Keys to the Kingdom

by Bob Graham

  With an escort, they were led into a cavernous room, built to house Saudi military aircraft, now filled with fifty-five rows of what looked like silver hot-water heaters, each four meters high. There was a slight background noise, similar to a room air conditioner. Tony could see a half-dozen men in white maintenance suits with green stitching monitoring the instrumentation on each device and recording it in a handheld electronic wand.

  Following a list held by Jaime, they moved to the first device necessitating their attention. At station 47-EG Jaime and Jamal verified that the equipment was not operating and had been disconnected from its electrical source. Applying the rudimentary instruction he had received in the office, Tony unscrewed the front panel, carefully slid the vacuum tube through the opening, and placed it on a ceramic-covered workbench. With the confidence of one who did this for a living, he removed a cigarette pack–sized container from the tube, appeared to inspect it with meticulous attention, replaced it with a similar packet from the wooden box, then reinserted the tube and reattached the cover.

  For five hours the two Gulf technicians and Tony repeated this process in multiple variations eighteen times. As Jaime made the required notations on the final individual log, and with their wooden boxes now filled with metallurgical items to be returned to the Dubai headquarters for rehabilitation, they went through an exit clearance.

  “You do this every day?” Tony asked Jamal, now seated in his original rear position in the Land Rover.

  “Three or four times a week, but this was a new experience gaining access to the hanger, and we’ve got another assignment for tomorrow. Will you be with us?”

  “Yes. What will we be doing?”

  “I think it has something to do with shipping materials. I do know we will be making a delivery to the military side of the King Abdulaziz Airport.”

  “Can I ask some questions now?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What in the hell were we doing in there?”

  “The last stage of nuclear enrichment. As you probably know, in its natural state uranium is enriched at between three and five percent. To be optimally useful for a bomb, it should be eighty-five to ninety. Those machines, the centrifuges, do the job. You just saw 5,185 of them at work, plus the 19 disabled we put back on line.”

  “How much of the strong stuff can they spit out?”

  “When all of them are at peak, about ten kilograms per month. The ministry is holding about four hundred kilograms, enough for six bombs. Tomorrow will be the first time to my knowledge any of it has been relocated.”

  “Where is it going?”

  “That’s what we may find out tomorrow,” Jaime replied as they turned off the highway to Gulf Engineering’s office.

  Tony had to make a call. He went into the men’s restroom—what he determined was a secure facility, due in large part to the wrenching odor from the open toilet hole. He began to breathe in gulps through his mouth.

  He dialed Laura’s London apartment.

  “Ms. Billington, please.”

  He was greeted with a pert and officious female voice.

  “I am sorry to inform you that Ms. Billington left for the midday flight to Jeddah over three hours ago. I suspect she has departed. May I take a message?”

  Skipping the question, Tony asked, “Do you know when she will arrive in Jeddah?”

  “Might I inquire, who are you?”

  “Tony Ramos, a friend of Ms. Billington and her late father.”

  “Oh yes, she was expecting your call before she left. Ms. Billington was disconcerted she had not heard from you.”

  “When will Ms. Billington’s flight get to Jeddah?”

  “Eleven-fifteen this evening.”

  “And where may I ask is she staying?”

  “Mr. Ramos, you know that is a question I cannot answer.”

  “Thank you,” with one last gulp of air through his mouth followed by a three-blow sneeze, Tony returned to the main office.

  With an understanding to meet at the Gulf Engineering headquarters at 8:15 the following morning and an offer to be dropped off and picked up at the hotel, Tony gathered his wrinkled clothing and walked to the Land Rover.

  SEPTEMBER 9–10

  Jeddah

  Having napped, showered, and shaved, Tony was in the best condition his circumstances would allow as he waited for British Air 1104 at the main terminal of the King Abdulaziz Airport shortly before eleven. When the 767 was parked at its gate, he observed through the airport’s glass wall a limousine waiting at the front exit ramp. Laura and five people Tony did not recognize, and a sixth he did, got off the aircraft and entered the Bentley. He watched as it drove to the VIP arrival terminal. He walked the half mile to the exquisitely fitted palace used solely at the invitation of the king for royalty and foreign dignitaries.

