Blowback (27 page)

RIYADH

SAUDI ARABIA

Chip Reynolds loved the hypocrisy of it all. After spending hours in their mosque listening to a radical imam spew anti-American hate speech, the first thing the three young fundamentalists did was head to a downtown Starbucks for iced Frappuccinos. America might be the great Satan, but their coffee concoctions were nothing short of a divine paradise right here on earth. You can keep your seventy-two dark-eyed virgins, Allah, just make sure the house blend keeps flowing.

Reynolds would have laughed if it wasn’t so despicably sad. Radical Islam blamed America and the West for everything that was wrong with their fucked-up countries. He had had his fill of all of it. He couldn’t wait to get out. He hadn’t been back to his cabin in Montana since his wife had died and didn’t think he’d ever return, but he knew at some point he was going to have to try to put his life back together. One more year and he’d have enough to retire very comfortably, and no matter what his situation, he’d made a promise to himself that he would try. And once he left, he never wanted to set foot in the Mideast or deal with security or intelligence work ever again.

For the time being, though, he had a job to do. He’d been tailing the three young radicals for the past two days, but in that time there’d been no sign of their buddy, Khalid Alomari. This despite the fact that someone in Saudi intelligence was still filing nostalgic remembrances of surveillance days past, claiming that the four youths had been together almost every day over the last three. Something was definitely up, and the sooner Chip Reynolds got to the bottom of it, the better he’d be able to sleep at night.

After finishing their coffees, the young men were preparing to leave when one of them received a phone call. It was times like these when Reynolds wished he still had access to the CIA’s incredible trove of listening devices. Sitting in his Toyota Land Cruiser across the street from the Starbucks with a parabolic microphone balanced on the windowsill, he wasn’t getting anything. What’s more, even with the air conditioning going full blast, the summer heat pouring through the open window was roasting him alive. It was all putting him in a very bad mood.

Whatever the phone call had been, it must have been important, because Mo(hammad), Larry, and Curly had an intense, albeit brief conversation, and then immediately hurried outside to their car.

The late afternoon Riyadh traffic made it difficult to keep up with the three men. In fact, on two separate occasions, Reynolds thought he had lost them, only to recover their car a couple of blocks later. They certainly were being cautious, but none of them had the experience to outmaneuver a seasoned espionage veteran like Reynolds.

An hour later, the men turned onto a dusty access road leading to a seldom-used military airfield south of the city. What the hell were they up to? he wondered.

As the road twisted and turned, Reynolds often lost sight of his quarry for thirty or forty seconds at a time. He had to be very careful not only not to lose them for good but also to make sure that he wasn’t following so closely that they knew someone was behind them. Blending in was one thing in downtown Riyadh or along one of the country’s busy motorways. It was another thing entirely out here in the middle of nowhere.

Coming around yet another curve, Reynolds had just enough time to slam on the brakes and skid to a stop. He managed to back his car up out of sight while he watched the young fundamentalists pick up speed as they hit the final straightaway. Five hundred yards away was the airfield’s not so deserted and very much armed checkpoint. Was that what this was all about? A suicide bombing? It didn’t make any sense. Why waste three men on a job one could have done alone? And why hit such a low-value target? Something like this wouldn’t even make the news, much less the watered-down intelligence briefing Reynolds skimmed each morning.

Reynolds prepared himself for the worst. As the car closed on the checkpoint, he thought he saw their brake lights, but quickly realized it wasn’t brake lights he saw flashing, it was something else. These guys were signaling the soldiers with their headlights! Even odder, the soldiers seemed to be responding.

He watched as two men in uniform rushed down from the guard tower and hurriedly opened the gates. Five seconds later, the car with his three suspects sped through and the gates were closed behind them. They never even slowed down. There was no ID check, nothing. Obviously, they had been expected. Reynolds couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The phrase “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer” came to mind, but this was like the Southern Black Baptist Conference inviting the KKK in for punch and cookies.

As much as he didn’t want to, Reynolds knew he was going to have to get a closer look. He watched as the car headed toward a pair of dilapidated hangars on the far side of the airfield. He pulled off the access road and headed his SUV into the desert. He would have to cut a pretty wide arc to come up on the rear of the airfield without being seen, but it was his only choice.

