by Sean McFate
Secret renditions, I thought. Helping America in its war on terror, one black site at a time. “This isn’t about politics,” I said. “I’m here to make sure Farhan is safe.”
“Oh, I’m sure Farhan is safe. He’s a hard man to kill.”
“What do you mean?” Wildman asked, piqued by the challenge. I shot him a look that said: We’re not here to kill the prince.
“Farhan is part of the Emni, ISIS’s special forces unit. He saved me.”
“Where?”
“In Aleppo, the mother of all battles. I was a foot soldier for ISIS. The Syrian army had us surrounded while helicopters dropped barrel bombs on us. Hundreds were killed, ISIS and civilians alike.”
He paused, the memory still painful. Aleppo was Syria’s Stalingrad.
“On the third day, the Syrian army charged our position. We had run out of ammunition. We resorted to hand-to-hand combat. Two of my friends were killed. I was shot in the leg. Three Syrian soldiers approached me, one pulled a knife and smiled. Farhan appeared from nowhere, like a ghost. He killed them all. He is not a monster, as some people say. He is a hero. Like you.”
I didn’t like that comparison. Not at all.
“Where is he now?” Wildman asked.
“I don’t know. After the battle, they sent me here, where I . . . saw the error of my ways. I never saw Farhan again. That was a year ago.”
I waited. That wasn’t enough. Nassib wouldn’t risk bringing this spy here for nothing. He knew more.
“Where is he now?”
“They say he was kidnapped by his family and returned to Riyadh,” the young man said, “but now he is back in the Caliphate. I heard the military council discussing it yesterday. They offered a reward to all mujahideen fighters.”
“A reward? For what?”
“Farhan’s head.”
Nassib sucked in air between his teeth, and the resistance fighters shifted uncomfortably. Nobody liked to think about beheadings.
“Why is ISIS hunting him?”
“I don’t know. Only that he did something haram, forbidden, before he was kidnapped. The Shura Council declared him apostate.”
A death sentence. “Then why would he come back?”
The stranger looked up at me. “Farhan wasn’t alone. He traveled with companions. Rumor has it they were deserting the Caliphate, that they were on the road to Turkey when he was taken. Rumor also has it that his companions are still there, in hiding.”
“Where?”
“Sinjar.”
Sinjar. I should have known. Sinjar was the final stop on the road to Syria, and a complete shit show. As Kylah had told me, ISIS controlled the town and was waging genocide against the Yazidis who had fled to a mountain nearby, while the Americans pounded the fanatics from the air. Those still in the city were no doubt under siege, starving and desperate.
“I know the city,” the older Kurd offered, speaking for the first time. “I have friends there.”
This is a bad idea, I thought.
I turned to the stranger. “You know more,” I said. “You were one of them.”
He nodded. “Yes. For a short while.”
“But enough to get you killed if your ISIS contacts knew.”
He nodded again. “But also enough to know a place. If Farhan is in Sinjar, you will probably find them there.”
I glanced at Boon, who nodded subtly. This was a long chain of trust, but Boon felt confident in it, and Boon had a sixth sense about these things. He had been a Buddhist monk, briefly, plus he had twenty years of battlefield experience. Nothing got past a man like that. Not even, apparently, Kylah.
“Sinjar is dangerous,” Nassib said. “It is surrounded by ISIS, and the countryside is crawling with jihadis.”
“Good,” Wildman muttered, reaching for a piece of goat.
That was it. The three of us had agreed. We were going to Sinjar.
Chapter 13
Security at the United States Embassy in Riyadh was tight, but inside, the imposing sandstone building was an oasis. The ceiling beams in the entry plaza cut the sunlight into strips of shadow, and a large central fountain and palm trees provided a soothing counterpoint to the emptiness of the rest of the space. In design, it was a cathedral and a courtyard, with the enormous black metal seal of the United States hanging above the door like a crucifix, adding the right amount of gravitas to what was, after all, one of the most important diplomatic posts in the world.
