Keys to the Kingdom (19 page)

CHAPTER 26

Washington DC

‘You said you’d fucking handle it,’ Alan Simpson normally loved walking along the Mall at lunchtime in early summer. Today he was apoplectic with anger at Lucius Adams. Ahead of them a queue of tourists snaked around the Washington Monument. Children, bored by the wait, broke from the queue and gambolled on the grass. Around the monument, young girls in their summer dresses sat eating picnic lunches. It was a scene that, for Simpson, typified America.  

‘Keep your Goddamned drawers on,’ Lucius Adams replied. He would have preferred to meet in a back booth in an unpopular restaurant to lunchtime on the Mall. Washington was the most public of places and it would not have been unimaginable that someone would be alerted by a senior official of the CIA walking side by side with a senior official of the DIA. ‘We’re not dealing with a fucking bunch of boy scouts here. Terman and Gallagher are two dangerous sons of bitches.’

‘Three agents dead, and in France for God’s sake’ Simpson said between clenched teeth. ‘State have been on their knees to the French and they want blood for the amount of shit they’ve been forced to swallow. And the blood they want most is mine.’

‘Sure, it’s a shit storm. We underestimated the guy. We need to develop a strategy where the team that was blown away was on some rogue operation. I assume that there’s no trace of the stakeout on Terman?’

‘There’s nothing official,’ Simpson hadn’t slept since the news had come in from France.

‘Good, you follow up on the oil buys?’

‘If this fucking blows up, I’m out the window of the twentieth floor. Every cent I have and lots of cents I’ve borrowed are floating around in a tanker somewhere.’

‘So nobody knows about Gallagher or Linkletter or even Terman and that’s the way we have to keep it,’ Adams smiled at a group of children playing on the grass at the Mall.

‘I’ve got some news about Gallagher,’ Simpson said reaching into his inside pocket and withdrawing a sheet of white paper. He passed the paper to Adams. They turned at the end of the Reflecting Pool and made their way back in the direction of the Capitol.

‘A passable likeness,’ Adams said looking at a sketch of Gallagher. ‘Where did it come from?’

‘It was wired by the Belgian police through Interpol. The stupid assholes tried to run a sting on Gallagher. They had no idea who they were dealing with. If they had, maybe they would have taken a few more precautions. Gallagher took out three policemen. As far as the Belgians can make out their main man got one between the eyes while he was lying injured. The arms dealer they turned, a guy called de Wolfe, was found dead in his house. The guy had been literally scared to death.’

‘That’s my man,’ Adams said passing back the sketch of Gallagher to Simpson. ‘I like Gallagher’s style. He moves on and leaves nobody behind. Sorta like a Clint Eastwood character. Where’s he now?’

‘I have no idea.’ Simpson said. ‘And that bothers the hell out of me. He was looking to buy explosives. I suppose he’s managed by now and is on his way back to Saudi.’

‘Hell, we could have given him a truck load of explosives if that’s what he needed.’

‘No way. Gallagher needs to think that this operation is his idea. After Afghanistan he swore that he’d never work for us again. He’s on his revenge kick. It’s all down to him and the Al Sauds. Before I left the office, we got news that a road tanker load of explosives has taken out a section of Abdulaziz Military Airport in Dhahran. It’s escalating.’

‘What about your guys on the ground?’ Adams asked.

‘Clark Gilman is the Head of Station,’ Simpson started scratching the side of his face. ‘He’s old school. Right now he’s closeted with the Saudi Security Services. After the Junior Oil Minister was shot, the Saudis picked up every asshole who ever shouted ‘Fuck the King’ and stuck them behind bars. You can bet that Clark and his boys are fully occupied with the waterboard at this moment in time.’

‘Can they break Gallagher’s operation?’ Adams asked.

‘Maybe, maybe not. Lucius, we could end up in Federal Prison for what we’ve done so far,’ Simpson’s voice was higher than usual.

Adams stopped walking and turned to face Simpson. ‘This is the time to keep a tight asshole, Alan. Gallagher knows nothing about us. Terman knows he’s been compromised but he’s not about to tell anyone. You’ll take some stick from State over the Paris shit storm. Maybe you’ll be downshifted or encouraged to leave. I ain’t about to talk to anyone and neither are you. Gallagher succeeds we make a shit load of money. It’s win-win, brother.’

