Dhahran - Monday, May 4
Callahan flipped through the English language mystery paperback, then replaced it on the shelf, scanned the rack, glanced at his watch, and picked another book off the shelf. Muslim evening prayer time was 5:42 pm, and it was now 5:30 pm. He had to get inside the restaurant before it locked its doors for the twenty minute prayer time.
He was in the basement bookstore of the Al Raashid Mall on the outskirts of Khobar, and Fuddruckers was on the second floor. When prayer time hit, the non-Muslim expatriates would flood into Fuddruckers, and the fast-food place would follow the letter of the law by locking its doors, but they would be locked with a full house of hungry people on the inside. The alternative for the expatriates was to wander the mall while all the stores were locked for twenty minutes. Devout Muslims said the fourth of their obligatory five daily prayers, expatriates ate hamburgers, and the religious authorities were satisfied the infidels’ blasphemy was hidden from the faithful.
Callahan counted out the Riyals and paid for his book, then set a leisurely pace through the crowd to Fuddruckers. Half the Saudi men wore the ankle length white thobe and either white or red checked gutras on their heads. The other half wore normal Western clothes. All the Saudi women wore the head to toe black abaya, some with the black veil or mask with eyeholes. The mall was a modern masterpiece of concrete, marble and stainless steel, but he found the stores strangely similar and lacking in stock. The Saudis had copied the form, but were still working on the substance of a consumer society.
He waited until the last minute to enter Fuddruckers, just before the smiling Indian manager closed and locked the doors. The place was packed with Westerners, the men who were employed, and their dependent wives and children. Good. He waited in line at the counter and ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and Coke, all prepared to the exact same standards as in Atlanta or Cleveland. Is this what they meant by cultural imperialism?
He took his tray into the larger room with the tables full of laughing kids and scanned the area. As expected, there were no vacant tables, so he moved down the left side of the room toward the back where a bald Westerner sat reading a Newsweek and munching an onion ring.
Callahan looked around for a table, and the man said, “It’s really packed today, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Callahan, “would you believe standing room only for hamburgers?”
With the correct password phrases exchanged, the man gestured for him to take the seat opposite him at the two-person table. The bald man looked at his watch. “About fifteen minutes until prayer time is over.”
Callahan saw two shopping bags at the man’s feet. One contained an assortment of clothes, books, and specialty chocolate cookies. The other contained a croquet set in a molded plastic box about three feet long. The label on the box showed a smiling Indian family playing the game on a perfect lawn.
They made small talk about travel deals in the Orient until Fuddruckers’ reopened at the end of prayer time. Like the tide going out, the chattering Western crowd picked up their packages and headed back into the mall where the stores were all opening their doors again.
“Well, it’s been good meeting you,” said the man. “Good luck.” He picked up one shopping bag, nodded, and left. Callahan lingered over his Coke, then picked up the bag with the croquet set, misjudged its weight, and nearly dropped it. If it opened, that would really have been interesting. He bought a large chocolate chip cookie on the way out, then took the stairs to the lower level parking lot where he had left his car.
He didn’t know anything about the bald man. The Marshall had simply sent a coded response in an Internet chat room giving the location of the meeting, a general description of his contact, and the password phrases. That’s all he needed to know. If captured, he couldn’t do any damage.
In fifteen minutes he was back in his apartment in the Aramco compound unpacking his croquet set, and examining three silenced 9mm Beretta pistols, one Heckler & Koch MSG90 A1 sniper rifle with a night scope, and ammunition for all four. He also had three pairs of night vision goggles, several explosive changes with timers and fuses, three handheld GPS units, and three military headset transceivers.
All of this was enough to ensure he would never leave the basement of Saudi Intelligence if he was caught. He thumbed the small capsule stuck under his collar that ensured he would never make it into the basement alive. They had their tools. If they needed the guns, they had already failed, but might still save their own lives.
