by Bob Graham
The secret of U.S involvement in covering up the Saudi role was still that—a secret. It was inexplicable that a president with such an off-thechart public approval rating as he had after 9/11 would have sheltered the Saudis. Al-Dossari’s lament about the clumsiness with which the Saudis’ attempt to extricate themselves from suspicion had been staged further obscured their motivation and the president’s possible complicity. Maybe there would be some answers at this last stop.
Tony reread Senator Billington’s memo:Kuala Lumpur, Kingdom of Malaysia
Chapter One of the 9/11 plot began in Kuala Lumpur. On January 4, 2000, a summit of terrorists was held at a suburban condominium. Both the plot to attack a U.S. naval vessel, which matured into the attack on the USS Cole in October of 2000, and 9/11 were products of this summit. The two living people most knowledgeable of the summit and its aftermath are:
Yazid Sonji—a Malaysian businessman trained there and in the United States as a microbiologist, and a convert to Muslim extremism—complied with a request from Osama bin Laden to make his second home available for the meeting. He was detained for five years after 9/11 by the Malaysian Interior Ministry at an undisclosed location, but eventually was released and is now reputed to continue his close ties to bin Laden.
Colonel Tan Row was the Malaysian intelligence officer charged with surveillance of Sonji’s condo. He might be the key to explaining why the Malays and the CIA were unable to gather enough information to interdict the plot at its first stage.
Tony awoke shortly before seven in his forgettable Kuala Lumpur hotel room, showered, dressed in the seersucker suit that had steamed in the shower overnight, knotted the tie purchased in the Dubai airport duty-free (maroon silk with a pattern of tiny white Indian-style elephants) and left for his first appointment.
In less than fifteen minutes his taxi had arrived at the One Center Tower. Kuala Lumpur was a city of new high-rise office buildings, including the Petronas Towers, which had only recently lost bragging rights as the tallest buildings in the world.
Today was September 11, and as long as he lived, Tony knew he would not be able to banish from his mind the image of those towers much closer to home that once had held those bragging rights. That was the existential, defining moment for his generation. And everything in his professional life, it seemed, was dedicated to stopping that from happening again. If at all possible.
Tony took the elevator to the twentieth floor. The door opened to the reception room of Opal Enterprises. He introduced himself to the male attendant and was directed to a sofa facing a picture window with a panoramic view of the city. Whatever its political shortcomings, he thought, no one could be unimpressed by the energy and dynamism of the place Noel Coward once lampooned in the lyrics to “Mad Dogs and Englishmen.”
The attendant approached Tony, informing him that Mr. Sonji was ready to meet with him.
Sonji remained seated as Tony entered. Almost twice Tony’s age, he showed the strain of his five years of detention. His seething anger was underscored as he eschewed traditional Asian politeness and protocol during their introductory meeting.
“Mr. Ramos, I appreciate your punctuality.” He motioned with his left hand toward the chair on the opposite side of the intricately carved Malay desk. “Since I have been able to return to my private work and passions, each day has been congested from years of absence. Today will be a particularly demanding one. I must depart in an hour, so I would ask we dispense with formalities.”
Sonji rose, turning his back to examine a memento hanging on the rear wall. Tony’s attention was drawn to the testimonials to Sonji’s accomplishments. He especially noted a yellowing formal photograph of Sonji and four other men in front of what appeared to be a pharmaceutical plant. The most diminutive of the group was at the far left of the assemblage; Tony recognized him as Professor Nasir. When Sonji turned to face him, he exposed the far side of the wall, decorated with his academic recognitions and diplomas, most prominent among them a doctorate from the University of California at San Diego.
Leaning forward on the desk, supported by his fully extended fingers, he continued, “Mr. Ramos, I know the purpose of your visit. My colleagues elsewhere have informed me of your inquiries.” His voice raised a half octave as he announced, “I have no interest in your intrusive questions.”
Rising to his full height of just under five feet, nine, Sonji continued, “The only reason I accepted your request to meet was to convey a message to you and the country I assume you represent. These issues you have raised have long been closed by your own government. Your attempts to disinter them will only strain the few positive relationships your country retains and make it all the more difficult to rebuild its credibility in the world.” He paused, looking down as if staring into the grave of America’s indiscretions.
Tony spoke: “Mr. Sonji, I can assure you I am not here as a representative of my government. I am a Foreign Service officer in the State Department and my superiors are aware of my travels. But I am here as a private citizen attempting to answer questions that have confounded many of my people. I am in hopes you will be of assistance in doing so.”
“I shall not,” Sonji interrupted. “My relations with your country have been extremely hurtful. I labored to complete my education against the prejudice and insolence of most of those with whom I was required to associate. The hostility toward my religion was palpable, isolating me from all but those who shared it. The arrogance of undeserved superiority, the condescension towards me and others from non-Caucasian ancestry, has left a permanent scar.”
He resumed his seat. “When I returned to my home after five years in yours, my senses were more attuned to the changes that had occurred here, the extent to which American secularity was confronting and diluting our religious traditions. I fought against this perversion, militarily and politically. This brought me in contact with Osama bin Laden, a young man who had given up the pleasures of an opulent life in Saudi Arabia for the battlefields of Afghanistan.”