  Laura noticed him as she stood on the curbside, having completed the always turgid passport process. When Tony was within earshot, she called over, “Where in the hell were you this morning? I waited two hours for your call and almost missed this flight.”

  Now standing close, Tony explained: “I was on a mission of high importance. I’ll give you the specifics later when we’re under more accommodating circumstances,” and he rotated his head at the persons nearby who were listening to their overheated conversation.

  “I’ll call you at six in the morning. And I won’t be late. Where do I call?”

  Laura snapped, “The Imperial, and make it at five.”

  Concerned he might fail Laura again and with only four hours sleep available, Tony set his Casio alarm and a travel clock and asked the hotel for a 4:50 wake-up call. At the precise strike of 5:00 he called.

  “Laura, Tony.”

  She got right to the point. “What do you want me to do in Jeddah?”

  “Four things,” he answered her in kind. “From what I learned, there’s a lot of smoke around the kingdom working to get the bomb. I need second-source verification. See what you can find out. Is it happening, how far along are they, who knows about it, what are the Saudis’ intentions, if and when they get it?

  “Second, there have been alleged sightings of bin Laden or a surrogate in Jeddah. Try to confirm these, and if true, why is he here?”

  “That will be an interesting challenge. Do you think he’ll invite me to take his photograph in the cave?”

  Tony didn’t respond. “Third, there is an organization based in Jeddah called the Golden Chain.”

  “If that’s an upscale jewelry salon, Jeddah may be more interesting than I thought.”

  “Not quite. It’s made up of superwealthy Saudis who have been giving support to ‘traditional values’ and bin Laden. What I was up to yesterday may have had its fingerprints. The Golden Chain is supposed to be involved with science projects at a new university. Whatever ... See what you can find out.

  “Finally, the thing that has most confounded me is overreaction to your father. It’s reasonable to expect the Saudis were pissed at him for always ripping their drawers, but outright murder is way over the top. Did he know something more than he let on? Remember that op-ed in the Times? Was he just fantasizing, or had he stumbled onto a plot he never disclosed? Was this the reason for his premonition and preparations for his own death?”

  “So how do you propose for me to get all this?” Laura stuttered.

  “Remember what I told you; it’s just old-fashioned spy craft: identify someone on the inside and convince him to give or get you the information you want. But it is dangerous. If you want to reconsider, now’s the time.”

  “Tony,” she stammered, “remember—remember what I told you in Tallahassee. I want to help find the bastards who killed my father.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid. Even if you follow my precautions, I can’t write an insurance policy, but your odds will be a damn sight better. Any other questions?” Tony waited; no answer.

  Jamal collected Tony and his overnight travel bag at 8:00. By 8:30, with Jaime, they were on the
ir way back to the Price Sultan Research Center, this time in a four-door Toyota flatbed truck. Again, they were subjected to gate and entrance clearance. Tony had erroneously thought that since they had been through this less than twenty-two hours earlier, it would be less intrusive. To the contrary, it was more so, and when Tony was required to complete a form with additional information on his security status, he thought his short tenure as a metallurgical technician might be coming to an end, along with his freedom or life.

  But what he came up with was enough to get all three cleared. This time they were led out of the hanger and around to the rear loading dock.

  On a pinewood pallet sat five canisters that looked to Tony like kegs at a Georgetown undergraduate beer blast, though they did not have a tap or a Bud or Miller’s designation. Rather, painted pea green, a thermometer-like tube filled with an almond-colored liquid was attached at the top and bottom of each canister.

