The Saudi-Iranian War

by Ted Halstead

  “I imagine you were told little about me,” the man said. “We keep it that way for security reasons. You may call me Mohammed. Please, ask your questions.”

  It was clear that Mohammed had no interest in learning more about them, so Vasilyev decided to get straight to the point.

  “Have you heard anything about a terrorist attack planned anywhere in the Kingdom, particularly in the Eastern Province?”

  Mohammed’s eyebrows rose but he said nothing, clearly considering his response. During his pause, the waiter appeared with his latte. Nodding his thanks, Mohammed waited until the waiter had gone to reply.

  “Nothing specific. However, there have been some rumors about plans for a mass uprising among the Shi’a community there. Of course, there have been such rumors before. The government had to take action some years back against one rebel Shi’a group in Al-Awamiyah. You have probably heard of the incident?”

  Vasilyev and Grishkov both nodded, and Vasilyev saw with relief that Grishkov managed to keep his feelings from showing. As part of their briefings in Moscow they had been shown footage that was considerably more graphic than the videos available on the Internet. Vasilyev could see that they had stirred Grishkov’s memories of his time with the Russian Army in Chechnya, which he knew would never leave him. While Grishkov had no love for the Chechens fighting for independence from Russia, he had fiercely disagreed with the indiscriminate slaughter of women and children.

  “The government keeps close watch on Shi’a terrorists and their sympathizers in the Kingdom. However, we have seen nothing recently to suggest specific targets that might be attacked in a bombing, or a town like Al-Awamiyah that terrorists might try to take over,” Mohammed said.

  Vasilyev observed Grishkov’s lips twitch when Mohammed mentioned Al-Awamiyah, but saw with relief that he was still keeping his temper in check.

  “So, it appears we have been listening to the same rumors. Is there anyone you could suggest who might give us any additional insights? We have a report to prepare, and even background information would be useful,” said Vasilyev.

  Mohammed paused and appeared to be giving the request serious thought.

  Finally, he shrugged and nodded.

  “Ayatollah Sheikh Massoud al-Ahmadi. After Ayatollah Sheikh Hussein al-Radhi was convicted, he eventually became the senior Shi’a cleric in the Eastern Province. Most of what he’ll say will naturally be the standard complaints about the government’s handling of terrorist activities. However, he may let some detail slip that might prove useful. Naturally, if he does we’d appreciate hearing about it,” Mohammed said, arching one eyebrow.

  Grishkov finally couldn’t restrain himself, but Vasilyev was pleased to see that he did no more than ask a question.

  “This Ayatollah al-Radhi. Any chance he’ll be released before we make the trip? We wouldn’t want to see the wrong person,” Grishkov said.

  Mohammed at first looked surprised, and then laughed. “He was sentenced to thirteen years. Since he was in his sixties when he was imprisoned, I’d be surprised if he lives long enough to see the outside of a jail cell. No, there’s no danger of seeing him instead of al-Ahmadi.”

  Grishkov simply nodded.

  Mohammed then rose, immediately followed by Grishkov and Vasilyev. “I will send you details on how to arrange a meeting with al-Ahmadi once I am back in the office. I wish you good fortune on your trip,” Mohammed said, and shook each of their hands before departing.

  Once he was gone, Vasilyev and Grishkov sat back down and looked at each other.

  “It would be wrong to root for the terrorists,” Grishkov said, soberly.

  Vasilyev smiled. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself, not making a statement.”

  Grishkov grunted. “Hatred motivated by religious differences I understand, like the Chechen Muslims resenting being ruled by Russian Orthodox Christians. But different sects of Islam? From what I’ve read, the similarities in their beliefs far outweigh the differences.”

  Now Vasilyev couldn’t restrain his laughter. “My friend, I will find you a good book on the Hundred Years War, where Catholics and Protestants in Europe slaughtered each other with abandon for a century. The total killed was over three and a half million. Sadly, our classes in Russia focus on more recent history, so I can’t say I’m surprised you’re not familiar with it. I wouldn’t know myself if I hadn’t started reading about history as a hobby.”