Brad Winters didn’t notice any of it as he strolled past the security checkpoint and fountain to the far door. He rarely took stock of his aesthetic surroundings, and he couldn’t have cared less about architecture, except for the architectural underpinnings of power known as the deep state, those subterranean networks of elites that drove world politics. They knew no national borders or allegiances, other than self-service, and were invisible to the casual eye. The deep state was the structural load-bearing points of the international system, and they weren’t where most people thought they were.
This building was just such a point. While embassies in general were worthless showpieces, the United States Embassy in Saudi Arabia was an exception. Much of that had to do with the ambassador. Henry Ensher was not a career diplomat but a political appointee and personal friend of the president. The Saudis threw out the last career diplomat, Ambassador Hume Horan, in the late 1980s, after he delivered some official bad news. They made sure the State Department remembered the lesson and held firm on the moratorium against career ambassadors ever since.
This suited Ensher just fine. He was an American business legend in the Middle East, and he didn’t suffer gladly the bureaucratic dithering of Washington. After studying Arabic literature as a hobby in college (his official degree was in Russian), he received a masters at the American University in Beirut and then worked for Saudi Aramco, the huge Saudi state-owned oil company, before becoming an independent deal maker in the region. The Ensher Group had offices in Houston, Washington, DC, and Dubai. When a big oil company needed political leverage in the Gulf, they called him first. When Gulf states wanted to push their agendas through Washington, they retained his firm.
This had made Mr. Ensher a rich and powerful man, with more clout in the region than the secretary of state. He was the most connected player in the Middle East deep state, although he would never use the term “deep state.” No one like Ensher ever would. It sounded like a conspiracy. Ensher would merely have said that he had friends and acquaintances, without deigning to name them. That was why the president appointed him ambassador, the Saudis accepted him, and Brad Winters waited in his lobby like a plebeian.
“Winters,” a marine barked after a clearly symbolic thirty-minute wait. “Mr. Brad Winters.”
Winters stood up and flashed his brown American passport, marked “Official” on the cover. He passed through an additional set of metal detectors, then the marine escorted him to the ambassador’s waiting room, where he sat for another ten minutes. Winters and Ensher were professional friends, but Ensher had a thousand professional friends. Winters couldn’t pretend to be important. Not to this man. It was an uncomfortable bit of reversal from Winters’s normal position in a room, but it was also inspiration. It was good to be reminded there were more rungs to climb.
“Mr. Winters,” Ensher said, standing up as Winters entered the large office. “So nice to see you again.”
It was a formality, from a legendary formal man. Ensher was the University of Missouri–educated son of a scrap metal dealer from St. Louis, but he had the bearing of British aristocracy, circa 1937. He was svelte and dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit with pocket watch and fob. The outfit looked spectacularly out of place in Saudi Arabia, but then again, he’d dressed that way his entire career, so it wasn’t as if Ensher was trying to make a statement. His personal style exuded late British Empire.
They chatted briefly over a finger of Scotch on the rocks—the embassy offering an unofficial reprieve from the strict alcohol policies of the
Kingdom—until Ensher apologized and asked why, exactly, Winters had come. The ambassador could cut to the chase with the same imposing grace as the cut of his three-piece suits.
“Yemen,” Winters said. “Just giving you a courtesy update.”
“And how goes Yemen?” asked the ambassador.
Apollo was two years into a $500 million annual contract, with three more option years, to fight the Shiite Houthi rebels in Yemen. After the debacles in Iraq and Afghanistan, the United States preferred to outsource inconvenient wars of choice, like Yemen, rather than get bogged down. Companies like Apollo offered politicians a new way to wage war without risking political capital or American blood, and business was booming. Military contractors didn’t count as “boots on the ground,” nor did the American public care about dead mercenaries. Lawless cesspools like Yemen courted catastrophe, and mercenary firms offered clients “plausible deniability” if things went badly. They often did.