Dhahran - Tuesday, May 5
Eguardo was all lean muscle, with two percent body fat, scars that spoke of serious fights, and Asian tattoos holding some secret code. Berrera had brought him to a McDonald’s on the Khobar Corniche and introduced him to Callahan.
They left Berrera in the McDonald’s and walked up to the nearby Burger King parking lot. “What did Berrera tell you?” Callahan asked.
Eguardo looked sideways at him, and scanned the Burger King parking lot. “He told me you needed of a good man with special operations experience, and he said the mission was of vital importance to the Church.”
“Do you care about the Church?”
“Berrera and the Church saved my life. I owe them everything. Let’s not waste our time. I spent ten years with the Philippine Marine Corps special operations units. That’s where I met Berrera. We hunted people in the south. Brought the war to them in ways they never imagined. Then government security services recruited me and I did the same things, just without a uniform, and without a good reason. Then I started working for myself, doing the same things with even less reason.”
Callahan motioned to the Burger King building. ”Let’s get going before Abdullah over there runs us down.” The parking lot was full of Saudi teenage boys revving powerful engines. Cars but no girls. That was against Saudi religious law.
Eguardo barked a laugh, then walked with Callahan through the door for single men. The other section was for families and single women. The Wahabbis didn’t like singles to mingle. They bought Cokes and sat in a far booth. Callahan waited.
“I went way too far, and one day didn’t like what I had become. Hated myself. I don’t know why. I just did. That’s a long story, and I’m not going to tell it. What I will tell you is Berrera and the Church turned my life around, and for the last three years I have been making amends for my past. I can look at myself in the mirror today.”
“I guess that means you are a friend of the Church?” Callahan sipped his drink and smiled. Anywhere else in the world, they would be in the back booth of a dingy bar, but not in a Kingdom where alcohol was strictly prohibited. Even Coke had been prohibited until recently as punishment for the company’s dealings with Israel.
Eguardo spread his fingers and shrugged. “I guess so.”
“You have any problem putting your skills to work for the Church? Infiltration, combat, killing… all of it.”
Eguardo toyed with the wrapper of his straw. “The skills aren’t the problem. It’s the reason. I have no problem fighting for the Church, if that’s what you’re doing. In fact, I would be honored. If that means fighting and killing, then… Ok. If it’s fighting these guys…” He jerked his head to a group of Saudis. “It’s about time.”
“Can you keep your mouth shut?” Would he be insulted at the question, Callahan wondered. Many people were.
He balled up the straw wrapper and flicked it away. “I’ve kept it shut for many years now. It’s a habit.”
“Do you want to work with us?”
“I have to know what you are doing. I’ll follow orders, but I need to know what’s going on, and why. Otherwise, I’ll say goodnight right here… and keep my mouth shut.”
Callahan had to make a decision. Well, the Templar Master told him to do whatever he had to do. “You know about the Treaty of Tuscany, and this guy Al Dossary who’s pushing it?”
When he finished the story of the treaty and plans, Eguardo sat back and shook his head. “You know your plan sucks, don�
�t you? Really sucks. You’re going to get us all killed.”
“Yeah, but it’s the only chance we have. You know how it goes. We don’t have to like it, we just have to do it. This Pope says we don’t go down without a fight, and when we fight we intend we win. So, I intend to do exactly what I told you, I intend to win, and I don’t care if it sucks.” He didn’t need to know about the Templars.
Eguardo’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward on the table. “The Pope himself ordered this?”
“Yeah. Berrera will back me up.” Not quite true, but close enough.
“One condition… I get killed, I want the Pope himself to say a mass for me. No assistants. The Pope himself in St. Peter’s. I might need some help… you know… with my visa.” He raised his eyes to heaven.
London - Friday, May 6
CNN’s Greg Conrad is in Cairo where Hammid Al Dossary made a personal appeal for calm today in the wake of the startling revelation that the Treaty of Tuscany had been scientifically dated to between 1160 and 1200. The date on the treaty is 1189. We go now to Greg in Cairo.
