by Doug Dollard
I cranked the dial up to hot and stood there for a good fifteen minutes just letting the water pour down over me. When I felt human again I toweled off, shaved, brushed my teeth and dressed in a comfortable pair of Dockers and a long sleeved flannel shirt with an emblem of a polo player over the left breast pocket.
Chapter 9
MI6
London, United Kingdom
Refreshed from the shower I decided to head down stairs, intending to eat a light breakfast in the Savoy’s River Room. I learned quickly an English breakfast is something of an event. I chose a table near the tall windows where I had a view of the River Thames through the trees.
Apparently British breakfasts were popular with overseas visitors and London hotels thrived on providing them. I ordered fresh squeezed orange juice and compote of dried fruits with low-fat yogurt. I followed this up with an almond croissant and strong, filtered coffee served in a thermos jug.
After breakfast I returned to my room where I pulled my Apple laptop from its case, set it on the writing desk and snapped the Internet cable into the appropriate port. When I got a connection I logged onto the CIA’s secure database and set my search parameters for the intersection of OPEC, thermonuclear fusion and Global Energy Research.
I’d been tracing this thread for nearly six months and didn’t really expect to find anything new. I spent the next hour reviewing CIA reports on matters relating to emerging energy technologies.
Working for the CIA you learn to watch for subtleties and non-sequiturs in the classified reports. CIA field operatives are cognizant of politics and tensions existent between the covert services and the Department of State. Field reports are scrubbed and often altered to reflect these political realities.
It was around two in the afternoon local time when I ran across a low level CIA agent’s report buried in the notes of a report crafted by the State Department. The agent was a junior intelligence officer who had accompanied U.S. Special Forces Troops to Dubai during the second Gulf War. The agent who was himself from that region and spoke fluent Arabic made contact with many of the foreign nationals resident in Dubai. Over a period of many months he was able to garner information about a dissident group with connections to the ruling families.
What was most disconcerting was the agent’s final note. A faction within this group was determined to thwart any western attempt to advance technology they deemed inimical to the preeminence of petrochemicals and natural gas. To that end they had allied themselves with members of the ruling families within the UAE. They called themselves The Shield of Islam.
It was further proof my suspicions had merit. I did a global search for the name across the entire network and came up empty, which was curious because I had previously found several references that I had included in my report. The CIA documented even the most obscure information when it affected Middle Eastern politics. The fact that all references to the group were missing implied the information had been reclassified above my level of access. I wondered if the Director had a hand in that.
I spent the next several hours attempting to glean whatever additional information I could about dissident groups in the Emirates but again came up empty. It was quarter to five when I finally gave up and shut down my laptop.
Since I had previously arranged a meeting with Harry Townsend I needed to break anyway. Harry was an administrator with MI6 and though we had never met I had spoken with him occasionally during my two years with the CIA. Harry was surprised I was in London, surprised I wanted to meet but reluctantly consented.
We arranged to meet at five-thirty that afternoon in a pub called the Lamp and Flag around the corner from the Savoy.
At twenty minutes after five I was at the bar, a pint of dark Guinness sitting on the counter in front of me. I ordered a ploughman’s lunch that I learned was a cold sandwich consisting of a thick slice of cheddar, cooked ham and chunks of pickle on a crusty bread.
I had a clear view of the entrance from where I stood and when I saw a lanky man about six feet tall, dark hair that receded from his forehead and dressed in a long black London Fog raincoat I guessed it was Harry. When he stopped just inside the doorway and began looking around I raised my hand and waved until I caught his attention.
“Michael?” He asked as he approached cautiously.
“Yes,” I confirmed, holding out my hand. Harry grasped my hand and shook it firmly, his eyes focused on mine.
“You don’t look at all as I expected,” he said, seemingly genuinely surprised. I wasn’t certain how to take that, so I just ignored it in preference to focusing on the reason for our meeting.
“I received your email,” he began immediately getting down to the purpose of our meeting. I had sent him a secure email outlining my suspicions, as I knew meeting in a public place would restrict what we could discuss.
“I was surprised you called quite frankly. I didn’t think this kind of work was part of your job description.” Harry wasn’t wasting any time and I knew what was coming next. “I did some checking and found out the agency wasn’t aware you were here!” I anticipated this was going to be a problem and had prepared for it.
“In this instance I’m just acting as a concerned citizen. If I did nothing and then found out I’d been right I’d have that on my conscious for the rest of my life.” Harry was far from convinced.
“You’re using company assets Michael. It’s a hard case to make.” He was right of course. An ordinary citizen wouldn’t have access to the CIA’s database. I was definitely walking a fine line, maybe even stepped over it. My suspicions were entirely the result of researching highly classified communications. Despite my good intentions even generalizing their content was a violation of my oath and a federal crime.
“Can we focus on the issue at hand Harry? If I’m wrong then it won’t matter a whit to you. But if I’m right your agency will have ignored the opportunity to put a stop to this before it happens. You’ll pay a heavy price for that.”