He drove as close as he dared with the Land Cruiser and then hiked the rest of the way in on foot. Seventy-five yards later, Reynolds spotted the militants’ car and took cover behind a narrow berm. The car was parked in front of an open hangar. A Saudi Arabian National Guard UH60 Blackhawk helicopter sat idling on the tarmac nearby. Things were getting very interesting.

Reynolds removed a pair of Steiner binoculars and peered into the open hangar. Seated on top of cushions scattered across the floor, Bedouin style, were the three young militants along with several men in Royal Saudi Land Forces as well as Saudi Arabian National Guard uniforms. The Saudi Royal Land Forces were charged with external security, while the Saudi National Guard were charged with protecting the Royal Family from internal rebellion and from any possible coup attempts by the Royal Land Forces. What the hell were these guys all doing here together?

Reynolds had brought his somewhat out-of-date parabolic mike along, but he knew that the engine noise from the UH60 would make it impossible to hear anything. Something big was happening, and he needed to know what was going on. Not having brought the proper equipment to circumvent the electric fence surrounding the base, there was no way he could get in closer. Besides, his running and gunning days were over. If these guys really were up to something that they shouldn’t be, there was no question in Reynolds’s mind that they would kill him if they discovered him lurking around the hangar. As much as he didn’t want to, he knew there was only one person he could call for help. Faruq al-Hafez might not be his biggest fan, but he was completely devoted to the Saudi Royal Family, and a meeting of this magnitude was something he’d want to know and hopefully do something about.

Without taking his eyes from the scene inside the hangar, Reynolds fished his cell phone from his pocket, raised it to his mouth, and said, “Call deputy intel minister, cell. “The voice-activated feature began to dial the preprogrammed number, but just as it was starting to ring, Reynolds saw something that made him immediately disconnect the call. Walking out of the adjacent hangar with two large aluminum briefcases in his hands was Faruq al-Hafez himself.

He placed the briefcases on a folding table set up near the mouth of the hangar, popped the lids, and began setting up three stacks of bills. Reynolds watched as a representative from each group came up and collected their money. One of the militants lifted a stack of American currency and fanned through it with his thumb and then shoved the rest of his pile into a dusty, desert-camouflaged knapsack.

The National Guard and Royal Land Force soldiers were far less dramatic than the Wahhabi radical. After a cursory glance, they each piled their money into one of the aluminum cases and shook hands with Faruq. Whatever was going on, everyone seemed to be satisfied.

The National Guard members headed for their UH60 Blackhawk as the representatives from the Saudi army climbed into a Hummer parked on the far side of the hangar. While the militants headed toward their car, the deputy intelligence minister raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth and gave some sort of command. A fraction of a second later, the doors of hangar number two rolled open revealing a sleek Dessault Falcon 50EX business jet. What the hell is he up to? wondered Reynolds. The only time Faruq used one of the Intelligence Ministry jets was when he traveled out of the country. There was only one way to find out.

Reynolds removed his cell phone and voice-dialed the man again.

“Hello?” Faruq responded in Arabic.

Reynolds could hear the whine of the Falcon’s engines in the background. “It’s Chip Reynolds, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, Mr. Reynolds. What is it? I’m quite busy.”

Reynolds watched as al-Hafez entered the hangar. “I have a security matter I’d like to discuss with you. I’m concerned with some activity we’ve seen around one of the northern pumping stations. I’m going to be near your office later today and was hoping we could meet.”

“That won’t be possible,” replied the deputy minister. “I’m on my way out of the country and will be gone for several days.”

“Vacation?” asked Reynolds.

“Business,” said Faruq as he climbed the Falcon’s retractable stairs and paused before entering the cabin. “Whatever this is, I’m sure it’s nothing. If there’s still a problem when I get back, we can discuss it then. “With that, the deputy intelligence minister punched the end button on his cell and climbed into the plane.

Hiking back to his Land Cruiser, Reynolds downed a liter of water from the cooler on his back seat and then reached for his body armor. He had one last lead to pursue, and something told him that with that much money lying around, Mo(hammad), Larry, and Curly were going to be in a shoot first, ask questions later kind of mood.

There was only one road back to Riyadh, and Reynolds got on it as fast as he could. He pushed his Land Cruiser as hard as it would go and beat the militants to the outskirts of the city by a good twenty minutes. By the time they passed him, Reynolds was secreted on a small side street, and they never noticed as he pulled back onto the road and began to follow them.

