*****
Gas tanks full to the brim, the convoy of Suburbans back-tracked a little through the town of Rafha, and just to the west of town the lead vehicle turned left off the paved road onto what Cameron saw was the familiar type of desert track he’d seen many times on weekend outings years ago. Wide, flattened by years of use, devoid of the low brush and scrub that grew here and there out of the flinty sand. He saw as his car passed it the large stone placed at its junction with the main road to mark it’s location—otherwise, he might have passed the track a hundred times looking for the damned thing and never found it. Maps out here were useless, and in the days ten years ago when hand-held GPS receivers were only available to the military and vehicle mounted systems an un-imagined future, the only way to find things like this was to have a narrative description in a book one kept, or inherited from someone who knew, that began at some landmark in Rafha in this case, and ran “ . . .turn West on the Tapline road, marking your odometer, and drive 3.7 kilometers. There look for a large flat-topped rock on the south side of the road, turn here . . .” or something to that effect.
This brought a wry smile and a bit of nostalgia. Despite the fact that it had been a long year, living in Riyadh without Elizabeth and the kids, working in the Saudi Air Force Headquarters, it had after all been fun. There’d been two other F-15 guys with him there: one who he knew well from before, the other who’d been a student under him at the F-15 school four years earlier. They’d got along extremely well, and together with a large group of radar controllers whose job in town was to fly with and train AWACS crews at Riyadh Air Base, they’d all been checked out in scuba diving and spent much of the year’s free time running all over the Kingdom. Scuba, good food and carpet shopping in Jeddah and up and down the Red Sea coast. Weekend day outings in the desert in every conceivable direction from Riyadh, finding tracks like this to the most remote places, but finding what was probably some of the most striking desert scenery in all the world, seldom seen except by expats working in Saudi since there were no tourists allowed in the country. Weekend “camps”, often with the Brits who especially liked to organize them and were exceptionally good at it, with huge fires, enormous dinners, prodigious amounts of moon-shined liquor, beer and wine. More rarely the camps with the Saudi officers, different in many ways and yet very special. And always the clear night sky that fairly blazed with the stars, a cold, hard desert sky that was more blue than black with all that blazing light. Staying up into the small hours, talking, drinking, telling stories, discussing religion and politics with the Saudis, their favorite topics, thinking often of home and yet enjoying the company.
The memory was pleasant, and anticipation welled in his mind. This would no doubt be a spectacular affair tonight—when he’d lived here he had not been that close with Fahd, and they had not camped together that he could remember. He was sure, however, that Fahd intended to show lavish hospitality, on the one hand because they were very close now, had been since School, and on the other hand because he was near his home: he had his family and tribe to do well by—it was a matter of family and tribal pride.
The town was behind them, beyond a low hill and a mile or two distant, and all around the little convoy was an unbroken sea of sand, an odd color: tan as one would expect, but there was just the smallest tint of red in it. Here and there it had drifted into dunes, some fifteen and twenty feet high. In other spots the ground was bare, hard, with scattered fragments of flint strewn on the surface. To the west the sun had touched the horizon which was beginning to glow red. Somewhere near the zenith overhead the sky turned a darker blue, blended through purple and was utterly black on the left away East. It looked like it would be a black night.
Another two miles, the track was mostly level, but now they were bouncing along a good deal as they crossed spots that had drifted over with fingers of sand a foot deep or so, and the pace had to slow. The driver shifted into four wheel drive, the convoy slowed to a snarling crawl. Fifteen minutes took them only ten kilometers down the road, a sad, painful, jarring, monotonous fifteen minutes that seemed much longer, but then a bend in the road with dunes to left and right, turning left between them, then right again as another dune loomed in front out of the growing dark, back left and there was the camp.
“Ah, we are here Paul,” Fahd offered matter-of-factly, but anyone could see he was pleased by the look on his face.
Pleased because of the look on Cameron’s. His mouth agape, Cameron was staring at the camp arranged in a broad rectangle, six enormous Bedouin tents ranged along four sides, with a gap facing north. In the center a large fire was burning high, along the inner perimeter there were electric lights on head-high poles at every tent corner. That piece seemed so out of place it took him a moment to remember a similar occasion, and he suspected that over beyond the dune to the east, or perhaps that one to the south, there would be a truck or a trailer with a very large generator to supply the power. He chuckled out loud. The last time he’d seen that, there’d also been another truck with a cabin on the back, the cabin containing four full bathrooms with running water and all the comforts of home.
