by Brad Thor
Jillian shook her head. “It’s written in English and about eleven other different languages on the back. Whoever bottled these was planning for some major exporting. We’re going to need to get the water tested, but we may have just found how the Ottomans planned on getting the cure to the Sunni faithful.”
“Now if we can just find the source,” replied Harvath.
Holding up another bag that she dared not open, Jillian added, “I’ve also collected several packets of what could be our elusiveinfective agent, but again, until we can test it, I can’t be certain.”
Harvath complimented her work and then pointed to the box he had uncovered and asked her to pull the uniform out for him.
“What is it?” she asked as she laid it across one of the pallets.
“The top half of a SANG uniform,” said Reynolds as he came over to join them.
Jillian looked unfamiliar with the term.
“It’s an acronym,” explained Harvath. “It stands for Saudi Arabian National Guard. It’s made up of tribal elements loyal to the Saudi Royal Family and is in charge of protecting them against the country’s regular armed forces or anyone else who might try to push them from power.”
“Why would one of those uniforms be here?”
Harvath thought back to what Kalachka had said to him—Killing the most prominent members of the Saudi Royal Family wouldn’t cause outrage in the streets; in fact, people would be dancing for joy. Instead, the Royal Family is going to kill the top members of the Wahhabi leadership—and Harvath now knew how it was going to happen. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“I’ve got all I need,” said Jillian as she reattached the niqab across her face, gathered up her sample bags, and prepared to head outside.
Reynolds toggled the transmit button on his radio and tried to raise Zafir for a situation report on how things looked outside, but there was no response. “Bluebird, this is Pelican. Do you read me? Over, “He said for a second time.
The uncomfortable feeling Harvath had had upon arriving at the warehouse returned to the pit of his stomach with a vengeance.
Though he knew better, Reynolds wondered if maybe the radio was having trouble penetrating the warehouse’s cinderblock construction and decided to try his cell phone. When the phone showed full signal status, he knew they were in trouble. Zafir was not a man who would abandon his post.
Activating the voice-dial feature of his phone, Reynolds said, “Zafir, cell.”
The phone rang several times before dumping Reynolds into the Pakistani’s voice mail. Looking up at Harvath and Alcott, Reynolds didn’t need to say anything—they all knew they were in trouble.
With all of the windows blacked out, they were completely blind to what might be going on outside. “Back out the way we came?” asked Harvath. “Or do we try another door?”
For all Reynolds knew, the entire place was surrounded and any of the doors would be suicide. As far as he was concerned, the exit that put them the closest to his Land Cruiser was the one they wanted. That meant either going back through the office or to the door about twenty feet to their right. Either way, the rooftop sniper support he’d hoped to have from Zafir if things went bad was now out of the question. “We’ll take this one, “He said, selecting the door twenty feet to their right.
As they reached the door, Reynolds saw that it was locked and needed a key to be opened, even from the inside. Keys in hand, he was already searching for the right one when Harvath grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?” he demanded as he tried to twist away.
“Look,” replied Harvath, pointing to a pair of barely discernible wires leading from behind the doorframe.
Glancing up, Reynolds now saw them as well. “What the hell?”
Tracing the wires, Harvath discovered that they led to enormous blocks of C4, which were in turn attached to remote detonators. “It looks like somebody was expecting us.”
“Not us,” said Reynolds as he studied the devices. “Me. I think they knew I’d be back and wanted to teach me a lesson.”
“Well, this is one hell of a lesson.”
“That’s what I get for terminating one of their guys without permission.”
“That’s what we get,” corrected Harvath.
Reynolds forced a smile. “Can you defuse it? I don’t know shit about explosives.”
“I’m not sure,” said Harvath as he scrutinized the setup. “This can’t be the only door. It’s a one-in-six shot they would have been able to get us with this one.”
“We need to check the other doors.”
