Oil

by Jeff Nesbit

  “We are quite certain of that,” the king said. “We have had the list of mobile numbers on your list under limited surveillance for some time. But there is only so much we can learn from that surveillance. The true value is contained in the information within your system. By comparing certain words and trends—”

  “Again, with all due respect, King Faisal, I am not able to do that,” Nash said firmly. “I cannot reveal private information from the network. Not for you and not for any other government leader.”

  “Then let me rephrase the request,” the king continued somberly. “We know of the groups and the nature of the attack at Aramco. What we are trying to ascertain, from the records and data within your network, are the original source of the very first calls to action that went out to certain numbers on that list. From there, we will be able to ascertain root causes.

  “But just as importantly, we are trying to determine how coordinated this attack is with movements in two other parts of our country. There are forces at move against one of our holy sites, and we have heard rumors of a coming war on yet another front.

  “We must swiftly determine if these are all isolated events— or whether they all have the one, same root cause. We believe evidence of that root cause is contained within the information, data, and records from these mVillage mobile numbers on the list you have before you.

  “So what I am asking is this: If we provide you with a road map of items that we would ask you to search, would you be willing to consider the request? And should you find links or connections, would you be willing to provide us with that information? You may keep the personal records safe. We are merely asking for some corroboration of trends, connections, and root causes.”

  “So you wouldn’t ask me to turn over any personal data? We’d do the meta-search ourselves? You’re not asking us to turn over the data— only confirm links or connections we might find?”

  The king smiled. “Precisely. It is a simple request. Nothing more than that.”

  Nash shook his head. “It is most definitely not a simple request. But I will consider it.”

  “Wonderful.” The king extended a hand. “If you do choose to discuss this further with us, Natal has assured me that he will meet with you alone, and that any information you convey to him will be held in the strictest confidence.”

  “And if I am unable to provide you with the information you need at the end of our own search, then what? Will I remain a prisoner here?”

  “You are our guest here at the king’s palace,” Faisal said. “We hope that you spend your time wisely and make judicious decisions.”

  48

  Tehran, Iran

  Ali Zhubin had never been a patient man. He hadn’t gotten to his station in life as the head of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards Corps by waiting. But he was being told to wait and be patient by his commander in chief— and it was killing him.

  Zhubin understood the grand aims of the Supreme Leader. He and the Reverend Shahidi had talked many times about the bigger play. He got it. He was a loyal soldier to the cause—to the death, if necessary.

  Part of being a good soldier—and Zhubin was a very good soldier— was a certain willingness to wait for moments or opportunities during combat.

  But the mind-numbing diplomacy of the peace process between the United States and Iran these past several months had long ago driven Zhubin over the edge. The talks had taken place at a bureaucratic level, with little movement. He no longer even asked about the status of the peace talks. As far as Zhubin was concerned, they would eventually break down.

  Zhubin trusted the Americans even less than the Israelis. At least the Israelis’ military forces were straightforward in their aims. They saw a threat and moved decisively to neutralize it. They didn’t wait.

  Iran had once secretly tried to position medium-range missiles at the Golan Heights. Every single site had been razed to the ground as the construction was underway. Israel hadn’t mentioned it to the world community. The sites were merely turned into rubble. Zhubin admired that sort of action.

  But the Americans—that was an entirely different matter. The Iraq conflict was as good an example as any. The war had been about oil. America needed it, and Iraq had it. The US government leaders had signed agreements with every major American oil company within a year of the conclusion of the war there.

  So the Iraq war had assured the Americans of another significant source of oil from the Middle East. But the American public had never been told the true aims of that war, and Zhubin was certain they would never fully realize that their leadership was more than willing to wage war over control of the Earth’s natural resources.

  And now, Zhubin knew, the Americans raced to exploit the chaos and turmoil that had erupted overnight in three of the largest oil-rich Arab states the world had ever known. Russia wasn’t far behind, and China was waking up to both the threats and opportunities as well.

  All roads seemed to be converging on Israel, which had managed to remain silent throughout the Arab Spring and as principalities and powers fought for control in Saudi Arabia and other parts of the world.

  Zhubin knew the secret oil pipeline Iran had once built for Israel, in different times, was poised to reopen shortly. Significant amounts of oil would be flowing in both directions, through Israel to Europe and the Far East. And both the Russians and the Americans were investing heavily in Israel’s significant oil shale reserves.

  Both of these would place Israel at the epicenter of the world’s desperate need for fossil fuels that drove the world economy. It was all very curious indeed.

  But Zhubin had other things much more pressing before him— and he needed to act. The nuclear attack against the Azadegan oil fields had been far more crippling than the rest of the world knew. Iran had been counting on the effort to develop new oil reserves. The American economic sanctions had devastated Iran’s economy over the years, and they were just beginning to emerge from that long shadow. Azadegan had been central to those plans—and they were now in ruins.

  The evidence that had been assembled so far had been laid at the doorstep of the Jundallah, which had been a thorn in Zhubin’s side for years. Jundallah had exploded bombs at mosques, killing members of the IRGC.

