Oil

by Jeff Nesbit

  “Even if, in this particular case, there may be more going on? That this was more coordinated and timed for a specific reason?” the president persisted.

  “We don’t know that any of that is likely,” the general answered. “And we can’t assume something like that, without any knowledge in hand. I feel I’m right about this.”

  DJ closed his eyes briefly. He knew, at that moment, that this particular meeting was the last time General Thomas would have any significant role to play in the president’s decision-making process. He would be eased out of the White House within months—if not sooner. DJ could see it quite clearly, even if the national security advisor was obtuse to the signs.

  While he had nothing other than his own personal convictions to go on, DJ trusted Susan Wright. He would follow her advice and counsel on almost any matter, and this was no different. And, DJ knew, the president almost certainly felt that way as well.

  “All right, we’ll wait on a report back from Secretary Moran from the Saudi visit,” the president concluded. He pushed his chair back to the table and looked out across the room. “But we are going to treat this as a direct, coordinated attack against someone that our best intelligence believes to be a future Saudi king. In short—this was an assassination attempt, on our own soil.”

  08

  Aqaba, Jordan

  General Ahmet Fahd was perplexed.

  Fahd was on vacation in the Jordanian coastal town made famous by T. E. Lawrence’s participation in the 1917 Arab Revolt against the Turks.

  In the past hour, the real-life Saudi general had received a most intriguing phone call. The minister of the interior in the kingdom wished to see him and would arrive shortly to discuss areas of mutual interest.

  The retired general spent the better part of the afternoon wondering what, exactly, Prince Natal could possibly want. General Fahd was a distant relative of a Saudi king several generations back. For this reason, he’d always taken more than a passing interest in the comings and goings of the royal family.

  As a young man, Fahd had made the career-limiting mistake of falling in love with an extraordinarily beautiful young woman while they both attended university outside the kingdom. The young woman was from one of the “notable” Shi’a families in Qatif—but she was still Shi’a. Fahd had spent the rest of his life, and career, hiding this fact from those in positions of power in the kingdom.

  Both of these personal complications had always made Fahd leery of getting too close to the Saudi royal family. But once he’d assumed command of a White Army that regularly did what it could to keep the Shi’a minority in Saudi Arabia from gaining traction, he was also acutely aware of the deep resentments harbored by the Shi’a families. His wife regularly reminded him of those injustices, even as he ordered those in his command to carry them out.

  Those who’d studied the House of Saud closely knew that Natal would someday be given the title of crown prince—either upon Saud’s death or by acclamation when Saud decided he could no longer hold the title.

  But, the retired general knew, it was also well known among the close-knit members of the royal family that Natal would never be given the crown. He would never be king. No, that position was, even now, being negotiated among the various factions of the House of Saud. Balances of power would, of necessity, be struck to make sure no dynastic line held too much sway.

  Most likely, the family members were grooming the governor of Mecca, Prince Muhammad al Faisal, for the crown. There would be an interim step along the way, perhaps with Natal as crown prince, but the line of succession would be known to the insiders.

  The general wondered how Natal felt about that. Perhaps I am about to find out. Sitting on the veranda of his retirement villa with a lovely view of the waters west of Aqaba, the general carefully sipped his afternoon coffee.

  When Natal finally arrived, the general was even more surprised that no legion of White Army guard was with him. Natal had, apparently, made the trip to Jordan to see the general by himself.

  “Greetings, my friend!” Natal said as both shared a warm embrace. “It has been far too long.”

  “Yes, most certainly,” General Fahd answered. “But I am enjoying my time here.”

  “Here, in exile?” Natal joked.

  “Self-imposed exile.” The general laughed. “I return to Riyadh and Arabia when business calls me there.”

  “But you prefer the solitude of Aqaba?”

  “I do,” the general said truthfully. “Here, I am just an old man. No one knows my status as a retired general who once commanded the vaunted White Army of the kingdom.”

  “I can appreciate that, my friend. There are times I would certainly like to travel in anonymity.”

  The general gave Natal a curious look. “It would appear you have somehow managed to do so on this day?”

  Natal smiled. “Yes, it is a very small privilege I enjoy—the ability to elude the White Army that follows my every move throughout the day.”

  “Yes, I remember those days well. I received hourly reports on your movements, as I recall.” The general gestured toward the veranda. “Please, let us speak outside. I’ve made coffee. And once we’re settled, perhaps you can tell me why you, of all people, would wish to journey so far without the protection of the White Army.”

  The general was retired, but he still had some bounce to his step. He made his way outside quickly, served coffee to the kingdom’s interior minister, then took his usual seat on a soft chair that faced the water.

  “The view is quite extraordinary, Ahmet,” the interior minister said. “I can see why you try to return here whenever you have a chance.”

  “I would spend all of my days here, if I could. But we are not here to discuss my retirement. So, my good friend, what is on your mind?”

  Natal looked off in the distance. “As you know, I always considered you to be my most loyal commander. I knew that, no matter what intrigue might be playing out, I could count on you to watch my back.”

