The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  “His Excellency will see you now.”

  Sahabi was escorted into a chamber that was used for audiences like this. It was certainly not one for receiving important guests, but above the tradesmen level.

  “Amir, my friend, welcome. I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but the affairs of state sometimes dictate my schedule. My time is often not my own, I’m sorry to say. Please, sit. May I offer you tea?”

  Prince Abdul Majid was a second cousin twice removed from the Crown Prince. If he were to have an official title, it would be akin to a special assistant to the National Security Adviser in the United States. It meant that the Crown Prince would have incomplete knowledge of the efforts to stop the American pipeline, but would have, at some point, endorsed the project. The Crown Prince, Sahabi reflected, was not as stupid as those who surrounded him. If things got out of hand, he would deny knowledge of the whole affair, not unlike President Reagan in the Iran-Contra affair. But the Crown Prince was informed to some degree, and he was worried, perhaps even agitated, or Sahabi would not have been cooling his heels in Majid’s chambers.

  “Thank you, Excellency, but I think not. You are looking well, Excellency. How is your health, and how are your sons?” They went through the exchange of pleasantries that protocol demanded before Majid came to the point.

  “We have some concerns about the project you brought to us some months ago. We agreed in principle that the American pipeline is not in our interest and should somehow be discouraged. Since that time we have provided you with funds to see that the project does not succeed. But it goes forward, and the Americans seem to be making rapid progress. There are those in my government who wonder why we have provided these funds when we have seen no results. And, I might add, there are those who have expressed concern that our interest in seeing this project fail might be viewed by the Americans in a negative light. Due to their sizable military presence here, they are after all, guests in our kingdom.”

  What Majid said confirmed in Sahabi’s mind that the royal family still wanted the TAP sabotaged, but they wanted no attribution. And the American military guests were something of a hot potato as the United States contemplated military action in Iraq. The House of Saud was very fragile, and the Saudi people did not hold their monarchy in high regard. Yet here the royals were, asking for some assurance that they were getting something for their hundred-million-dollar investment. The royal family was not without its sources. Had they somehow learned of the missing Pakistani nuclear weapons? Had they made the connection? And how much did the House of Saud really want to know? Sahabi smiled to himself, but his features revealed nothing. If he could somehow confirm to Majid, without saying as much, that nuclear weapons in fact were in play, it would put an end to these summonses to Riyadh and these little games. Yet there was no denying that his role in this scheme was a very dangerous business.

  “Excellency, we agreed I was to see if there was a way in which the Americans could be encouraged to abandon their efforts to bring Caspian oil to a port on the Arabian Sea. I was given to understand that you wanted them to permanently abandon this undertaking.” He paused intentionally, wanting Majid not to miss his meaning. “The Americans have a very capable conventional military presence in Afghanistan, especially along the corridor of the pipeline. So I retained a consultant who has developed a plan that will stop the construction of the pipeline, and deter further American interest in Central Asia. It is a bold plan, but one that has the promise of humbling even the military might of the United States. The position of the House of Saud, which we both serve, is threatened by this project. Bold measures are necessary, perhaps even measures that only a few years ago would have been, shall we say, unthinkable. You have entrusted the solution to this problem to me. I can assure you that steps are being taken, dramatic steps if you will, to achieve our objectives.”

  While he was speaking, Sahabi carefully watched his host. Majid stiffened noticeably and swallowed hard, as if what he was hearing confirmed some preconception he held.

  “If Your Excellency would like, I can expand on the measures that were taken.” Sahabi did not have to add, “measures taken on behalf of the royal family.” Majid demurred; he was not that stupid.

  “That will not be necessary. But tell me, Amir, are these plans well under way?”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “In such a way that this undertaking could not be recalled if it became desirable to do so?”

  “That is correct, Excellency.”