“We have white SOF on the ground, plus eight hunter-killer teams,” Winters said, trying to drown the ambassador in military jargon. “That’s in addition to our standard security package for critical persons and infrastructure protection. But it’s a messy conflict, Henry.”
Ensher grunted. Maybe it was the use of his first name? Winters enjoyed these little power plays.
“And what of your other client,” Ensher asked with a tang of disdain. “Prince Abdulaziz? Do you find it difficult to serve two masters?”
Ensher’s reverse power play was not lost on Winters. Apollo had secretly accepted a contract from Abdulaziz to do the same work in Yemen as the U.S. contract. By the time the U.S. found out that Winters was double-dipping, it was too late to cancel the operation.
His best move was to change the subject. “You don’t like him.”
“I don’t like Yemen. Saudi Arabia’s first war of choice since ’sixty-two and a strategic blunder, made worse by our—and your—complicity.” Winters knew Yemen was a rare fight Ensher had lost in Washington. “We risk being sucked into another war, and war empowers creatures like Abdulaziz.”
And enriches men like me, Winters thought. “He is a bit Machiavellian, I agree, with an instinct toward overstatement. But that’s one of the reasons you brought me in.”
“Indeed,” Ensher sighed. The “you” in that sentence referred to the Department of Defense. Ensher, and most of the diplomatic corps, hadn’t agreed to Apollo’s involvement. The man was an icon, but icon also means “old.” He’d come up in a time before private military companies were fixtures of modern war.
“Another reason, unofficial of course, was for me to keep an eye on him and the General Intelligence Directorate.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Winters. We have spooks for that.”
“Then you know about the Paris heist.”
“Of course.”
“And Istanbul.”
“Yes, we know of the incident.” Ensher was playing it close to his tailored vest, as any cagey diplomat would.
“What does the CIA think?”
Ensher smiled. “I’m not at liberty.”
“I have top secret clearance, level TS/SCI-poly with multiple caveats.”
“Not with me.”
Time to try a different tact, Winters thought. “I hear the younger son, Farhan, may be back in northern Iraq.”
“It is probable,” the ambassador said languidly, “and if so, then he’s having a time of it. I assume you saw the beheading of the American reporter?”
“I did.”
“Ghastly. To turn such violence into public spectacle.”
Ensher shook his head, as if spectacle was new, but what about Roman crucifixions in the Colosseum? The guillotine during the French Revolution’s Reign of Terror? The black men left swinging from trees by the KKK? Public beheadings in Saudi Arabia, still taking place as they spoke? The only thing new was the video camera and the Internet.
“The boys are giving them hell for it,” Ensher continued, sipping Scotch. “Operation Inherent Resolve, $11 million a day of American fury. We’re taking it personally.” The ambassador’s words were fervent but reserved.
“Good. Show some American steel,” Winters responded, equally rote.
“We put a $100,000 bounty on the younger son,” Ensher added, glancing at Winters, “as I’m sure you know.” Winters kept his face blank, although being thought of as a bounty hunter by such a man was tough to take. “He has money, passports, and English. He could prove a great embarrassment for a father with . . . ambition.”
“His father insists that he’s changed.”
“They always do.” Ensher meant fathers. Not wayward sons.
“And the other boy? The older brother, Mishaal?”
“A wasted life,” Ensher murmured, pulling an antique watch out of a vest pocket by its fob and glancing at the time. It reminded Winters of the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, right down to the long gold chain and worried expression. It was not meant to be subtle. Ensher didn’t care about Abdulaziz and his reverse Oedipal complex.
Time to push, Winters thought. He took a deep breath. That wasn’t meant to be subtle, either.
“What if I told you,” Winters said, “that Paris and Istanbul were not a coincidence, but are linked? That they were black-ops hits? The Paris abduction was a success, but Istanbul failed. Farhan was meant to be killed, but escaped.”
Ensher gave no reaction.