Tony broke in. “You know bin Laden, personally?”
“He is one of my closest friends,” Sonji said, reaching into his desk drawer. He withdrew a Pashtun knife, encased in a goatskin sheath. “This was his gift to me in 2000 for the use of my condominium by his people. Osama bin Laden represented the will to protect our values, the capability of triumphing over the Russians and the Americans. He has become my friend and idol, as he has to millions who uphold the faith. When he asks for my help—and that incident in January of this new century is by no means the only time he has done so—I attempt to be as forthcoming as possible. And, I assure you, I will continue to do so.”
“Could you describe your present relationship with Mr. bin Laden?” Tony asked.
“In respect to him I will not. Let me only say that what he has accomplished is only a modest reflection of what the future holds. Even now, with the will of Allah, he is preparing for more spectacular actions, actions which will bring you heathens to your knees.”
Tony rose. It was clear the interview was over.
Curbside, Tony hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the Malaysian intelligence agency, approximately forty kilometers distant.
As he gazed down twenty stories and watched Tony enter the taxi, Sonji pushed a button on his console telephone. In a calm voice he said, “Anthony, order the container of 43B medical devices to be placed with DHL and forwarded to our Hong Kong representative on the 6:55 Malaysia Airlines flight.”
SEPTEMBER 11
Jeddah
King Khalid Ibn Abdul Aziz was forty minutes late for the photo shoot. At almost eighty-five, he showed the effects of a decade of declining health. Within the last fortnight he had been hospitalized for a recurrence of what was speculated to be a persistent heart abnormality. The Economist, which Laura had read on the flight from London, reported that His Highness’s decline had weakened his government through unsteady decision making and widening fissures within the court as factions among th
e next generation positioned themselves in anticipation of the king’s demise. The splits had been accentuated by the passing of the heir apparent to the throne, Crown Prince Sultan, in June.
Zaid, who was no part of the palace intrigues, met Laura and her colleagues.
Like a U.S. president in his last year in office, the king was thought to be burnishing his legacy. Photographs by the internationally acclaimed Laura Billington would give a face to that legacy.
Laura and her staff were ready. Tony’s advice again proved valuable. The king had a reputation for vanity, and lack of punctuality was a serious offense. Obviously, the same standard did not apply in reverse. In the royal chambers to which Laura had been denied access a day earlier, her suggestions to the king as to positions and demeanor were silently deferred to. After ninety minutes, the king was pleased.
The next photographs were with King Abdul Aziz and the recently designated heir apparent, Crown Prince Nayef. Through an aide, His Highness directed that the shoot be extended into the afternoon to include designated other members of the royal family.
Zaid was not one of those selected, but he hovered in the background, offering Laura advice and information on some of the lesserknown family members. By four, the family, Laura, and her weary crew were more than satisfied with the quality of the photos.
During breaks, she wandered into the room in which she had spent so much time the previous day, but didn’t see the tall, beardless man this time. Laura did not escape the scrutiny of the woman in a black burka who had trailed him into the rear chamber of the palace the day before. From the chamber entrance she had an unobstructed view of Laura and her revolving royal photographic subjects. For her, Laura was a dream. As a young girl in Bombay, she had aspired to be an international journalist. It had happened only at the periphery. Laura was the embodiment of what might have been. Not that she was without pride in what had been achieved: the respect, if not the understanding, that her beliefs had at long last received. But she was disconsolate at what she had heard in the palace chamber. As influential as her leader had been, he was preparing to take a new, more indiscriminately violent course. She was worried for herself and her people—all of them, but mostly Mamata.
She rose as the king and the tall man approached. Anxious not to lose her place behind her leader, she soon disappeared into the adoring crowd.
Zaid dutifully assisted Laura and her crew in folding up the equipment and even helped place the light stands, deflectors, and other photographic equipment in the Toyota van.
With the shoot completed, Zaid and Laura departed in his Alfa Romeo for the Imperial Hotel.
As the attentive waiter was placing the first round of Maker’s Mark and Chivas Regal on the glass tabletop, Laura slipped Zaid his printed photos from the night before. His pleasure and arousal were obvious. “A successful photographer must be able to relate intimately with the subject. I can see that you certainly possess that talent,” Laura oozed.
“I am very much looking forward to further hands-on lessons from you,” Zaid replied.
After a second round of Maker’s Mark and scotch on the rocks at the bar and a minimalist dinner in the palatial five-star restaurant, Laura and Zaid took the elevator to Laura’s penthouse suite.
They both traded the clothing they had worn during the day for the Imperial’s maroon-and-gold bathrobes. Zaid continued to drink as Laura plied him with questions, commencing with the one he’d deflected the night before.
“You described the meeting with the Americans, I believe it was in 1991, at which a partnership was established. Can you tell me if it went forward?”