  Majid rose to signal that the interview was over. They again exchanged routine pleasantries before Sahabi was shown from the room. Moments later he was in his chauffeured Rolls and headed back to Al Kharj. He kept an apartment and a mistress here in the capital. She was charming in the most exotic ways, and he was tempted to return to the apartment. Yet he felt the need to put distance between himself and Riyadh. He reflected on the meeting, how it might have gone differently had he so chosen. They knew, he was sure, that the nuclear weapons taken from Kahuta were involved, and now they knew that what had been set in motion could not be recalled. The Saudis, at least many of them, might be stupid, but they were also cunning. And they were past masters at playing off the fundamentalists in Saudi Arabia against the oil-hungry West. Majid had dismissed him with a strained cordiality. He had not said, “Keep us informed.” They would, he knew, now be earnestly planning how they would proclaim their innocence if the plan succeeded or their ignorance if it failed. Sahabi smiled. It was not unexpected. The game they played was no less dangerous than his own. He settled back into the comfort of the Rolls as it whispered along the highway between Riyadh and Al Kharj.

  Friday morning, January 3,

  the central Iranian plain, north of Juymand

  Bijay halted his two-vehicle convoy several hundred yards from the two burning pyres that were visible just over the next dry wash. Those would be the SUVs they had tracked across central Iran. Moments earlier, they had felt the concussion waves from two explosions. Those explosions would be from the destruction of Garrett’s two jeeps, parked well away from the ambush site. They could later be identified with some difficulty, but the shattered hulks of two Russian vehicles, a few hundred yards from two burned-out Ford Explorers, would cause more curiosity than concern. There was money in the opium trade, and those who engaged in it were violent and territorial men, even those who lived within the borders of the Islamic Republic of Iran. This would not be an unusual scene to come upon.

  Bijay and two others crept forward to observe the overturned, burning Explorer. They could see the bodies of the dead strewn across the sand. Then he saw what he was looking for—a single form, separate from the others, lying on his side next to an outcrop of boulders. Bijay led two of his men forward. All three were dressed in tattered mountain-fighter garb, and their faces were unwashed and caked with salt. Bijay approached Khalib cautiously, his AK-47 held at the ready. Khalib’s eyes fluttered open, and he took in the three men. Two of them kept to the shadows, but the taller one approached and squatted beside him.

  “May God be with you, my brother,” he said in broken Arabic. “We heard explosions and gunfire, and saw the fires from our camp. What manner of men would do this to you?”

  “Who are you?” Khalib managed. “Where do you come from?”

  “Does it matter?” Bijay replied, bringing a goatskin with water to Khalib’s lips. “We travel in the service of God. We trust in Him and”—he patted the Kalashnikov—“in our rifles.”

  Bijay sat back on his heels and stared at Khalib, saying nothing. Khalib stared back. He was confused and suspicious, and in pain—nothing like before, but he was hurting. There were many in al Qaeda like this man, Khalib thought, Arabs who came to fight and to support the Taliban. Many of them had been chased from Afghanistan. They took sanctuary in Iran after the Americans took Kabul and now roamed the border areas of Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran. Some had returned to Saudi Arabia or Georgia or to Egypt, but not many. They were unwante
d in their homelands, and most were stateless persons. Under the protection of the Taliban, they had been able to take what they wanted. Now they lived a seminomadic bandit life, giving their allegiance and their gun to some clan chief who treated them little better than guard dogs. As Khalib studied the man who squatted beside him, he saw the man’s eyes suddenly widen.

  “I know you, my brother. You are Khalib. I saw you in Kabul before the Taliban fled. You are a mighty clansman, a fighter of great reputation. How is it that you are here? What can we do to help you?”

  “How…How many of you are there?”

  “Perhaps a dozen. Our camp is several kilometers to the north. We are in the service of an Iranian dog in Kashmar. We help him to bring opium across the border.”

  “I must get word to someone,” Khalib gasped, “and I must ask you to do this for me. It is most important. Will you help me, brother?”

  “As God is my witness, I will do what you ask.” Bijay was only mildly distressed at making such a promise to a dying man. As a Buddhist, there was room for many gods in his continuum, so he at least had the comfort in knowing that he was offending only one of them.