“Well, Fahd, I am amazed,” was all he could say for now.
“Excellent, I’d hoped you would be.”
But now they’d parked at the western end of the camp, and they piled out with all the rest. Men were coming out of the tents, greetings flying everywhere, and Cameron noted some of the people made the shallowest of bows when they greeted Fahd. This went on in a confused lump for a minute or two, and then Fahd issued some instructions in a kindly voice. The camp men split into two groups, one heading for the tents on the north of the square—one had to be the kitchen tent, Cameron guessed—the others for the suburban with Fadia and the family. Soon baggage was carrying across the sand, the women were moving, swathed head to toe in black, and all disappeared into the tents the far side of the square.
Ripley came up and said quietly, “I don’t really think this counts as camping, Colonel. Where they hell are they getting the electricity?”
“Well, I’m guessing, but probably the other side of that dune, or that one, you’ll find a generator. They place them like that so you can’t hear it, works pretty well if the location is right. This is perfect.”
“Really perfect,” injected Allen, as he joined. “Very good site selection for defense, too. See how it’s covered on all sides by the dunes? And notice the lights have shades on tops, no light into the sky. I never even saw the place until we rounded the corner. These guys know their business. You think there’s going to be dinner, Colonel?”
“Oh, I should think we won’t be hungry at all, but it might be awhile. Saudis dine late. There should be some snacks soon, though—I think that guy over there is cooking pita bread. Let’s get our gear, gents.” He walked over to where Fahd was talking to one of his cousins, for cousin he was, and said, “Fahd, which tent shall I take with the other guys?”
“I was just asking Musa the same question, Paul. These two, closest to the vehicles, are for you and your people. The family and I will be across the way, other side of the fire. The servants in those two on the north, the rest of the men in the two end tents on the south, there. The middle tent with the side open to the fire is for the majlis.”
“Ah, so it is,” Cameron saw now that inside this tent there were carpets covering the sand, and its inner walls were lined with cushions.
“It is such a fine evening, though, Paul, I’ve suggested we dine outside. I hope you agree.”
“Of course. Now, let me and the brothers Grimm stow our gear, and we’ll meet you over there for some tea, I imagine.” He paused for an awkward moment. “Uh, Fahd, should we be armed, for any reason? I’m not sure of the situation, to be honest.”
Fahd laughed. “Right again—I had just gotten Musa’s opinion on that as well. No, I don’t think so tonight, Paul. They saw no one on the drive here from al-Ha’il, and Musa took
the precaution of having a vehicle wait an hour or two at one point hidden behind a dune off the road, to see if anyone was following out of sight, and there was nothing. The men have all come up now, and we have a good position here as you can see. But there will be lookouts tonight anyway, one can never be sure about people and goods smuggling into Iraq since the war, but we think we are quite safe. There’s no tea just yet, sorry, it is not ready, and there will be about two hours before dinner. You will find some bread, dates, and Pepsi in your tents, though, and water to wash off some of the dust of the day. You may find a nap is just the thing after that. I will send someone for you if you oversleep, but we will probably see dinner around 7:30 or 8. Now, I’m going to settle the family, so I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks, Fahd, this is marvelous, see you at around 8 then.” They smiled and parted. But Cameron grimaced. He was hungry, and he worried that 8 might become 10 before dinner was served. It would be a big meal to be sure, but he hoped there was a big pile of bread in the tent as he rounded the back of the Suburban to get his bag and looked at Allen, a large man looking very hungry. This shock reminded him of how soldiers could eat, and animal instinct took over. He grabbed his things and turned fast toward the tent while Allen and Ripley stirred around in the gear in the back of the truck.