  Materials and chemicals from the bomb site had been traced back to the Jundallah forces. There was no question of that. What was left of the truck that had carried the portable nuclear device had been disassembled and studied extensively. Traces of maps and equipment pointed directly to the Jundallah forces.

  The radical Sunni terrorist group was responsible, the IRGC’s intelligence services had decided. The Reverend Shahidi and the clerics were convinced and were preparing reprisals against the Jundallah.

  But how had the Jundallah acquired nuclear weapons technology from the North Koreans? The IRGC could only conclude that, with the North Koreans supplying technology to Iran over the years, some had been siphoned off.

  But Zhubin was not convinced—and with good reason. Al Qaeda had close ties with the Jundallah. The two had worked together on more than one occasion.

  After striking his unholy alliance with the Reverend Shahidi and the Shi’a clerics, al Qaeda’s leader, Ali bin Rahman, had remained behind in Tehran to wait for developments. So Zhubin had sought him out immediately after the nuclear attack at Azadegan. They’d met for coffee one morning at a private café in downtown Tehran.

  “Is it true?” Zhubin had asked bin Rahman.

  “What?”

  “The attack at Azadegan? Every road leads back to the Jundallah. But I am not convinced. It’s all tied up in a neat, little package.”

  The al Qaeda leader had smiled. “And nothing is ever that simple, is it?”

  “Not in my experience. So is it true? Do you believe the Jundallah are responsible for that attack?”

  Zhubin didn’t trust bin Rahman. He didn’t like the notion of a merger, of sorts, between al Qaeda and the Shi’a clerics who ruled Iran.

  Zhubin beli
eved in a pan-Islamic world, led by Iran. He realized that alliances were necessary evils during times of war and conflict. And bin Rahman was a necessary evil, a convenient ally at the moment. But he still didn’t trust bin Rahman, or what he offered as a new ally. Yet, even with that, Zhubin knew instinctively that bin Rahman was right. Nothing is ever that simple.

  “What I believe is irrelevant,” bin Rahman had said. “What matters—the only thing that is truly important here—is motive. What reason would Jundallah have for bringing utter ruin upon itself by exploding such a device at Azadegan?”

  Zhubin had shrugged. “They are a terrorist organization. It’s what they do.”

  “Yes, and al Qaeda is a terrorist organization,” bin Rahman had said quietly. “It is what we do as well. And I can assure you, I would never have sanctioned such an attack. It makes no sense. The risk is much greater than the reward. You will utterly destroy Jundallah now, am I right?”

  “Yes, we will.”

  “The Jundallah leadership knows that. I know them. I’ve worked with them. And I can tell you that they would not take such a course of action.”

  “Have they told you that?”

  “They don’t need to,” bin Rahman had said. “I know.”

  “But who, then?”

  “Ask yourself this. Who benefits from Azadegan? You’ll find your answer there.”

  “The Israelis,” Zhubin had offered. “They are moving into a position of prominence in the world oil economy, and this is a crippling blow against a sworn enemy.”

  Ali bin Rahman had laughed. “Must all roads always lead back to Israel and the Jews? They are a useful foil. But in this particular case, they want to cripple your nuclear ambitions and will take any measure to do so. But attacking Azadegan? No, that’s a peripheral interest for them.”

  “The Americans, then.”

  “In the middle of the peace process? They have everything to lose and nothing to gain by orchestrating such an attack.”

  “But they’ve had economic sanctions against us for years. This is just an extension of those sanctions. And they have nuclear technology.”

  “Both true—but irrelevant here. The Azadegan attack was not a sanction. It was a direct attack, or retaliation, against Iran—for a very specific aim and reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “To remove Iran from the global oil economy. It delays your re-entry for years, does it not?”

  “Yes, it does,” Zhubin had mused.

  “So who would wish to see that? America? Russia? China? Or someone else? Who is your sworn enemy when it involves oil? Who would that be? And who, at this particular moment in the history of the world, feels most threatened on its own soil, with its economic livelihood at sake? Who benefits if other oil superpowers are likewise crippled, as they are?”

  Zhubin had leaned back at this point in the conversation. This particular scenario had never occurred to him. “But they would never initiate such an action. The risks are too great for them. And don’t forget, they have no nuclear ambition whatsoever. A generation has passed, and there has been no indication they’ve ever tried to acquire or build any nuclear weapons.”

  “Are you so certain of that?” bin Rahman had asked. “The Saudi kingdom is a place of many layers and many mysteries. It is one thing to say you do not have something. What you actually do is something else entirely.”

  “But why? The Saudi royal family has avoided conflict with Iran for years. They’ve bought peace, with you, for a considerable amount of time.”

  “Until now,” bin Rahman had said. “All of that changed when we brought the war to the kingdom. The attack at the Aramco complex changed everything—and the Saudis know that.”

  “And if they’ve concluded that Iran was complicit in that attack, then they would consider some sort of retaliation,” Zhubin had mused. “They could not take military action, not while the Americans are engaged in a peace process.”

