by Bob Graham
“Yes. I want full details and the chance to be with you alone.”
Laura met Tony outside the United arrivals area at Dulles. Together they took a taxi into the city. During the forty-five-minute drive, she told him of what she had learned from Zaid before his demise less than forty-eight hours earlier.
After summarizing Zaid’s description of the 1991 meetings between the king and the Americans and the partnership they formed, she zeroed in on bin Laden. “He seems to intimidate the king. His physical stature is dominating; he has achieved his status not by privileged birth, but by heroic actions, at least that is the way they are seen among his believers; and by his willingness to do what he says—there is no subterfuge or guile. The king certainly gave him exceptional deference.”
“But what about the nukes?”
“Zaid said bin Laden has had weapons of mass destruction as his Holy Grail since long before 9/11. You remember the biological weapons lab we wrapped up after the 2001 invasion of Kandahar? According to the Times, it had been active since the early nineties and bin Laden was close to having a device. If it hasn’t already happened, I’m convinced he will and soon.”
Reflecting on the containers moving up the conveyor belt at the Jeddah airport, Tony offered, “I think it already has.”
Tony listened attentively as Laura gave him an expurgated version of her short relationship with Zaid. “I gave him a Leica so he could photograph bin Laden unobtrusively. That would have cinched it.”
“It sure would have,” Tony lamented.
He told the taxi driver to drop Laura at his place to get some sleep. No such luck for him; he had a command performance with Talbott at ten.
“In the meantime,” Tony added, “say nothing to anyone. We have to assume that Zaid’s fall or push, or whatever it was, means you are at risk.”
“What about you and your exploding airplane?”
“Let’s try to stay rational here, Laura.”
In Talbott’s office, the atmosphere was gloomy. The Taliban was on the verge of retaking Kabul, President Karzai had fled to Bangladesh, and the civil unrest in Pakistan had intensified. The beginning of what was supposed to be preparation for the winter lull had turned violent.
At the end of this bleak report, Talbott asked all but Tony to leave. Once the two were alone, Tony related what he had heard and his experiences in Riyadh, Jeddah, and Kuala Lumpur, and what Laura had told him from the palace: the suggestion that there was American complicity and the likelihood that weapons-grade nuclear material had been transferred to Osama bin Laden. Talbott was not surprised that the Saudis had an advanced nuclear program. He had long suspected a Saudi tie to the A. Q. Khan Pakistani nuclear network, but he was incredulous that the United States was involved and shocked and outraged that the Saudis could be negotiating with bin Laden. Talbott immediately called the secretary of state’s office to request an urgent meeting.
Within an hour, Talbott and Tony were in the seventh-floor office of the secretary of state. Talbott deferred to Tony to brief the secretary. She seemed distracted, not connecting with the severity of the information.
When Tony concluded, the secretary, without a deliberative moment, said, “With all due respect to the dead, al Swainee is not credible. Upon learning of his death under somewhat suspicious circumstances, our embassy cabled me that he was a marginalized member of the royal family, taken to self-delusion about his influence, and self-destructive in his behavior.”
Rising from her chair, the secretary continued: “Saudi Arabia is our ally in the war on terror, and we have committed to protect the kingdom, especially since 9/11. There is absolutely no evidence of U.S. support for a Saudi nuclear initiative. My predecessor urged the British to close down the BAE investigation, which might have raised suspicions as to illicit involvements with the Saudis by both our governments, and the attorney general took steps to assure we had that matter under our control. The most absurd suggestion is that the king would collaborate with Osama bin Laden, much less that he has visited Saudi Arabia since 9/11.”
“With respect, Madam Secretary,” Tony said, “we have direct testimony. As I just explained ...”
“This is the rambling of a drunkard with an inferiority complex who was trying to impress an attractive female celebrity. And, Mr. Ramos, is it possible you have been deceived by a ruse?” She looked directly at Tony, “With your limited—would it be correct to say, nonexistent?—experience in intelligence craft, you would be an easy target.”
“I was in Special Forces,” Tony pointed out.
“Not the same,” the secretary declared. “Do you have any documentary evidence to support your claim about bin Laden in Riyadh?”
“We were going to get it from Zaid, but then, as you know ...”
“So the answer is no.”
Tony nodded.
“And if you think this administration is going to jeopardize this alliance over hearsay and innuendo, you ought to resign from the State Department right now. I will not have that kind of gossip and rumormongering going on under my watch, I can assure you.”
She rose, staring down at the ambassador and Tony. “I want both of you to clearly understand what I am about to say. You are never again to discuss this. And Mr. Ramos, I am classifying your information as national security top secret. Tell Ms. Billington she is under the same mandate. The presidential election is in seven weeks. In case you haven’t noticed, our candidate has closed the margin to less than four points. But he cannot tolerate dealing with this incendiary rumor.”
Walking to and opening the door from her office to the lobby, she concluded, “If you encounter any further drivel about these bizarre allegations, bring them to my attention, and my attention only. Thank you.”
