Oil

by Jeff Nesbit

  “But they’re okay? They won’t be executed in the morning?”

  “They’re fine,” his father said reassuringly. “The military leadership now sees that they have leverage in the talks with these two prisoners. They wouldn’t dare execute them at the moment. They’re valuable.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  His father was quiet on the other end of the line. His tone was somber when he spoke again. “Nash, there is something about all of this that I wanted you to realize.”

  “What, Dad?”

  “You know me. I always tell you things in a direct fashion.”

  “Shoot, Dad. Give it to me straight.”

  “Okay. It’s just this. The North Korean military leaders were looking for some leverage in our peace negotiations. They have a new leader, Pak Jong Un, who colored outside the lines when he met with President Camara directly, after the assassination of his father. The military can’t control him. They needed some way in, something that gave them some measure of control over Pak Jong Un. And You Moon gives them that. Most likely, they used you to achieve that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They played you, Nash. The North Korean military may be ruthless, but they aren’t stupid. They probably traced the first reports back to mVillage—the ones that allowed us to learn of their wicked nuclear ambitions that brought President Camara to Pyongyang in the first place. They knew You Moon had communicated with you. And that he would again, given an opportunity—and a reason.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “So they probably allowed a new prisoner to bring another mobile into Camp 16, figuring he would connect. They then told You Moon that he would be executed—knowing he would reach out to you and trigger exactly what happened. Pak Jong Un’s boyhood friend is now squarely in the middle of the peace talks, and the military feels they have some leverage over their young leader. The military needed a new chess piece. You Moon is that piece.”

  Nash took a deep breath. “Dad, I never imagined. I’m sorry. I just don’t think like that. I got You Moon’s text and simply reacted to save him.”

  “I know. It’s perfectly normal. You’re not a diplomat. You act swiftly and decisively. It’s why you are so very good at what you do.”

  “But you’re measured and deliberate,” Nash said quietly. “And it’s why you are so very good at what you do.”

  His father ignored the compliment. “Look, it’s fine. We’ll use this to our advantage. Truthfully, the news you gave us about their nuclear shipment plans is more than worth the trouble that this gave us in the talks. The North Korean military leaders didn’t bargain on that piece of information winding up in our hands.”

  “Well, good. That’s something, at least.”

  “It’s more than something. We’ll be able to track those shipments to Iran. And we’ll be able to use that information in the talks, at the appropriate time. It’s all good.”

  “You Moon and Kim Grace—what happens now?”

  “They’ll be safe at Camp 16 while the talks progress. They’re not completely out of danger, though. If Pak Jong Un, for instance, is able to convince the military that he truly does not care about his boyhood friend, then I suppose that could change things. The military loses their leverage, and You Moon is vulnerable again.”

  “So can you move quickly?”

  “We will, Nash. Don’t worry. We’re moving this along as fast as we can.”

  “All right. I’m sorry I caused trouble. But if it means You Moon and Kim Grace are released at some point, I’m going to call it a victory.”

  “You do that.” His father laughed. “So was that it? Is that why you called?”

  “That and something else I’ve been seeing on the mVillage network. It doesn’t make sense. I thought you might be able to sort through it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Just a few hours ago, we started to receive reports across the network that said roughly the same thing—farmers all across northern Yemen were gathering up horses and delivering them to a camp near the Saudi Arabian border. And on top of that, fighters—from different factions—were streaming in to that camp from across the country. The reports said that someone called Yamani had appeared in Yemen and was about to precede the reemergence of the Mahdi, the Twelfth Imam. What do you make of that? Does it mean something to you?”

  “Not right now,” his father answered. “But I can bet it will mean something to someone, once I’ve had a chance to relay the information. Are you comfortable with that? I know you always hesitate when you have information from the network.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. This is information others can readily find. I’m not breaking any rules by telling you this. It’s just that I’m seeing the reports from different places, and it will be a bit before others start to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.”

  “I understand. I’ll let a few folks know, and we’ll see what it means. In fact, I’ll do that before I go to sleep. Right now, in fact.”

  “Great. And Dad—thanks. I mean it.”

  “I know you do, Nash. And you’re welcome.”

  40

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  DJ couldn’t stand it any longer. He could actually feel himself being kept out of the loop. So he planted himself outside Susan Wright’s office and waited. If need be, DJ vowed, he’d camp out there all day until Dr. Wright came by and gave him a couple minutes.

  The administration professionals in the front office at the National Security Advisor’s office liked DJ. They didn’t mind that he was just hanging out. Actually, nearly everyone liked DJ. He was a living, breathing, walking example of the “relentless, positive storm” generation that was determined to remake the world. DJ, and those like him, didn’t wait for opportunities. They made them.

  “So how long, DJ?” asked one of the admin staff, a young woman who’d recently graduated from Georgetown’s foreign service school and greatly admired DJ.

  “How long?” DJ answered.

  “How long will you wait here for Dr. Wright?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “And if she’s tied up through the end of the day?”

  DJ gave her a crooked smile. “Then I guess one of these chairs will have to do. You all will find me here first thing in the morning. I’m not moving until I get in to see Dr. Wright.”

