Retribution (11 page)

CHAPTER 16

 

“T
his is not typical.” The instructor in his blue flight suit stood under the covered porch of the cabin. It was a constant rain. On any other day, the porch would have had an unobstructed view of the crystal blue waters of Lake Rotorua. The volcanic mountains that surrounded the lake framed the view like the Grand Tetons.

A class of only three flight students sat in their chairs holding on their laps the three-ring binders of flight instructions. Their faces did not reflect a wealth of experience.

“So who do we have here? It's a nice class size. We can learn much from each other.” He was right. They always wanted more students but three and the instructor fit perfectly into the aircraft. “We have one from Darwin?”

A man of thirty looked up from his seat leaned up against the post of the porch.

“You are training for a hunting guide service.”

“That's right,” he said with a smile, his Australian accent thick.

“And one from Sydney?”

“Yes, sir.” This kid seemed barely old enough to drive. He looked no more than fifteen, but in reality, he had logged the most flight hours.

“And a young lady.”

She nodded, clearly determined to be silent and quiet.

“You are training to fly for one of the oil companies?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, welcome to the Lake. You will learn that our bird drags like hell and is unforgiving. If you sneeze on a landing or takeoff, you will flip head over heel until you are sausage.”

He paused for a second.

“But the float plane can take you to places no one else can go, and no one will ever know you are there.”

CHAPTER 17

 

P
arker pulled up the collar of his coat to block the drizzle from the late fall storm. It was another wet day, and he found London in late fall depressing. At least he had a new Barbour rain jacket suited to the climate. He wouldn't wear a cap, and his long hair and new beard were damp from the continuous drizzle. So he stood there, in the dark and rain and cold at nearly three in the morning, waiting for a bus that should soon be arriving carrying a certain man.

He was exhausted. His trip had grown lengthy long before his arrival in London. On a C-37 Gulfstream to Germany he boned up with the language instructor from Monterey on the subtleties of Bosnian and Arab languages. The Agency jet was set up more like a small office, from end to end, with documentation, clothing, haircuts, inoculations, cultural training, and everything else that could be crammed in. He'd had no time or room for sleeping. Fortunately, after meeting the real Zabara in Germany, Parker was able to get one hard, solid hour of sleep on the flight to England.

Parker rarely had self-doubt. He had learned some time ago that doubt can never be a benefit to anything. But in only a few days he had gone from private citizen to deep-cover agent.

The reason for the mission obliterated any doubt: Everything the Agency knew, everything that they told him about Yousef al-Qadi, only confirmed what he suspected. Not only had he helped kill Parker's parents, he would also kill many thousands more if not stopped.

A fire-engine-red double-decker bus pulled around the corner, and Parker climbed onto its rear, heading directly toward the stairway to the second deck. A man with a baseball hat stood on the first step, blocking the stairs with his weightlifter's body. Parker measured well over six feet, but the stranger towered above him. The guard had a crew cut below his cap, clearly a member of the military. Parker took a step toward the stairway and the stranger put his hand across the landing and grabbed the railing on the other side.

Parker glanced around to see that the few remaining passengers were sitting up front near the driver. It was a slow day and, being mid-morning, the passenger traffic had slowed down considerably. He leaned over to the man.

“Scott.”

The oversized stranger immediately pulled his arm away from the railing.

Parker climbed the curved stairs up to the second deck. It was empty except for one man sitting near the front reading the
London Times
.

Scott laid down the newspaper when the bearded man came up and sat down in the seat across from him

“Well, William, it's good to see that you made it.”

“Thanks.”

“Our unit has put together several articles for you. They should keep the hook baited.” With the help of MI6, Parker was to publish a quick series of fiery op-ed pieces supposedly penned by Sadik Zabara. Britain's own Scotland Yard had not been told the truth, that “Zabara” was in fact a deep plant, for fear of a potential leak. Consequently, Parker, aka Zabara, was already being listed by several domestic law-enforcement agencies as a danger. His initial comparison of Al Qaeda to the American Revolutionary heroes had already stung his host country twice while rapidly making him into a folk hero for the extremist Muslim community in Great Britain.

“The e-mail from Yousef came.”

“Yes.”

“I'm supposed to be in Peshawar by noon on November seventh.”

Scott blinked. “What else?”

“Nothing. It simply said that if I wanted to meet a great leader I was to be at the Khyber bazaar at noon.”

“That's it?”

“I imagine Yousef has not survived this long without being cautious.”

“This is a new PDA,” Scott changed the subject abruptly, handing Parker what looked like a BlackBerry cell phone. Unlike a BlackBerry, however, it had no logos on it. “It wasn't ready for you earlier.”

“Okay.”

“It's a Sectéra Edge. It can handle top-secret, and if you lose your password, it becomes a four-ounce brick. No one can get into it.”

“An Edge? That's poetic.” Parker was leery of having his life depend upon any technology, let alone a cell phone, but he wasn't planning on using it much anyway.