  Grishkov smiled. “Well, you have never married and have no children. It’s good you found something productive to fill up all that free time besides drinking, like most Russian men your age.”

  Vasilyev smiled in return, and lifted the fresh cappuccino the waiter had just brought him at his signal. “Who says I don’t drink? I just prefer caffeine to alcohol.”

  Then Vasilyev arched one eyebrow, and said, “I was impressed with the Arabic expressions you worked into your… expression of discontent at the intersection. Obviously, you have gone beyond your classroom curriculum.”

  Grishkov shrugged and replied, “My instructors appeared to have taken an interest in me. How was Arabic training for you?”

  Vasilyev smiled. “First, I should mention that it was before my very first assignment in Morocco, with language training being given at the Embassy in the capital city of Rabat. Perhaps the most memorable moment was when we were each made to sing a song in Arabic. The songs were all sad, about either a man or a woman losing their lover, so “lover” was the key word in each song, which in Arabic is…”

  Grishkov nodded and said, “Habibi.”

  “Yes, very good,” Vasilyev said, smiling. “The problem was, one of my fellow students sang one of these songs while omitting the first syllable of that key word, “habibi.” So instead of singing about how he couldn’t live without his lover…”

  Grishkov shook his head, horrified. “He was singing about how he couldn’t live without his turkey.”

  Vasilyev nodded, and said, “The instructor was laughing so hard she was gasping for air while I and the other students looked at each other helplessly, wondering when the poor fellow would stop, but he soldiered on until the end of the song.”

  Grishkov shook his head again, and said, “Surely the most memorable training experience for all concerned.”

  Vasilyev smiled, and said, “Not so. As a sort of graduation exercise, we were each sent on a separate two-day trip to a much smaller city well outside the capital with an instructor who would not assist, but only evaluate. One student nearly failed before even leaving for the exercise.”

  Grishkov frowned. “How could he possibly do that? Were his language skills so poor?”

  Vasilyev laughed and said, “On the contrary, they were superior to mine.

  No, the instructors were cross because the student refused to believe where he was being sent was not a joke.“

  Grishkov’s frown deepened. “How can a place be a joke?”

  Vasilyev pulled out a pen and wrote a word on their cafe receipt, “Ouarzazate,” and then slid it towards Grishkov, who shrugged and said, “Never heard of it.”

  Vasilyev nodded, and replied, “No reason you should have, though you may have seen it, since it has been the backdrop in several movies set in the Middle East. I wrote it as it was transcribed by the French from the original Arabic. Now, I will write it phonetically, as it would be heard by an English speaker,” and then wrote again on the receipt, and returned it to Grishkov.

  Grishkov read it slowly, and then smiled. “Where’s iz at?”

  Vasilyev nodded. “As KGB agents posted overseas, we all spoke fluent English. The agent being sent to ‘Ouarzazate’ was certain we were all pulling his leg, until I finally dug out a map of Morocco with enough detail to show its location.”

  "Very good,” Grishkov laughed. “So, have you ever been back to Morocco?”

  “Yes, though I was not amused by what I found,” Vasilyev said with a frown.

  “How so?” Grishkov asked.

>   “Well, first I should explain that one of my favorite memories on my first trip was a conversation with a young Moroccan woman whose professor had assigned her a biographical paper on Lenin. Since the Kingdom of Morocco’s libraries had little on the topic, she hit on the idea of visiting the Soviet Cultural Center in Rabat.”

  Grishkov smiled. “I’ll bet it wasn’t a busy place.”

  Vasilyev snorted. “She said she was the only visitor, and that at first the staff appeared puzzled by her arrival. But once she conveyed her purpose, she said they were overjoyed to find someone interested in Lenin, and left staggering under the weight of all the materials they gave her for her paper.”

  Grishkov laughed and said, “Well, that sounds like a happy ending.”

  Vasilyev nodded, and said, “Yes. I also told her about my favorite biography of Lenin, written by a British author. His forward described his methods, which included trying to find absolutely everyone still alive who had spent any time with Lenin.”

  Grishkov frowned, and shook his head. “After Stalin, not an easy task.”