Simpson drew in a sharp breath. He was cursing the day that he’d heard the name Linkletter.  Still, he’d run with the ball once he caught it.  There was no question of helping Gallagher. But he could make sure that Gilman’s team didn’t hinder him.

Adams leaned forward and hugged Simpson. ‘Remember, Alan. Our little secret.’

CHAPTER 27

Riyadh

In the skies above Riyadh, Worley looked out the window of the British Airways flight at the vast blackness extending on every side of the lights of the Saudi capital. Below he saw the lighted buildings on the new Riyadh standing like beacons in the darkness. The empty blackness and the modern architecture seemed incongruous together like a rip in the space time continuum setting two eras side by side. He was looking at the scenery with his new eyes. Every natural entity had taken on a new beauty for him since he had learned that he would soon be leaving. The desert beneath, that several weeks before had been simply so many thousand square miles of sand and scrub had taken on a timeless majesty that was a source of wonder to him. How many millions of years had that desert existed constantly adapting to the harshness of the climate? Bringing forth its version of life every year. He turned and smiled at the hostess as he handed her his empty glass from the table in front of him. She had been more than attentive to him on the flight and he had returned the complement by flirting mildly with her. It was a nice touch of normality. He could imagine the flap there would be at the Foreign Office if the powers that be were informed that one of their Attaches at one of their most sensitive foreign posts was considered to have mental problems. The Hooray Henrys who ran the place would shit their pants. Worley’s reverie of the bowler hatted gentlemen of independent means fouling themselves because of him was broken by an announcement from the co-pilot that they were about to land. He collected the papers from the table in front of him and stuffed them into the briefcase at his feet. He was fully aware that Burfield’s resolve would eventually break and that he would be re-called and invalided out. The question was how long would it take and whether he would manage to find Gallagher within that time. That would be the equivalent of finding the needle in the haystack but for Robert’s sake he was going to have to try. During the flight he had been reviewing some of the material that Burfield had collected on recent movements in both the oil and the currency markets. There was no doubt that somebody with substantial assets was manipulating the Saudi Riyal. Whoever it was had gambled that the Al Sauds would not rush to the defence of their currency. They’d been right. The Saudi billions had stayed right where they were. The market had got a whiff of blood and the traders were now cashing in on the Riyals downward spiral. It was also becoming obvious that somebody was attempting to manipulate American public opinion against the Saudis. That wasn’t too difficult. The average Saudi behaved with a combination of arrogance and ignorance that typified the nouveau riche. However, few people understood that this was a nation that was only two generations removed from the nomadic life of the desert. Now the great American people were being treated to a daily diet in newspapers and television vilifying the Saudi way of life and their very questionable civil rights and business practices. The third element was the oil market. He was no expert but it looked like speculators were building a very heavy forward position in the market. The speculators either foresaw a tougher than usual winter or they expected a major player to drop out of the market. There was a trend. The attack on the currency, the campaign in America, the movements in the oil market, the death of Prince Mishuri, the bombing of the Military Airport in Dhahran, they were all part of some concerted effort to put pressure on Saudi Arabia and its rulers. And just a few weeks ago, he had seen Patrick Joseph Gallagher milling with the crowd leaving the Grand Mosque. That was too much of a coincidence. It was not inconceivable that Gallagher could be orchestrating events or maybe he was simply one element of a larger conspiracy. The Boeing shuddered as it hit the tarmac of the runway. He felt the atmosphere as soon as he entered the terminal building. Everything was physically exactly as it had been when he left but there was a perceptible change in atmosphere. He produced his red passport for the Saudi officials and was greeted with a scowl in place of the usual smile. The faces of the Saudis in the terminal were furtive and he received more than one antagonistic glance. The devaluation of the currency was beginning to have an effect. The reaction of Saudis paid in Riyals was to be expected. These people had their salaries effectively cut by movements on the currency market. Their cars, flat screen TVs and Bose sound systems were moving beyond their means. And more importantly so was the price of their imported foodstuffs. Their leadership would be telling them that grey faceless men with laptop computers in London, New York and Frankfurt were responsible for ruining their lives. It would be easy to create xenophobia in these desert people. The passport control was more stringent than usual and Worley could see that the customs officers were more fastidious in their examination of his baggage. The atmosphere was one of distrust and hostility. He was also acutely aware of the heavy military presence at the airport. Soldiers with machine pistols slung over their shoulders mingled with the crowd.