“It has your new articles attached to the e-mail in it.” Scott knew that Parker could retype the stories, adding his touches that identified his style, and submit them to the editor.

“Watch this.” Scott held up the phone. “It's Bosnian.” The initial screen showed a bold blue-and-white Telekom Srpske logo. “You have to go through two windows and a password to get into the inner phone.”

Parker took the phone and scanned through the initial screens.

“What about my backup?” Parker asked, referring to Afghanistan.

“We've got your support team ready.”

“Moncrief has to be on it.”

Scott nodded.

“And I need to meet the leader of the team.”

“Okay.”

“How's the missus?” Scott asked wryly, referring to Zabara's wife and her niece, who were living with him.

Parker was not amused. “At night she comforts her niece, who still cries for her parents.” Parker had spent hours already listening to Zabara's wife rocking the child in her arms and singing to her softly in their Bosnian language. It was not pleasant.

“Well, once they get through this, they get their golden ticket.”

“What do you mean?”

“All three of them will be relocated to the U.S., get new names, and be made American citizens.”

Parker had assumed as much. Still, he was amazed at what the wife was putting her niece and self through. Zabara was being kept well out of sight, probably at some remote location in Scotland.

“Scott, I need you to do something.”

Scott shrugged.

“A favor.”

“What is it?”

Parker knew he had Scott over a barrel. The entire mission depended upon this one man. At this point, any request could be made.

“I need you to get me somewhere by tomorrow night at the latest.” Parker handed him an address written on a piece of paper.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, very.”

Scott stood as the bus approached its next stop.

“This is where I get off. The password for your phone is x-ray, alpha, niner, question mark, five, percent.” Scott spelled it out so there would be no doubt.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. It's just what the techs say is a reliable password. Take care that you don't forget it. I'll e-mail you about your request.”

Parker watched as Scott—clearly not happy about Parker's special request—and his bodyguard crossed over Green Street and hailed a taxi. He activated the telephone and typed in the password. A Microsoft Windows operating system opened. Parker selected the e-mail application and saw only one, from Scott.

“Whatever you need.” It had, as an attachment, two new stories.

Parker turned it off and slipped it into one of the inner pockets of the Barbour coat. It was getting colder.
Might even see some snow.
That's when it occurred to him. He was the same city where his parents had spent their last night. It had snowed then as well.

Yeah,
he thought,
This is worth it.

CHAPTER 18

 

Y
ousef al-Qadi had not been to the capital of Saudi Arabia in nearly a decade. He had not been home. He had not been allowed home. The House of Saud had made it clear that he was not welcome. And then, suddenly, he had been summoned.

ArRiyadh,
he thought as he looked out over the early morning skyline as the Gulfstream jet circled for landing. The fresh air of the morning seemed to amplify the sparkle of silver-tinted glass, steel, and aluminum and the giant palm trees that surrounded the buildings. The city had a population of barely a million when he'd last left.

It began as an oasis, a garden surrounded by the wasteland of the desert. Now Riyadh had grown to more than six million. As his airplane tilted in its turn, the sun flashed off the tall buildings of glass and steel, which spread out across the skyline. Riyadh had been kind to the inspirations and unlimited budgets of young architects. The Al Faisaliah Tower's point stood out just beyond the airfield. It appeared more like the point of some gigantic spaceship ready for launch into the stratosphere. Again, across the city and beyond the King Fahd Highway, the bright Markaz Al-Mamlakah skyscraper seemed to confirm that the students of I. M. Pei had been given the city as a playground. The glimmering metallic tower dominated the skyline, rising over a thousand feet from the desert floor.

As a member of the Muslim Brotherhood, Yousef was a descendant of the House of Saud. Unlike bin Laden, although born in Riyadh as well, Yousef was not the son of a Yemeni immigrant. In that regard, Yousef 's banishment had been more painful.

It had taken the death of bin Laden for Yousef to be summoned back home; and even so, his return would be brief, only for one specific meeting with the secretary of the Bay'ah Council. Politics were divided in his homeland. Some were happy about bin Laden's death. Others thought of Yousef as necessary and needed. He was the new bin Laden. But even his supporters worried about how far he was willing to go. Yousef wanted a new pure Muslim state shaped out of the wilderness. It was an unpredictable event.

The Royal Saudi jet landed and taxied up to the general aviation terminal, where it parked in line with nearly a dozen other Gulfstreams, Boeing business jets, and Boeing 767s built as exclusive private aircrafts. A white GMC Yukon with two security escort vehicles were waiting as the jet pulled up. One of the escort Humvees was topless with a machine gun and gunner in the back. The vehicles cut across the city on the multilaned King Fahd Highway, flying at breakneck speed as they cut from lane to lane. The highway was tiered with four lanes above and four lanes below. Yousef looked up as the drivers of the cars in the lanes above stared down when they heard the sirens. The city was far more tense than the city he knew as a child. It seemed on edge.