  “My belt, take my belt,” Khalib rasped.

  Bijay did as he was instructed. He easily found the long, flapped compartment on the inside that held Iranian rials and Pakistani rupees.

  “There is a paper,” Khalib continued in a weak voice, “and a number written on it.”

  Bijay unfolded the small, tightly folded note. A twelve-digit international phone number was scribbled in pencil. “I have it, my brother. It is a number. What would you have me do?”

  There was no cell-phone coverage in the Dasht Lut, even if his cell phone survived the attack. Khalib knew this man was his only hope to get word to the others. There would be some consolation, some victory, in their knowing he had failed. If the others were warned, perhaps they would not fail with the second bomb. He was very tired now, and the pain was becoming easier. Having lived the life of a mountain fighter, he had seen many men die. Now it was to be his turn. Will Allah reward me for the infidels I have slain? I will soon find out. He closed his eyes, and a vision of the American standing over him came into focus, the one who spat on him and called him a pig. The image, seared into his consciousness, gave him strength, and he willed himself to hold on. He turned his head to see the man with the firm, kind face still squatting nearby. The goatskin was once again to his mouth, wetting his lips.

  “You must call that number. Say…say exactly this. ‘The hammer of God is not in place. The Americans have taken the hammer of God. All is in your hands.’ Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand. The hammer of God is not in place. The Americans have taken the hammer of God. All is in your hands.”

  “God be with you, brother…. God…be…with…you.”

  Bijay had to bend close to hear the last of his words. He said a short prayer for his soul, then felt for his pulse. It was weak but firm; he was a strong man. When the drug wore off, he would probably regain consciousness, and then he would be in a great deal of pain—until the end. Bijay pulled a pistol from under his robe, placed the muzzle under Khalib’s ear, and fired. He replaced the weapon. In another short prayer, he asked Lord Buddha to look after this man in his next life—that Khalib’s courage and strong spirit be made more polished and more pure than in his last. The other two Gurkhas had watched impassively from the shadows. Now they moved forward.

  “Help me get him to the fire.”

  They took the corpse to the still burning Explorer and tossed him on the hulk. There was not enough flame left to consume Khalib’s remains, but they would be charred beyond recognition. With a last look at the area, Bijay led the other two at a brisk trot back to the jeeps. Dawn was not far off, and they had to hurry.

  “This is Second Base. We are on the way to your position,” Bijay said into the transceiver. He was looking at the display of his handheld GPS. “We should be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Understand fifteen minutes, Second Base.” Garrett replied. “How did it go with our friend?”

  “He was a very brave man, but in his confusion, he gave us a contact that may prove useful. Do you have a beacon in place?”

  “There is a beacon on your bird. You should have it by now.”

  Bijay did what he could in the bouncing jeep to steady the IR binoculars. “I have you in sight. We will be there soon. Second Base, clear.” In the cool, dry air, an infrared beacon could be seen a long way off. The two UAZ jeeps bounded across the desert hardpan toward the flashing light.

  “Understood, Second Base. We will be standing by and turning. First Base, Out.”

  Bijay’s two jeeps pulled to a stop not fifty yards from the two helos. The two MH-60s sat whining on the packed sand, rotor blades at a comfortable idle. Bijay led his men from the jeeps onto the helo with the active beacon. Then both birds began to spool up. First one, then the other lifted, hesitated, and began to accelerate low across the desert. In sequence, they banked to the east and headed for the Afghan border. A short time later, the silence of the Dasht Lut was again shattered as the explosive charges in the remaining two jeeps turned them into yet two more smoking hulks on the central Iranian plateau.

  Late Thursday evening, January 2,

  the White House

  “Thank you for the update, Armand. I can’t say that I’m not disappointed, but you and your people are doing some terrific work. Please keep me informed.”