It was still warm in the tent, but not as hot as it was in the sun. His eyes adjusted quickly to the relative gloom and he surveyed the space. Along the two sides and the back wall there were carpets topped with a variety of cushions. Near the center at the back lay a neat stack of the curious faux-fur blankets that seemed to be everywhere in a Saudi department store, garishly colored in animal prints, Hollywood movie themes, and the like. The sight reminded him of his last camping trip, where it seemed all the Saudis had one of these, and used it instead of a sleeping bag for his bed. Cameron shook his head thinking of the oddity of this choice, the strangeness of the Kingdom in so many ways. But right in the middle of the tent there was a circular aluminum platter about three feet in diameter, and on it the pile of flat pita-like bread, a large bowl of dates, a smaller bowl of nuts looking like pistachios, and a pyramid of canned colas. He tossed his pack and gear into a pile near the blanket stack and sat crosslegged at the platter, looking toward the door, and began to eat.
Ripley and Allen walked into the tent through the square of dazzling sunlight a few minutes later. They too paused briefly to adjust to the dimness, but grasped the situation immediately and tossed their things in heaps to left and right. The pile of bread diminished fast, the dates disappeared, nuts crunched away, only the Pepsi, lukewarm and no ice, looked likely to survive. Satisfied for the moment, Cameron rolled toward his bag and a blanket. “Dinner at around eight, gentlemen, and someone will come to wake us. Siesta time.” He was out and very deep down in what seemed like no time at all.
XXII. Langley/Taif
Jones emerged from his briefing with the DDO and crossed the outer office, smiling at the pleasant secretary who seemed to have a face that could both snarl and smile back at the same time. Outside he crossed the hall and got on the elevator heading for the second floor.
His pitch had gone pretty well. The Boss contributed a couple of things he didn’t know—that the French service was actively engaged and had indeed been the guys that bagged the suspect outside the Amman embassy; that they bagged a few more bad guys around town using the data on his cell phone, and that since about midnight last night local time traffic on most of their cell phone contacts had gone pretty much silent. He now had an overhead image of the town of al-Hail, and he thought he could identify the compound that Cameron and party were headed for. The analysts were still looking at the picture, but he didn’t think there was going to be anything earth shattering to come from that.
There was nothing yet on any of the American passports they were looking for, or the Saudi men who held them. That was one of the seams in the system that wasn’t quite solved yet. There was not any concrete way to randomly request anyone to monitor the hundreds of airlines in the world for the appearance of any of up to a thousand men and their US passports. Instead, what the US government wheedled out of its allies was the provision of lists of passengers after they boarded. These lists were necessarily a little late to the party from Jones’ point of view as it was, but even worse, he had to wait for them to make their way through the national government in the country of departure, usually the aviation ministry, and from there to the FAA in the US and sometimes but not always simultaneously through the Department of Homeland Security and the Director of National Intelligence. Even if those steps happened with the best will in the world, and with the most enthusiastic spirit of cooperation between agencies, it could not happen in less than a few hours. Often, it was at least a day. The flight from Heathrow to New York or Boston took just over seven hours, to someplace in Canada it would be even less, and then it was often an easy and short drive across the border. Amid that good news there was always the less-often-considered option of a nice, slow cruise ship from Europe to the US—uncommon, expensive, slow, but infinitely less susceptible to monitoring. And then there were the possibilities of booking passage on a freighter from just about anywhere to just about any US port, with a Captain or a company that might be more or less honest, and the difficulties boggled the mind. Every half-witted intelligence agent on the planet knew that it was easy and perfectly legitimate to travel the world in a merchant fleet cabin, in fact, it was a relatively common way for elder Europeans to see the world, and it was cheap. And then the Mexican border did not even bear thinking about . . .
Jones turned into his office looking sour, took a seat in the chair and swiveled to stare out the window, across the lawn at the now sunlit forest. Hard to believe he’d been staring into the darkened forest just three days ago, or was it four, hoping to get into the game and now right back here. “Well, no use complaining about that,” he said aloud. He focused instead on the edge of the forest, trying to see what was moving out there among the trunks or in the air between the branches, and trying at the same time to sort out a way to find his Saudi needles in the enormous haystack of the global transportation system. He was sure they were out there, sure that he knew who they were, and almost sure that the train wreck called Phoenix was likely to have spurred them to act, or at least to move, sooner than they’d planned. He hoped that also meant sooner than they were ready. “But hope is not a plan,” he mumbled.