It was a harsh way to leverage my point but necessary I felt. I was willing to be disliked even to the point of having MI6 file a complaint with the agency about my unauthorized interference. But at least my conscience would be clear and maybe some lives would be saved.
But instead of displaying anger Harry only shook his head slowly and stared off into the distance behind my shoulder, apparently thinking. He did that for a good two minutes before returning his gaze to me.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said finally. “But you need to go home Michael. Go home and forget about this. If you have any plans of having a career with the agency you should go home now.” With that he rose from seat at the bar, turned away from me and headed out the door into the cold.
Despite Harry’s halfhearted commitment I knew there was little he could do. In a little less than ten minutes I had lost the only opportunity I had for preventing a major calamity that would cost the lives of hundreds of people. It was a good thing I wasn’t a field agent as apparently I had little facility for it.
Disappointed I headed back to the Savoy. I needed a drink and some time to consider if I’d been overly rash in my judgment. The truth was that after my concerns had been rejected by both my own agency and now by the British MI6 I was loosing confidence in my analysis. Perhaps I’d fallen into that trap of having to prove a point rather than accepting that others, far more experienced did not share my concerns.
Chapter 10
THE AMERICAN BAR
London, United Kingdom
Downstairs in the Savoy just off the foyer was the internationally celebrated American Bar. Inside it was a gleaming art deco museum piece, discreetly lit, a little staid, the walls lined with photo portraits of movie stars. It felt like a place where stories happened an intrigue began, something out of Casablanca.
Near the bar was a piano where a man in a white jacket and coincidently named Sam played music from the forties. There was a moment when I would not have been surprised to hear the pianist drift into “As
Time Goes By. I half expected to see Humphrey Bogart dressed in his white tuxedo jacket step out from behind the bar.
I took a seat at one of small tables with electric blue and gold chairs and signaled for a waiter. A photograph of Elizabeth Taylor sticking a cigarette in David Bowie’s mouth hung on a wall nearby.
A white-jacketed waiter took my order for a martini and the barman crafted a golden era blend of vodka, lime, martini and pomegranate juice with a hint of almond. I wasn’t much of a drinker so I nursed the martini and enjoyed the art of people watching.
As I sipped leisurely from my glass I noticed a swarthy man seated at a table on my left studying me. The gossip at the hotel was that he was a wealthy prince from one of the emirates. He was the kind of man women found irresistible: handsome, rich and utterly charming.
A few tables away strategically positioned to take in the entire room were seated two well-dressed men in tailored suits sharing a bottle of Pellegrino. They were swarthy and clean-shaven with short-cropped hair the color of crude oil. I took them for middle-eastern perhaps Saudi Arabia or the UAE. Their suit jackets did little to disguise their upper body musculature. The pair was tall, maybe six two or three and lean, their eyes penetrating and dark. They had the look of predators. Their drinks sat untouched while their gaze fell about the room but always returning to the prince.
The prince was dressed in a dark pinstripe, something expensive from Savile Row in Mayfair I wagered. Seated beside him was a stunningly attractive woman with raven hair pulled tightly back from her face. When the prince caught my gaze he smiled, rose from his chair and made his way past the bar to my table.
“Ali Ben Berudi, technology advisor to Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan, Emir of Abu Dhabi,” he introduced himself while extending his hand.
His English was impeccable with only a hint of the class distinction you might expect of a graduate of Eton and later Oxford. I noticed his fingernails on his outstretched hand were manicured and polished to a bright sheen. The two men seated at the far table had been watching intently as Ali crossed the floor to introduce himself. I had the distinct impression they could move from their table to the center of the room before a spilled drink hit the floor.
“Michael Riley,” I answered rising to shake his outstretched hand. His grip was firm, his dark eyes meeting and holding mine as if I were being minutely assessed.
“You are American,” he added seemingly pleased.
“Guilty,” I admitted.
“Please join us,” he insisted, gesturing toward his table where his stunning female companion sat smiling back at us.
“Having a vested interest in international trade I have an insatiable curiosity in learning the perspectives of businessmen traveling abroad,” he stated with practiced affability.
“I am afraid I’m not a businessman Mister Berudi, but a technical analyst here to preview a new technology.”
“Even better,” he said enthusiastically placing his arm on my shoulder, gently but insistently guiding me toward his table. “And please call me Ali as do all my friends.”
I allowed myself to be ushered to a chair opposite the raven-haired woman while he signaled to one of the white-jacketed barmen who immediately materialized beside us.
“Please allow me to introduce our attaché for foreign investments, Miss Basimah Salatt. With the easy grace of an athlete she rose to her feet, smiled and held out a bronze skinned arm.
“Mister Riley, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said in a voice as soft and as delicate as Japanese silk. Her accent was indistinct. Not American or British, but not middle-eastern either.
“Please call me Michael.” Her hand was warm, her grip firm for a woman. Hanging elegantly around her wrist was a platinum bracelet bearing more diamonds than I imagined would fit on so delicate a piece of jewelry. Releasing her hand I noticed her fingers were long and delicate ending in meticulously manicured nails painted a brilliant scarlet.
