Keys to the Kingdom (25 page)

‘So?’ Gallagher said simply. ‘We are about to complete Allah’s work. The Englishman is no more than the smallest flea in the skin of the mangiest camel in the Kingdom. He is a minor irritant but he cannot harm either us nor our holy work.’

‘May you live long, Abu Ma’aath,’ Al Tawil said. ‘But I think we should kill the infidel. He knows of your presence in this country and you are the key to our enterprise. If he threatens you, he must surely be eliminated.’

‘But I am a man who does not exist,’ Gallagher said. His mind had been running through the possible scenarios. As far as the intelligence services of the world were concerned he was a dead man. Worley was a nobody, a cheap gatherer of information in an embassy thousands of miles away from London. So he had caught a glimpse of a man he thought looked like a dead terrorist. No self-respecting intelligence chief would take a bullshit sighting like that any further. ‘He has no proof of my existence therefore I will continue not to exist until Allah’s work is done and then no one will ever hear of me again. Killing him would only give credence to his story. As long as we ignore him he has no potential to harm us.’ Gallagher looked at Kareem. The Prince’s brow was deeply lined.

‘In the name of Allah the most powerful,’ Kareem said eventually. ‘I agree with Abu Ma’aath. Killing the infidel will only give him an importance he does not have. However, nothing must be allowed to interfere with our plan. The Majlis will be called as soon as the Family can be assembled. That will be in a matter of days. In the meantime, we will increase our vigilance.’ He stood and the other three men stood with him. ‘I will relay the information on the Majlis to you as soon as I receive it. Al Tawil and I have much to prepare. Soon the country will be without leadership and we must be ready to take on the mantle Allah has thrust towards us. Go in peace.’

‘May Allah bless our venture with success,’ Gallagher said. He could not stop himself from glancing towards the end of the room where the women sat patiently. His eyes locked once more with the brilliant brown eyes of the woman who had served him. He again felt a hint of sadness at not having a chance to see the face those eyes adorned.

Princess Nadia’s hands trembled as she sat quietly in the corner of the room. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was well aware that what she had learned was going to be of extreme value to Mary Jo. It might even succeed in bringing down her husband and his Ikhwan friends. She tried to remember the whole of the conversation repeating the words in her head so that they would be burned into her brain. So little of what was said made sense to her. What was the javelin? And how would it fly from Allah breast? There would be a Majlis called by the King and whatever was to happen would happen there. She remembered the Al Hokm. There was so much to remember but she would have to do her best. Mary Jo would have to know everything is she was going to be able to convince the Americans to stop her husband and the Ikhwan. As Abu Ma’aath and Nasrullah left the room, she rose and made her way quickly in the direction of the toilet. 

Gallagher grasped Nasrullah’s left arm as they left the villa. ‘It is almost over, old friend,’ he said quietly. ‘But you have one more task to complete for me.’

‘I will be with you when you strike,’ Nasrullah said looking with eagerness into Gallagher’s face.

‘No. What I must do I will do alone. I have a much more important and pleasurable task for you.’

Nasrullah’s eyebrows rose in anticipation.

‘Kareem thinks that he alone of the Al Saud breed will remain. This cannot be permitted. I want you to cut the dog’s throat at the same time as I take care of the rest of his accursed family.’

Nasrullah smiled. Abu Ma’aath had read his mind. He did not like the arrogant Saudi and he would relish the chance to kill him. ‘It is as you will. For it is also Allah’s will that the dog should die.’

CHAPTER 35

Sir Richard looked up from his desk as Worley entered. The Ambassador’s normally rosy hue had turned to purple as he sat shuffling at the papers strewn across his desk. ‘And about bloody time too,’ he said angrily as Worley approached. ‘I thought that you Johnnys from MI6 were supposed to be on top of things here.’ He picked up some of the papers from his desk and shook them in Worley’s direction. ‘Mishuri dead, Ras Tanura’s gone. The whole bloody country is gone to pot. The damn Shias are on the streets of Dhahran and the Sunni religious zealots are on the streets of Mecca and Medina. The bloody Iranians have jumped on the bandwagon and issued a warning to the King that not one hair on the heads of their Shiite brothers is to be touched or they’ll retaliate. In the North, some of the tribal elements are pushing for more autonomy and there have been demonstrations in the towns of Tabuk and Hafar al Batin. The Yemeni Army is deployed on the disputed southern border and the Kuwaitis have just re-stated their claim for the Qaru and Umm al Maradim islands.’ Sir Richard removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘And I understand that while all this has been going on you’ve been out jogging with your pals. I don’t mean to be critical, Arthur, but Saudi Arabia is in uproar and we’re getting more information from CNN and Reuters than from our own intelligence officer.’

