*****
The sun was well up over the Arabian Gulf, four hundred miles east of Ha’il. Khalid al-Shahrani was just beginning to stir from a sound sleep in his own bedroom in the apartment in the Al-Khobar district of Dhahran. It was not a luxury apartment; Khalid was not wealthy, and he would not have wanted to be conspicuously so in any case. He was a jihadi, or that was how he thought of himself. He’d lived the hard life in Afghanistan from the last year of the Soviet occupation until shortly before the great attack on the United States in 2001. Since then he’d been here, coordinating Al-Qaeda operations in the Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia, recruiting young men to do the work of jihad, motivating, shaping, preparing them for the fight that was only now beginning.
Since the disaster of Afghanistan had forced the core of Al-Qaeda from its stronghold there, the mujahedeen had had to adapt to a new reality. War had its costs. Still, this was a war they had chosen, and they’d enjoyed many victories so far, so there was no complaining. Many of the faithful who survived the American war luckily made their way back home, and Al-Qaeda’s strongest and most active presence was now in Saudi Arabia.
The Saudi officials were slow to understand the threat, which had initially made Khalid’s task relatively simple. He’d begun with the huge attacks on residential compounds near the diplomatic quarter in Riyadh. These had killed many, including his fighters. That was unfortunate, but it was useful in many very subtle ways. It had frightened the expatriate community, one of the key pillars that kept things running all over the kingdom, and keeping things running was what kept the al-Saud family in power. Frighten the expats into leaving, and the whole edifice of the Saudi government would crumble as public works ceased to function, oil and its money ceased to flow, banking ceased to work and capital fled to safer harbors. That was the key strategic objective, to undermine the public’s perception that the al-Saud could maintain order by making it appear that they were powerless to prevent these acts of chaotic violence.
Suicide attacks contributed to the overall effect, and it worked as expected. Few expats were willing to die for their business interests in Saudi Arabia, while his people were willing to die. The slower learners among the more resilient expatriates, principally the Americans and British, had needed more direct action. Kidnappings and beheadings, and random sudden shootings of selected individuals had largely solved that problem. Many of the larger American and British firms were still running skeleton staffs 5 years later, with only a handful of their own people, trying to carry on with local workers. But it was a losing battle for them, he believed. Things in the Kingdom were slowing down, money was not being made, investment was drying up, and the vast bulk of the young Saudi population was becoming more and more restless.
But the situation was not without its problems. The al-Saud had finally reacted when it became clear what the Al-Qaeda objective really was, and their reaction had been more violent, determined, and more disruptive than Khalid liked to admit. In the last five years nearly two hundred and fifty of his people had been martyred or captured, and those captured would never see the light of day again unless to see it glinting off the sword swinging down to separate their heads from their necks. War had come to Saudi Arabia, Khalid al-Shahrani had brought it. He was proud of this, but even he would admit that the issue was undecided, and there was much fighting left before it would finally be so.
With these mixed feelings of satisfaction and uncertainty Khalid found himself awake. He was uncomfortable in his mind, despite the fact, he told himself, that things were going remarkably well. He had an excellent and bold plan that was well advanced, a plan that might once again put the nations of the West back into economic turmoil. He was fighting a creditable battle with the Saudis, winning sometimes, losing about equally often, but he was in no doubt that he and his men would eventually win. “What is it that bothers me so about this Air Force general?” he asked himself yet again. It was a question he seemed to have wrestled with daily for the past month, and it was starting to annoy him.
He rolled to his right and consulted the clock: five minutes after eight. Had he heard the call to fajr prayers? He could not remember, so he must not have heard. He lay on his back thinking about his problem, the immediate one of the general, and what to do about it.
There had been nothing to report last night at ten when Ibrahim had emailed for the last time from Paris. His man was still out, following the general. He did appreciate the suggestion about calling every few hours to report, but that was a more practical thing in Europe than it was here, or in many places in the Middle East. “The government of the French cannot monitor every phone in the country,” he frowned, “but these vile swine the al-Saud can, and they do.” He did not like to use the phone on this side of the causeway to call anyone in his organization, except for completely and ordinary calls. Too risky, very dangerous.