  The admin staff laughed as one. They didn’t doubt DJ. He actually would camp out until he’d gotten in to see Dr. Wright. So after a half hour, one of them took pity on him, checked Dr. Wright’s schedule, moved another meeting back by fifteen minutes, and created an excuse for DJ to run into their boss in between meetings.

  Susan Wright just shook her head as she walked into the front office, saw DJ leaning up against the wall off to the side of the room, then caught the eye of one of the admin staff beckoning her over to her desk.

  “Dr. Wright, you had some time before your next meeting, and we…”

  Wright held up a hand. “I understand. You created a few minutes on my schedule so DJ could see me?”

  “Yes, Dr. Wright, I hope that’s all right with you?”

  Wright turned and gave DJ a big smile. She liked the deputy White House press secretary for national security nearly as much as her front office professionals. “For DJ, anything.” She walked toward her office briskly, her high heels clicking loudly on the wood floor. “But make it quick, DJ. I have only a few minutes.”

  “That’s all I need, Dr. Wright.” DJ followed along in the deputy national security advisor’s wake. He closed the door behind him as they moved into her office.

  “So?” Wright asked him. She scanned the phone messages on the top of her desk before turning her attention back to DJ. “What’s on your mind?”

  DJ jumped right in. “I hear they’re about to name you national security advisor.”

  “From whom?”

  “Does it matter? Is it right? A reporter from the New York Times has been stalk
ing me all day.”

  “You know I can’t confirm that, even if it’s true. That comes from Anshel or from the president. Certainly not from me.”

  “So it is true.” DJ grunted. “I thought so. Some of us could see it coming from across the room. Your boss just kept getting sideways with the president and—”

  “DJ!” Wright said sharply. “I don’t want to go there. I like you, but I don’t traffic in gossip about others. You know that. So we’re not going there. The relationship my boss may or may not have with the president is none of my business. And it’s none of yours.”

  DJ nodded. To be honest, he liked that about Dr. Wright. He respected the fact that she lived, breathed, walked, and talked her beliefs on both a personal and professional level. That wasn’t easy to do in Washington. “Got it,” he said. “And I respect that. But I will say this. Some of us saw this coming, whether you want to talk about it or not.”

  “Understood. And no, I will not talk about it.”

  “So are you going to be named the national security advisor?” DJ pressed.

  Dr. Wright smiled. “I would advise that you go ask Anshel that question. And good luck with that. Is there anything else?”

  “Yeah, of course. But I’d been meaning to ask you about the job, so I thought I’d get that out of the way first.”

  “Okay, it’s out of the way. What’s next?”

  “White flags,” DJ said. “I keep hearing about white flags, some guy called Yamani, and this guy you referred to as the Twelfth Imam in your briefing, or the Mahdi, or something like that. And that maybe they’re connected to the attacks on the Saudi oil complex, the West Qurna oil fields in southern Iraq, and maybe even the uprisings in Yemen. And that there was a secret meeting between al Qaeda’s leadership and the Supreme Leader in Iran. Maybe a deal between the Shi’a and Sunni factions. So what gives?”

  “Wow.” Dr. Wright smiled. “That’s a lot of questions.”

  “Well, I feel totally out of the loop,” DJ said wistfully. “And you know me. When I’m out of the loop this badly, the press thinks I’m flat-out lying to them when I say I don’t know anything.”

  “But isn’t it better not to know some things?”

  “No,” DJ said firmly. “It’s not. You and I have talked about this. I need to know these sorts of things. That gives me the chance to deal with it correctly with the press. I’ve got a good relationship with the main reporters who cover national security in this administration. They know that, when there’s a subject I can’t talk about, I just tell them I won’t talk about it.”

  “Okay, fine,” Dr. Wright said. “So which question first?”

  “The white flags. What gives with that?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. We do have some intelligence reports about a shipment of white flags and double-edged swords that were discovered on board a ship that one of our carriers intercepted from pirates off the coast of Somalia.”

  “Double-edged swords, like Zulfiqars?”

  “Yes, they’re known as God’s Swords,” Dr. Wright said. “There are legends in the masses about a legion of fighters, carrying Zulfiqars and white and black flags, who race on horseback to take Mecca. Soldiers carrying black flags come from the north, while soldiers with white flags come from the south. They’re led by Yamani, who paves the way for the reemergence of the Twelfth Imam.”

  DJ frowned. “I heard you talk about some of this in your briefing. But seriously, that’s insane. Flags and double-edged swords in a world where nuclear weapons make their way into the hands of unstable regimes?”

  “I know. It makes no sense. But it is what it is. And I will say this— though it’s not the sort of thing you should repeat to your reporter friends…”

  “They’re not friends,” DJ shot back. “It’s my job to talk to them and keep them informed enough so they don’t go out of their way to harm us.”

  “Fine. I’m glad it’s your job, not mine. But we do have reports of horses being brought to a camp in northern Yemen by farmers. There are reports on the ground of someone they’re calling Yamani in one of the camps. Combine that with the reports of the white flags and the Zulfiqars on that ship, and you see why we’re at least curious.”