As they walked back to his office, Talbott’s generally unshakeable diplomatic mien had turned purple. “Everything in this city is politics, not politics as in Socrates, but politics as in power. I feel as if I don’t even belong here anymore.”
Talbott stepped into an alcove, joined by Tony and the bust of John Jay. “This is beyond politics. The lives of millions of people are at risk; the ability of the world to live together with something like peace. Avoiding this nuclear Armageddon maybe the last chance for civilization, and she’s talking about making us look better for the election in November.”
The two men reached Talbott’s office. He closed the door as soon as they were inside.
“Tony, what you have uncovered is the single most important threat to the world today. The potential is cataclysmic, and the time to avoid the ultimate calamity is short. We don’t have time to go through bureaucratic niceties. I want you to take this as your own and only assignment until it is contained.”
“Contained?”
“Contained by locating and destroying the nuclear material before bin Laden can use it against us.”
While Tony paused to assimilate what Talbott had said, the ambassador continued: “And you will be alone. I don’t trust the FBI, the CIA, the Department of Homeland Security, and certainly not the leadership of this department. They might use anything you came up with to frustrate, not facilitate, your mission.”
As a veteran of INR, Tony was fully aware of the politicization of the government. If the leadership of America’s national security policy would withhold action when the nation was at extreme risk, what was his responsibility? It was glaringly clear.
“I understand the rules of engagement,” Tony assured him. He was in personal and professional conflict. Tomorrow was the night for the delayed reunion with Carol. But he wanted to squeeze Laura for more of her Jeddah-derived intelligence. Juggling relationships with two women was something he thought he had given up with his pro tennis career.
“Carol, I hope you are in a good mood. I’m asking for another twenty-four hours. I’ve been in meetings all morning with Talbott, and I still have some debriefing to do on Saudi Arabia and Kuala Lumpur. Would you still take me in if it were Monday instead of tomorrow night?�
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Carol did not disguise her disappointment. “I’ve got the ingredients for the most delectable paella a girl from Tennessee has ever cooked. And I bought tropical lingerie in the Caymans.”
“Even without the enticements there is no place I would rather be. But ...” Tony stalled, “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Laura waited until it was after nine on Sunday morning in Long Beach to breach Tony’s directive. From the rear of his first-floor kitchen, she called Jeralewski.
“Are you better today?”
“No,” Jeralewski said gruffly. “And it isn’t going to be any better for you. I’ve started the process to call your note.”
All of the characteristics that had caused her to be called the bitch wolf of the camera poured out. “The worst day in my life was when I set foot in your office.”
“No, no, Ms. Billington. That is yet to come. I discern you fail to appreciate your circumstances.” Jeralewski paused to let his words have their intended effect. “I control your future. As a sanction to you and a message to others, it is my intention to crush it.”
Stung, Laura screamed, “You—you are—you conniving, dirtaround-white-collar scum. You have sold your country for three billion pieces of gold and now you are trying to take me down with you. You bastard.”
Calmly, Jeralewski responded, “Your peripatetic boyfriend has been vomiting the spew you gave him from Jeddah to the secretary of state and God knows who else. Madam Secretary has called her boss and told him what is coming.”
“And why would he care?”
“Because this close to an election, no one wants to open up a Pandora’s box full of the most volatile issues we face—Democrat or Republican. The law of unintended consequences is just too harrowing. No one knows who will be struck by collateral damage.”
Laura placed her phone on the kitchen’s wooden countertop. She breathed deeply. In a considered voice, she said, “Roland, I think you have blown this out of perspective. Let me suggest that rather than searching for a scapegoat you would be better served to plan a counteroffensive.”
Jeralewski’s sneer crept through the wireless transmission. “Rest assured that within Peninsular we are well prepared to do so. Rather than concern yourself about Peninsular, you would be better advised to consider your own self-preservation. You have thirty days to do so, and if it means anything to you, I have accepted your resignation. You are no longer a Peninsular associate.”
Tony met Laura at The Monocle restaurant near the Capitol. She had regained her composure after the volcanic discussion with Jeralewski. As she had done throughout her professional career, she had used the intervening hours to plot her personal survival strategy.
Tony was stimulated by the assignment he had been given; he felt a hormonal surge of an intensity totally different from those before his most important tennis matches. Seated at a romantically lighted side table, Laura and Tony diverted from the tension of the past week to more personal matters. They had grown up within ten miles of each other and had many common memories.
Later that evening, after a short stop at one of Tony’s favorite bars, they walked up 7th Street to Tony’s townhouse. Laura slipped out of her dress into jeans and a sweater, while Tony opened a bottle of Finca Abril malbec. With Tony’s arm casually around her shoulders, Laura returned to their Jeddah telephone conversation four days earlier.
“Tony, can you tell me where you think this is going?”
He moved his arm and turned to face her. “There’s a lot more to learn, but I think there are at least three key players—Osama, the king, and the Americans who made it possible. I suspect some combination of those three is responsible for the hit men who killed your father and Zaid’s push from the roof.