‘And what would you like me to do, Sir Richard,’ Worley sat in the chair facing the Ambassador. His head was beginning to pound. He had awoken again at three that morning convinced that there was somebody in his bedroom. He could feel a presence but he knew that it was benign. He had raised his head from his pillow and scanned the room but found that it was empty. And yet he had felt a presence. Sleep had been impossible and he had spent the early hours of the morning checking the news on his computer. He was beginning to believe that he might be cracking up. Ahab’s obsession had forced his crew to their deaths. Perhaps his obsession was driving him to a mental breakdown. He wanted to contradict his Ambassador but he knew there was a certain amount of truth in what he had said.  ‘We are behind in the information stakes,’ he said looking at Sir Richard’s purple face. ‘We’ve known for years that there is a large and well organised Saudi resistance movement. The events at Ras Tanura could be claimed by any one of half a dozen armed groups. Our friends in the Saudi secret police claim to have infiltrated every movement so they really should be ahead of the game except that they’re not. So where does that leave us. The internal pressure has been building. The different ethnic groups and the neighbours are beginning to smell a rotting corpse and each one is preparing to rip off whatever tasty morsel they can. Our policy has been to support the Army. We’ve inundated them with weapons they can’t use properly. The officer class is pampered, corrupt and incompetent. The current events put us on the horns of a dilemma.  Our policy has been based on meeting an external threat from either Iraq or Iran. Nobody back in London, or even in Washington, ever considered that the major threat would be an internal one. That eventuality was supposed to be covered by the Saudis themselves.’

Sir Richard tossed the papers onto his desk. ‘Damn it, damn it. I’ve been telling the King and his advisers for years that they should institute political change. Why the hell do we prop up regimes that have never given the vote to any of its citizens? The stupid buggers just wouldn’t listen. The Consultative Council is a sham. Everybody knows that the final decision on any subject lies with the King and his brothers. Can’t we do anything? Is intervention completely out of the question?’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Worley said. ‘Foreign troops and the Holy Places are not a good combination.’

Sir Richard slammed his fist into the desk. ‘Damn it, man, we can’t just sit on our hands while our major ally in the Gulf disintegrates. Who do you think will come out on top? Al-Masari? I smell coup and if there is going to be a coup, I want to be in a position to advise London on who we should be supporting. We have a huge bloody investment in this country and I would be lacking in my duty if I don’t protect that investment.’

Worley was beginning to feel a panic akin to Sir Richard’s, but for a different reason. The fall of regimes tended to have a dynamic of their own. Once the rot sets in and the dissidents smell the fear and weakness of the rulers then the end can come with astonishing speed. If Gallagher was in Saudi to help destabilise the regime, he might have accomplished his mission already and be on his way back into the mist. ‘The Al Sauds hold all the cards,’ Worley said. ‘Logic says that they will eventually come out on top. But these situations are rarely in the realm of logic. Anything can happen but the worst scenario for us is that Al Masari should return in triumph. Don’t forget we’ve been trying to throw him out of England for years. And I doubt very much that he’s about to forget that. From our point of view it’s a simple case of wait and see. But I wouldn’t keep too many sensitive papers lying around. If things go to pieces, we could have a repeat of the Iranian business.’

‘Holy God,’ Sir Richard said as pictures of his embassy being ransacked by the heathen mob rushed through his mind. Why him and why now, he was asking himself. In just six months time he would be raising roses or breeding cocker spaniels while the money rolled in from a series of City directorships. Now there was a possibility that he would be remembered as the British Ambassador who lost Saudi Arabia. ‘There’s absolutely nothing that we can do?’ he asked helplessly.

‘Nothing other than issuing a statement of total support for the regime. Have you asked for a meeting with the King?’

Sir Richard mopped his brow again. ‘Several times, Peter is at the Foreign Ministry right now but I don’t hold out much hope of him succeeding. I’ve tried to arrange meetings with the King, the Crown Prince and anyone who will agree to see me. Nobody seems to be available. Everybody is in a meeting. I understand that the Family is about to go into conclave. The King is about to call a majlis so that the Al Sauds can present a common front to the current crisis. Every Prince in the realm has been called to Riyadh. I expect the King is going to try and bring them together on the issues that divide them. Maybe they can bring the country back on track.’ He looked hopefully in Worley’s direction.

‘Maybe,’ Worley said without conviction. ‘It’s a bit risky to bring everyone together.’

‘The King has no choice. Somehow he’s got to unite the Family and put an end to the in-fighting between the brothers.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Worley said. This could be part of Gallagher’s plan. He suddenly felt very tired.