Harvath took the doors in the back while Reynolds checked the doors in the front, and Jillian checked all the windows. When they met back up, she said, “All the windows are wired.”
Reynolds used the sleeve of his dishdasha to mop the sweat from his forehead and added, “Same thing with all the doors up front.”
“And in back,” replied Harvath, “but with one slight difference.”
“What?”
“When we came in through the office door, we must have armed the system. It’s now officially active.”
“So we’re okay then as long as we don’t try to go out one of the doors or one of the windows,” said Jillian. “Right?”
“That’s the way it looks,” replied Reynolds. “All the exits are connected to each other. Open any one of them, and it triggers every charge in the building. There’s got to be enough C4 here to take down half the block.”
Harvath looked at them and said, “We’ve got an even bigger problem.”
Jillian and Reynolds both looked at him.
“There’s a padlocked electrical panel near the office. I was able to pry it open enough to sneak a peek inside.”
“And?” said Reynolds.
“I found the system activator.”
“Then let’s go get it.”
“Not so fast,” cautioned Harvath. “The panel door is wired. Open it up any further, and all the charges will be set off.”
Jillian set her bags down and threw up her hands in defeat. “That’s just great. What else could possibly go wrong?”
“Actually, that’s only part of our problem. The other part’s the timer.”
EIGHTY-FIVE
B y pressing his face up against the wall as tight as it would go, Harvath had been able to peer inside the electrical panel and read the numbers on the digital timer. They had less than ten minutes left.
With its cinderblock construction, the warehouse was a virtual bunker. Punching through the roof was immediately ruled out, as they had no ladders to get up that high, and even if they did, there was no telling if the roof had been reinforced like the rest of the building. There had to be another way.
Scanning the sparse contents of the warehouse, Harvath’s eyes fell upon the forklift, and a plan began to form in his mind. With its two flat tires, there was no way they could drive it anywhere, much less straight through one of the walls, but it still might be useful in another fashion—as their very own homemade bomb.
Harvath kept his idea to himself until he got a closer look at the machine. Even from across the room, it was apparent it wasn’t an electric model. According to the label on the gas gauge, it was a diesel and more than half full. Locating the vehicle’s toolbox, he opened it up but only found a roll of duct tape and a metal claw hammer.
He yelled for Reynolds and Jillian to join him and threw the forklift into neutral as he explained what he needed them to do. With Jillian pushing from the side and using one hand to steer, Harvath and Reynolds threw all of their weight behind it and pushed as hard as they could.
With its heavy forks and two flat tires, it was nearly impossible to get moving, but soon the trio felt the vehicle inching forward. The problem, though, was that they weren’t inching fast enough. When they got the machine as close to the center of the wall, and as far away from the nearest doors and windows as possible, Harvath told Reynolds to eject all but one of the shells from his twelve-gauge while he use
d the claw hammer to tear away the fiberglass housing from around the fork-lift’s gas tank.
The housing shattered and came away with ear-splitting cracks. Once enough of it had been cleared, Harvath pulled off several strips of duct tape and fashioned the shotgun shells in the tightest grouping possible and then taped the entire thing to the exterior of the gas tank. Glancing at his watch, he figured they had less than two minutes. “How good a shot are you?” he asked Reynolds as they ran for cover.
The man replied honestly. “Not good enough.”
Harvath was the most accurate with a weapon in close-quarters situations, which meant less than thirty feet. For safety’s sake, though, they needed to be back at least two or three times that distance when the forklift’s gas tank was detonated.
Hiding behind a stack of pallets, Harvath took the shotgun from Reynolds and said more for Jillian’s benefit than anyone else’s, “There’s going to be a concussion wave, so don’t get up right away. Count to three after you hear the explosion and then run like hell for the opening, okay?”
Jillian and Reynolds both nodded their heads.
Leaning out from behind the pallets, Harvath raised the shotgun, took aim, and fired. The bullet hit its mark, detonating the shotgun shells taped to the gas tank and creating an enormous explosion.
