“Johnny, Brian Douglas and I first got to know each other back in twenty-oh-three in the Green Zone, chasing bad guys, when I was assigned to CENTCOM staff in Iraq. Hangin’ out together in the HVT Bar out at the airport after hours. He has more embarrassing information on me than you guys in Naval Intelligence will ever have, so whenever he says he needs to see me like he did this morning, he gets right in. I’m here for you. You’re the best ally we’ve got left, almost the only one we got left, right, Johnny?”
“Well, Admiral, I appreciate your willingness to see me on such short notice.” Douglas looked down at the giant coffee mug, to which somebody had already added a great deal of milk.
“You’ve been stationed in Bahrain for a while. Real expert on the region. How long you been here now, Brian? Tell Johnny your career,” the admiral said as he reached for the tray of cookies.
“Well, sir, as you know, I served here as a station officer during Desert Storm, then Baghdad after the Second Gulf War, now back here as SIS station chief for Bahrain, Qatar, Oman, and the United Arab Emirates. I’m completing twelve years in the Gulf, ’fraid to say.” Douglas tried to sound modest.
“You must like it here in Bahrain.” Captain Hardy dunked a ladyfinger in his mug.
The admiral jumped in. “Lots of people do. “Hell, I wouldn’t be an admiral without Bahrain. They came up with the word amir, meaning the guy in charge of the dhows. Shit, they were sailing dhows to Africa and India when we Anglo-Saxons were still painting ourselves blue and fighting the Romans.” He turned to Douglas for affirmation.
“I think it may have been my people, the Picts, who painted themselves blue, but yes, this is a very ancient, well-fought-over piece of turf. Which is why I wanted to see you, sir,” the station chief said, trying to get the conversation back on track.
“Yes, Brian, you’re not here to discuss history. What’s up?” Adams sat back in the chair at the head of the table and focused on his guest.
“I’ve already been on to your embassy and told my brethren from the Agency, but I wanted to pass it directly to you as well.” Brian Douglas withdrew a paper from inside his suit coat and read, “ ‘Highly reliable SIS sources have revealed that the Iranian Qods Force has designated ASU-Bahrain as a target for a terrorist-style attack, probably within the next four weeks. The sources also reveal that Iran may be planning to stimulate a Shi’a uprising in Bahrain, as it attempted to do in 1996 and 2001.’ ” Douglas passed the paper to Captain Hardy, thinking of how successful his monitoring of Ahmed Rashid had been.
“Interesting. You’re the second group to tell me today that my little base here will be the target for an attack. That’s why we are on a high force protection status, Threatcon Charlie. Of course, I did that myself after the Diplomat and Crowne Plaza attacks.” Admiral Adams took the report from his intelligence officer. “But the Pentagon seems to think the attack will be carried out by agents of Islamyah.”
The British spy coughed and sipped the heavily milk-laden coffee. “With all due respect to the Pentagon, the import of our report is that Tehran may be intending that you believe the attack comes from Riyadh. But Riyadh? Their lot couldn’t stage a successful attack on the ASU. Al Qods is capable of it. Moreover, and this is not in what we gave Washington or the Agency here, we have reason to believe that Islamyah knows that the Iranians are setting them up to get the blame.”
“Well, whoever it is, they will have a hard time. This place is buttoned up tight, Admiral,” the N-2 asserted.
“Maybe, Johnny, maybe, but any place can be struck. I can step up protection, but the way to handle this is to get them before they get us.” The admiral leaned across the table toward Douglas. “Can the Bahrainis do that? Can you and the Agency find these guys, whoever they are?”
“The Bahraini Security Service is very good, SIS-trained.” Douglas smiled. “And we and the Agency each have our own sources as well. If we can find the attack team, the Bahrainis can wipe them up.”
“I also have SEALs and a Fleet Anti-Terrorism Security Team here if they need any help.” Brad Adams got up out of his chair. “They prefer the offense to sniffing around diplomats’ Jags.” Brian laughed; Adams had done his homework. As they walked to the door, Adams changed his tone and style. He said softly to Douglas, “We can’t have another Baghdad here. I can’t stand the thought of more U.S. troops KIA. I wasn’t in Iraq as long as you, but you remember those nights out at the HTV, drinking away our sorrows with the Agency guys and the Special Forces. I was there two years, working the Sunni insurgency, trying to counter the Iranians.”