‘We’re depending on you, Arthur,’ there was pleading in Sir Richard’s voice ‘We need to know what is going on.’

‘We’re all doing our best but the situation is extremely fluid. And nobody is talking. I need to talk to the Americans and the French. We need to have a common position on support for the regime.’

As soon as Peter returns, I’ll call a meeting of the European Ambassadors and we’ll add the Americans, the Russians and the Chinese. We all have big stakes in this country.’

‘Do you want me to attend?’ Worley asked.

‘No, you deal with the intelligence officers. We’ll meet later for a debriefing.’

Worley stood and left the room.

The Ambassador watched him as he left the room. He was aware that Worley had been given just over five months to clear up and get out. The man had shown himself to be a consummate professional but he was on the way out. The situation needed someone ready to give 1000% and he doubted if Arthur could be classed in that category. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and smiled to himself. Where was James Bond when he was needed?

Worley went back to his office in the Administration Building. He could feel the tension in the staff as he passed along the corridors. Groups of expatriate staff stood in groups discussing the latest news and a television had been installed in the open-plan office with a constant feed from CNN. Several of the diplomatic staff had approached him on his way through the building with requests about whether it was time to evacuate the family. That was an issue for the Ambassador and Peter Ellis. An evacuation of non-essential staff might give the message that the western embassies had no confidence in the regime, despite the public pronouncements. Worley sat in his chair and switched on his computer. He had more than 100 emails most of them frantic demands for news from London. His Secretary had put a sheaf of coded cables on his desk and he quickly examined them. Sir Richard wasn’t the only diplomat exuding sweat about Saudi. The cables from Brussels, Paris, Berlin and all points west were beginning to sound frantic. Worley was on the horns of a dilemma. He was sure that Gallagher was out there somewhere fermenting mayhem. If he could find Gallagher, there was a good chance that whatever plot was afoot could be stopped in its tracks. How could he find Gallagher in a country the size of Saudi Arabia? Gallagher had spent a lifetime evading the best intelligence services in the world. What chance did one operative have in finding such a man? He must start to think like Gallagher. Somehow he would have to get into Gallagher’s mind and get ahead of him. It would be easier said than done.

CHAPTER 36

London

Burfield put away the latest cable from Riyadh and buried his head in his hands. There was little else he could do. It appeared the whole country was rising up against the Al Sauds. There had been demonstrations in virtually all of the largest cities from groups calling for greater political representation, less political representation, more democracy, less democracy, more fundamentalism, more secularism. The one thing that everybody on the streets had in common was a hatred of the Al Saud family. Bloody Yamamah II, the greatest arms deal the world had ever seen, was in serious trouble and there was bugger all that he could do about it. He wondered when the next round of Treasury cuts would be announced. Three months, six months maximum. He would end up just like his colleagues of G branch in MI5. He wondered how the poor bastards who had already been let go were earning a crust. Perhaps he could try his hand at teaching Latin or Greek but the thought of controlling forty screaming brats gave him palpitations of the heart. He stared at the mountain of paper in his ‘IN’ tray. Did they really expect him to read every scrap of paper they sent him? These were the days of the paperless office and yet every year he received more and more reports and memos. He picked up the latest batch of envelopes and began to open them. The first contained a report from the CIA on the illicit arms trade in the Middle East. Well, they should know shouldn’t they, he thought as he tossed the report into his ‘OUT’ tray unread. The second envelope contained a report from Interpol on the latest wanted terrorists. He leafed through the report and was about to toss it aside when he came across an artist's impression of a terrorist wanted for killing three Belgian policemen and an arms dealer. Oh Christ, he thought looking at the face. He opened his right hand drawer and withdrew the file on Patrick Gallagher. The photograph of Gallagher was on the inside page of the file and there was more than a passing likeness between it and the Interpol sketch. Good God Almighty, maybe Arthur hadn’t been hallucinating after all. Perhaps it had been Gallagher he had seen in Riyadh. Simpson had proof positive that Gallagher was dead. How the hell could a dead man exist? But now that he examined them closely, the sketch and the photograph were uncannily alike. He picked up the report and began to read it again. The three policemen and the arms dealer had died the night the man in the sketch had disappeared. The good news was that he hadn’t got what he was after, one hundred kilos of Semtex. Burfield’s head suddenly felt light. He was imagining the damage that Gallagher could do with a hundred kilos of Semtex. He struggled to keep control of his thoughts. Say for the sake of argument that Worley had seen Gallagher in Saudi. And say that Gallagher was involved somehow in a potential coup. He didn’t even want to think of the possible repercussions of such an eventuality. He needed to talk to Arthur, urgently.