  Jamal and Jaime inspected the canisters with an instrument that emitted a clicking sound. Tony gave enough serious attention and support to avoid being suspicious. Inspections completed, the canisters were placed in plastic containers protected by four-inch-thick padding. The pallet and canisters were gently lifted onto the rear of the Toyota, where they were firmly secured and covered with a tarpaulin held in place by steel rope straps.

  In less than an hour the truck was backing into a ramp at the military cargo bay at King Abdulaziz. An air force colonel inspected the containers and attached transit documents to each. He directed the Gulf Engineering employees to deliver them to a Dessault Falcon waiting on the tarmac.

  As he placed the five plastic containers on the diagonal conveyor belt that would lift them into the cargo hold, Tony discreetly glanced at the manifest. The destination: Quetta, Islamic Republic of Pakistan.

  As they returned to the military-side parking area, they noticed a Nissan with the insignia of the Saudi Ministry of Interior parked in front of and perpendicular to the Toyota. Two men waited, their dark-haired arms casually resting on the automobile’s open window frames. Tony thought the one in the passenger seat looked familiar.

  Jaime leaned over the driver, “Excuse me, officer, but that’s our truck and we’ve got to take it to the next job.”

  The men emerged and stood by the left front fender. Dressed in the olive drab uniforms of the ministry with sleeves rolled above the elbow, both possessed biceps toned in the gym and guts betraying equal fidelity to the food table.

  The taller turned toward Tony. “And, as I asked you yesterday, who are you?”

  Although yesterday he had been in the Royal Army fatigues, Tony recognized him as the master sergeant at the entrance gate who had questioned his nationality. “Yemeni,” he answered, for the second time.

  “I don’t think so. There is no Khalid Khoury of Yemeni ancestry registered in the employ of Gulf Engineering.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Jaime asserted. “He is recently in the kingdom; he relocated from the UAE precisely so his special skills could be at the service of the king.”

  “Lying bastard,” the tall man lashed out, unholstering his Luger. “Justin,” he ordered, pointing the handgun at his subordinate, “you herd those two in the truck; that one drives—you know, the gimp—and you, Khalid,” he said with a smirk, “in the back. You keep ’em under your gun and don’t be weak-kneed about using it.”

  He turned to Jaime. “Get your ass in the driver’s seat of our car and don’t give me an excuse to send you to Allah.”

  With all in their assigned places, the faux sergeant kept his dark steel weapon aimed at Jaime’s hairline as he directed the Toyota to lead to the central office of the Ministry of Interior.

  The truck, followed by the Nissan, pulled out of King Abdulaziz onto the main highway headed south. In the Toyota the men sat silently as it entered the heavy midmorning traffic. The open windows allowed the thick layer of petroleum discharge to invade the cabin. Tony leaned forward, his head touching the back of the seat. His hands dangled beneath him as he unloosened the rawhide shoestrings on his workman’s boots. Justin glowered and swung his weapon so it pointed at Tony’s left eye. The truck jolted as Jamal jerked toward the curb to open a space for a petroleum tanker. The move momentarily alarmed and distracted Justin. “Foreign slime, can’t you keep this pile of shit on the road? It won’t be long before you won’t be able to keep your head connected to ...” Those were Justin’s last words. With the wrist control of a drop shot at the net, Tony looped the double band of laces over the man’s head and around his neck. A sharp crack preceded an instant protrusion from the back of Justin’s neck just below the back panel of his ministry cap, which Tony, from his training in close combat, recognized as the second cervical vertebra. He gurgled as he slumped down. The cap tumbled from his head to the floorboard.

  Seeing a commercial road to the left, Tony barked at Jamal to take it. With the gravitational force of a roller coaster, the right-side wheels off the pavement, he executed the turn. The turn completed, the Toyota slammed onto the asphalt. The force caused Tony’s single travel bag to bang into his chest. He unsnapped the locks and removed his BlackBerry and a black plastic box that shielded the Glock.

  The Nissan reacted to what was occurring ahead with an even more harrowing swerve. Over the noise of the wind swirl and traffic, Tony could hear the tall man cursing and berating Jaime to overtake the truck. “Jamal, stay in the right lane and let them close the gap,” Tony directed before assuming a horizontal position, his head against the left rear door.

