by Jeff Nesbit
“I have come to tell you that you are free to leave,” Abdul said. “You have my sincerest apologies. You should never have been detained. It is not the way we do things here.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. But I’m curious. Who did you speak to about this before you came here? King Faisal? Prince Natal? The crown prince?”
Abdul studied Nash. This young American knew more than he was letting on. He was not asking out of idle curiosity. Abdul wondered what exactly had transpired in this room over the previous twelve hours.
“I met with the king,” Abdul said. “In fact, I just came from his quarters.”
Faisal had been polite but circumspect. He’d confirmed to Abdul that Natal was now the crown prince, that it would be announced within the hour in advance of the Day of Anger protests, and that the move was part of an effort leading to a new change in the country’s leadership.
Abdul knew that it would not mollify those who’d begun to identify with the protests in the kingdom. Replacing one elderly crown prince with another member of the House of Saud from the same generation was cosmetic, at best. But he kept his own counsel and simply informed Faisal that he intended to meet with Nash and allow him to leave the king’s palace. Faisal had not objected.
“And the king has said I may leave now?” Nash asked.
“He did. I am here to make certain of that. I will escort you personally from the grounds.”
“And Natal? What did he have to say?”
Abdul hesitated but only for a moment. There was no reason not to tell Nash about the transfer of power. He would learn of it from the news reports shortly anyway. “Natal is the new crown prince. He is on his way to Mecca even as we speak, to meet with the governor of Mecca about the transition.”
The news did not seem to surprise Nash. “This happened last night?”
“Yes. It will be announced shortly.”
“I see,” Nash said. “And it’s done? Natal is the crown prince, next in line to become king?”
“Yes, it is done. But the intention is to make it quite clear that the governor of Mecca, Prince Muhammad, is to become the next king. Natal is crown prince for only a time, through the transition.”
Nash stood. He made a quick, intuitive decision, based on this news. It was a risk—but one he felt confident in taking. He trusted this man.
Natal had already orchestrated one attack against a rival for the crown, on American soil. And it appeared he might be poised to do so again, this time in a place where many battles for control of Arab lands had taken place throughout history.
“Prince Abdul,” he said, “you and I need to talk—but not here, and not in the king’s palace.”
“Where, then?”
“On our way to Mecca. And it is important we get there quickly.”
“Why?”
“I will explain on the way,” he concluded mysteriously. “So are you with me? May we leave?”
Abdul made his own quick decision. There was something about this young American that he liked. He nodded, turned to the door, and beckoned to the guard to allow them to leave. Abdul led Nash through the various corridors that wound through the king’s palace and to the outer courtyard.
Neither spoke as they walked. Abdul made one call to his aide, who arranged for a helicopter to meet them in the courtyard. They were on their way to Mecca in a matter of minutes. And once they were away from the king’s palace and airborne, Nash began to talk.
By the time they’d arrived in Mecca, Nash had given the same information to Prince Abdul that his staff had delivered to NSA and then the White House the night before.
It would be a long, uncertain day in the kingdom.
67
Tehran, Iran
Ali bin Rahman waited patiently outside the Reverend Shahidi’s private study. He’d grown accustomed to waiting for such meetings with Iran’s Supreme Leader. It didn’t bother him. He was perfectly content to bide his time.
Everything was in place. His men were in place, and events were proceeding just as he’d hoped. All is well, he thought. It is the time of change.
It was hard for bin Rahman to believe, but years of hatred toward the apostates who ruled the Saudi kingdom were about to be rewarded with a true Day of Anger. The student uprising was a pretext for a much greater outpouring of wrath that would shake the world to its very foundations. Drawing the Kaaba into their plans had been a risk—especially considering that any attack on the shrine would have untold consequences. But it was a risk he’d been willing to take in order to create the necessary chaos.
The door to the study opened. “Please.” Shahidi beckoned to the al Qaeda leader. “Let us talk now. I have some time.”
It was just the two of them, as it often was. “The day has arrived,” bin Rahman said without preamble as he took his customary spot at the small table in Shahidi’s study.
“So I’ve been told,” Shahidi said. As always, he was more than content to allow proxies to do his bidding. In this instance, the proxy, al Qaeda, might surprise the world. But Shahidi was more than willing to enlist uncommon allies as soldiers to the greater cause. “Are your men in place?”
“They are, both in Riyadh and Mecca,” bin Rahman said. “They’ve trained for months. It is the right time, the right place.”
“And they have what they need?”
“Yes, thanks to your men at the IRGC. I have already delivered my profound thanks to General Zhubin, as well as Hussein Bahadur. We have precisely what we need for both. The portable devices have been delivered to both locations.”
“And what of our illustrious President Ahmadian?” Shahidi asked. “Were you able to give him what he requires? Is he satisfied?”
Bin Rahman laughed. “Yes, he’s beside himself, like a little schoolgirl. He has met his hidden imam. They have appeared to 200,000 pilgrims at the Jamkaran Mosque, fulfilling prophecy—though not a soul there knew who they were seeing for the first time.”
