The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) (17 page)

Chapter 22

Tuesday, August 14, 1990
–
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

The tension in the early afternoon summer air was as thick as the mist drifting down from King Fahd’s spectacular fountain situated on a manmade island in the middle of the bay. Lance sat on a short wall eating a sparse meal of pita bread and goat cheese purchased at a shop along the Corniche, which runs along the beach. The towering fountain created a shadow that danced on the dazzling water below. Lance took in the sites and sounds and faces of those watching the water splash back down from 900 feet. Because he had no control over it, he didn’t question why his brain had chosen to play a selection of songs by Pink Floyd over the last hour. He just listened and tapped his foot. He occasionally sang along, in Arabic.

Visitors from all over the Muslim world marveled at the manmade wonder that welcomed millions to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia’s western port city.

As the call for prayers bellowed from speakers all around, pilgrims from across the world traveling to Mecca, just up the holy road from Jeddah, kneeled and prayed toward the holy city. Lance snapped a few photos of the scene.

He replayed the conversation with Braden from the week before in his head for a sixth or seventh time. He hadn’t been 100 percent truthful with the psychologist, but then again, when was he ever truthful. He laughed at his own joke.

At 23, Lance didn’t feel it necessary to share his deeper feelings or explain his motives to anyone. He simply felt lucky, some would call it blessed, to have been born in the greatest nation in the world. The United States provided him the means, the opportunities to become anything he dreamed of. He didn’t fancy himself a patriot, but the foundation upon which the nation was built was worth fighting for, even dying for. Freedom had its price and he was willing to fight for it. He didn’t make grand statements and admittedly wasn’t good with sharing his own feelings, but Lance truly felt honored to be asked to serve his country. Not many people get the chance to do what he was about to do.

Seibel had walked away from Lance minutes earlier; leaving him in a foreign land with fake papers and a false identity as a contract photographer on assignment for a major U.S. magazine. His first NOC assignment. Which translated into non-CIA acronym lingo, means not official cover. He was live and without a net. Finally.

Lance had studied and perfected his new persona for two months and felt he had everything he needed to carry off being Peter Drummond from Surprise, Arizona. Lance knew the history of Peter’s parents Jen and Mike, stayed in regular contact with his sister Kate in Santa Barbara and visited his Grandpa Mort in Newark whenever he traveled to or through New York City.

Peter had lucked into a semester in Cairo as a junior in college and developed a love of the culture and language. Now, as a professional photographer, he returned to the region to capture its beauty for others around the world. He turned the camera lens on the towering pillar of water, but trained his ear on those around him. He noted that most spoke the hejazi dialect, prominent in the Mecca province.

He kept his eyes on the mist floating down while listening to a conversation between a father and daughter walking nearby. He silently mouthed a few words to match their inflections. He repeated the daughter’s last sentence in precisely the same cadence.
“I respect your wishes father and do not want to cause you any discomfort.”

It was the only conversation Preacher had overheard during the last couple of hours that did not involve Kuwait or Saddam Hussein or what George Bush and America would do now. Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait three weeks prior on August 2 had received international condemnation. The world would not stand for such naked aggression. And the United States could not allow a democratically elected government to be deposed by a tyrant like Hussein.

This was complete bullshit, of course. Most US citizens, like those of virtually every other nation outside the Arab Middle East, couldn’t find Kuwait on a map and didn’t have strong or really any feelings about the small nation. Except, of course, for the billions and billions of barrels of oil lying below the tiny country’s desert sands.

“What do you know about Kuwait?” It was two months earlier, June 1990, and perhaps the third or fourth time Lance had ever heard the country’s name mentioned. Seibel asked the question as he entered Lance’s tiny room at Harvey Point.

“Right between Iraq and Saudi Arabia on the Persian Gulf. About 2 million people smack dab on top of about 7,000 square miles of desert.” Lance had memorized the facts from the CIA World Factbook.

“Correct. And what does Kuwait do?” Seibel asked.

“Oil.”

“Besides that?” Seibel leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. He surveyed the room as he always does any room he enters. Immediately judging total space, steps between objects, any signs of misplaced items.

“Piss off Iraq?” Lance replied.

“Exactly.” Seibel brought one hand up to his bearded chin to rub the graying stubble. Lance had already noted the growth and deep tan. Seibel had been away for several weeks. “Kuwait has done an excellent job pissing off Saddam, especially since the end of the war.”

“Which one?”

“Iraq-Iran; the Imposed War; the Holy Defense as it was called in Iran.” Seibel rolled his neck to stretch. “Kuwait bankrolled billions in war costs for Iraq and when the bloody massacre ended in 88’ they held the debt over Saddam’s head. He doesn’t like anyone wagging a finger at him.”

“Not even us, huh?” Lance snickered.

“Nope. A US diplomat tried to scold him once and barely made it out of Baghdad with his head. Saddam is truly as ruthless as you’ve read. Kuwait is about to feel his wrath.”

“I’ve heard little bits and pieces around here, especially sitting down at lunch next to the Jordanians the last two weeks.” A smile crept onto Lance’s lips at the thought of listening in on Arabs unaware of the language skills possessed by some of their Caucasian counterparts at Harvey Point.