  By the external noise, punctuated by the sergeant’s booming and profane voice, Tony judged the vehicles were parallel. He eased to the base of the window and fired two shots at point-blank range into the sergeant’s ear. A trickle of blood flowed over his jaw. Looking to the rear, Tony saw no sign that the altercations had drawn attention. He told Jamal to continue driving to the west, stay within the speed limit, and avoid attracting notice.

  Tony punched in Jonathan Rizzo’s number. Speaking in agitated Arabic, he barked, “We’re in a hell of a situation, but may just have a chance of coming out alive.”

  “Tony,” Jonathan’s voice was uneven, with sound dropping out. “I’m having a hard time making you out. Tell me what you want me to do, and say it in English.”

  “I’m with the NOCs, who have earned their keep today. We’re in two vehicles on road 25A north of Jeddah, and for starters need a place to get off the road and out of sight.”

  “We have a safe house. It’s more a safe cow barn, about twenty-five kilometers from where I think you are. Stay on the line and I’ll talk you in.”

  Tony relayed Jonathan’s instructions and turned and waved for Jaime to follow. Satisfied they were headed in the right direction, Tony continued. “Jonathan, the three of us have got to get the hell out of this place as fast and as unnoticed as possible. I can’t abandon these guys or they’ll be the next on the execution block.”

  “The agency keeps a Lear Jet with long legs based undercover at Il Kani airport. I could have it there thirty minutes after nightfall with enough fuel to drop them in Dubai and take you to KL.”

  “Sounds OK, but I don’t feel comfortable trying to hide out in the barn all afternoon. I imagine when the big kahunas find two of their men and a vehicle missing, it’ll be an all-hands-on-deck manhunt.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Wait at the barn for further info.”

  Tony jumped out and rolled back the wooden barn door. The stench of decaying cow manure was intense. After parking their vehicles at the far end of the barn, the three did a quick search. The source of the foul odor was banked against the north outside wall. Jamal located the toolshed and extracted two snow removal–type stubby shovels. He and Jaime burrowed a hole in the dark-brown pile while Tony removed the two bodies from the truck and Nissan. He dragged both, Justin first, by the feet into the now adequately sized pit, which was then re-covered. “This violates just about every burial tenet of the faith,” Jamal observ
ed, “but at least they won’t be cold.”

  Tony walked through the pasture that had once been home to the bovines. Their water source was now a green scum–covered mud hole hidden four meters below the field’s surface. With a fallen and forlorn tree limb he found, he probed the scum and determined the hole was at least five meters deep.

  Approaching from the north over a tree line, Tony heard the thumpthump-thump of a helicopter. Flattened against the far side of a date palm, Tony saw the black Sikorsky circle the field, hover over the barn, bank, and continue south.

  In fifteen minutes the pounding of the helicopter was replaced by the high whine of the Nissan. With Jaime at the wheel gunning the engine to full throttle before releasing the brakes for a fifty-meter spurt, the vehicle flew over the edge and at a thirty-degree angle disappeared into the sludge of the mud hole. Jaime emerged exhilarated at the experience, soaked in cow shit. The Nissan released its last bubbles to the surface.

  As Jamal hosed Jaime down from the barnyard faucet, Tony called Rizzo.

  “OK,” he said, “it’s 1615 and you’re an hour from Il Kani. I’ll have the Lear Jet there at 1730 with hot engines. Come directly to planeside and load on. Any questions?”

  “We won’t be late. Thanks, I owe you a big one.”

  It was 1727 when the Toyota, with Jamal at the wheel and Tony and Jaime riding shotgun at the two rear windows, rolled through the unmanned entrance to Il Kani, another abandoned military air base. The white with blue trim Lear was touching down at the far end of the field. Jamal bumped over the neglected runway toward what he estimated would be the loading site.