“Ah yes, Ahmadian’s prophecies,” Shahidi said darkly. “He is so concerned with fulfilling those. So he is content? And his new friend is now in place as well?”
“He is. I was told he arrived in Mecca in the past two days. He is ready for his part,” bin Rahman said.
Shahidi sighed. “I will say this for our president. He certainly has a feel for what the people like. This new find of his—of yours, actually—will certainly make things interesting. But I must confess that I’m still puzzled by one thing. Where, exactly, is this man from, this hidden imam? What is his true nationality? What nation does he claim as his own?”
“In truth, Reverend Shahidi, it is a mystery,” bin Rahman said. “In all of our discussions with him, I must confess that I do not have a satisfactory answer…”
“To either question?” Shahidi asked, somewhat surprised.
“To either question,” bin Rahman answered. “He claims no nation as his own, and his true identity, his parentage, his history—it is all still unknown. My men can find no record of his childhood, his birth, any semblance of a life on earth. It is, seemingly, as if he has emerged from occultation, or was born anew just recently.”
“That must please Ahmadian,” Shahidi said. “It would confirm what he wishes to believe already. But you and I, we will need to discover the truth for ourselves. I, for one, am not content with the absence of an answer to these questions. It matters little to me if we find that this man was an orphan from the streets somewhere, but we still need to know this.”
“Absolutely,” bin Rahman said. “But all in time. He is quite useful to us, for now. He will move the rest of the world in our direction. And for that I am grateful—regardless of who he is and where he came from.”
68
Mecca, Saudi Arabia
It was such a perfect day. Pilgrims who were taking part in Umrah, or the little pilgrimage, would begin to arrive later that day to walk around the Kaaba seven times in a reverse clockwise direction. Even now, in the empty square at the start of the day
, the revered black, cuboid-shaped building—the most sacred site in Islam—was magnificent.
But today was even more auspicious for a select few, and the time was nearly upon them. The Kaaba was opened only twice a year, for a ceremony known simply as the “day of cleaning.” The first occurred thirty days before the start of the month of Ramadan, and the second took place before the start of Hajj, when millions of pilgrims visited the Kaaba.
One tribe, the Bani Shayba, held the keys to the Kaaba. And on these two days of the year, visitors and foreign diplomats were allowed to participate in the ritual cleaning of the Kaaba. The governor of Mecca would enter the interior of the Kaaba, where he and his honored guests ritually cleaned the structure with brooms.
This day would truly be spectacular. The Saudi National Guard and the Bani Shayba tribesmen had all heard the news—the governor of Mecca had just been named the new minister of the interior and was now in the line of succession to become the next king. The day of cleaning of the Kaaba would be one that they would all remember.
The list of dignitaries visiting the interior of the Kaaba during the cleaning later that day was small. The governor of Mecca had invited only a select few.
The regular members of the White Army were alert, nevertheless. They were extra vigilant, given the recent change in status for Prince Muhammad. They intended to pay close attention to all who approached the Kaaba today.
But there was one person the guard had not checked—and now it would be too late. One of the Bani Shayba tribe had trained for this day in a remote camp in the mountains of Pakistan for months before returning to the kingdom and Mecca.
This man had delivered his carefully constructed package to the interior of the Kaaba just that morning, before the others had arrived. It was stowed safely in a closet off to one side of the interior of the Kaaba. When the governor and his group of dignitaries were allowed inside, this man would be with them, to assure that this device fulfilled its mission. He would die in the blast, of course, but that was to be expected. His reward was in heaven.
The timing had to be perfect, this man knew. But he was ready. As soon as the two groups of horses and men charged the square, he was prepared to act. His months of preparation were at an end.
The new crown prince, Natal, was meeting with the governor of Mecca as they made preparations for the day of cleaning ceremony. Natal had shown up unexpectedly, but the national guard had been told that he would not be joining the ceremony within the Kaaba.
Instead, Natal had told them, he planned to return to Riyadh. He’d seen the inside of the Kaaba before, he’d joked with some in the White Army. He had no interest in sweeping it with a broom again.
69
The White House
Washington, DC
President Camara always had a difficult time sleeping, but especially at times such as this. So it was almost a welcome relief to see the soft red light glowing on the phone beside his bed. He glanced over at his wife to make sure he wasn’t disturbing her, then answered the call.
“Mr. President, I’m sorry to disturb you,” General Alton said. “But you’d asked to be briefed when we had news about Nash Lee.”
“Yes, is he all right?” The president was accustomed to receiving bad news. But he fervently hoped that was not the case here.
“He’s fine,” Alton reported. “In fact, we just heard from Ambassador Lee. Nash called his father from the helicopter shortly after it left the grounds of the king’s palace. He was accompanying Prince Abdul.”
Camara sat up in bed. “Abdul? What does he have to do with any of this?”