‘Yes,’ Worley picked up the phone in his office. He had locked himself away during the morning on the pretext that he needed to examine the latest information on the riots reaching the embassy.

‘Arthur,’ Burfield said. ‘Thank God you’re at the office. Can you put your scrambler on please.’

Worley flicked the switch on his phone and there were a series of electronic noises in his ear. He wondered about the usefulness of such gizmos in a world where a laptop computer could run through God knows how many permutations of codes in a matter of minutes.

‘How are things down there?’ Burfield said when the noises stopped.

‘Fluid,’ Worley answered. ‘If the Al Sauds keep their nerve, everything should be okay. The big uncertainty is the loyalty of the Army. I assume London will do whatever is necessary to bolster the regime?’

‘Other than direct intervention. There’s a collective memory of the Suez business here.’ Burfield stopped and took in a deep breath. ‘Look here, Arthur, I think that I may owe you an apology.’ He explained about the Interpol report that he had just read. ‘The likeness is quite extraordinary. He looks older but it’s essentially the same man. I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you. Though what we could have done about it, I don’t know.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Worley felt no elation at Burfield’s conversion. He smiled to himself. A short two hours ago he had a dilemma concerning the mention of Gallagher. ‘You’re probably right, there was nothing we could have done about it.’

‘The bastard was trying to get his hands on enough Semtex to blow Riyadh to pieces. Lucky he failed in Antwerp.’

‘You can bet that he’s got his hands on what he was after,’ Worley was suddenly very tired. ‘Patrick Gallagher is a very resourceful man. The little setback in Antwerp certainly would not deter him.’

‘I know this sounds crazy but do you think that he’s behind the current trouble?’

‘Not alone,’ Worley answered without really thinking. ‘He could be part of it but someone local is behind it. There’s no way he could have created the level of domestic unrest we’re experiencing without some local involvement. What do the Americans say?’

‘They think everything is under control,’ Burfield was worried by the fatigue in Worley’s voice. He began to sweat again. His chances of survival in the Service were no better than fifty-fifty at best but that ratio would change drastically for the worse if the powers that be ever found out that he had sent an operative with a confirmed case of burnout back into the field.

‘How are you feeling, Arthur?’ Burfield asked.

‘Chipper, old boy,’ Worley replied with false jollity. ‘Saudi Arabia is about to go belly up, you damn fool. You don’t expect me to be jumping around the room, do you?’

‘I mean how is your health?’

‘You know what the doctors always say, ‘as well as can be expected’.’ Worley wished to hell that Burfield would get off the line and leave him alone.

‘Anyway, I’ve got a line on Gallagher,’ Worley said casually.

‘You’ve what?’ there was astonishment in Burfield’s voice. ‘You’re a genius, Arthur. A bloody genius. How did you stumble onto him?’

Worley told him of his meeting with Rosinski and the possible handover of her source who, in best Service fashion, he did not name. He explained that the source had a direct link with the group that Gallagher was working for and that there was a good possibility that he would have a feed into their future plans. He failed to mention that the source was a Saudi woman so as not to dull the enthusiasm he heard on the other end of the phone line.

‘For God’s sake try and find out what he wanted all that Semtex for,’ Burfield said at the end of Worley’s explanation. He felt optimistic for the first time in days, maybe even weeks. If the British Secret Service in the shape of Arthur Worley could foil a plot to destabilise Saudi Arabia, the Al Sauds would be eternally grateful. And so would a very large number of Tory notables. That kind of eternal gratitude was the kind that civil servants like him prayed for. ‘Find this man, Arthur. You find him and I guarantee that he’ll pay in full for what he did to Robert. You have my promise on that. In the meantime, I’m going to ask the Department of Defence to send a wet team post haste to Dhahran. They’ll be on station if you need them. Do not attempt to confront Gallagher yourself. He’s much too dangerous. Locate him and leave it to the experts to deal with him.’

‘I’ll do my best for Burfield, England and Saint George,’ Worley said laconically. He knew that Burfield was trying to push his buttons but he didn’t really care. People like Gallagher were rarely brought to justice. You killed a man during a robbery and you never saw the outside world again. But you murder dozens of people for some political end and you walk free in a couple of years. Thanks but no thanks.

‘When will you make contact with the source?’ Burfield asked.

‘Soon.’

‘I’ll dispatch the wet team within the hour,’ Burfield glanced at his watch. ‘They’ll be in Dhahran in seven hours. Keep me informed, old boy.’

‘Yes,’ Worley said into a dead telephone. ‘Of course.’