The explosion not only tore an incredible hole through the block wall, but also sent the flaming wreckage of the forklift soaring out and into the street.
Without the benefit of sufficient cover, Harvath was knocked backward by the same concussion wave he had warned Jillian about. Before he knew what was happening, Reynolds had lifted him to his feet and was half dragging him toward the opening.
By the time they hit the rubble-strewn pavement outside, Harvath had regained enough of his equilibrium to move under his own power. Without looking back, they ran with all the speed they could muster, knowing the warehouse was about to evaporate in one of the biggest explosions Riyadh had ever seen.
They ran all the way to Reynolds’s Land Cruiser, which he had started and was pulling away from the curb before they even had their doors closed.
As the SUV lurched into the street, they felt the ground beneath the tires tremble as the warehouse exploded and sent a billowing fireball into the early evening sky. Hunks of debris rained down on them, denting the hood and cracking the windshield in too many places to count. With one hand on the wheel, Reynolds leaned across Harvath, flipped open the glove box, and revealed a box of twelve-gauge shotgun shells. Taking the Remington from his lap and handing it to Harvath, he said, “Load it up. We need to find Zafir.”
Harvath understood.
EIGHTY-SIX
D riving around the block, Reynolds brought the Land Cruiser to a screeching halt in front of the abandoned building Zafir was using as his lookout. Harvath and Reynolds pounded up the stairs and burst out onto the rooftop. Zafir was slumped over his rifle, the walkie-talkie still propped against the wall next to him. Harvath rolled him over and saw that his throat had been cut from ear to ear.
Reynolds lost it. “Those goddamn animals, “He cursed.
Crossing to an adjacent roof, Harvath found a plastic tarp and brought it back over to wrap around Zafir’s body.
The two men worked in silence, and once they had carried the fallen Pakistani downstairs and loaded him in the back of the Land Cruiser, Reynolds said, “I don’t care what it takes. I want the people who are responsible for this.”
“We both do,” replied Harvath. “Believe me.”
The crowd that had gathered to gawk at the smoldering ruins of the warehouse was growing, and given the recent riots that had been springing up all around Riyadh, Harvath suggested they get back in the truck and get moving to someplace safer.
On the way to Reynolds’s Aramco offices, they were forced to detour around several small but violent civil insurrections, which Saudi Security Forces nevertheless were having trouble putting down. “They won’t shoot their own people. That’s their problem,” said Reynolds coldly as they passed yet another. “The same thing happened in Mecca in the seventies. They finally had to call in French GIGN units to help them recapture the Grand Mosque.”
Yet another reference to Mecca. Everything in Saudi Arabia seemed inexorably linked to the two greatest shrines in Islam, Mecca and Medina. “Do you know about any secret spring there?” asked Harvath.
“I’ve heard some cock-and-bull story our little exporter Prince Hamal was spreading about one, but who knows? If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Saudi Arabia has more secrets than it does sand. The key is knowing which secrets to leave buried.”
“Well, this definitely isn’t one of them,” said Harvath.
“Do you think that’s what’s in those bottles?”
“That’s what we intend to find out,” said Jillian.
“Does Aramco have a lab that she can use?” asked Harvath.
Reynolds looked at his watch. “At this hour it should be completely empty.”
“Good. We’ll need to get her set up right away. In the meantime, what else can you tell me about the prince who owned that warehouse and the militants he’s been working with?”
“Quite a bit,” replied Reynolds. “I’ve got backup copies of my dossiers on all of them back at my office.”
“Including photos?”
“Including photos. Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure I know what their next move is going to be.”
After setting Jillian up in Aramco’s extensive, state-of-the-art lab with her samples and arranging for one of his men to take care of Zafir’s body, Reynolds led Harvath to the elevator and up to where the corporate security offices were located.
