Blacklist Aftermath

by Tom Clancy

  “No way,” Briggs said.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Grim. “Shutting down Abqaiq could take up to fifty percent of Saudi oil off the market for years and with it, much of the world’s spare capacity.”

  “To hell with the oil. There are too many lives at stake—including Americans,” Fisher said. “And we lose credibility if the world learns assets were in place and we didn’t act. Let’s get on the horn right now.”

  Grim’s expression grew tentative. “We need to be careful. We can’t run in there and cry wolf.”

  “I know,” Fisher said. “But the Saudis need to suck it up and understand what’s at stake here.”

  “I agree, Sam, but we can’t forget that the Saudis are a very proud people. We lose credibility as an organization and as a nation if we’re not absolutely sure about this. We know Abqaiq is a likely target. We have three Iranian ships that ported at Dammam within our time frame . . . but I’m concerned that’s not enough for us to impose our will on them. We can alert them, sure, we’ll do that, but I know you’ll want to go in, and I know they’ll want to handle this themselves.”

  Fisher looked at Charlie, who shrugged.

  Briggs pursed his lips. “Iranian ships stop at that port all the time.”

  “We only need to be wrong once,” said Fisher. “And that’s not good enough for me. I’d rather piss off the Saudis and cry wolf than play games. We need to be there. We need to inspect anything that goes through there ourselves.”

  “But if we just had a little more,” Briggs said. “Because you’re right—we only need to be wrong once. And if we’re sitting there at Abqaiq and a bomb goes off someplace else . . .”

  “We need more?” Fisher asked, raising his voice in frustration. “All right, damn it, I’ll get us more.” He whirled and rushed off toward the infirmary.

  As he opened the hatch, a dark thought crossed his mind: He could use Kobin to lie for him.

  Fisher was not prepared to tiptoe around political interests. That wasn’t happening. Not on his watch. Kobin would make up a story. Charlie would falsify the contacts. It’d all look plausible to Grim and Briggs. He understood their reservations, but he didn’t have to agree with them. Abqaiq was the target with the highest strategic value. That was a fact.

  Then again, maybe Fisher was more like Kasperov than he cared to admit: a man with a conscience.

  Damn, what was he thinking? He couldn’t do that to his team. They deserved better.

  He’d take up the Russian’s offer. Kasperov still had contacts. While it was true Grim had kept much of the intel away from him in the interest of national security, they didn’t need to hand over much: A nuclear device might have been smuggled into Abqaiq, and did any of his contacts know anything about that or could they confirm any connection to the processing plant?

  After giving the man a capsule summary, Fisher sighed and said, “Can you help?”

  “I need a computer,” Kasperov said.

  Fisher called Charlie, who came down with a laptop and remained there, watching.

  “Damn, you’re calling him,” said Charlie.

  “Yes, I am,” Kasperov answered, speaking in English for Charlie’s benefit.

  “And you know where he is?”

  “Of course, I’ve always known. He’s been right hand, ace in hole, as you say, for long time. He is at risk right now, but I think he will understand.”

  Fisher caught sight of a name on the screen: Kannonball.

  Kasperov was in an encrypted chat session with his former employee, and they were now chatting in Cyrillic.

  “Can you read any of that?” Fisher asked Charlie.

  “Not really.”

  “They’re typing too fast. Mr. Kasperov? What’re you saying?”

  “I’m letting him know about problem.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “Several of oligarchs have GRU agents on payroll now, and Kannonball has hacked into GRU network. He says one GRU agent sent to Dammam with orders to intercept another agent on ground. No IDs yet because information wasn’t being transmitted until pursuing agent arrived on target.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about one agent killing another.”

  “They’re cleaning up a mess.”

  “Exactly.”

  “On whose order?”

  “Kannonball thinks maybe President Treskayev or Izotov from GRU ordered execution.”

  “Who does the rogue agent work for? One of the names on our list?”

  “Correct. Recently hired. Rogue agent might be at port to receive shipment.”

  That left Fisher puzzled. “Why would they do that? If the agent is caught, that pins it back to the oligarchs. They’re taking a big risk.”

  “Oligarchs would hire Iranians, yes. Train them, yes. But trust them entirely with something like this? No way. They would demand agent oversee operation, agent on suicide mission who either knows about bomb or does not.”

  “I think he’s right,” said Charlie. “And if that’s the case, then maybe we’ve got enough.”

  “I’m taking this to Grim,” said Fisher. “It’ll have to be enough.”

  Within seconds he was back in the control room and sharing the news.

  And when he was finished, Grim took a moment to mull it over, then said, “I’m proud of you, Sam.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re making sure we have more evidence before we move.”

  “Yeah, well, you and Briggs are right. It helps.”

  She nodded. “The truth is, my gut was already telling me Abqaiq is the target, and yes, I said we have to be careful, but I think I would’ve pulled the trigger right there.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. But I’m glad I didn’t say anything—because it seems like we’re rubbing off on each other.”