“I appreciate the manner in which you have reframed your question. And the answer is yes, it appears so. Shortly after the meeting with His Highness, a former military air base was converted into a research center. Scientists from the United States and Europe, and India too, started to arrive. In a few months, cargo containers of equipment were being delivered to the center weekly.”
“Thank you, Zaid. It appears our relationship has reconnected.”
He smiled as he took another sip of scotch.
“One more question: just before his murder, my father had written in an article about the possibility Saudi Arabia was developing a nuclear weapon. Do you think he had some inside intelligence, and was that why he was killed?”
With apparent candor, Zaid declared ignorance.
Laura reached out her toes and stroked Zaid’s feet. He nuzzled her breasts, then pulled back.
“Zaid, yesterday I saw a tall, beardless man in the reception room of the palace. I looked for him today, but never saw him.”
“The man you saw was Osama bin Laden,” Zaid replied with the barely obscured pride of one with special knowledge.
“What!”
“Yes,” Zaid said calmly. “Osama bin Laden. To maintain some anonymity for one of the best-known persons on the planet, he has shaven his beard and is approaching His Majesty with a very humble appearance.”
“It can’t possibly be bin Laden. We keep hearing that since 9/11 he’s been hiding out in caves somewhere along the Afghan-Pakistani border.”
Zaid spread his hands indulgently. “That may be what is given out, and your people may very well believe it. But the fact remains, that man you saw was Osama.”
Laura stiffened. “That’s—that’s just—incredible. Anyway, I thought he was the sworn enemy of the king and had tried to assassinate Prince al-Faisal. Why would His Royal Highness have tolerated him in the palace? It makes no sense.”
“My grandfather is first of all committed to the safety and well-being of the nation and the House of Saud. As he has done before, he will deal with whomever he must to ensure that.”
Laura’s head was spinning. “What’s he doing here in Jeddah?”
“Like your father, but no doubt with more evidence, Osama has reason to believe the kingdom has processed a sufficient amount of nuclear material for several bombs. He is here to—what is your expression?—to do business.”
“That’s even more unbelievable.” She strained to keep herself from stammering. “How could the kingdom have come so far so fast? From what I understand, Iran has been working on a nuclear weapon much longer than you and still hasn’t been successful with even one.”
Zaid’s smile was midway between sardonic and smug. “My dear, we have better partners than the ayatollah.”
Was he being honest or just trying to impress her? Laura wondered. If he was telling the truth, his revelation was earth-shattering. It was time for the full-court press. She poured another inch and a half of Chivas into his glass, and then slipped to the floor, deftly allowing her robe to reveal a little more. Zaid leaned forward and reached within to fondle her breasts.
Laura put her hand on top of his while discreetly tightening her robe. “Zaid, we’ve been tracking bin Laden for more than ten years and in the most god-awful places. Are you saying that while we’re doing all that, he has open access to the palace and comes and goes as he pleases? How could the king have not told us, his most faithful ally? If the U.S. doesn’t know of bin Laden’s presence and reason to be in the kingdom, who does?”
“I do,” said Zaid, trying to underplay his satisfaction with his own omniscience. “Before the 9/11 attacks, His Royal Highness was in the same position. Osama demanded access to the kingdom’s agents in the U.S. to provide security and support for the operatives who would soon be inserted in your country. The king capitulated rather than face an al-Qaeda-led civil insurrection. Now, in exchange for a commitment not to turn the kingdom into another Iran by unleashing his operatives—twenty thousand in the kingdom, and only Allah knows, how many in the gulf region—Osama wants enough nuclear material for three or four bombs. This would consummate—I like your word, Ms. Billington—his long-standing goal of acquiring weapons of mass destruction. The king seems to think that if Osama does not receive what he requests, he is willing and able to carry out his threat.”
Laura stood. “Z
aid, you can’t be serious. That would be a global catas—catas—catastrophe. It would be the end of the kingdom—a rank betrayal of the U.S. and your other friends.”
“The king is losing faith in the capability and reliability of your nation. And we have other friends.”
Suddenly, she had an idea. “Zaid, darling,” she said in her most kittenish voice, “if I give you my Leica, do you think you could get some photos of him?”
“Well, I don’t know—”
“It’s small and discreet. No one would have to know, and you could practice your ‘candid’ photography. What Henri Cartier-Bresson did on the streets of Paris, you could do in the halls of power of the Middle East!”
“But how would I—”
“The trick is to always look as if you’re photographing something else. You can practice on me, here in the hotel room. I can make it interesting for you,” she promised.
“Well, how can I refuse such an offer? But first, we will relax.”
Rising, Zaid wrapped his arms around Laura’s waist. He gently guided her toward the adjacent maroon-and-gold-tiled bathroom and its steam shower.
Zaid adjusted the temperature of the steam to 120 degrees.
Seated on the marble shower bench, they slumped against the walls. Zaid’s eyes were closed when he felt Laura stroking his groin. He reacted with a start, then pleasure. Laura rotated to a sitting position on his knees and began caressing his graying chest hairs, around the back of his neck, to his now aroused nipples.
He started to rise, touching Laura’s genitals with his organ.