Thank you, Peter. As the news spread that the treaty had been dated to the late Twelfth Century by all three of the teams of experts, riots broke out across the Muslim world. Here in Cairo, police battled a crowd estimated to be over ten thousand. Similar riots erupted in Karachi, Beirut, and Tehran. In Paris a pipe bomb detonated inside the famed Notre Dame Cathedral, and Italian security forces have sealed off the Vatican from a crowd of at least one thousand.
All this is sparked by the news that the Treaty of Tuscany… actually the paper… or parchment… the treaty is written on… was produced in the late Twelfth Century. All nine scholars recruited by Mr. Al Dossary and the Vatican have confirmed their analysis yields identical results, and this from independent testing in London, Tokyo, and Geneva.
In his appeal for calm, Mr. Al Dossary stressed this was just the beginning of the testing. Earlier today, Mr. Al Dossary had this to say…
Al Dossary: I stress this laser test is just the first test to be performed. It does confirm, as we predicted, that the manuscript parchment was produced in the late Twelfth Century. But, the science of paleography involves much more than laser testing, and our team of scholars will be assembling back in Cairo to conduct additional tests.
CNN: But this laser test is an important step?
Al Dossary: Important? Certainly. But all the steps are important. If any single test demonstrates the manuscript could not have been produced as we think, then the treaty cannot be considered authentic.
CNN: You seem quite confident the treaty is genuine.
Al Dossary: We assembled an unimpeachable panel of renowned experts. I await their evaluation.
So, that’s about it, Peter. The treaty has passed the most difficult and demanding test, and many are taking that alone as sufficient grounds for authentication. But, as Mr. Al Dossary said, we have to remember there is still much more work to be done before a final verdict will be rendered.
This is Greg Conrad, CNN International, Cairo.
* * *
The Old Man’s unexpected call burst Hammid’s giddy bubble.
“Stop those idiots running through the streets killing each other. I don’t want one more TV report from Karachi or Algiers showing a bunch of dancing idiots with misspelled English signs.”
“But Sheik…” Hammid started.
“You know better than I?” the Old Man clicked in his metallic monotone.
“No. No. Yes. We’ll get the word out immediately.”
“The objective in this phase is to make the Vatican look stupid, while we look reasonable. You know that.”
The Old Man broke the connection.
Hammid threw the phone against the wall and it burst into a hundred pieces. Abdullah had given the order for the riots, but the Old Man held Hammid responsible. Hammid got the credit, and Hammid paid the price. The Old Man might know Abdullah had ordered the riots, and he might make Abdullah pay, but Hammid would pay first.
The Old Man always acted swiftly, so he had only a short window of opportunity. He called the pilot of his Bombardier business jet at the Cairo airport. “We’re going to Dhahran as soon as I get to the airport. Have the plane cleared and ready to take off immediately.”
* * *
Hammid eyed the ten men assembled around the conference table at his Villa south of Dhahran. Victory and celebration were in the air. Each was convinced the treaty was authentic and would soon lead to a massive uprising by their people.
“I’ve asked you here to talk about today’s events,” Hammid began. “We had a great victory when the panel of experts announced the treaty parchment came from the Twelfth Century.”
Abdullah clapped his fat hands together and said, “I was overjoyed when I heard the news. Just think. Proof of the true motives and objectives of the decadent West.”
“Yes,” said Hammid. “And the riots?”
“Yes, Sheik. We were ready… waiting. As soon as we heard the news, we called our brothers and gave them the word. I cannot tell you how proud and excited they were.”
“You acted quickly, Abdullah?”
“As fast as possible, Sheik. It wasn’t even a half hour before our people hit the streets.”
Hammid steepled his fingers and looked down the table. “You know you made us look like fools in the eyes of the world? Dancing idiots with English signs. They can’t even spell.”