The embassy driver, a Palestinian, didn’t speak as he collected Worley’s baggage and led him to where the car was parked. It was past midnight when they joined the motorway running from the airport to the city.

‘In the name of Allah the most merciful,’ the driver said when they had left the airport.’ I have been told to tell you that His Excellency Sir Richard and Mr Ellis would like to meet with you to-morrow morning at six o’clock.’

Worley didn’t speak but settled himself back in the seat. He had known the driver for three years and had never heard him begin a sentence with the Islamic intonation. He had also noticed that the man was sporting a newly grown beard, the sign of Islamic fervour. The atmosphere in the airport terminal wasn’t the only thing that had changed in the past few weeks. This meant that the immigrant population was beginning to position themselves. A six o’clock meeting with the Ambassador indicated that there was a very high level of apprehension at the Embassy. Worley closed his eyes. He remembered the old Chinese curse. May you live in interesting times. He had a sneaking feeling that the times were about to get very interesting indeed.

At about the same time as Worley was leaving Riyadh airport, Ali bin Mohamed Rahman was waiting anxiously in the customs shed. One week earlier the collection of the crate from Afghanistan had gone smoothly. Now the stupid fools in the warehouse had misplaced the crate from Northern Ireland and its precious cargo. Ali bin Mohamed Rahman could only imagine the anger of Prince Kareem if the crate could not be located. But the anger of the Prince would be nothing against the wrath of Abu Ma’aath. Ali Rahman had been perspiring freely since their contact in the Customs Service had failed to shepherd their cargo. The box and its contents were vital to his master’s plan. He stood in the illuminated warehouse and ran his eyes along the stacked boxes of all shapes and sizes. The stupid dogs had been warned to treat the Prince’s cargo like gold. He didn’t like the idea of handling explosives but he had been told that the explosives were inert and that there was no possibility of premature explosion. His patience was nearly exhausted when the customs officer who was their contact turned the corner in front of a warehouseman dressed in blue overalls and pushing a large wooden crate on a dolly. Ali bin Mohamed Rahman’s heart lifted in his chest and he felt light and happy.

The two men clasped each other as the warehouseman rolled the dolly towards the truck parked outside the warehouse.

‘May you have long life,’ Ali bin Mohamed Rahman said holding the customs officer firmly. ‘You have delivered the means of ending the reign of the dogs who have pillaged our country.’

‘May Allah bless you in your work,’ the customs officer replied. ‘We will bring honour to our race through the Brotherhood.’

The two men left the shed and watched while the crate was loaded onto the truck. Ali bin Mohamed Rahman could not wait to deliver the good news to the Prince and Abu Ma’aath.