“Bloody mess, tragedy really,” Douglas said as he looked at the floor and shook his head.
“Yes, yes it was, Brian. I thought it was the right thing to do. Shit, everyone thought they had WMD. But with us gone, it’s still a mess. The Shi’a aren’t going to be able to put down that Sunni insurgency. It’s been going on for years and no sign of letting up. The Kurds are probably going to formalize their independence and then we’ll see what Baghdad tries to do about that. They won’t let Kirkuk go. It’s all been an awful waste of men and money. And for what, so that Iran can tell the democractically elected government of Iraq what to do?” Brad Adams was not playing the part of an American admiral now. “Listen, Bri, I’m supposed to leave tomorrow for a week in Tampa and Washington. Should I go or is this attack on the base here going to happen that fast?”
“I’m leaving for London tonight myself, Brad. We think it’s a couple of weeks off, but we can’t find any sign of an Iranian al Qods Force here in town yet, just reports. If we find out otherwise, we’ll shoot up a flare.” Douglas was thinking he was glad to be working again with this big Baby Huey–looking American sailor. He was Ivy League, not off the Annapolis cookie-cutter assembly line, and he had proven again and again in Iraq that he could be trusted, and could get things done.
As Brian Douglas drove out through the Hollywood stage-set archway, a second armored Humvee was pulling into place. The Marine sticking through the roof cocked the M60 machine gun and pointed it down the access road.
Capitol Hill
Washington, D.C.
Russell MacIntyre got out of the beat-up taxi on Delaware Avenue, on the north side of Capitol Hill, where that gentle rise falls off toward Union Station. It was cold and damp, threatening to snow, so it did not look unusual that he had on a hat, pulled down low. None of the staff exiting out the back doors of the Senate office buildings were looking up anyway; they were rushing to the Metro station to get home, or at least to a warm bar.
MacIntyre entered through the back door of the Hart Senate Office Building, the newest of the three edifices that housed the personal and committee offices of the one hundred United States Senators. The sign on the door said “Staff Only.” MacIntyre flashed a badge to the three Capitol Hill policemen who stood around the magnetometer and X-ray machine. “It’s okay, sir, just step through,” the tall African-American police sergeant said, waving his arm. “Don’t worry if it goes off.” The value of the badge was that in some places where it was recognized, the security force expected that you were armed and didn’t mind. MacIntyre was not carrying, although he was entitled to. The Intelligence Analysis Center he helped to manage was really not an operational unit, so he thought it would be a little odd and unnecessary to carry the Glock that he had been issued.
He had entered the Hart Building Senate Office through the back door into the basement level, but instead of taking the elevator up, MacIntyre opened a door and took the stairway down. At the B-2 level, he entered a corridor with a maze of pipes hanging under the low ceiling. It was not an elegant part of Capitol Hill.
Halfway down the corridor, he paused before a door with a sign that said only “SH-B2-101.” He went to pick up a phone on the wall, but before he could place the receiver to his ear, the door lock buzzed and he pushed it open. Inside, a woman who looked to be in her sixties smiled at him from behind her desk and said, “Go on in, Rusty. The Senator’s waiting for
you.”
Inside, the office was elegant: dark wood paneling, thick maroon carpeting, green leather chairs, brass fixtures. MacIntyre thought this is what Santa Claus’s office would look like if Saint Nick became the CEO of the North Pole. It was, in fact, the hideaway office of the Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, Paul Robinson. Every senior Senator had a hideaway, an anonymous office where they could go to work without bumping into constituents and reporters. It was also a place where meetings could occur without there being records of the get-togethers, without prying eyes noticing whom the Senator was seeing. It was a good place to get campaign contributions from lobbyists with an interest in a committee’s work. Robinson, however, didn’t take contributions from anyone who lived outside of his native Iowa. He didn’t really need to. No one had opposed him in his last reelection.
Robinson was standing by a bar trolley pouring two Wild Turkey bourbons, neat. As he handed one to MacIntyre, he said only, “Getting a little raw outside? Here, warm up.”