Seibel assumed his usual Socratic pose. “Ah, yes. But have you picked up their different dialects? Those from Amman sound markedly more robust in their pronunciation than their friends from down near the Gulf of Aqaba.”

“Subtle, but different.” Lance acknowledged.

Seibel stepped over to the bookshelf. It held several volumes, most in Russian and Arabic. “Those little bits and pieces you have been hearing about Iraq and Kuwait; what do you make of them?” Seibel was almost never direct in his questioning. Like Socrates, his favorite philosopher, he answers questions with questions and constantly pushes for self-exposition of the facts. Lance had become used to his Socratic methods in the now hundreds of times together since their first meeting in Dallas nearly three years earlier. He likened their conversations to a dance, a waltz.

“Action is not far behind.” Lance replied to the question.

“Such as?” Seibel played his usual role of Socrates.

Lance played his part in answering with details, “Direct, deadly, crushing. The war with Iran is not even two years past and Iraq has plenty of veterans in the Republican Guard ready to take out their frustration on the nominal military of Kuwait. Would likely be over in a few days.”

Seibel smiled. “Quite in-depth analysis for a few tidbits picked up here and there.”

“Maybe.”

Seibel turned back to Lance with the smile still holding. “What then?”

“After Iraq invades poor little Kuwait?” Lance asked.

“Yes. After the loss of life and sovereignty in their kingdom.”

“I guess that’s what you’re here to talk to me about.”

Seibel’s smile broke broader and he belted out a laugh. “Ahead of me again as always. I come in with a set agenda and you are three steps ahead. Never fails.”

“Not always. You had me fooled last year with your little birthday cruise around Manhattan.” Lance smiled.

“That’s right, that’s right.” Seibel laughed. “You thought I was going to have you, how did you put it – ‘pop your cherry’ with that Turkish pimp on the boat.”

“I was sure you were going to hand me a silenced Walther P5 and tell me to put two in the head and toss the body overboard.” Lance shook his head.

Seibel’s laughter exploded at the memory. “And all I did was have the waitress bring over your birthday cake so you could blow out your candles and make a wish in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty.”

Lance snickered. “What do you think I wished for?”

The laughter immediately turned to a sparse smile as Seibel looked him square in the eye. “If I know you, and I think I probably do better than just about anyone, you wished for a Walther P5 with a beautiful new shiny black silencer so you could kill that Turkish prick.”

Now it was Lance’s turn to laugh. When he finished, he stood up to meet Seibel eye to eye. “He was a prick wasn’t he? Blowing that putrid smoke our way all during the cruise and cursing his girls like that. I would have been doing a favor to everyone on the boat.”

“Undoubtedly. But our plans for young Preacher extend well beyond a common nuisance blowing smoke.” Seibel’s tone took on his Blueblood origins.

“Do they extend all the way to Kuwait?”

“I can honestly tell you that was not the plan as recently as four weeks ago. But dynamics on the ground in the Middle East have superseded those in Eastern Europe.”

Lance nodded. “So, no Sarajevo?”

“As you know, your orders are need-to-know. And right now, you need to know that all plans in place for years are being reworked, adjusted as we speak. Resources once destined for points east and west will now be positioned in the Middle.”

“A riddle. Not exactly like you.” Lance rubbed his chin.

“Timing is under adjustment right now. December or January as originally planned will now likely be August. Your destination and assignment will most likely involve direct regional involvement.”

“Regional?”

“Yes. Once again, our government is discovering that we may have been orienting too many resources toward one adversary and missed the explicit requirements of another.”

“The Soviets are yesterday’s news and here come the Arabs, tonight at 11?” Lance added in perfect anchorman speak.

“Right to the heart as usual Lance. And in misjudging the environment among the Arab states, our country has not developed enough assets with your basic skills.”

“To be able to count to 10 in Arabic?” The smile back on his face.

“Correct again.” The sound of footsteps in the hall was followed by a CIA station hand delivering a box to Lance’s room. Seibel turned to the man delivering the package, “Thanks Rich. Right on cue.” He took the box and handed it to Lance.

“For me, not even my birthday.”

“Actually it is.”

“How’s that?”

Seibel tapped the box lid. “This is the birth of your first cover. Today is the first day of the rest of someone else’s life.”

Lance set the box down on his desk and pulled out a used camera bag with a Nikon camera and several lenses inside.

Seibel stepped over and put a hand on his shoulder. “The beginnings of your new life are in this box. I don’t have all the details yet, but you need to learn how to take and develop first-rate professional quality photos.”

Lance pulled out a bulky three-ring binder titled Subject C-1763 – Photographic Specialization. “Photographer?” he asked.

“Pretty cool, heh? And I’d plan on being assigned to Saudi Arabia.”

“Pictures of sand.” Lance asked examining the camera.

“Not just pictures; you are Peter Drummond, professional photographer. You will be taking photos that touch peoples’ hearts and souls. Remember that girl with striking blue eyes on the magazine cover a couple of years ago? You need to capture the essence of the things in your lens, not just what is on the surface. See the soul beneath the surface.”