His supply of prayer rugs now depleted, Reynolds had forgone the Remington in favor of the Les Baer 1911 pistol he had secreted under the front seat of his Land Cruiser. Upon seeing his office door standing wide open, he pulled the weapon from his ankle holster and motioned for Harvath to be quiet.
Having ditched the Koran briefcase back at the warehouse, Harvath drew his H&K from the plastic trash bag he was now using and covered their six as he and Reynolds crept down the hallway toward his office. Stepping inside, they saw that it had been completely ransacked.
“Goddamn it,” spat Reynolds as he picked up his phone and called the security desk downstairs. After a terse conversation in Arabic, he hung up and said, “I can’t believe it. They let the deputy intelligence minister, Faruq al-Hafez, up here.”
“The one you saw meeting with the militants and the members of the different military branches?”
“He said it was official business.”
“You think he did this?” asked Harvath.
“Oh, yeah. And I’d be willing to bet he was behind what just happened at the warehouse,” said Reynolds as he pulled a bottle of Bushmills from his credenza and poured himself a drink. “When I made my first trip there, I butt-stroked a guy with my Remington. He must have seen enough of my face to describe me to Faruq. You want one?” he added, holding up another glass.
“No thanks,” replied Harvath. “How can you be so sure he’s involved?”
Reynolds took a long swallow of the Irish whiskey and said, “Saudi Arabia has two militaries. One of them is the Saudi Arabian National Guard, which as you so succinctly put it in the warehouse is loyal to the Saudi Royal Family, the al-Sauds. The other is the Royal Saudi Land Forces, ostensibly established to protect against all external threats to the kingdom, but which in reality was created as a balance against the SANG, should the Royal Family decide to wipe out any of the clans hostile to the al-Sauds.”
“Let me guess,” said Harvath. “Faruq is from a clan hostile to the Royal Family.”
“Bingo.”
“How the hell did he get his job then?”
“Just like marrying two children from warring factions, the Saudi Family has put a lot of their lesser enemies in positions of moderate power in hopes of securing their loyalty.”
&nb
sp; Harvath shook his head. “A lot of good it did them in this case.”
“Actually,” said Reynolds, “Faruq was extremely loyal for a very long time. He uncovered numerous plots against the Monarchy, even within his own clan, and brought the perpetrators to justice.”
“So why the change?”
“He found religion.”
“Wahhabism,” said Harvath, the disgust evident in his voice.
“Yup, and there’s nothing worse than a born-again Muslim.”
“But doesn’t the Royal Family know he’s gone the Wahhabi route?”
“I would hope so. Faruq’s boss is one of the Saudi princes—Prince Nawaf bin Abdul Aziz. If Aziz isn’t keeping up on this kind of stuff, he’s got no one but himself to blame if things go south. The problem is that the Royal Family operates under a very clouded delusion that it’s still in control. Until a man like Faruq fucks up, they think everything is okay.”
“In this case, though, once Faruq fucks up, it’s going to be too late for the Saudis to do anything.”
“Exactly,” said Reynolds as he took another sip. “All the rioting we’re seeing? Faruq’s the perfect person to have sowed the rumors among the Wahhabi leadership. He easily could have fabricated enough evidence to support the claims of a U.S.-influenced crackdown by the monarchy and the police. In fact, he is in a perfect position to actually orchestrate police crackdowns, giving the militants prime examples to rally behind.”
“Which brings us to the other reason I’m here. Kalachka said the unrest would escalate to such a point that the Saudi Monarchy would have no choice but to come to the table and meet with the Wahhabi leadership. That’s where he plans to have the leadership killed, making it look like the Royal Family was behind it and setting the wheels of a full-on revolution in motion.”
“And with the country’s fall to the Wahhabis, so begins the resurgence of the Muslim caliphate across the Islamic world. More than one billion strong.”
Harvath nodded his head and said, “Listen, Chip, my first priority is to get to the bottom of whatever this illness is and find a way to stop it. If we can screw Kalachka’s plans up in the process, then all the better.”