“My guess is that the senator’s op-ed speculation was overinterpreted and led the kingdom or the Americans, or both, to conclude that he knew too much to be left ‘in place.’ The question is, Who are those Americans?”
“How are you going to find them?”
“I’ve got a hunch if we can follow the money trail far enough, we’ll close the loop. And we have the right person on the hunt.”
“Who’s that?”
“Well, it’s a forensic accountant at the Treasury Department. Her name is Carol Watson. She’s been working a case in which a Brit defense firm has been paying bribe money to Saudis. It may have something to do with their nuke program; we should find out in the next few weeks. Let’s wait until she finishes her work.”
Clearly dissatisfied, Laura asked about Tony’s encounter with the secretary of state. He had enough control to respect the privacy of his and the ambassador’s conversation, even if he had lost respect for his leader.
Laura moved toward Tony, flitting in like the hummingbird’s approach to the ovule. She stretched her back on the sofa, her head lowered on Tony’s lap. Looking up, she asked, “Tony we’re in this together—together,” she stammered, “to determine who killed my father. If you’re unwilling to share with me, our chances of catching the murderers will be close to zero.” She began to lift her cashmere Fair Isle sweater. “Remember, we’re a team.”
“Laura,” Tony responded, “do you remember my last piece of advice for your dealings with the Saudis? It was to be prepared to use alcohol and the expectation of sex as a means of extracting information. Methinks you have learned that lesson too well. It’s late and we’ve both had a stressful three days. You can use my bedroom; I’ll sleep here.”
Without a word she rose frigidly and climbed the eighteen steps to the second-floor bedroom.
Twenty minutes passed. Laura crept back down the stairs and assured herself that Tony was asleep on the sofa. She retrieved her cell phone from her purse and tiptoed toward the bathroom. In the moonlight she mistakenly opened the closet door. She brushed against a woman’s summer outfit with a discernable residue of white linen perfume.
“Slut,” she muttered.
Now in the bathroom, she punched a key.
“Roland, this is Laura; I have something to tell you.”
SEPTEMBER 14
Washington, D.C.
The attorney general of the United States was an angry man. Less than thirty minutes after demanding an immediate meeting with the secretary of the Treasury, he was sitting beneath the chandelier in the secretary’s gold-inlaid office adjacent to the White House.
The attorney general was the cabinet member closest to the president. He had served in his state administration and as White House general counsel before moving to the top legal position in the U.S. government. He was a small, intense man with the pugnacious personality of a middle-aged welterweight fighter.
In contrast, the secretary of the Treasury was newly arrived from the upper echelons of Wall Street to the cauldron of Washington politics. It was understood that his job was to make no waves, keep the economy on keel or at least create that perception through the election, and be an all-purpose cheerleader for the administration’s meager economic accomplishments.
“What in the hell are you doing?” the attorney general demanded. “My people have told me that your auditors have been poring over the accounts of a Swiss and Cayman bank and are about to disclose some very sensitive information. Is anybody giving your Treasury people adult supervision?”
The secretary knew without further scolding the attorney general’s concerns. He had been briefed by Carol and her supervisor on her findings in Zurich. They were on his schedule for the next day to report on her discoveries at a bank in the Caymans.
“When we were given the assignment of supporting your investigation of the BAE-Saudi connection,” he said, “it was my understanding that we were engaged in a serious corruption matter that might have implications for the policy decision to allow BAE to acquire a U.S. defense contractor. We have been doing what we thought you wanted.”
“Mr. Secretary, the president was choosing his words with purpose when he labeled our response to 9/11 as a war on terrorism. He knew it was n
ecessary to disguise the truth, and a public ‘declaration of war’ was the means to do so. As Churchill said, ‘In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.’ That certainly includes the precious truth of the Saudi undertaking. Anyone without the highest clearances, including Ms. Watson, has no need to know that truth or its attendant bodyguards.”
With visible rage, the secretary stood, towering six inches above the attorney general, and placed his right index finger in the AG’s chest. “God damn it, I know you have a different set of rules here, but I am going to do my business. If you didn’t want us to be professional, you should never have asked us in. But having done so, we are going to follow this as far as the facts lead and place whatever we find in the hands of the appropriate officials. Mr. Attorney General, it sounds like that will not be you. When the time comes, I will inform you with whom we have shared our conclusions. I think it best you leave.”
In his limousine back to the Department of Justice, the attorney general placed a call to the president’s chief of staff. “Tom, we have a problem; one hell of a problem. I need to talk with the boss.”
SEPTEMBER 14
Long Beach
In the penthouse executive suite of Peninsular Corporation, two men faced each other in a corner office. The older man sat with his legs crossed—the demeanor of one comfortable with the exercise of power and with his own importance.
The more assertive one was almost a generation younger. His supple body was tense, poised on the farthest edge of the sofa. “Mr. Chairman, one might conclude we have lost control. I assure you that is not the case.”
With a southern accent tuned at an Ivy League university, the older man offered, “Roland, I am concerned. It seems every week there is yet another crisis. Have we abandoned our principles—to keep our understandings with both partners and clients confidential, to use force only as the last resort?”