He had been to Paris once himself, years ago in the early summer of 2001. He liked it, but it intimidated him. Too much going on, too many cars, women, sounds. It was too complex. He had to admit he was not a very devout Muslim, but the simplicity and security that he thought of when he thought of a state run according to Sharia appealed to him. He returned to the problem at hand, annoyed that he’d strayed off course. What was it that bothered him about this man? Was he not an ordinary Saudi? Maybe that was it. In his mind, the ordinary Saudi was content to maintain things as they were, rather than work continuously to improve. He was one of these himself. Perhaps he was uncomfortable because this General Fahd seemed to be the other kind of Saudi, the kind that had profited for thousands of years on the trade across the desert by camel caravan, or led the raiding of a large band of badawiyya? This man had a reputation around Dhahran: he was a mover, a man who made things happen. He’d risen fast in the Air Force, even though he had no royal connections. True, he came from a prominent family in an ancient tribe out west, and he was rumored to be wealthy enough. He wondered for the hundredth time why men already wealthy would want to work at all.
The more he thought along these lines, the more uncomfortable Khalid became. Laying there, covered by the sheets, the air conditioner droning in the window in the next room, he became more and more certain that this general bothered him because he was a man who made things happen. An alarming thought finally broke its way into his consciousness, having beat on the door of his mind for many days without being admitted. “The man has not gone to France for the health of his son at all! He has fled, or he has gone to do something. That fool of a boy, his nephew, must somehow have got here, or got a message to the General, and the General has set about doing something about it!”
He sat straight up in bed, very worried now. The lack of reporting from Ibrahim’s man was suddenly an ominous development in his mind. This General running around with the knowledge of his recruiting—what would he be doing? Who might he tell, there, that he could not tell here? He found he was beginning to sweat despite the air conditioning, his mind reeling off an endless stream of potential disasters that might include his being dead at the edge of a sword.
Khalid forced himself to calm down, to think. He swung his legs off the bed and walked into the living room to be nearer the air conditioner, sat down on the sofa and tried to focus. Why go to Paris? Why not just use the Air Police, or something in the Air Force, they must have something like that, why not use it? Ahh, perhaps he believes it may be penetrated? It was, which was good, but it was not good that this General was careful enough to assume that it was. Why not go to someone else high up in the Ministry of Defense and Aviation, MODA—surely he could do that? But he had not, he had gone to Paris. So, if he is on to us, he does not trust anyone here well enough to talk here in Saudi. He smiled at this. “At least, that is a comfort, a sign of our success.” This made him feel a little better.
“Who would he approach in France? The French government? What could they do, or what would they do? Nothing.
The French are weak, as long as we play by certain rules.” The rules were you did not threaten the basic stability of France. If you did, the French were not nice at all. He had seen a member of Hezbollah in Lebanon who was found hanged from a street light with his genitals shoved in his mouth not long after a French tourist had been kidnapped and killed. Message: “We don’t care what you do with anyone else, but don’t fuck with us.” Message received and understood. He liked that about the French, and the Russians: they were direct, easy to understand. No, the French will do nothing. They do not care who they buy their oil from, and we can do business with them when we are in control. If not the French then who? The Americans, or the British, it had to be. But why Paris? It did not matter, really. What mattered was only that if he was right, then the General had to be eliminated quickly, before he could do any harm. “Any more harm,” he corrected himself. “I do not know what this man has already done, and hasn’t he been gone more than a week already, by the Grace of God?”
He looked at the clock again through the open doorway of the bedroom, still only eight-twenty. It would be only six-twenty in Paris, too early to get anything to Ibrahim, and he did not want to send anything from this side of the causeway, anyway. Action in Paris would have to wait for later today, or tonight, when he could get a message out, but the time difference would work in his favor. There were things he could do immediately here, though, with fair certainty of success and little risk. He reached for the phone and dialed a number.
“Na’am,” the voice answered, “Yes?”
“Mohammed, this is Khalid. How are you this morning my friend? I wondered if we could have breakfast, if you are available on such short notice?”
