Above the Notice to Mariners notation was Juffair, and the American naval base called the ASU.
“Who do we know in the harbormaster’s office, the port police?” Ahmed asked, moving to the door.
“We have a source in the traffic police . . .” Saif was saying.
Ahmed bin Rashid stood in the office door at the top of the stairs. “Send out the emergency signal to all of your people, tell them go to ground, disappear, no communication for five days. And get out of here, drive inland, to the west coast. Now!” He ran down the stairs and searched frantically in the BMW’s console for the card that Kate Delmarco had given him.
As the metal door lifted and he backed the BMW out of the warehouse, he punched in her Dubai number. It took what seemed a long time and many clicks before it rang. She answered on the fifth ring. “Kate Delmarco.”
“Kate, don’t say anything, just listen. I am the man you had coffee with an hour ago. Don’t speak my name. Are you with your dinner date yet, just yes or no.”
“Yes, yes, we are having cocktails, yes . . .” she answered uncertainly.
“Listen to me. You must persuade him that at this minute a liquid natural gas tanker in the harbor, the LNG
Jamal,
has been seized by Iranian commandos and is about to sail into the Americans’ base and explode the liquid natural gas. The blast will go for miles, like a mini-Hiroshima. There is no time to ask questions. Don’t hang up, just put down the phone on the table so I can hear him.”
There was a long pause. He heard music and clinking. Then he heard Delmarco’s voice, made out some of what she said: “Good source, Johnny... intelligence... right now a gas tanker which has been seized could be, no is, is actually... right now...driving toward ASU....I am serious, very.... Look, just check, call, you can call...what do you have to lose?”
He was driving erratically, with one hand holding the phone, speeding toward the hospital. If his call failed to persuade them, as he thought it would, there would be thousands of people in need of emergency medical attention shortly. There was only music and noise coming over the phone.
He ran a red light and sped into the traffic circle, almost getting hit by a bus. He dropped the phone onto the floor. On the other side of the circle, he pulled into a parking lane and stopped, searching for the phone. He put it to his ear in time to hear a man’s voice say in American-accented English, “...may be something wrong... be right or regret... going to Threatcon Delta...my word... drill... SEAL...you stay put...be back...”
Then he heard Kate clearly; she was speaking to him. “He just left. He’s pissed as hell, but his duty officer seemed to think something was wrong, so he has ordered something. He thinks I set him up. Did I?”
“No. You didn’t. I didn’t. You’ll see now. If you can see the harbor from where you are, go look.” He disconnected and began driving again, more carefully, to the hospital.
Kate was at a bar on the Corniche. She looked around. Across the street and a block away was the Banc Bahrain Tower office block. She ran for it. Darting across the street, she walked into the lobby and noticed a sign for an express elevator to the “Top of the Corniche.” Minutes later, stepping out of the elevator fifty-three stories up, Kate Delmarco ran into the rooftop bar, walked to a window, and scanned the horizon.
“Wanna borra dees, miss?” the bartender said in some version of English as he thrust a pair of Nokia binoculars across the counter. “Your ship coming, yes?”
Administrative Support Unit,
Southwest Asia (U.S. Navy Base)
Juffair, Bahrain
T
he klaxon finally stopped.

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