by Mike Maden
Al-Saud lifted up Pearce in his chair and set him upright again.
Pearce shook his head to clear it. “So what are we discussing?”
“You were an analyst with the CIA before you became a SOG operative. Tell me, why do you think you are here?”
“I guess I pissed somebody off. And I’m guessing it’s you.”
“Excellent. You are quite correct.”
“What I can’t figure out is how I’ve managed to do that. My friend Ian might know.”
“Ian? Who’s that?”
“The head of my IT department. Smart guy. Knows a lot.”
“This Ian fellow might know, but I doubt it. But you do.”
Pearce shook his head and shrugged slightly. “Sorry, drawing a blank.”
“Why do people become angry with other people?”
“Listen, buddy—”
Another fist cracked into Pearce’s jaw. The chair started to tip but al-Saud caught Pearce by the scruff of his neck and stabilized it.
“There’s my temper again. I apologize. I come from a proud family. I should advise you, I’m not your ‘buddy.’ I am His Royal Highness Faisal bin Salman al-Saud, fifth in line in the succession. However, that’s quite the long title. Your Highness or Mr. Ambassador will suffice. Understood?”
Pearce nodded through clenched eyes, his face wincing with pain. “Yeah. Understood.”
“I’ve just given you the answer to my own question.”
Pearce tried to clear his mind. I wish you were here, Ian, he thought. I really do. Pearce opened his eyes, glared at al-Saud. “I guess I did something to offend you.”
“Offend? Outrage is more like it.”
“How?”
“How do you think?”
Pearce’s mind raced. What had al-Saud just been saying? Something about a proud family. “I must have done something against your family or your country.”
“My family is this country. But, yes, my family is the issue. Blood is, indeed, thicker than water, especially in the desert.”
“Are you saying I killed someone in your family?”
“Very good.”
“Who? I don’t know of any Saudis I’ve killed. At least not knowingly.”
“Not knowingly? Interesting phrase.”
Pearce suddenly understood. “A drone strike.”
Al-Saud nodded. “You must have been quite the analyst. I’m sure the CIA regrets having lost you.”
“When?”
“Earlier this year. You struck a group of Daesh fighters in the Kurdistan region. Fifteen were killed outright. Several others who were horribly burned and wounded died later.”
“Daesh? What does your family have to do with them?”
“Unfortunately, my nephew had been seduced by the devil’s own doctrine. He was a Daesh unit commander in the region. He died that day.”
“Those sons of bitches were using captured women as sex slaves, then selling them on the open market after they were through with them. They butchered an entire village of Christians. You expect me to weep over that kind of garbage?”
Al-Saud pulled out his pistol and raised it high to slam it into Pearce’s skull, but halted in midair. He lowered the chromed weapon. He grinned. “You see? My temper. You shouldn’t provoke me. Yes, the Daesh behave like barbarians. But my nephew was still my blood, however misguided he may have been. When you killed my nephew, my family demanded retribution. One of my sources in the Turkish army informed me you were the mastermind of the operation. Honor demanded I seek vengeance. Surely you understand the concept of vengeance.”
All too well, Pearce thought. “So why am I still alive?”
Al-Saud pointed at the HD television with his pistol. “We’re going to watch a little television together first, then I’m going to blow your brains out.”
“You don’t think kidnapping and murdering an American government official is a problem for you? Your government won’t be happy with that.”
“No one in my government knows anything.”
“You want me to believe your government isn’t behind the entire operation?”
“The leadership of my government is as feeble and weak-willed as yours. I was forced to act on my own initiative.”
“You don’t know President Lane. He won’t stand by when an American citizen is captured and killed.”
Al-Saud sat back down in his chair, holstering his weapon. “Ansar al-Sharia butchered Ambassador Stevens and the whole world saw it. Your government didn’t seem to care at all. But you? No one even knows I’ve kidnapped you, and no one will know I’m the one who killed you. By this time tomorrow your corpse will be scattered in the desert in small piles of jackal dung.”
“When my team finds out where I am, they’ll track you down.” Pearce kept flexing his hands.
Al-Saud shook his head. “My men stripped you naked when you were unconscious and destroyed your watch. They even neutralized the transponder unit you and your employees have implanted inside your bodies.”
Pearce couldn’t hide his surprise. He’d used those trackers for years to protect his people. Dr. Rao warned him the technology was becoming vulnerable.
Al-Saud laughed. “Nobody knows you’re here, Pearce. Nobody will rescue you.”
“Something still doesn’t add up. Why bring me here? Why wait to kill me until after the war begins?”
“Because I know how much you hate the idea of this war. I wanted you to see it begin. And I want to watch your face when you realize your worst fears will come to pass. Your country will be committed to occupying the Middle East for decades. Thousands of your people will be killed or wounded, and you will spend trillions defending my kingdom from Daesh and the Persian heretics. And it’s all your fault.”
“You want this war.”