Before he accepted the drink, MacIntyre pulled a paper out from inside his suit coat and placed it on the desk. “It’s the estimate of Chinese oil consumption you asked for.” He took a big gulp of the Kentucky whiskey. “You were right. They are consuming almost as much as we are. Lots of cars now. Booming industry. And they have few long-term contracts, so they often get stuck paying the higher spot market prices, like we do now.
“The Pentagon is all in a fever over China. The growth of their navy, their export of the missiles to Islamyah. And by the way, it was the Sauds who bought the missiles before they got thrown out, not the new Islamyah crowd. Defense Intel even has some uncorroborated story about a Chinese People’s Liberation Army expeditionary force secretly going to Islamyah.”
The Senator twisted about. “Tell me you’re kidding. The PLA in Arabia?”
“Well, I think somebody is probably kidding Defense Intel, but they all believe it over at the Pentagon. And it’s very hush-hush. We aren’t supposed to brief you and the committees yet,” MacIntyre admitted, following the Senator to the stuffed leather chairs next to the artificial fireplace.
“So what’s so important that we have to do our weekly little private session tonight, when I could be enjoying a boring reception for the Future Fucking Farmers of America?” the Senator joked.
“I won’t be here the rest of the week. I’m off to London to see if I can learn anything from the Cousins. I just think something’s up,” MacIntyre replied, sipping what was left of the Wild Turkey. “Number one, we’ve got our fearless Secretary of Defense talking about some bullshit Defense Intelligence source that says the Chinese Navy deployment in the Indian Ocean is cover for Beijing moving an infantry division to Saudi—ah, Islamyah.”
“Well, you just said the Chinese need oil, but I can’t see the Islamyah Shura Council agreeing to let a lot of infidels into their precious desert, can you?” the Senator said, leaning back in the chair.
“No, I can’t. Moreover, no other source has noticed a Chinese division moving. But there’s more. Number two, Secretary Conrad is planning a gigantic amphibious and airborne exercise on the Egyptian Red Sea coast next month.”
Senator Robinson arched an eyebrow.
“Number three, Senator, the British SIS just reported that it’s really Iran that is staging the bombings in Bahrain, not Islamyah, that the Iranians want to bomb our base there and blame Islamyah, and that they are planning some sort of uprising among the Shi’a majority in Bahrain. The King there is Sunni, but he has been reaching out to the Shi’a and doing a good job.
“Number four, I am having a hard time believing that the new government in Islamyah is as bad as everybody else in Washington seems to think. Yes, I know some of them were al Qaeda–related at some point, but we have one source who says they’re planning real national elections next year.”
“And you put all this in your famous analytical blender and get what, Rusty?” Senator Robinson asked, staring into his glass.
“I don’t know, and that’s what bothers me. I feel like—what did they say in the Star Wars movie?—‘there’s a disturbance in the Force.’ ” MacIntyre waved the fingers on both hands as if conjuring up the Force.
“Well, Obi-Wan, what are you going to do about it?” the Senator said, rising and going for a refill.
“For starters I’m flying over to London tonight to see what I can stir up. They always tell us more in person, stuff they are hearing but can’t put into a liaison report to us for whatever reason,” MacIntyre said, waving off more bourbon. “And they just seem to have better analysts than we do. I’m trying to find out what that ingredient is that they have so I can inject it into our new little Intelligence Analysis Center.”
“Good idea to go to London about now, but why not keep going and drop in on some of our friends in the Gulf ? They always know more than they put in writing, too,” Senator Robinson said, moving behind his desk. “Besides, there’s a guy out there I want you to get to know. Brad Adams, runs the Fifth Fleet out of Bahrain. Did a year with me up here on some sort of officer development program when he was a captain. We stay in touch. He has, well, some of the same concerns we do about the civilian leadership in the Pentagon. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
“Okay.” Rusty accepted that his trip to London just became much, much more.
“But tell me, Rusty, do you believe this Islamyah Shura Council will really give up power to freely elected officials? Hell, these are the guys who killed some of the Saudi royal family in their coup. Some of their supporters were al Qaeda, fought us in Afghanistan and Iraq.”