“Khalid, my friend. I would be happy. What time do you suggest, and where?”
“Meet me at the usual place, and we’ll walk together until we find something. It is a good morning for a walk,” Khalid said, careful to avoid any mention of any particular place. “ See you in twenty minutes?”
“Yes, in twenty minutes. Salaam.” The line went dead.
“Salaam” Khalid repeated to the empty phone. “But peace is not what I have in mind.”
Twenty minutes later he was approaching the usual corner, and he could see Mohammed coming toward him from the other direction. Both men were wearing the long white shirt, the thob, that men always wore in Saudi Arabia, and the red and white checkered shamak with the black, rope-like igaal to help hold it on their heads.
At the corner he waited for Mohammed to cross the street. They shook hands, exchanged a brief hug with pats on back, and set off down the side street to their left. Khalid knew a small kiosk two blocks this way that would be open already. He was quite hungry, and he wanted bread, hummus, cheese, and perhaps some oranges.
There was little foot traffic on the street at this time of morning, so it was best to talk as they walked. “Mohammed,” he began, “we have a problem. I now believe this Air Force man may have guessed what we are up to, and we must act quickly. How soon could you organize something for the nephew in Riyadh, and for the General’s home here in Dhahran?”
“Khalid,” the other replied, looking nervously around, front, right, and briefly behind. “Is that wise? What have you heard? I thought we did not know if he knew anything, perhaps he has only gone to Paris for the medical treatment of the little boy?”
“It may be so, Mohammed, but I do not think we should take the chance. We have too much invested in the other plan . . .” he was deliberately vague on this; Mohammed did not know about the broader operation. “No, I think at least I would like for him to have an accident and be killed before he can return to Saudi Arabia, and I will attempt to arrange that later today. But also I would like this nephew to disappear, as soon as may be done. If we can do anything with the rest of the General’s family here in Dhahran, that would put the entire Air Force on notice that we are to be respected.”
Mohammed was not an Afghani, had never been in the jihad in the old days. He’d been recruited three years ago, and was a veteran of three attacks here in the Kingdom, but he was the patient type rather than aggressive. He understood the military line of things well enough, but he was very careful. This sounded dangerous. He tried another line. “Khalid, but if we kill this General’s family, won’t the rest of the Air Force go crazy? Won’t that make it harder for our cause? I do not think we are ready . . .”
“We are ready,” Khalid interrupted. He knew it was a gamble, but he chafed at the lack of resolve he often found in these new men. What they needed was some action to temper them, these who had not been in the Afghan jihad. “The Air Force will do nothing, trust me. Now, we know where the nephew lives in Riyadh, do we not, and the General’s address here in Dhahran?”
“Yes, brother, we know. What shall we do?”
“It would be best to take the nephew someplace quiet, in his car out on one of the big roads in Riyadh perhaps, not at his home or wherever he lives. Put four men on it there, follow him, wait for an opportunity so that they can get quickly away. But kill him, Mohammed, do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear. And the General’s family?”
“How long to make a car bomb for his house?” Khalid asked?
Mohammed thought for a moment. “I should guess at least a week, Khalid. Saleem was taken three weeks ago, remember, and our only bomb maker in this province is not as efficient. And, we have not received any new plastique in over a month. It will take time.”
Khalid cursed under his breath. A week was too long. He wanted something quick, his hope was that word of a catastrophe would bring the General back to Dhahran on the run, where he might be more easily dealt with than in Paris. “What can we do, then, Mohammed? It must be soon, tonight, tomorrow night at the latest.”
“It will be risky, Khalid, but we could send five, perhaps six men to the house at night. I do not think there is an alarm. We can kill the two older sons quietly in the middle of the night, and take the women and children after with no trouble. The risk is if they raise any alarm, or if any of them struggles, or if they are armed. We might have to start shooting, the noise will rouse the neighborhood. We have no friends in that part of the city,” Mohammed warned. “If there is a problem our men may be martyred or captured.” He shrugged. “It is a risk, my friend, it will be as God wills.”