  Vasilyev’s smile was rueful. “Yes, just so. He described going to the British Museum where Lenin had done some research, and asking everyone if they had met him, to no avail. Just as he was about to give up, someone said to try the caretaker, who had been there ‘forever.’ But he also said no. Then it occurred to the biographer that the caretaker might have known Lenin under his real birth name of Ulyanov. The caretaker brightened and said, ‘Yes, indeed, I spoke several times with Mr. Ulyanov. A very nice, well-spoken man. Whatever became of him?’ And that’s how he began the biography.”

  Grishkov clapped his hands. “Excellent. You must tell me who wrote the book. But first, what didn’t you like when you returned?”

  “Well,” Vasilyev scowled, “when I came back to Morocco after many years the Soviet Cultural Center was no more, no surprise since the same was true for the USSR. But I was not pleased by what I found in its place.”

  Grishkov shook his head, and said, “I’m afraid to ask, but will. What was it?”

  Vasilyev replied grimly, “A certain American hamburger restaurant.”

  Grishkov stared and asked, “Not…”

  Vasilyev nodded. “Yes, the one with ‘golden arches.’ I will not say its name.”

  Grishkov shook his head, and said, “I can see why you were not pleased.”

  Vasilyev scowled and said, “Yes, we already know who won the Cold War. Whoever at corporate headquarters decided on that particular location didn’t need to make the extra effort to underline the point. From time to time, though, I think we can remind the Americans that we are still in the game.”

  Grishkov nodded, and then asked, “Do you really think this Shi’a cleric will tell us anything useful, or will this just be a waste of time?”

  Vasilyev shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. My instincts, though, tell me that getting to the Eastern Province with the Saudi government’s blessing is the best we can hope for at this point. And besides — maybe we’ll be there in time to witness the attack!”

  Grishkov choked on his black coffee, while Vasilyev laughed.

  “I know, I know — we’re supposed to prevent the attack. Well, who knows?

  We may just get lucky!”

  Grishkov wiped his mouth with a napkin and glared at Vasilyev, who he could see was completely unrepentant. Well, he couldn’t really argue. What they needed most now was some good luck, and soon.

  Chapter Nine

  Dammam, Saudi Arabia

  As they trudged towards the airport exit with bags in hand, Anatoly Grishkov saw a twinkle in Alexei Vasilyev’s eye. Sighing, he said, “OK, out with it. Another fascinating bit of trivia to share?”

  Vasilyev laughed. “Well, yes, and I think this one will surprise you. Did you know that Dammam’s King Fahd Airport is the largest airport in the world?”

  Grishkov snorted. “For once I know you’re wrong. I’ll bet even Sheremetyevo Airport is bigger, and I know that many airports in Europe are bigger than ours in Moscow.”

  Vasilyev raised one eyebrow. “You’d like to bet? Very well, how much would you like to wager? Oh, and to settle the bet, I propose we rely on the Guinness Book of World Records.”

  Grishkov sighed and shook his head. “You’ve forgotten my service in Chechnya. I know an ambush when I see one. So, explain how this could really be the world’s biggest airport.”

  Vasilyev grinned and said, “With pleasure. It is indeed biggest in terms of land area officially deeded to the airport authority. In fact, in terms of sheer acreage it is larger than the country of Bahrain. Only a small fraction, though, is used for actual airport operations.”

  Grishkov scowled. “So, it hardly counts then. Really, what’s the point of learning such trivia?”

  Vasilyev’s grin now grew wider. “Ah, you still need training to think like an intelligence officer, which like it or not is what you’ve become. What question should you be asking now?”

  After a brief pause, Grishkov asked thoughtfully, “Why did the Saudis deed so much land to the airport authority?”

  Vasilyev punched Grishkov in the shoulder and nodded. “Exactly. To answer that question, you need to know that this airport was built in the 1990s to replace a much smaller one. We are here in the heart of the Eastern

  Province, near Dhahran and Saudi Aramco headquarters, as well as their most important oil production operations. The Shi’a here have always been a security concern. So, now draw on your military and police background. If you had decided to build a new airport, what would you want?”