  “Is it true that Sa’id Nouradeen is in Yemen?” DJ asked.

  “True, and we have at least two reports that people are calling him this Yamani character.”

  “Yikes,” DJ said swiftly. “That can’t be good. So what’s the chance that they’re going to ride to Mecca?”

  “Who knows?” Dr. Wright shrugged. “With everything that’s going on in that region, I wouldn’t want to predict. The Saudis are beside themselves.”

  “Which reminds me—one of Secretary Moran’s folks told me about an aborted attack at Dulles—on a Saudi prince or envoy who was flying here to meet with us about some new line of succession to the grandsons in the House of Saud.”

  Dr. Wright pursed her lips. “You shouldn’t know about that.”

  “Dr. Wright,” DJ said, visibly trying to control his anger, “remember what I said about how it’s more harmful when I don’t know about something?”

  “I know, but DJ, we really don’t want folks to hear about that. You know our policy about stopping terrorist attacks on American soil.”

  “I know. It didn’t happen, until and unless someone hears about it and makes it public. But did it happen? Did we stop a terrorist attack against one of the Saudi princes?”

  Dr. Wright took a deep breath and stared at DJ as if trying to decide whether to trust him. Finally she spoke. “Not just any Saudi prince. The target was Muhammad al Faisal.”

  “The governor of Mecca?”

  “And the person that Secretary Moran believes is now in line to become the next king of Saudi Arabia. He’s about to be named as the new minister of the interior and eventually the crown prince.”

  “And that’s who they tried to take out?”

  “Yes. But no one knows any of this. We’d like to keep it that way.”

  “I’ll bet,” DJ said. “But that means someone in the House of Saud wasn’t happy about the succession plan and they probably triggered the attack here.”

  “Precisely. And with the attack against the Aramco complex, it’s gotten an awful lot more complicated.”

  “Where is Prince Muhammad now?”

  “He met briefly with Secretary Moran, and he’s headed back to Mecca as we speak.”

  “And if there’s this crazy ride to Mecca?”

  “Then he’ll be there when they arrive.”

  DJ started pacing. “And the reports about the meeting between al Qaeda and the IRGC in Tehran, with the Supreme Leader—are they true?”

  “You’re pushing the envelope here. You know that would be well beyond something I could confirm with you.”

  “So it’s true as well,” DJ mused. “Wow. I’ve always thought it was only a matter of time before al Qaeda threw their lot in with Iran’s leaders. They have a common enemy in Saudi Arabia. They were only going to stand clear of the kingdom for so long.”

  Dr. Wright nodded. “They’re not standing clear of the kingdom now, that’s for sure.”

  “The Twelfth Imam stuff or the Mahdi—any truth to that?”

  “Who knows? And that’s the truth. I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone does at this point. We’ll have to see how this plays out.”

  “So the Saudis…what do they have to push back against Iran? We’ve never heard a whiff of any effort to create a nuclear weapons capability—not ever. They’ve always relied on the United States to take military action when it gets hot. Like the Kuwait invasion, right across the water. They leaned on us to take care of that threat. Have they asked for our help?” DJ asked.

  “They have, but only partially. They take the attack on Prince Muhammad and the Aramco complex as a declaration of war on the kingdom from Iran. I couldn’t begin to predict what their response might be. But if I had to guess, it won’t be a diplomatic one.”

  �
��But their options—it’s not like they have many.”

  “We’ll see,” Dr. Wright said quietly. “I’m always surprised at the layers that get peeled back at times like this.”

  41

  Azadegan Oil Field

  Southern Iran

  “It’s a no-brainer. We get three for the price of one,” the Saudi operative told his colleague privately as they drove by truck to the southeastern corner of Iraq.

  The two Saudi operatives had chucked their UN “blue helmets” into the Iraqi desert once they’d passed the US-sponsored checkpoints in southern Iraq. Security was tightening as a result of the bombings at the West Qurna fields, but the two Saudi operatives had been in the field for years. They were able to travel toward the Iraq-Iran border with little trouble. The UN peacekeeping outfits had helped but were no longer necessary.

  They were now dressed in a casual, nondescript manner. They didn’t particularly want to attract attention to themselves. Not yet, at least.

  The inside of the truck was littered with gear, maps, and papers that would clearly tie it to Jundallah, the notorious Sunni opposition group that the United States had only recently placed on its terrorist list after years of allegations that the US had financially supported Jundallah’s efforts to violently oppose Iran’s regime.

  The two operatives had been gathering artifacts for the better part of a year for just such an event and need. Jundallah would be blamed.

  Neither had known whether they’d ever need the artifacts. But as they drove toward a point at the Iraqi border where they could safely cross into southern Iran and head for Azadegan—the largest oil field in Iran, recently discovered—both were glad they’d put in the time to gather the artifacts.

  One of the operatives peered over his shoulder toward the back of the truck and the precious cargo. Even the cargo had been carefully concealed to appear as if it had originated elsewhere—in this case from the bowels of a facility somewhere in North Korea with some old Russian parts thrown in for good measure.