Good, Winters thought. The ambassador would have probably denied such an accusation as preposterous, had the CIA not already briefed him. It confirmed the intel Winters had planted with Larry the day before had made its way here.
“You know what they were after, right?” Winters said.
Ensher didn’t fall for the bait. No good diplomat would.
“My sources tell me Mishaal went to the Saudi embassy that day to pick up a suitcase of cash. But he’d given it to his contact, before the heist.”
Ensher played along. “What do you think he bought?”
“A metal briefcase,” Winters said, knowing this was the point of no return.
Ensher frowned at the joke.
Winters made his face look serious. “It was the control device for a nuclear bomb.”
Ensher frowned for real this time. “And Istanbul?”
“Same thing,” Winters said. “I think Farhan delivered the cash and received a controller for another nuclear weapon.”
“Two nukes?”
“Or two parts, both needed to arm one device.”
Ensher sat back. He pursed his lips and tented his fingers in front of his face. He’d clearly heard the theory, no doubt from Larry Fitzhugh and MENA. Now he was having it confirmed by a second source—who just so happened to be the source for the first rumor, too. Operation Curveball.
“What makes you so sure,” Ensher asked, “that Paris and Istanbul were about procuring nuclear weapons?”
“I’m not sure. But ten billion in secret funds went somewhere.”
Ensher remained motionless, waiting for more. It was one of Winters’s favorite tricks, too.
“Diplomacy is a game of leverage, Mr. Ensher. I don’t need to tell you that.” Ensher nodded, in clear agreement that he didn’t need to be told. “Saudi Arabia has never been more isolated. Shia militants threaten them from the north in Iraq and from the south in Yemen. Israel has nukes and Iran is developing them. Many in the Kingdom think the U.S. no longer has their back. So the smart Saudis are focused on leveraging up. It was only a matter of time before they tapped their friends in Pakistan.”
Ensher knew the reference, since it was an open secret among the foreign policy illuminati. Decades ago the Saudis gave up their nuclear weapons program in exchange for American security guarantees. However, Saudi Arabia secretly transferred the program to Pakistan on the condition that the Kingdom could buy a nuclear weapon when it wanted one.
“But why buy Pakistani nukes now?” Ensher asked. “We are still honoring our security agreements.”
Ensher blinked. It was as much of a reaction as Winters had ever seen from him. “Are you implying this action was not sanctioned by the Saudi government?”
Winters sat back, allowing his silence to convey the gravity of the situation.
Ensher rubbed his thumb on his watch fob, clearly vexed. The secret Saudi-Pakistan nuclear deal was a curse and always had been. Pakistan’s lead nuclear physicist, A. Q. Khan, had sold the technology to Libya, North Korea, Iran, and China. Now they all bullied their neighbors. But the world was built on the screw-ups of the past. That was why he was posted to Riyadh, and that was what made men like Brad Winters, no matter how much he detested them, valuable commodities.
“A private transaction would explain why we haven’t heard anything from our sources,” Ensher muttered.
Except for me, your best source in Riyadh. Remember that.
“Abdulaziz played this close,” Winters agreed, “but not close enough. Someone knew.”
Ensher nodded. “Clearly. But who?”
“Prince Khalid.” Winters hoped Larry had mentioned that name.
“Khalid? The head of the Kingdom’s internal security? Why not just kill Abdulaziz, if that was the case? Or arrest him, since the end result would be the same?”
“Because Khalid wants the nuclear weapons.”
“For himself?”
“For the Wahhabis. For the fanatics. And because if things get messy—and they will when the old king dies—a man with nuclear weapons is the only man that matters.”
“Let me get this straight,” Ensher said. “You’re telling me this is all about secession politics? That Abdulaziz used his intelligence assets to secretly buy nukes from Pakistan for the Sudairi faction of the royal family? And then Khalid used his secret police to steal the weapon controllers for the Wahhabi conservatives? Just so they could blackmail the Kingdom for the throne after the king’s death?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