“Then let it be so, and may the Grace of God be with your men, Mohammed. But let it be today, tonight, tomorrow, not later than the next day, my friend. I am worried about this man, he must be dealt with quickly.”
They arrived at the small restaurant; it was crowded. The conversation was over as far as business was concerned. Khalid began to talk animatedly about the retail gold jewelry market as they found a table near the doors and ordered their breakfast. Mohammed did his best to make the small talk, but his mind was racing ahead to all the things he would have to do today.
When it came, the bread was hot, the hummus flavored with garlic and onion. Mohammed tried not to hurry, but he was out of things to talk about and he needed to get on with his mission. He was glad when Khalid pushed his chair a little way back from the table and laid his napkin on the table, rising to leave.
“Salaam,” Khalid said. “Go in the protection of God.”
“Salaam, go in the protection of The Generous One” Mohammed replied. He watched Khalid leave and sat a few more minutes to finish the last of the bread.
For his part, Khalid felt better now that he had put things in motion. “Mohammed is a good man,” he thought. “Careful, almost to a fault, but a good man anyway. He knows how to get things done at any rate, and once I have him moving he will do what he’s told. When he has had more action, seen more people killed, he will be a real lion.” This made him smile.
But he had much more to do. It was now nearly nine-thirty, and things would be starting to move in Paris by this time. He quickened his pace, taking a different route back to
his apartment to retrieve his car, a white Nissan sedan. He did not go to the apartment, but unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel. He pulled out into the heavy traffic to weave his way out to the highway and from there onto the causeway to Bahrain. He had a message for Ibrahim, and it must be delivered this morning when the man checked his email at ten Paris time.
IX. Paris/Langley/Dhahran
Just a half a block West from the Hotel Agora Saint-Germaine along the Rue des Ecoles there was a small patisserie with really excellent French breads and pastries, and the coffee might just have been the best one could buy in Paris. It was strong, viscous, and with the right amount of steamed milk and a teaspoon of sugar it packed almost the same punch as a café cortado in Miami, only in a bigger cup. The bakery was not large, but large enough, and in this part of Paris it did a brisk breakfast business for tourists and locals alike.
It was not yet crowded, seven-thirty is early for everyone in Paris outside the modern business district to the west of the old city. There were only a few locals in the shop, and perhaps one or two visiting businessmen who were not over their jet lag yet. There was one couple, speaking Dutch, who were evidently out to make the most of their day in Paris with an early start. One of the businessmen was obviously French, dressed in dark olive slacks and square-toed polished black shoes, a black ribbed turtleneck sweater, a Breitling watch on his left wrist, and dark hair and piercing blue eyes, very awake at this time of the morning. A thigh-length black leather jacket hung from the chair across the table from his own, his briefcase on the chair as well. He was remarkable only in that he could have walked off the page of any fashion magazine for sale that day in Paris, and therefore not remarkable at all. He was drinking one of the café’s cups of excellent coffee with obvious joy, munching on croissants and crusty rolls with butter and marmalade, reading the early morning edition of Le Monde.
Inside the newspaper was a copy of USA Today. Paul Cameron read intermittently as he watched the street outside the windows in the direction of the hotel, checking to his left occasionally up the Rue Vallette in the direction of the Metro station at Maubert-Mutualite. The joy he was getting from the coffee was completely genuine.
True to his usual pattern, he’d come wide awake at around two in the morning, his first night after a trip across the Atlantic. There had been no sleep from two until around four, and then a restless thrashing that lasted until the alarm clock rang at five-thirty. It was the same every time he came East, it would be worse tonight and hell tomorrow night, but by the fourth night he always slept well. In the meantime he would eat heartily and enjoy the coffee. It was the only thing that seemed to help with the adjustment. Even if it didn’t the coffee kept him alert.
He’d showered and shaved quickly and was out of his hotel by six. From the Metro Station at Les Halles, he hopped the number 4 purple train to Odeon, then switched to the gold number ten line to Cardinal Lemoine station. There he’d left the metro and stepped into the all-night Kinkos shop to check his email and see what he could expect out of Smith today.