Al-Saud laughed again. “Want it? You still don’t get it, do you? I made this war, thanks to you.”
55
Pearce frowned. “What do you mean, you ‘made this war’?”
“Who do you think sent that drone to the White House with the flag and the threat?”
“You?”
Al-Saud shrugged. “Well, not me, personally. But I helped arrange it. You know, Pearce, you’re not the only drone expert in the world.”
A news report flashed on the television screen. Live images of the bombing of Raqqa suddenly appeared. The Saudi reporters shouted, “It has begun!”
Al-Saud pumped his fists in the air, shouting “Allahu akbar!” over and over, laughing and pointing at the TV.
Pearce stared at the gruesome images, a city under bombardment. It made him sick to his stomach. Alyssa Abbott obviously had won the argument that the live video feeds of Raqqa’s destruction would be the perfect piece of propaganda to terrorize would-be terrorists. Pearce wasn’t so sure.
“How many civilians made it out?” Pearce asked.
“Just a few thousand, according to your satellite imagery.”
“Hundreds of Muslims are dying right now, maybe thousands. Don’t you care?”
Al-Saud shook his head. “If they die, it is Allah’s will that they die. Besides, they’re mostly Syrians.”
“You’re a callous f—” Pearce caught himself. “So tell me, why didn’t you kill more Americans while you were at it? Why not drop the planes in midair or poison all the water?”
“Despite what you may think of me, I’m not an uncivilized man. I like Americans. The only purpose of the drone attacks was to finally rouse President Lane to war against Daesh. Your country was never really in danger. I only wanted to make it appear that way. There are no other attacks planned for your water system, or any other drone attacks of any kind.”
“What if Lane had refused to go to war? And refused to raise the flag?”
“Then the plan would have failed. But obviously
it didn’t. It was Allah’s will that it succeed.”
“You wouldn’t have escalated?”
“No. I must stand before Allah and give an account of my life someday. I will not have the blood of innocents weighing against me in the balance.”
Pearce nodded at the television. “What about their innocent blood?”
“Their blood is on America’s hands, not mine. But their sacrifice also serves Allah’s purpose. Those videos will be used as jihadi recruiting tools around the world for years to come, guaranteeing your country’s continued interest in the War on Terror, which means continued interest in protecting the Kingdom, which is Allah’s will.”
“I don’t know what god you think you’re serving, but the Koran says that Allah loves the just.”
“And you are a Crusader-blasphemer.” Al-Saud stood up, pulled his pistol back out. He racked the slide. “Would you care to pray before you die?”
Pearce doubted it would help. He shook his head. “No, but I have a question.”
“What?”
“Why did you try and assassinate President Myers?”
“The goal was only to wound her, not kill her. It was an expert shot that guaranteed her life.”
“Why?”
“To get you out of Washington, of course.” Al-Saud smiled. “She is an admirable woman. You were a lucky man, Pearce.”
A loud crack threw the room in to total darkness, killing the lights outside, too. Pearce twisted in his chair. There was enough moonlight that he could see shadowy figures racing across the grass.
Al-Saud’s men shouted outside the room. Gunfire erupted. Bullets shattered the door just as the window glass exploded.
Al-Saud lifted his pistol and pointed it at Pearce’s head. Squeezed the trigger.
An explosion blinded Pearce and smashed his eardrums. The stabbing pain in his skull was the last thing his brain registered.
—
“TROY! TROY! Are you with us?” Ian shouted in Pearce’s skull.
Pearce’s eyes blinked open to a sweating, scowling Saudi face. A wide, toothy grin began spreading beneath the thick mustache. The man wore the uniform of the Saudi Special Security Forces.
“Are you injured, Mr. Pearce?” the major asked. He whipped out a combat knife.
“I’m here, Ian. Quit yelling,” Pearce said.
“Excuse me, sir?” The Saudi said as he cut away the PlastiCuffs still pinning Pearce to his chair.
“Who are you?” Pearce asked, his brain still ringing from the flash-bang.
“Major Muhammad ibn Saleh al-Bunayan.” He helped Pearce uneasily to his feet. “I see no wounds, sir. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine, Major. Who sent you?” Pearce stretched the kinks out of his back and the strain in his wrists.
“I did,” Ian said.
“Hold that thought, Ian,” Pearce said. “It’s confusing as hell trying to talk to both of you.”
Pearce and Ian were communicating through the elaborate “smart tattoo” inked across his back and snaking up his neck. The smart tattoo comprised a multilayered organic transmitter and receiver module. It was powered by a bio-templated piezoelectric nanogenerator activated by Pearce’s opening and closing his hands. The tattoo’s subvocal speech-recognition technology meant Pearce could simply “think” his words to his Scottish computer genius. Pearce could hear Ian silently inside his head through bone conduction, much the same way Google Glass headphones operated. Because the smart tattoo was printed with electronically conducive organic hydro-gel, it couldn’t be discovered through traditional metal detection. When Dr. Rao inked him with the smart tattoo five days before, he had no idea it would be field-tested so quickly, nor that it would be used to save his life.