  “But they could initiate economic retaliation. I dare say the attack at Azadegan is about as direct an attack on Iran’s economic lifeblood as anything I could conceive. And I would ask again, if Iran is not an oil power again for years, then who does that benefit?”

  “The Saudis,” Zhubin said. “They derive their power from oil.”

  “And you threatened that at Aramco.”

  “Which was an attack I would not have sanctioned, had I known about it.” Zhubin had scowled.

  “Nevertheless, it happened,” bin Rahman had said calmly. “It is now done, and the Saudis are going to react predictably.”

  “So you believe the Saudis are behind Azadegan?”

  “It would make the most sense, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps. But if there is any proof of that, then you know what that means, don’t you? We will have no choice at that point.”

  “You will wage war in the kingdom,” bin Rahman had answered soberly. “And the Western powers may simply sit back and enjoy the theater.”

  49

  Somewhere in northern Saudi Arabia

  They’d left in the dark of night. They’d been riding in trucks through the Arabian desert for the better part of two days, pulling trailers full of horses behind them. But they were nearing their destination and would soon abandon the trucks and mount the horses for a day’s ride to Mecca.

  “Tell me again—why are we bringing horses?” one of the men had asked before they set off into the desert. “Why aren’t we just remaining in the trucks as we get to Mecca?”

  “Because the leader demands it from us,” said one of the commanders who answered directly to Iran’s president.

  “And which leader is that?” asked one of the others, a mercenary who’d been through four previous conflicts in different parts of the world.

  “Does it matter?” asked a third. “We’re being paid handsomely, and it’s a just cause.”

  “Yeah, but swords? That’s what we ride into Mecca with?” asked a fourth.

  “And what are we supposed to do once we get to Mecca?” asked the first mercenary. “Fight the Saudis off with these Zulfiqars? Seriously?”

  “Enough,” said the commander. “We’ll know more when we get there. We’ll have what we need. I trust the leader. It will make sense, once we’ve reached our destination.”

  Now, as they rode at night so prying eyes would not know of their covert mission, doubts crept into their minds. It certainly seemed like a suicide mission. Take Mecca with nothing more than horses, black flags, and double-edged swords?

  It gave them no comfort to hear that a second wave of cavalry would be approaching Mecca from the south, through southern Arabia. “Twice the number of soldiers armed with nothing but swords doesn’t make matters better,” they told each other.

  Yet these were loyal, hardened, combat-tested soldiers. They’d been hand-picked by Ahmadian from around the globe for this mission. They would do as they were told and would fight with the tools at hand.

  And if things did not go well initially during the fight, they were under no special constraints. They could fade away into the desert. All had already been paid, and they were not conscripted by any single government entity.

  What they could not have known was that forces well beyond their understanding swirled around them in many different directions as they drove through the deserts of northern Arabia.

  Forces of change were beginning to make their voices heard and their presence known in Arabia and other parts of the world connected to the kingdom.

  This was not a simple conflict. Myriad powers were at play and games within games at play. The “black flag” cavalry that would ride into Mecca from the north was simply a chess piece on a grand board.

  But the men who drove toward Mecca cared nothing about those things. They just knew they’d been hired for a singular, if psychotic, mission by a religious zealot who also happened to be the elected president of an oil-rich Arab nation.

  What might ultimately happen if, by some miracle, they were
successful was not something they contemplated. That was someone else’s plan.

  50

  Beersheba, Israel

  Dr. Thompson rarely got a chance to get out of the refugee camps when she was on the road. So when she had breaks of an hour or so—a real luxury—she took advantage of them.

  It had been an especially long morning already at one of the makeshift Beersheba refugee camps already overflowing with new families from Jordan and elsewhere while the peace talks were underway.

  She needed the break. Some of the families told her they had no access whatsoever to any healthcare. She was the first doctor many of them had seen in months, if not years. The list of maladies was long and troubling. Elizabeth did her best to triage and move on, but it wasn’t easy.

  It amazed her that governments did not realize that, when they made promises, ordinary people believed them and acted on those promises. So when powers like the United States and Israel said they would create a new Palestinian state carved out of the wilderness, people actually started to wander across and into that wilderness haven.

  This was hardly surprising. Once, in the early years of a nascent American government confined to just the states of the Eastern seaboard of the continental United States, a government had offered plots of land to any settlers willing to cross the wilderness lands in covered wagons.

  A flood of people responded and settled nearly every corner of the US territories. Promises made—and occasionally kept—were a powerful thing.

  Today, she’d decided to walk into the areas of construction underway in the new settlements rising like magic near Beersheba.

  She’d heard about a new coffee shop that served Arabic coffee flavored with mocha. That had been all she’d been able to think about on her walk to the shop.

  The aroma was nearly overwhelming as she ordered her mocha coffee. Then she began to look for a seat within the small shop.

  The place was completely full. There wasn’t a single open table to be found. Elizabeth grabbed her coffee and was beginning to despair when a quiet voice called to her.