  “Yes, I was loyal,” the general agreed. “I still am, even in retirement.”

  “And I appreciated that—then and now. So I am here to call on that loyalty one more time. The time is urgent, and the need is great.”

  “I am listening.”

  “What I am about to tell you today is in the strictest confidence. Can I trust you?”

  “You know that you can,” the general said. “We have always been candid with each other. So I would urge you to speak freely. Your words will remain between us, here on this veranda.”

  “Good.” Natal nodded. “I’d hoped you’d say as much. So I will get right to it. The kingdom is under siege and in grave danger. The royal family has made decisions that are not in Arabia’s best interests. Saud and the king have decided that the grandsons are to take power, and they are giving that power to the two most liberal members of the family.”

  “Prince Muhammad will be in line to become king?” the general asked.

  “Yes, and they will make Prince Abdul the foreign minister. Saud will step aside as crown prince, giving that title to me. However, it is merely a transition. The plan is that I will very quickly give up that title and office in order to make way for an orderly transition for the grandson, led by Muhammad. He is to be king, not me.”

  “And I can safely assume that you do not agree with this transition?” the general asked.

  “I do not.” Natal’s dark, brooding eyes flashed with barely controlled anger. “You and I both know that the liberal grandsons who have pushed the royal family to modernize and make peace with Israel, among other reforms, are guiding the kingdom to its ultimate doom. Now is the time to rule with an iron fist, not make peace with our enemies.”

  “But peace demands compromise,” the general said in a calming tone. “We both know that.”

  “But not with our enemies,” Natal said forcefully.

  The general was quiet for a time. He took a long drink from his cup of coffee. He wanted to weigh his n
ext words carefully. “So what would you have me do, Prince Natal?” he asked at last. “I can only assume that you have some plan in effect to keep this from happening?”

  “Yes, General Fahd, I most certainly do. But once I have told you of these plans, you will then be a centerpiece of the conspiracy. Is that a risk you are willing to take?”

  The general looked out over the waters beyond Aqaba. He knew instinctively that this idyllic life was about to change forever. “I am willing to serve. We live but once, as far as I know, and my own life is nearing an end. There is nothing left to fear. So I will join you. Now, please, what is the plan, and what is my role in it?”

  “I want you to be a leader in exile,” Natal said. “You are perhaps uniquely qualified to become the voice of a disaffected populace in the kingdom and can articulate those sentiments against the House of Saud.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your wife,” Natal said. “I know how you have assiduously kept your wife’s religious beliefs hidden from those in Riyadh, but I have known for some time that she is Shi’a.”

  “So what does that have to do with this discussion?” Fahd said, his voice steady.

  “I will be direct. There are others in the White Army who are loyal to me and do not wish to see Saud and the king hand over the reins to Prince Muhammad and the other voices of liberalism. But in order to make that succession impossible, we need chaos to return to the kingdom. Once it has returned, then I can lead the security forces in an effort to shut it down and usher in a new era where I am able to become the rightful king.”

  “Why not just have Muhammad removed?” the general asked.

  Natal pursed his lips. “I have tried that, through others. It did not work. Iran is being blamed, in private circles.”

  “So you are moving to a much more dangerous game? Fomenting revolt and uprising in the kingdom?”

  “Those are happening now, whether we like it or not,” Natal said. “Look around at Egypt, Syria, and elsewhere. The Arab Spring revolts occur without bidding or prompting on our parts. I am merely attempting to channel the inevitable in the kingdom in a way that will, ultimately, keep us all from marching over the cliff.”

  “So you would have me voice the stirrings of revolution here, from Aqaba? I use my wife’s religious heritage, appeal to the disaffected Shi’a minority populations, stir up discontent through harsh words directed at the House of Saud?”

  “Something like that.” Natal smiled.

  The general paused. “You do realize that my vacation home here in Aqaba will then become an actual place of exile?”

  “For a time—but only until I become king,” Natal said. “Once I have taken control, I will move quickly to forge a coalition monarchy. You will become the minister of defense. It will be time to heal the wounds. You will speak for the oppressed Shiites in Arabia, their first real representative in Riyadh in a generation.”

  “Which, of course, will be a lie,” the general murmured.

  “Not entirely. You have heard the sentiments of your wife all of these years. She has told you things that you have undoubtedly taken to heart.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So you will accurately give voice to some of these things,” Natal said. “And within that lies the truth. You will be their voice—a voice they do not have now.”

  “And if I do this—is there a plan?”

  “Yes, and it will almost certainly require bloodshed. This must be perceived as the beginning of an armed rebellion. There will be fights, explosions, armed insurrections in different parts of the kingdom—all necessary to bring the pot to a boil.”

  “And I am to remain here, stirring that pot until it boils?”

  “Yes. And just as the world saw in Libya, weapons will arrive, members of the Saudi White Army will begin to defect. And you will command those from here.”

  “It’s quite a gamble, Natal.”