“Senator, we have lots of reporting that there is a rift in the Shura Council between the jihadists, who want to export the revolution, and those who want to modernize and democratize Islamyah. It’s always that way with a revolution. After a while there is a struggle among the revolutionaries, just like in the French Revolution, the Russian...”
Senator Robinson looked at the map of the Middle East on his wall and thought out loud, “Well, you’re right, Rusty, it was a relatively bloodless coup, all in all. There’s no line of royals at a guillotine. Most of the Sauds escaped to the U.S. on their private planes. The whole thing was over in three days because so much of the Saudi military was in on the coup, the revolution. And so far, all they have really done to piss us off is to eject our defense contractors.”
“Senator, it was us, the United States, that froze their bank accounts here after the coup and then stopped shipping military spare parts for the weapons we had sold the Sauds.” MacIntyre felt he could be frank with his old boss, and so continued on. “By placing a unilateral economic embargo on them, we made it illegal for U.S. companies to buy Saudi oil. It was only then that they nationalized one hundred percent of Aramco and broke the contracts to sell oil to America. We did it to ourselves.
“Besides, sir, the Saudi government was no barrel of laughs either. They beheaded people, they denied women rights, they funded all sorts of terrorist-related Wahhabi schools and charities before 9/11 and even after. There were literally several thousand royal princelings, and corruption was rampant.”
“Look, I know all of that, Rusty,” Paul Robinson sighed. “Now the royal Saudis have taken up residence in the finer parts of Los Angeles and Houston. They’re throwing their money around, getting involved in American politics. Or should I say more involved? The Bushies were always in bed with the Sauds.
“You can’t report this, Rusty,” the Senator said, leaning forward and tapping with his finger like a woodpecker on MacIntyre’s knee, “but I had one of those exiled royal sons of bitches in this room, this very room, two months ago saying he had twenty-five million dollars in an offshore account that he would transfer control of to me if I would back an intelligence finding to authorize covert U.S. action to topple the Islamyah regime and reinstall the Sauds.”
Rusty whistled in amazement. “Shit, Senator...You could have him arrested for that.”
“I kn
ow, but I would have had no proof,” Robinson said, leaning back into his chair.
“So what’d you do?” Rusty asked. He had known Paul Robinson for sixteen years, since the now-Senator had hired him as a junior staffer for his House office right after Rusty had graduated from Brown. The Senator was as honest as any man he had ever met and hated dishonesty of any kind, intellectual, financial, political. Corruption just really pissed him off. Robinson had first risen to national attention on a subcommittee that investigated financial fraud in U.S. thrift savings banks.
Senator Paul Robinson had pushed through the creation of the Intelligence Analysis Center because, he said, he and the executive branch were not getting intellectually honest reporting. When the center came into existence and the Director of National Intelligence selected Ambassador Sol Rubenstein to run it, the Senator had told Rubenstein that his confirmation hearing would go a lot faster if he picked Rusty as the first Deputy Director of the IAC.
When Rusty learned that had happened, he’d called the Senator and thanked him, but joked, “You know I was doing well with this Beltway Bandit firm. You just cut my salary by two-thirds.”
“Don’t try that on me, Rusty,” Robinson had replied. “It’s not about the money. Not for you. Not for me. Never was. It’s about honest government, and I’ve been feeling like Diogenes down here trying to find someone who will do some quality, honest intelligence analysis. You’re it.” There was no way that the Senator would let a bribery attempt go by, like the one the Saudi had tried to pull.
“Well, Russell, I did not call the FBI and report the son of a bitch. But I did slip an amendment into the Omnibus Appropriation that requires the Treasury Department to keep all royal Saudi assets in the U.S. frozen until Treasury files a detailed report with us on whether the funds are really personal or should be considered national assets of the people of their country. We then have a hundred and eighty days to review the report, and that period can be extended upon request of any chair of any committee of relevant jurisdiction in either house,” the Senator replied as a Cheshire cat grin spread across his face. He really was a legislative master. “So that’s how I helped them. How can I help you, Rusty, as you go gallivanting around Europe and the Middle East?”
The Scorpion's Gate Page 6