There had been no email, but he sent one of his own:
Smith,
I have re-located Falcon and he is safe for the time being. What do you have on our friend Mr. Kisani?
If you’re in Paris it’s time we met. Set it up. If you are not, arrange for someone who can provide some support to meet me, either military or agency, but not at the embassy. Needs to be someone discrete, not obviously American, and above all effective in the field. No bullshit. I’m a bit out of my depth here, and time for you professionals to pitch in.
I have some initial information I think I should pass on as well, it may be time-sensitive and I’d like someone working on it as soon as possible.
I will try to check this address again around noon Paris time. Meantime, I’m going to pick up a cellular phone, will send the number with my next mail.
Phoenix.
If Smith was at Langley Cameron hoped he was the type who started early and worked late. He didn’t want to wait six hours or more for a reply, things needed to get moving today. Before he left he’d also sent a note to his wife, from the address he usually used when they traveled together:
Elizabeth,
Strange to be in Paris without you, but things are going well. I had lunch yesterday at the little restaurant in the Place Chatelet that we used so many times on our last trip. Good sandwiches still.
Listen, let’s plan on a trip to Grand Cayman when I get back. See what you can find for tickets, maybe the week after next. The high season will be over, so it won’t be too expensive. I’m going to need some scuba diving, sun, and daiquiris when I’m done here, and so are you.
Love you,
Paul
The Kinkos clerk knew a cellular kiosk a few blocks away that opened around nine. He planned to buy two phones, one for himself, one for Fahd. Email was too slow and the cafés too exposed for quick communication, and he had a feeling they might need to be easily in touch.
He’d approached this café from the East, across the street from the Hotel Agora which had been Fahd’s home until the move last night. There was almost no car traffic at this time of the morning, and no foot traffic at all. It would have made any one staking out the hotel stick out, but there was no one. He was sure that would change relatively early this morning, which was why he’d come so early himself. Either that, or these guys were stupid, sloppy, and not worth worrying about, but he didn’t think that was likely to be the case.
Cameron ordered another cup of the coffee. It was getting close to eight o’clock, and foot traffic was beginning to pick up on the street outside. Inside, too, things were starting to get more crowded, the noise level increasing with more conversation, more sounds of eating and cooking. The Dutch couple got up and left, turning west on the Rue des Ecoles toward the Sorbonne, no doubt. The woman caught his eye as she passed by outside the window and smiled the warm, Dutch smile. He returned it and raised his cup in salute, watching her and the husband go, turning his head left to look over his shoulder as they went.
It was a lucky thing, seeing him then, although he would have seen him anyway eventually. The big man came walking down Rue Vallette from the Metro station there to his left. He walked heavily, but not in a clumsy way, a walk that said “strength” but not “grace” or “speed”. He was dressed much like the Spanish hoods who’d done the mugging, black from head to toe. His hair was jet black, prominent nose, dark eyes and bushy brows, the skin dark even for an Egyptian. Cameron decided immediately that he was Egyptian, the features unmistakable in his mind, so similar to all the Egyptians he’d drunk tea with in carpet shops from Bahrain and the Emirates all the way to Morocco.
Cameron made another show of toasting the retreating Dutch woman and returned to his paper and croissants, watching the big Egyptian in his peripheral vision as the man turned the corner and walked away East toward the hotel. Halfway down the block he looked to his right and left, then abruptly crossed to the South side of the street where was lost from Cameron’s view. The angle was not right. It didn’t matter. He’d been seen, Cameron had been right to come. The Paris cell had resources beyond Ahmed al-Kisani, and from the looks of this guy they were ready to start playing for keeps.
“Wonder if they know we rolled Ahmed, or if they know about him at all, yet?” he thought to himself, chuckling quietly. Not likely, yet. He settled in with his paper and coffee to waste the time between now and nine when the phone kiosk would open. He had time, the Egyptian was not going anywhere, not without Fahd, who wasn’t likely to come walking out of the Hotel Agora anytime soon. “Good guys are ahead in this game so far,” he mused. When he went out for the phones he’d take a better look at the big guy.