The Saudi major frowned with confusion. “Sir? Who is this Ian you are speaking to?”
“Doesn’t matter. Who sent you?”
“My commanding officer received the request thirty minutes ago directly from the White House.” The major began checking Pearce over. His face was partially swollen where al-Saud had struck him. Pearce knew he looked as beat to hell as he felt.
“Who in the White House sent you?”
“I need to have you examined by my medical officer.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
“I have my orders.” The major barked a command in Arabic. A moment later another Special Security Forces officer rushed through the door, a combat medical kit slung over one shoulder. Pearce relented and let the medic take a few minutes and do his duty. Pearce was steered to a more comfortable couch, and the medic gave him a quick exam while Pearce continued questioning the major.
“I don’t know who in the White House sent the request.”
“It must have been President Lane,” Pearce said.
“Permission to speak,” Ian said in his buttery-smooth brogue.
“Not yet,” Pearce said out loud.
“You must be speaking to that Ian fellow again.” The major frowned, scanning Pearce up and down. “Tell me, where are your comms?” the major said.
Pearce shrugged. “It’s classified.”
“It was Vice President Chandler,” Ian said inside Pearce’s skull.
“Chandler?” Pearce said. “Why the hell did you call Chandler?”
“I contacted the White House directly, but President Lane is incommunicado, heading for Beijing and the Asia Security Summit. The vice president is in charge of day-to-day operations for the time being. He authorized the mission to rescue you.”
Pearce was surprised. He assumed Chandler would have welcomed his disappearance.
“Please tell me you recorded the conversation with al-Saud.”
“Of course, but it’s rough. I’ll have to run it through an audio filter first.”
“Forward a copy of it to Chandler as soon as you can. We’ve got a war to stop.” Pearce turned to the major. “Where’s al-Saud now?”
The major stiffened. “He’s in our custody. He shall be dealt with.”
“I need to see him, right now.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“Orders.”
“From whom?”
The major shrugged. “Does it matter? You know how it is.”
Pearce swore. He had a feeling he’d seen this movie before.
“Troy, I’ve arranged for a Pearce Systems plane to land in Riyadh in the next twenty minutes,” Ian said. But the transmission was starting to break up. “As soon as it refuels, it’s scheduled to bring you back home. There’s a doctor on board as well.”
Pearce thanked Ian and told him they’d talk later with better comms. He turned to the major, tugging on his orange jumpsuit. “Any chance I can grab a shower, a set of clothes, and a ride to the airport?”
The major sniffed. Pearce’s diaper was full. “Follow me.”
56
KING KHALID INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
Good as his word, the Saudi major provided Pearce with a hot shower, clothes confiscated from the pro shop, and a ride to the airport in his command vehicle. Pearce’s presence in the Kingdom was kept secret from the American embassy as per Chandler’s request.
Pearce boarded his company plane and headed straight for the cockpit. He ordered the pilot to radio the tower and get the plane off the runway. “We’re not leaving here without al-Saud in custody,” he told the crew. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The onboard doctor—a physician’s assistant, Sarah Swift—approached him in the cabin. “I need to check you out.”
“Not yet,” Pearce said. “I’ve got a couple of calls to make. We’ll do it once we’re in the air.”
“But, sir—”
Pearce’s withering glare cut off the former combat medic in midsentence.<
br />
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Pearce dashed for his secured comms station and contacted Ian. The smart tattoo was already starting to fail, and it wasn’t an encrypted system anyway.
“Ian, have you reached Chandler yet? I need to speak with him now.”
“I’ve tried to connect with him directly. His assistant says he’s unavailable at the moment.”
“Tell his assistant Chandler either calls me back right now or I call the New York Times.”
“Will do. Give me a minute.”
—
CHANDLER WAS ON the phone ten minutes later.
“Troy? It’s me, Clay. How are you feeling?”
“Fucking fantastic. Did you listen to the digital recording Ian sent you?”
“Thank God you’re alive. I couldn’t believe my ears when Ian said you’d been kidnapped.”
“The recording? Did you hear it?”
“Of course. Al-Saud is a real son of a bitch—pardon my French. I’m glad we’re rid of him.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I needed to talk to you. I need to get my hands on him right now, find out who’s running his terror operation.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. He’s in Saudi custody now.”
“Are you shitting me? The Saudis owe us everything. I just need him for thirty minutes. I’ll even keep him alive.”
“You see, Troy, here’s the rub. In order to save you, I had to cut a deal with the Royal House of Saud. The ambassador is one of theirs. They agreed to send in their best and rescue you, but they insisted on keeping the prince in their custody.”
“The bastard attacked our country and got us into a war.”
“And I’ve been assured he’ll be dealt with harshly.”
“I don’t give a shit how he’s dealt with. I need to find out who he was working with. We need to stop the source of the terror attacks.”