Rosinski woke early. She turned and glanced at the clock at the side of her bed. It was just after five o’clock. Her mouth felt dry and tacky. Whoever had coined the phrase about the ‘bottom of a parrot’s cage’ had got it just about right. The air in the room was cool for which she was eternally thankful. She couldn’t handle heat when she was hung over.  ‘Gotta stop drinking at night,’ she intoned as she switched on the bedside light and reached her hand out for the bottle of Perrier that stood beside the clock. The liquid sparkled into the glass and she quickly poured the contents down her throat. She had been on a bender last night, a fifth of Wild Turkey to accompany a night of nineties nostalgia from her iTunes library. All that had been missing from the perfect night had been a good loving man. She poured herself a second glass of the gassy liquid and drank it more slowly. Then she remembered the reason for the celebration. Her lawyer had faxed that the ‘Company’ was disposed to settle with her. Soon she would be sitting outside a straw hut on a beach somewhere sucking on a rum punch. Her stomach heaved at the thought of the drink and she lay back on the bed. She had felt elated when she had received the message, hence the celebration with the Wild Turkey. But something nagged at her. She didn’t like to leave things unfinished and she didn’t like dropping sources in the shit. Princess Nadia had gone the nine yards for her and what had she done in return -a big nothing. Catch yourself on, Rosinski, she thought. The ‘Company’ had trained her not to have a conscience. It only got in the way when people had to be jettisoned. She thought of Nadia’s handsome intelligent face and those beautiful dark eyes. How the hell could she leave her to her fate even if the story about the new Ikhwan was a heap of crap? Rosinski was almost sure now that it wasn’t a heap of crap. The mood in the streets was distinctly nasty. She had heard a rumour that the King had instructed the members of the Royal Family to stay put. A mass exodus of Royals to their sumptuous villas on the French Riviera and the Costa del Sol might just precipitate a revolution. The old reprobate might be on the verge of senility but he had got that one right. There had been the predictable outcry from the Princes and their spouses. But what was all this to her? In a couple of weeks she would be out of there and Nadia would be left to her husband’s devices. Meanwhile up at the Embassy, a nuclear bomb could be about to fall on Gilman’s head and he would still ignore it. In two recent meetings, she had tried to lay her theory on her superior but the guy had simply switched off and refused to listen. She closed her eyes. Maybe she hadn’t been cut out to be an intelligence agent. A sharp pain made her wince as the little men with the hammers got to work inside her head. It was time to take the millions of dollars and run. Why the hell hadn’t she just played tourist the way the guys at Langley had expected her to? Let Gilman take the rap for sending Saudi Arabia, the number one oil producer in the world, down the toilet. What the hell could she do about it anyway? If she tried to go over Gilman’s head to Langley, they’d simply laugh at her. Whenever a woman had a bad idea, the boys would chuckle and drop phrases that included ‘time of the month’. When a guy had a shit-ass idea, nobody put it down to an excess of testosterone. She was going to have to find a way of at least helping Nadia or she was going to feel like a shit for the rest of her life. There were two, maybe three, weeks left in this shithole and in that time she was going to have to work out some kind of deal for the Princess. She pushed herself up from the bed and drank the remainder of the Perrier. Yeah, she thought as the liquid cleared the gunge from her mouth, she could at least think up some kind of deal for Nadia and her kids.

Worley had never seen Peter Ellis so agitated. The First Secretary of the British Embassy in Riyadh was pacing so relentlessly in the Ambassador’s office that he stood a good chance of wearing a hole in the carpet in front of his chief’s desk.

‘Perhaps we’re over-reacting, Peter,’ Sir Richard leaned back in his reclining office chair. Six o’clock was an unearthly hour for him to be about. He had played gin rummy late into the night with the usual European ambassadorial clique and had managed to lose a hundred dollars into the bargain. Now Ellis was trying desperately to transmit his panic to him and he was having none of it.

‘The situation requires very careful consideration, Ambassador,’ Ellis said continuing to pace. ‘The bomb at the Military Air Force will only heighten the tension. The Saudi authorities are trying to play it down. I have no doubt that within the week more arrests will be made and some poor devil who has been tortured beyond endurance will own up to the bombing. However, there is a heightening of political tension. I think we should be positioning ourselves to offer more than moral support to the regime. Prince Mishuri’s death has been a bitter blow to us.  We had invested heavily in his future.’

‘He died in the helicopter crash,’ the Ambassador said.

‘That’s the official version,’ Ellis continued to pace. ‘Our information is that he was assassinated.’ He stopped pacing and looked directly at Worley. ‘ But perhaps our man from MI6 would be able to verify that for us.’

Worley sat quietly across the room. He didn’t particularly like Ellis but there was no doubting his commitment or his intellectual ability. These qualities allied to his obvious ability to lick arse meant that he was going to go far in the Foreign Office. Worley always listened carefully to what Ellis had to say. He had quite the opposite opinion of Sir Richard Hawley. The Ambassador was at the end of a long and illustrious career that had been made on his membership of a Masonic Lodge and his affiliation with a succession of Tory Foreign Secretaries. The Knighthood and the ambassadorship in Riyadh had been a thank-you from a grateful government for a job well done.