There were no rings on the fingers of either of her hands. She wore a sleeveless black satin dress that covered her like a second skin. The hem of her dress ended several inches above her knees. Her legs below the dress were as bronze as her arms, perfectly shaped with every appearance of being as smooth to the touch as the silk in her dress.
She wore black spike heeled shoes that probably cost as much as a Lexus but gave a sensual accent to the curve of her caves. Her cheekbones were high and smooth, her cheeks slightly hollow, her lips full and accented by blood red lipstick. Her hair was pulled back from her face and held up with invisible strands of silk. The lights in the bar caught tiny pieces of glitter in her hair that made them sparkle like miniature fireworks.
Despite her obvious beauty and delicate appearance there was a subtle but palpable aura of danger about her. I had no doubt she was, along with the two men in the far corner a member of Ali Ben Berudi’s personal bodyguard. I wondered where she might keep the weapons she must surely be carrying.
Though I was suspicious this chance meeting was anything but accidental I had absolutely no reason to suppose I’d be the target of anyone’s interest. My own agency had rejected my report. No one except Harry Townsend knew why I was here and Harry had advised me to go home, my warnings having fallen on deaf ears. The Shield of Islam had absolutely nothing to fear from me now.
“What are you drinking Michael,” Ali inquired.
“I’m fine,” I answered holding up the mostly intact martini I had brought with me. Ali waved the waiter away and he disappeared as quickly as he had materialized.
“We do not drink alcohol in the Emirates Mister Riley, or for that matter anywhere in the middle-east; it is forbidden by Islamic Law. But for those of us who travel abroad we have a more worldly view of such vices so a modest indulgence is overlooked. I however do not indulge in such pleasures myself. Not as a matter of religion but as a matter of preference. I do not begrudge others such indulgences,” he added cordially.
I felt the woman’s eyes on me, watching for those subtleties of body language and facial expression that revealed intention and predicted behavior.
“Your home is in the Emirate of Abu Dhabi?” I asked politely. Ali smiled, perfectly shaped white teeth flashing brilliantly against the background of his dark skin.
“You are either uniquely perceptive Mister Riley or you have already made inquiries,” my new host noted evenly. There was no hint of rancor in his tone nor was there any indication of surprise. It occurred to me our meeting was not coincidental and I wondered why he had singled me out.
“Can I presume you are here to attend the demonstration at the Global Energy Resources facility this evening?” Ali inquired.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“We have made a modest investment in this experimental technology. A list of guests was made available to me and I recall the name Michael Riley was on it. I had only to presume you were that same Michael Riley. Given your vocation as a technical analyst it was not so great a leap.” It was a facile explanation and entirely fraudulent.
“Would you allow me to share something of our customs and our country Mister Riley,” Ali asked politely.
“Of course, I would be honored.” Ali smiled broadly, flashing perfect, gleaming white teeth that displayed either exceptionally good genetics or a fortune spent in cosmetic dental surgery.
“My home, Abu Dhabi is the capital of the United Arab Emirates and the richest and most beautiful land in all the world.” He stated it as a matter of fact rather than a boast.
“My city sits at the tip of an island jutting out into the Persian Gulf. Beneath our feet lies one-tenth of the planet’s supply of oil. Revenues from the sale of our petroleum have enabled us to invest a trillion dollars abroad.
Our six hundred thousand citizens each have a net worth of seventeen million dollars and an annual per capita income of sixty-seven thousand dollars.
In Abu Dhabi wide, tree-lined boulevards run through modern mirrored towers of steel and glass.
There are beautifully sculptured gardens, abundant fountains gushing clear, cool water, and acres of green trees. But the city is an oddity. There is little traffic, few pedestrians and no nightlife of which to speak.” Ali’s description was nearly poetic. It was clear he had a natural and unrehearsed affection for his homeland.
“Before oil was discovered we were a collection of Bedouin tribesmen roaming the desert, and pearl divers living in huts along the shores of the Persian Gulf. As the demand for fossil fuels grew the west saw us as a colonial state to be mined for its resources. Since then we have reasserted our independence until today our nation is no longer dominated by western influences, though the west might wish it otherwise.” It seemed Ali was about to make a point.
“So you can see we are a simple people who have known both poverty and great wealth. We are also a proud people who shall never lapse into a state of subservience, God willing.”
I had been watching Basimah the whole time Ali was speaking. Her gaze never left mine. I thought for a moment I detected a smile playing across her lips, but it was far too subtle to be certain. Like da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, Basimah’s smile was inscrutable.
Ali had made little effort at subtlety. The Emirates were intent upon exercising the influence they derived from the massive reserves of oil buried deep in the sands of the Arabian Peninsula and that influence was not necessarily pro-western. Clearly there was also a real sense the Emirates were living under the constant threat their only source of revenue was under siege.
“I think these are issues for economists and diplomats, not scientists,” I countered, though I was curious why he had chosen to broach this subject with me.