  “Yeah, finally. In a good way.”

  She smiled at him.

  He smiled back.

  She glanced away. “Okay, awkward moment. I’ll call over to the processing plant right now.”

  Fisher headed over to Briggs, unable to repress his smile. “Let’s get packed.”

  32

  WITH Abqaiq finally ID’d as their next destination, the pilots filed for the city’s local airport, only to discover that the lone runway had been abandoned fourteen years prior and was no longer usable. The processing plant did boast an active helipad intended for medevac and visiting Saudi royal family tours. Consequently, Fisher and Briggs chartered a small, four-passenger Bell 206 JetRanger helicopter from Dubai, a trip that took approximately 2.5 hours. They set down on the northwest helipad a few minutes after sunset. Their pilot would wait for them for the return trip out, but he warned of bad weather on the way.

  They were met by Prince Al Shammari, a heavyset man in his forties dressed in a brown woolen thawb flowing in deep creases to his ankles. On his head was the traditional small white cap called a taqiyah. The cap prevented his much larger scarf-like ghutra from slipping off. The long ghutra was bound by a doubled black cord fitting tightly across his forehead. When visiting an Arab country, Fisher sometimes chose to dress like the locals, but when he didn’t, conservative clothes were the order of the day. Fisher and Briggs wore simple business casual shirts and slacks—one size too large because beneath them were hidden their tac-suits.

  Shammari was already waving his hands and booming a welcome from across the well-lit pad. In addition to his security duties he was the assistant interior minister of the country and had been educated in California, so his English was excellent, if not tinged by a little Los Angeles slang. Grim had warned Fisher that he was a devoted technophile, addicted to his social media outlets and smartphone, and he’d demanded that Fisher videoconference with him before
they met in person.

  As Fisher climbed out of the chopper, he crinkled his nose over the strong scent of crude oil. He’d heard from those who worked around such facilities that the stench eventually vanished because you became used to it, not that it ever truly went away.

  Shammari was accompanied by two squads from the Special Security Force. These were highly trained and heavily armed counterterrorism troops wearing permanent scowls and desert camouflage utilities. They cross-trained with special forces from all over the world, including Navy SEALs. The entire party had arrived in four Humvees whose diesel engines chugged behind them.

  Fisher lifted his voice above the chopper’s rotors as they spun down. “Prince Shammari, we appreciate you allowing us into your processing plant. We need to move as quickly as possible.”

  “Relax. As I said, I’ll indulge your hunch because I want to show you how absolutely secure we are here. I don’t believe that we are suddenly going to explode this very minute. Boom!” He waved his hands in the air, then glanced back at the troops, who broke out in laughter.

  Briggs gave Fisher a look, as if to say, Famous last words . . .

  “You told me you were bringing weapons and equipment. We’ll need to see them now.”

  Briggs and Fisher turned over their duffel bags, and the squad leaders came forward and picked through their pistols, trifocals, and pair of SIG MPX submachine guns they were toting. Briggs said the trifocals were just prototype night-vision goggles, and the troops dismissed them. They did admire the MPXs because they were shaped like miniature assault rifles with curved thirty-round magazines and were the only submachine guns in the world that allowed the operator to change barrel length, caliber, and stock configuration in the field to meet mission requirements.

  “You come to shoot bears,” said the prince. “But I told you, all we have here is oil!”

  “I understand. Just a precaution.”

  The prince made a face, looked at the troops, who nodded okay, then he turned and waved everyone back toward the Humvees.

  Shouldering their duffel bags, they followed Shammari and boarded the lead truck. They drove off toward a large tower where a ball of flame lit the night.

  “Burn-off,” Shammari said, flicking a finger in that direction. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Do you have the radiation equipment we requested, along with the schedule of deliveries?”

  “You can meet with our security team at the main gate. They’ll have all the information you want to see. But do trust me, I’ve looked over that schedule myself, and as I told you earlier, there’s nothing out of the ordinary for us.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Fisher.

  “There are over thirty thousand employees here who’ve entrusted their lives to me and my security forces. I would never let them down.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” said Fisher.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because the men I’m dealing with are very determined, and I think they’re smart enough to fool us if we’re not careful. So let’s be careful—and check it out.”

  “All right, then, there’s the main gate ahead. Go ahead and check it out.”

  There was no mistaking the prince’s sarcasm, and Fisher guessed he might act the same way were the tables turned. The Saudis had transformed the place into a fortress, and Fourth Echelon’s presence implied that the prince’s “impenetrable” security force had been summarily scrutinized and found wanting, which in turn had bruised his ego.

  The Humvee pulled to a halt even as a pair of broad, wrought-iron gates bordered by black-and-yellow stripes yawned inward. A guardhouse stood on either side of the gates, with riflemen posted at each. More bearded guards wearing traditional security uniforms came out to greet Fisher and Briggs, who were introduced to the officer in charge and taken over to a computer terminal, where the logs were stored.