  President William St. Claire recradled the receiver to the private, secure phone that linked his office to Langley and his DCI. He checked his watch. It was almost midnight—midmorning the next day in Afghanistan. He was weary; they all were weary. Then he rose and began to pace the Oval Office, pausing occasionally to thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and stare out at the Rose Garden, bathed in security lighting. After two laps he halted abruptly behind his desk and leaned across it, arms stiff, head down.

  “I’m open to suggestions, gentlemen, so feel free to speak up.” James Powers and Tony Barbata had watched their President roam the office. “Here’s how things stand,” St. Claire continued. “We now think there is a nuclear weapon in the hands of the most notorious terrorist on the planet. As far as we can tell, he has taken this second bomb into a city that has a population of close to twelve million souls, but we’re not sure. We also have reason to believe that his target is most probably”—he turned to retrieve a slip of paper from his blotter—“six hundred and thirty American civilians working on the southern site of the TAP. Plus, at any given time, there are as many as three hundred military personnel. That’s a thousand Americans plus an assortment of foreign nationals and several hundred native workers.” The President again began to pace. “Or he may take his bomb and go elsewhere. For all we really know, our most notorious terrorist on the planet is headed for Tel Aviv or Haifa or even New York.” St. Claire slowly began to shake his head. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe I should have taken the chance and put a Tomahawk on them when they were holed up in Iran.”

  Barabata cleared his throat. “I don’t think he’ll get out of Karachi by sea. We have a naval task group in the northern Arabian Sea. We can commence MIO and LIO operations on your authorization.”

  The U.S. Navy had been engaged in MIO, or material interdiction operations, since the Gulf War, inspecting cargos at sea for contraband entering or leaving Iraq. Since the Taliban and their al Qaeda backers had largely been chased from Afghanistan, the Navy began LIO, leadership interdiction operations. Ships were routinely stopped on the high seas and searched by Marines or boarded clandestinely at night by Navy SEALs. The goal was to deny the al Qaeda leadership the ability to leave the area by sea. What the Secretary of Defense was proposing was that all oceangoing vessels leaving Karachi be searched. It was no small task; some fifteen hundred containers entered or left the port of Karachi each day. And it would put naval personnel at risk; this terrorist had a nuclear weapon.

  “Do it,�
� the President said. “Jim, what about the Paks—how much do we tell them?”

  James Powers thought a moment before he replied. “At this juncture, I recommend we tell them everything. Karachi is by far the most populous city in Pakistan. The ISI is a very capable, if sometimes brutal, security service. If they can concentrate their efforts in Karachi and southern Pakistan, they may just be able to find him. But I wouldn’t count on it; this guy Mugniyah is one elusive fellow. There’s nothing more we can do. After all, it’s not our bomb. What does Armand think?”

  The President slumped into his chair and sighed. “He thinks there are three possibilities. One, of course, is Karachi. But to set off a nuclear weapon there would cause massive Muslim casualties. He thinks Mugniyah is probably too smart to do that. It would do him no good, and perhaps hurt his cause and that of Hezbollah. He feels that Mugniyah could also try to get the weapon to Pasni, on the coast. Pasni is to be the deepwater terminal for the TAP. Currently, the population of the town is about thirty thousand, but there is a large Pakistani military base there. And it was one of the bases where we staged aircraft and Marines for the initial operations into Afghanistan. It is a viable target, and if that is his intention, he’s probably already there. Pasni is only a hundred and twenty-five miles from the Iranian border. But neither our satellites nor our surveillance aircraft have been able to find the car in which we think he is traveling.” Bill St. Claire rose and again began to pace. “And there is always the TAP. We know the first weapon was headed there; why not the second? Based on our last overhead sighting, Mugniyah was headed for Karachi. The terrorists have learned that they now have to hide in cities. From Karachi, where there are undoubtedly secret al Qaeda cells, he can do any of the three things Armand suggested. Or try to get the weapon out and make Hezbollah nuclear-capable. We just don’t know, yet we have to plan for every contingency. But to answer your question, Armand doesn’t know—nobody knows.”