He had expected the men to return to the small apartment they shared near their mosque, but instead they led him to a large warehouse in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Riyadh. So much for the Saudi government’s campaign to eradicate poverty, thought Reynolds as he passed dwelling after dwelling where the inhabitants were so poor they couldn’t even afford electricity. People could say what they wanted about America, but he had never seen such an enormous or hopeless chasm between the haves and the have-nots than he did in Saudi Arabia.

Risking only one casual drive-by, Reynolds noticed that the building apparently belonged to yet another good-for-nothing member of the Saudi Royal Family-a young prince named Hamal. Reynolds didn’t know which type of Saudi royal he hated more-the heavy-drinking, whoring, spend-like-there’s-no-tomorrow kind, or the ultrareligious, hypocritical, spit-in-the-face-of-the-world, bite-the-hand-that-feeds-you kind. As far as he was concerned, Prince Hamal fell into the latter category. With an Oxford education and a bottomless bank account, Hamal didn’t want for a single thing in his life, yet as a convert to extremist Wahhabism, he never missed an opportunity to strike out at the Saudi monarchy for being bloated, lazy, and corrupt.

Recently, Hamal had taken a page from the British monarchy and had begun issuing royal titles to merchants who were furthering the greater good of Islam and the Islamic world. Much as pastry shops and shirt makers were being recognized as official purveyors to the crown in England, Hamal was recognizing businesses that made life better for Muslims around the globe. While quietly the higher-ups in the Saudi Royal Family were more than a little upset at not having been consulted before the young man embarked on his endeavor, they liked the idea of the Saudi name supporting people who bettered the lives of the followers of Islam. What’s more, Hamal was the brains behind the bottled water that supposedly came from a secret spring beneath Mecca. Reynolds thought it was all a crock, right down to how Hamal claimed he was donating all the proceeds to worthy Muslim charities.

That move was surely a winner with the Royal Family. Ever since 9/11, the Saudis had been forced to discontinue their highly successful charity drives on television, which had brought in hundreds of millions of dollars for various Islamic groups worldwide. The U.S. had seen it as blatant fundraising for terrorists, and though the Saudi monarchy didn’t necessarily agree, they had buckled under the pressure from their staunchest Western ally.

The money Prince Hamal’s venture stood to raise and the positive spin it placed upon the Royal Family meant that the powers that be were willing to look the other way and forget that he had never even attempted to go through the proper channels before setting up shop. At the end of the day, the Saudi monarchy had seen his effort at worst as worthwhile and at best as a way to keep the radical young prince out of their hair and maybe a means by which he could grow to be less of a pain in their collective ass.

After parking his car and surveying the building from the rooftop of an abandoned building down the street, Reynolds knew he wasn’t going to be able to leave until he got a look at what was going on inside. Finding a small slice of shade, he waited until most of the neighborhood’s residents had left for afternoon prayers before making his way down to the pavement. He had hoped that Mo, Larry, and Curly would leave the warehouse to attend prayers as well, but today just wasn’t turning out to be his day.

Stopping at his Land Cruiser, Reynolds pulled a twelve-gauge Remington 870 tactical shotgun from inside the cargo area and wrapped it inside a cheap prayer rug he had bought at one of Riyadh ’s many souks.

He did one complete turn around the outside of the warehouse by foot, trying to find the best entry point. He stopped outside the blacked-out, bar-covered windows of what appeared to be the ware-house’s office, but was unable to hear anything above the steady roar of the industrial-strength air conditioners. With his sweaty right hand shoved inside the wool rug and wrapped around the Remington’s pistol grip, the whir of the machines only served to remind him of how goddamn hot he was. Jesus, was he sick and tired of Saudi Arabia.

Continuing on to the loading dock area, Reynolds kept looking for a way in, but the building was more secure than a bank vault. With steel-reinforced doors and bars covering what other few windows there were, the three Wahhabi stooges were obviously a lot more capable of keeping people out of their warehouse than they were of keeping people off their tail while driving. Reynolds realized that the only way he was going to get a look inside was if someone invited him.

By the time he came back around near the office, he had come to the conclusion that the best way to gain an invitation was to first smoke somebody out from inside. Setting his shotgun cum prayer rug against the side of the building, he removed his Benchmade tactical folding knife from his back pocket, popped open the circuit breaker covers for the air-conditioning units, and started knocking them offline one by one.