Abdullah’s face collapsed. “Fools, Sheik? It was a great thing we did. I mean…”
“It was a great thing, Abdullah. It made us look like a bunch of great fools, dancing around the streets yelling Death to America, Death to Christians, Death to the Pope, Death, Death, Death. Death to everyone.”
“But Sheik, you said…”
“While we are conducting scientific investigations of the highest order, showing the world our rational approach, turning the West’s technology back on it, demonstrating we are civilized people… while we are doing all that, you order our people into the streets… to act like asses.”
Abdullah looked around the table for support. Nobody met his eyes and they were slowly backing away. “But, Sheik, you must understand…”
“Shut up. Just shut up.” Hammid drew a large Colt revolver, cocked it, aimed squarely at Abdullah’s head, and said, “Traitor.” The shot was deafening in the confined room and took Abdullah in the jaw. He fell back, choking on his own blood, and Hammid walked over, aimed straight down at his head, and pulled the trigger a second time.
Nobody moved a muscle. Hammid slowly looked at each man in turn. “We do not act independently,” he said softly. “We do not act like some mob of idiots.” His voice rose a bit. “We act on orders, we act in a coordinated manner, inflicting the maximum damage on the enemy.” Now he enunciated each and every word and spat them at the nine living men. “We have no room for ego. None. We act for a cause far greater than any one man here. Is that understood?”
When nobody answered, he shouted the question again. “Is that understood?”
The room filled with a chorus of mumbled, “Yes, Sheik.”
“Good.” He pointed to Abdullah’s body. “Now remove that diseased dog from my sight.”
That went well, thought Hammid, and the Old Man would soon learn of it. At least Abdullah had died before he could reveal Hammid had given him the order to set the rioters loose. It was very close.
Dhahran - Thursday, May 7
He had a tentative plan for getting into the villa, but that didn’t mean it would work. Once he got in there, then what? The place was about ten thousand square feet spread over three floors, and he didn’t have a clue where the treaty was kept.
Callahan called Berrera from his apartment on the Aramco camp. “Where can we steal an ATV?”
“A what?”
You know… one of those four-wheel vehicles that can go anywhere. Like a motorcycle with four wheels.”
“Like a dune buggy?”
“Yeah.�
�
“Why do you want to steal one? Why not just go buy one?”
When he returned to camp later that afternoon, he hauled a brand new Honda ATV on an equally new trailer, and it was all probably destroying the transmission on the new Chevy that DuBois had let him use. He had spent about an hour putting the ATV through its paces near an abandoned drill site. The ATV would go anywhere, but the big problem was staying on it while it did.
With the guns, GPS, tactical radios, night vision goggles, and ATV he had everything they needed, everything except the information to make the mission succeed.
* * *
Eguardo lounged in the back seat on the way down the highway to Hammid’s villa. “So, Callahan, we’re going to jump on that thing we’re towing, drive up to Hammid’s house, look around, wave, pose for snapshots, and leave… all without getting shot?”
“Yeah. Maybe he’ll invite us in.” Callahan laughed. “Really, we’ll park in a lot for beach users about five miles south, then take the ATV to about a half mile from Hammid’s villa. Then we go in on foot and use the night vision stuff to take a good look.”
“Do we know what kind of guards he has out there?” asked Berrera.
“No,” Callahan answered. “That’s what we find out tonight.”
“I hope someone somewhere is praying for us,” said Eguardo.
When they got to the parking lot, they all clicked their locations into their GPS units so they could find their way back, then they set off down the dark beach on the ATV, finding their way with the crisp green picture the night vision goggles gave.
Callahan drove the ATV into the scrub at the edge of the beach when the GPS showed him about half a mile from the villa. He didn’t have an exact position for the villa, and that was one of the things he would take care of tonight. They all clicked the Point Of Interest button so the GPS could lead them back to the ATV.
After an hour of slowly creeping through the small dunes, they covered the half mile to the villa without finding any sign of roving patrols or surveillance cameras. The security was either very good or very bad. Since they were still alive, Callahan guessed it was very bad.
The Templar Concordat Page 33