  “Yes, but a necessary one, General Fahd,” the minister said. “History demands that we do whatever it takes to protect Arabia, and I believe this is the only route to salvation.”

  09

  Dulles International Airport

  Washington, DC

  Katie Devlin did her best not to hyperventilate. She closed her eyes and told herself that everything would be fine. After all, she’d been through a presidential campaign and had managed to survive the eternal hazing from the national press corps that always waited like vultures for the smallest slip or mistake by her candidate, the boss.

  So how hard could it be to insinuate herself between the secretary of state and someone who, by all appearances, was in line to become the next king of Saudi Arabia? She just needed to deliver a message to her boss, she kept telling herself. And then she would sit off to the side and watch.

  The Airbus 380 was even bigger inside than it appeared from the outside. Climbing an entire flight of stairs—inside the airplane— she worked her way past several Saudi internal security forces toward the back of the plane.

  Who builds such a monstrosity of extravagance? It seems so completely unnecessary and…excessive. Katie couldn’t help but wonder what the people of the kingdom would think if they saw for themselves the ways in which the oil riches were spent. Would they care? Would they rise up against their leaders?

  The world of billionaires was well beyond anything Katie knew or understood. Once, at the beginning of Jennifer Moran’s presidential campaign, Katie had taken part in a private fundraising meeting with a reclusive billionaire who’d asked to meet with her boss. They’d met in public—but just barely.

  This particular billionaire, who’d made his fortune buying and selling vast chunks of real estate in half the countries of the world, had cleared out the entire restaurant at the Four Seasons hotel in New York. When Katie had entered the Four Seasons, there was only one round table in the center of what, ordinarily, had been the entire restaurant at one of the most expensive hotels in the city.

  Jennifer Moran and Katie had met with this particular billionaire for the better part of an hour. Throughout the meeting, a young woman who was not introduced had sat to one side of the elderly man, cradling one of his arms in her hands. She’d never spoken a word throughout the meeting. A dozen waiters had served them a four-course meal.

  By the end, Katie had been nearly unable to process the meeting.

  But her boss had secured a promise of support from the billionaire’s network of friends, which, for an aspiring national politician, was all that mattered. Raising money to support a presidential campaign seemed like an endless parade of indignities, Katie had thought at the time.

  Similar thoughts struggled to surface as she wandered through the opulence that confronted her at every turn in the interior of the Airbus 380. So much money stared her in the face that it seemed surreal— beyond a mere mortal’s grasp. She’d had no idea, until that moment, how different the world of oil wealth really was in comparison to the rest of the ordinary world.

  Katie entered through a massive set of double doors into what felt like a sanctuary. There was a stage at one end with a huge screen at the back of it. She struggled to understand why anyone would possibly need such a theater. The secretary of state was sitting at a small table off to the side, facing Prince Muhammad al Faisal. Aides hovered nearby.

  Katie approached the table and waited for a natural pause in the conversation. “Madame Secretary,” Katie said softly, “if you have a moment?”

  Jennifer Moran glanced over her shoulder, annoyed. But the expression faded when she saw it was Katie who’d disturbed the meeting. She turned back to Prince Muhammad. “If you would excuse me?”

  The Saudi prince nodded once at the secretary of state, then looked directly at Katie. “It must be important?”

  “Yes, sir, it is,” Katie said quickly. “I’m sorry to interrupt. It will only be a minute.”

  The Saudi prince smiled. “Take all the time you’d like. We have come here, to this country, for this meeting only.
We will wait.”

  The secretary of state pushed her chair back from the table and walked over to meet Katie off to the side of the huge theater. “So I’m assuming you’ve heard from the White House about the attack?” Moran said without preamble.

  “I have,” Katie said. “And it’s bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “It was an assassination attempt on the Saudi envoy. General Alton told me that NSA had picked up the intel at the last possible minute, which allowed them to intercept the truck.”

  “Truck?”

  “They were going to shoot the Airbus 380 out of the sky with a surface-to-air missile, from the back of the truck. Something called a MANPAD, which can launch a missile at a slow-moving target like this plane.”

  Secretary Moran was a tough woman. She didn’t blink at the news. Katie knew she didn’t want the Saudi prince to see her concern. “But we got it, right?”

  “Yes, we got it.”

  “So the threat was removed?”

  “It was, and it appears that it was only one truck, acting alone.”

  “It just takes one to alter the balance of world powers,” Moran said. “We both know that.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we do. General Alton wanted you to have this information as you talked to the prince.”

  “I appreciate that. This helps. I can use that.” Moran glanced over at the Saudi prince. “Okay, let’s go put this information in play and see what it gives us. Come join us, Katie. I want a witness when we have this conversation.”

  Katie nodded and trailed in her boss’s imperious wake. She loved working for Jennifer Moran. She would follow her to the ends of the earth, if need be.

  “Prince Muhammad, I have news of great import,” she said once she’d taken her seat at the small table that seemed so small at the foot of the grand stage inside the plane. “And I would like to share that information, in confidence, with you.”