With one hundred plus degree temperatures raging outside, he figured it wouldn’t take too long for the people inside the building to start feeling the heat. The other thing Reynolds hoped he was right about was that with only one car parked in the warehouse’s parking lot, there was no one other than Mo, Larry, and Curly inside. Any more than that, and he could end up with a serious problem on his hands.

Picking his prayer rug back up, he leaned behind the office door and waited. Ten minutes later, he heard the sound of someone unlocking the door from the inside. Quietly, he unwrapped the shotgun and threw the rug off to the side.

There was the sound of voices from inside as the man’s colleagues urged him to hurry up and figure out what had gone wrong with the air conditioners. Reynolds waited until the man had stepped all the way outside and the door had closed behind him before pursing his lips and making the sound of two quick kisses.

The man spun around, only to be knocked unconscious by the butt of Reynolds’s shotgun. The only thing he would remember, if anything at all, was that his assailant wasn’t an Arab. That was probably one of the biggest advantages Reynolds had going for him. Saudi Arabia was awash with foreign contractors and consultants, and outside the people he worked with, nobody knew who the hell he was.

There was no knob or handle on the outside of the door. It could only be opened with a key. Fishing a set of keys from the militant’s pocket, Reynolds found the correct one, slid it into the lock, and slowly opened the door. It swung silently back on its hinges, and Reynolds stepped out of the heat and into the hallway of the considerably cooler offices.

Less than five feet away, he could hear two men talking. Not knowing how long their colleague outside would be napping, Reynolds decided not to waste any time.

Sweeping through the main office door, he brought the Remington up to the firing position and yelled at both of the men in Arabic to get intimate with the carpeting.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, as if they were telepathically connected, they both acted at the same time. One of them snatched up an AK-47 while the other made a beeline out a side door and into the warehouse.

Before the man with the AK could get his finger anywhere near the trigger, Reynolds hit him with three rounds from the Remington that nearly tore him in half and sent his bloody body flying across the room. Two stooges down, one to go.

It had been a while since Reynolds had seen this kind of action, and his heart was pumping a mile a minute as he crept into the packed warehouse. Pallets of bottled water as well as what appeared to be various spices were stacked floor to ceiling.

Reynolds tried to concentrate on finding the last remaining Wahhabi wiseguy. Once he was neutralized, Reynolds could drag their unconscious colleague in from outside and start tearing the place apart.

He heard a noise from the other end of the building that sounded like metal scraping on metal. Peeking out from behind the pallet of water bottles he was using for cover, Reynolds took aim with the shotgun and pulled the trigger two more times, but it was no use. The remaining militant had opened one of the doors near the loading bay and had taken off.

There was no telling what contacts the man might have in the neighborhood, so Reynolds had to act fast.

After a quick sweep of the warehouse that turned up nothing of real value, he ran back to the office and tore the entire place apart as he searched for anything that would explain what the hell these people were up to and what the meeting he had witnessed earlier in the day had all been about.

He was extremely thorough, but the office was shaping up to be another dead end. Ready to give up, Reynolds swept the assorted office supplies off one of the desks in frustration and in doing so sent the desk blotter sailing. As it hit the floor, he noticed several pages sticking out from underneath it.

Picking the pages up, Reynolds began reading. They didn’t make any sense. There were lists of currency exchanges, payday loan operations, check-cashing businesses, convenience stores, taxicab companies, and gas stations across the United States. It was all very strange.

Reynolds had no idea what he might have uncovered. It might have been nothing, but taking into consideration everything else he had already seen, he was suspicious enough to want somebody else back in the States to take a look at it.

There was just one problem. Reynolds needed to get the information to someone who’d take it seriously enough not to hand it off and let it get buried. It would also have to be someone who wouldn’t ask a lot of questions about how he got it. With a dead militant and the Saudi Royal Family involved, whoever he reached out to not only would have to have a good amount of power, but also be someone he could trust to do the right thing.

Going to the top at the CIA was definitely out of the question. Reynolds had been gone just long enough to lose what halfway reliable contacts he had in the director’s office. As he shoved the documents into his pocket, he realized there was only one person who could help him. After wiping down the office for prints, he snuck through the warehouse and used the set of keys he had taken from the first militant to let himself out one of the side doors. When he reached his truck, he waited until he was well away from the neighborhood and wasn’t being followed before he picked up his cell phone and dialed the number of his old friend and colleague back in DC.

As the phone began to ring, he hoped like hell Gary Lawlor was at his desk.