  Grishkov grunted. “As much fenced and alarmed space between the airport and any potential attackers as I could get.”

  Vasilyev nodded with satisfaction. “Just so. The fact that most of the land is desert with no other real use may have encouraged our Saudi friends to go a bit overboard, but from a security standpoint the result is quite impressive.

  An attacking force of any size would stand no chance of approaching the airport without detection long before it could do any real damage.”

  Grishkov nodded. “Helps to give you some idea of how the government thinks about the threat here. They really are worried, aren’t they?”

  Vasilyev shrugged. “Well, I’d say we can hardly blame them.”

  Grishkov scowled. “The Shi’a are even worse. I’m surprised you agreed to their terms for this meeting.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “Yes, you are quite right. Ordinarily I would never agree to allow the subject of the investigation to provide the car and driver that will take us to meet him. Too likely to be a one-way trip. This time, though, there was no choice. We must get information on the coming attack, and quickly.”

  As sliding glass doors opened in front of them, Grishkov jerked his head wordlessly toward a car idling near the entrance. Its driver was staring straight ahead.

  Vasilyev smiled. “And why this car?”

  Grishkov’s head swiveled back and forth as he observed the surroundings outside the airport terminal.

  “Because it contains the only driver who didn’t look right at us when we exited. I think we’re a bit noticeable.”

  Nodding, Vasilyev walked up to the open passenger-side window and asked in Arabic, “Who are you supposed to take us to meet?”

  Now the driver slowly turned towards Vasilyev. “Ayatollah Sheikh Massoud al-Ahmadi.”

  Vasilyev opened the rear passenger door and gestured for Grishkov to enter, which he did with the same degree of enthusiasm Vasilyev remembered from his last dental visit.

  Vasilyev pushed away the smile the comparison brought to his lips, not wanting to explain it to Grishkov in front of the driver, and entered behind him. As soon as they were both seated, the car moved forward.

  Once they left the airport terminal the driver made a right turn, and then settled into a broad, multi-lane road.

  Vasilyev turned to Grishkov and said, “This is King Fahd Road. In about thirty kilometers we�
��ll get to Qatif via Route 605, followed by Route 617.”

  Grishkov simply nodded, since he knew Vasilyev was just demonstrating situational awareness to their driver, who appeared to be paying no attention.

  Nevertheless, Grishkov would have cheerfully bet a month’s pay that the man had listened carefully to every word.

  With little in the harshly lit desert landscape to attract his attention and conversation on any matter of importance in earshot of the driver out of the question, Grishkov’s thoughts turned to names. King Fahd Airport. King Fahd Road. Now that he thought about it, the massive structure connecting Saudi Arabia with Bahrain was called King Fahd Causeway.

  Well, Grishkov thought shaking his head, no Russian could really criticize the Saudis. Leningrad, Stalingrad- they had renamed entire cities for their leaders, even while they were still alive. It was fair enough that the Saudis had named several important landmarks after one of their kings following his death.

  Bored with both his thoughts and the passing scenery, Grishkov realized that while they couldn’t discuss their mission in front of the driver, he was unlikely to be interested in a foreigner’s past experiences in the Kingdom. So, he asked Vasilyev, “What is your most vivid memory of your past trips here?”

  “Well, to Dhahran specifically I would say a trip I took from Riyadh by train. The only difference between second class and first class, where I was, that I could see was we had a TV. During the entire trip the only muted program playing was American professional wrestling starring someone named ‘Hulk Hogan’ which everyone watched in complete silence.” Vasilyev shrugged. “Of course, back then there were no cell phones or laptops.”

  “No,” Grishkov said, shaking his head. “I meant in general.”

  “Well then, prison visits,” Vasilyev answered with a smile.

  “Ah, one of your duties when you were with the Embassy,” Grishkov said.

  “Correct,” Vasilyev nodded. “Not so much for the Russian citizens I visited. Their cases were fairly straightforward, and the Saudis treated them reasonably well. No, it was talking with the warden that was particularly interesting.”