“Well, there’s been some other news, which will break over there shortly as the day starts there. They’re making Abdul the new foreign minister. Prince Muhammad, the governor of Mecca, is now the minister of interior. And Saud has stepped aside. Natal is the new crown prince.”
Camara smiled. So Susan Wright had called it from the beginning. The grandsons were, in fact, taking power in the kingdom. Natal was a wild card, and he wondered how that might play out.
“But Nash is fine? I can cross that off my list of worries?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what of the Day of Anger protests today? Can we help? Do we have folks in place? What about other parts of the world, in case this spills over?”
“We have ships to the east and west of Saudi Arabia, on both coasts—the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf,” Alton said. “But you do realize that we can’t help the Saudis? This is their fight. We can’t do much else except observe.”
“I understand. But I’m still glad they’re close by. If the Saudis ask for our help, we’ll be nearby.”
The president closed his eyes, wondering what the world might look like soon. Light was starting to peek over the horizon and work its way into the bedroom. He decided that the night was over. It was time to work on a speech he was considering to a secret joint session of Congress. Whether he gave such a speech would depend on events.
“Thank you, General Alton,” the president said. “Call if you have any other news.”
70
The King’s Palace
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
It was a simple task, really. The device had been placed in the king’s bedchambers the previous evening, while Faisal was meeting with Natal and the crown prince.
The man had allowed a small crew to enter the palace grounds. They’d secured it safely in the king’s chambers and then left quickly.
The al Qaeda operative had been on the king’s cleaning staff for the past two years. He’d scrubbed toilets, washed floors, and gathered up soiled clothes for months, waiting for this day to arrive.
He had no special knowledge of the device. But that wasn’t required. It had all been assembled for him. All he was required to do was activate it at the proper moment.
He was more than willing to play his part in changing the future course of events in the world. He knew that his family would be honored for the part he was about to play, and he was glad for that.
The device was powerful enough that no one could possibly survive it. At least, that was what he’d been told. The blast radius for the portable nuclear device—which contained pieces freshly exported from North Korea, recently delivered to Iran, and later carried to the king’s palace by carefully selected couriers—was sufficient that it would kill the king, his immediate family, and everyone else on two floors of the king’s palace.
It would, in one effort, take out much of the Saudi royal family. Only those who were fortunate enough to be somewhere else—not in the king’s palace—would survive the blast.
The man said his final prayers and began to make his afternoon cleaning rounds. The elderly king always took a late afternoon nap. The al Qaeda operative who’d managed to infiltrate the cleaning staff waited nearly fifteen minutes to make sure the king was settled in his chambers.
He knocked on the door. Hearing no answer from within, he entered. The king was sleeping peacefully at the far corner of the room.
The man walked over to the closet and opened it calmly. He’d been instructed not to set a remote timer. Instead, he was told to activate it directly and wait to make certain that it fulfilled its mission.
The portable device was small and innocuous. It looked like a suitcase, a piece of luggage. He spread the suitcase on the ground and opened the two latches.
Everything was in place. He followed the instructions he’d been given. He heard several clicks. A machine of some sort came to life.
The man sat down and waited. He wasn’t entirely sure when it would go off. But he’d made his peace with God. He was ready.
An instant later, the nuclear suitcase detonated, vaporizing the man sitting calmly next to the suitcase. The king’s chamber—as well as the floors above and below it—was turned to rubble upon impact. The king died immediately, in his sleep.
71
The Capitol Building
Washington, DC
“You’re sure
the press won’t be there?” Camara asked. He glanced out the window of the presidential town car as they made their way through the southern gate of the White House complex. Even now, so early in the morning, there were a few tourists who snapped pictures of the presidential motorcade as it made its way out of the complex.
“Absolutely,” Anshel Gould answered. “We’ve made certain of it. The galleries—both for the public and the press—will be empty.”
“How did you manage it?” the president asked. “Is the press screaming?”
“DJ is managing it,” the president’s chief of staff said evenly. “It isn’t pretty. But he’s explaining to them that we’re providing highly classified information to Congress. That closes it to the press.”
“Even though it’s to a joint session of Congress—not just to a secret session of the Senate that they’re all accustomed to when we give them classified information?”
The motorcade was small and would only tie up traffic for several minutes this early in the morning. Commuter traffic wouldn’t kick in for an hour or so. For all anyone knew, the president was on his way for a round of golf at Andrews Air Force Base—not to an early morning speech to a closed, joint session of Congress at the Capitol.
Camara had already been considering a speech to Congress. The news of the assassination of the Saudi king, coming on the heels of the attacks at Aqaba, had made an address an imperative. For all he and anyone else knew, war was about to break out in the Saudi kingdom, southern Israel, or the Persian Gulf.
The uneasy peace with Iran, likely behind the attacks in both places, might end as well and turn into fighting that would include US troops. And while he didn’t need to consult with Congress under the War Powers Act when American troops were already engaged, the president felt an urgency to bring another branch of the US government into the picture.