  Although Fisher had requested that those logs be sent electronically to the team, the prince had declined, saying they were confidential but that Fisher was welcome to take a look at them in person. Fisher began surreptitiously snapping photos of the log with his OPSAT and transmitting them back to Charlie and Grim.

  “Got them, Sam,” said Charlie.

  “We receive fifty, sometimes one hundred shipments per day,” said the officer in charge. “Packages and equipment of all kinds.”

  Fisher squinted and scanned through the long list in 10-point type, the items identified in a mishmash of English and Arabic.

  He scrolled down, tapped his finger on the screen, and moved back so that Briggs could have a look.

  An invoice indicated the arrival three hours earlier of seven thousand feet of pipe and four new drill heads.

  “What do you think?” asked Briggs.

  “I think we should check it out.”

  They returned to the Humvee, and Fisher said, “Prince Shammari, there is a delivery you received earlier that we’d like to examine.”

  “You think my personnel missed something?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then we can take you back to your helicopter.”

  “We’d rather inspect the shipment ourselves—only because the timing is right.”

  Shammari made a face and called out to the driver. The convoy moved forward, through the gates, and onto a road leading out toward four silver spheres looming in the distance.

  “And can you tell the driver to get us there as fast as he can?” Fisher added.

  “Of course I’ll tell him. But first, look over there.”

  Shammari pointed to the lines of Al Fahd Armoured Personnel Carriers on either side of the road, some armed with .40mm cannons, others with .50-caliber machine guns mounted above their cabs. Some troops manned the fifties while others stood on lookout in the turret-top cupolas to the rear.

  The prince went on: “If anything were to bypass the gates, these men would cut them down in a second. Do you have any idea how many eyes and ears we have on this processing plant? How at this very moment we’re being monitored by cameras, by motion detectors, by drones flying over our heads? Do you know how many rounds of ammunition we can put on a target in a single minute? It’s truly incredible.”

  Fisher closed his eyes and steeled himself. “Yes, it is.”

  “But still you question our security.”

  “Didn’t the king, your uncle, say it was better to have a thousand enemies outside your tent than one inside?”

  “He did. But you’ve just crossed into one of the most secure places in the world.”

  Fisher considered a retort, then thought better of it.

  The pair of warehouses Grim had mentioned earlier began rising from the twilit gloom ahead. At least the driver had taken his cue and raced ahead with a heavy foot and clear sense of urgency.

  They pulled up outside the first warehouse, a rectangular two-story building about the length of an entire football field. Several guards were posted outside the doors, and a few more along the rear dock and loading ramps.

  While Shammari strode from the Humvees, Fisher and Briggs jogged away with the security team hustling up behind them. Seeing what was happening, the warehouse guards moved aside, and the lead troop, a sergeant, slid a key card across a scanner, opening the side door. They charged inside.

  Massive halogen lights suspended from the iron rafters cast broad puddles of light across the concrete floor. To their left, oversized racks rising some eight meters held bundles of pipes of various lengths and diameters. To their right towered literally hundreds more racks with thousands more pipes, fittings, clamps, and dozens of other parts, some recognizable, some completely foreign to Fisher. Placards in Arabic and English identified sections as DESALTER, VACUUM DISTILLATION, NAPHTHA HYDROTREATER, CATALYTIC REFORMER, and FLUID CATALYTIC CRACKER, among many others.


  In sum, the warehouse was an overwhelming maze of drilling and oil refining equipment, each aisle a labyrinth of rubber, copper, steel, and aluminum. Without knowing exactly where the recent pipe and drill shipment had been stored, it could take them an eternity just to get near it. Moreover, it was after hours, and the warehouse foremen had gone home for the evening.

  “The most recent large shipment,” Fisher told one of the sergeants in Arabic, reciting the invoice number he’d memorized. “Delivered today.”

  The troop had a schematic of the warehouse and delivery schedule displayed on an iPad mini. He called up the route, pointed toward a long row between racks on their right, and once more, the group took off jogging, with the prince bringing up the rear.

  They rounded a corner, and the sergeant called for a halt to once more consult his tablet. He glanced up at the storage racks, numbered 329, 330, 331 . . . then his gaze panned downward to more labels. He began walking up the row several more meters, then spun and stopped. “It’ll all be here,” he said, pointing to the bundles of pipes and cone-shaped drill heads sitting atop pallets covered in shrink-wrap.

  “Grim, are you seeing this?” Fisher muttered.

  “Got everything. I don’t see anything that looks like a generator there.”

  Fisher turned back to the troops. “Who’s got the radiation equipment? We need this scanned.”

  Two soldiers dropped their packs and fished out their portable radiation survey detection meters and wands.

  Prince Shammari lumbered up behind the group and said, “What do you think of our warehouse?”

  Fisher wasn’t sure how to answer. “Nice.”

  “And this is the delivery you’re so worried about?”

  “Yes, it is.” Fisher called for some more light, and the troops directed their flashlights onto the pipes and within them.