The security escorts peeled off as the Yukon entered the grounds of the palace of the secretary. As a member of the Bay'ah Council, the secretary was one of the most powerful men on earth. In 2006, by royal decree, King Abdullah had carved into stone the creation of a new Bay'ah Council, a council with virtually unlimited power. It would choose the next ruler of the kingdom, who would control well over 25 percent of the world's oil. And the Council not only chose the next king. It would also determine who would never be king.

The kingdom had struggled for years after a stroke had incapacitated the former crown prince. On several occasions, the power struggle almost erupted into bloodshed. The sons of the House of Saud realized that the incapacitation caused as much risk to the stability of Saudi Arabia as any war. Much depended now on the Council's judgment, wisdom, and speed.

“
As sala'amu alaikum,
” the secretary greeted Yousef at the entrance, below a high arch of white stone and a stained-glass ceiling. Waterfalls on both sides of the entrance gave a backdrop of sound that was almost deafening. To the desert, it was a commodity far rarer than oil.

“
Walaikum as sala'am
.”

Yousef knew the secretary from their days at elementary school many decades ago. Now they were both middle-aged men. The secretary, however, was dressed in one of his bespoke suits. Gieves & Hawkes provided a private tailor from Savile Row to visit him regularly twice a year. His face was full and round, unlike his distant cousin's bony face, and his beard neatly trimmed. He had the sweet smell of Grafton, a London gentlemen's aftershave, along with tobacco.

Yousef, relegated to playing the poor country cousin, smiled to himself at the thought of their respective, starkly separate worlds.

“Come with me, Cousin.”

Yousef knew the secretary was being generous in calling him
cousin
. He could have called him
brother
, as in the Muslim faith, but it would have had less of a meaning than
cousin
. He led him through the hallway, across a vast room with red and gold carpets and Louis XV–styled, gold-trimmed settee sofas and chairs, to a sitting area that looked out over a garden that extended for hundreds of meters.

Yousef felt no pangs of envy as he absorbed the surroundings. Yes, all the comforts of the modern world were available if he simply chose another way. But he had chosen his path years ago and his mind was clear. Muhammad had lived a simple life. And so would Yousef.

“Congratulations on your being named secretary.” Yousef suspected that his cousin knew how much he despised him.

“Yes, it is a great honor, but there are always complications.”

“I heard.” Yousef knew that despite the fact that the thirty-five members of the Bay'ah Council were all brothers and sons of brothers, the stakes were too high for politics not to play a part. Thirty-five sons and grandsons of Abdullah bin Abdul Aziz were given the power to select the next ruler from a list of three provided by their king. They also had the power to reject the choices. Without doubt, the one selected would be a son of Aziz. It stood to be a battle of epic proportions. And the battlefield was starting to take shape.

The play to become king required the utmost balancing act of interests. Like the selection of the next pope by the Vatican Council, the early candidates polarized the votes and rarely succeeded. Now, with the death of bin Laden, the princes that supported moving the world by violence had been left without an antagonist.

“I was saddened,” said Yousef, “by the cowardly attack in Pakistan.”

The secretary nodded.

“Do not wonder, Cousin. When the day ends and the sun sets, a new Muslim state will rise to vanquish the infidels.”

Yousef watched the secretary for his reaction. He knew perfectly well that the secretary and those on the Council considered Yousef a dangerous weapon, capable of doing far more harm than good, as far as they were concerned. Rumor had said for some time that Yousef was bent upon being the father of a new Muslim state to be carved out of the western provinces of Pakistan and eastern Afghanistan. Many believed that a new state would begin a rallying call for fundamentalism in the Muslim faith. It would serve as the anchor. It would be a challenge to the constantly Westward-leaning House of Saud. If it hadn't seemed such a ridiculous long shot, Yousef knew, the House of Saud would have acted overtly against him, not simply banished him from the country. But his dream of forming a fundamentalist Muslim state was considered, at best, a long-shot lottery ticket. Now, with the constant strikes on the al-Qaeda leadership, a vacuum had opened up.

“You are an ambitious man,” said the secretary at last, showing no emotional reaction whatsoever.

“You have said that before.”

It was not meant to be a compliment.

“No one has ever doubted you, Yousef.” The secretary stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. He signaled for his servant with the wave of his hand. “Oh, by the way, Saudi Aramco informs me that it is best that we reduce our production.”

“Yes?”

“The production of El Haba will need to be tightened.”

Yousef frowned at the thought of his family's income being reduced, especially as a childishly punitive measure.

“I'm afraid that we all must sacrifice some, my cousin.”

Yousef bit his tongue and nodded. The message had been sent and there was no point in quarreling about it now.

The secretary turned to face Yousef squarely. “Our stability here relies upon the stability of the American market.”

So that was it?
Yousef had been summoned to receive a warning against reacting too severely to the attacks on the al Queda leadership—against carrying out
any
major, anti-American operation before the Council had finished its byzantine maneuvering and named a successor?

“I understand.” Yousef acknowledged the warning without agreeing in any way. “Are we finished?”

“While you are here, you must go by your father's home.”

“There is nothing there for me.”

“My brother, Riyadh will always be your home. Do not turn your back on it.”