Infidels (3 page)

The
last thing I need.

His
girlfriend, CIA Agent Sherrie White had left yesterday on a protection detail,
and if his understanding of the flu was correct, she might be coming down with
it at any time. And an agent had to be 100% at all times when on an op.

Which
had him worried.

He
always worried about her when she was in the field. Most of her work was fairly
routine at the moment as she gained experience and was trained in other
languages, something she seemed to have a knack for. Right now she was learning
Russian, which also had him worried. He didn’t trust the Russians as far as he
could throw one of them, and if the CIA was teaching her Russian it was for one
reason.

To work
in Russia.

Or
Soviet Union 2.0 as he had come to think of it.

Today he
was in a briefing room with a dozen section heads like himself, all of them
having received an emergency summons only minutes before. It wouldn’t surprise
him if the Russians were doing something stupid again—but of course denying
it—their propaganda machine now so ridiculous they actually believed their own
message.

If
only the Russian people knew what was really going on.

Then
again, the Russian mindset was completely different from the Western one,
despite them thinking they were European. They weren’t, never were, never would
be. Which was one of the big mistakes inexperienced analysts made—trying to
attribute Western styles of thinking to Russian actions.

You’re
better off thinking Chinese. Much closer.

Everyone
rose, Leroux a little slower, as the National Clandestine Services Chief, Leif
Morrison, entered the room.

“As you
were,” he said, taking a seat at the head of the table, inserting a memory
stick into a slot in front of him. The screen at the far end of the room
activated and the first of a slide deck appeared with the CIA logo. “I’ll be
brief as time is of the essence. Moments ago we began to receive reports that
Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud was kidnapped in Mecca, his entire security
detail killed. This man is fifth in line to the throne, and about the only one
who is actually healthy enough to still be alive when the King dies—so in other
words, he’s important. The White House has reached out to the Saudis but
they’re denying it, of course.”

Morrison
motioned toward the screen, giving a quick rundown on what was known, which was
little. Leroux watched, his eyes glazing over slightly as his general malaise
took a firmer hold. Part of his mind continued to listen to his boss, but
another part was trying to figure out what was nagging at him, for there was
something there that he couldn’t quite put a finger on, something important,
and if he were feeling better, he’d probably have already figured out.

Perhaps
analysts need to be 100% too.

Then it
clicked.

“Sir,
you said this happened today?”

Leroux
flushed as he realized he had just cut Morrison off in mid-sentence. The room
turned, their chairs swiveling away from the screen and toward the youngest section
head in the room.

“Yes.”
Morrison’s reply was curt but not annoyed, Leroux thankful the man was one of
his biggest proponents. “What’ve you got?”

Leroux
leaned forward, suddenly queasy. “Well, in the morning brief there was a
mention that the Governor of Mecca would be attending a ritual at the Kaaba.
Apparently the Black Stone was to be taken for repairs.”

Morrison’s
eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall seeing that.”

Leroux
shrugged. “It was buried. Maybe it wasn’t in the briefs; I have my own crawlers
looking for news items.”

“Your
point?”

“Well,
sir, if he was kidnapped today, then he might have been kidnapped at this
ritual.”

Morrison
leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on the
tips. “You don’t think…” His voice drifted off as the room realized the
implication.

“Could
the Black Stone have been stolen?”

“Jesus,”
muttered Donovan Eppes. “Who would dare do that?”

Eppes’
ex-girlfriend and number one hater, Cindy Fowler, leaned forward. “Surely
Muslims wouldn’t, would they?”

Eppes
seemed to forget their ongoing feud. “No, but I could see Mossad doing it.”

“If it
was stolen, they’ll find some way to blame us.”

The room
fell silent, Fowler turning to Eppes. “If they do, every Muslim in the world
will declare war on us.”

Leroux
felt his chest tighten at the thought.

“God
help us all.”

Saudi Arabia, near Yemini border

Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud, literally translated as Khalid,
son of Abdullah of the House of Saud, stepped down from the transport truck he
had been travelling in for hours, tired and weary. He had been given the option
of travelling in comfort in the rear of his own limousine, but he hadn’t wanted
to let the Black Stone out of his sight.

He
stretched, hard, pushing his old joints to the limit with a groan, something
one would never see a British Royal do in public, but the Saudi monarchy was an
entirely different beast—decorum wasn’t the name of the game, power and
obedience were.

His had
been a life of privilege, incredible privilege. His family was large, direct
descendants of the first king numbering well into the hundreds, with distant
claims in the thousands, and they controlled the country with an iron fist,
their loyalty bought and paid for with oil.

And as
fifth in line to the throne, he was beyond rich. He had read intelligence
reports that the CIA estimated his family’s worth at over fourteen trillion
dollars. Having seen the official numbers himself, he had to guess that the
number was a little low. It was why people like him could buy yachts and
airliners worth hundreds of millions of dollars without blinking.

It was
why he always drove in comfort.

Except
today.

“Your
Royal Highness.”

Prince
Khalid turned to the voice as Abu Tahir al-Qarmati approached him, his smile
broad, his arms open wide. Khalid smiled as they hugged and kissed. “It is good
to see you, my friend.”

“I am
pleased you are safe. Our men are well-trained however when bullets fly,
sometimes the innocent are killed.”

“Fortunately
I was in my car when the first shot was fired.” He watched as the men, still in
the ceremonial guards uniforms he had provided, unloaded the holy relic. “I
fear if they had known it was I who had betrayed them, my guard would have
killed me without hesitation.”

Al Tahir
laughed. “From what I understand, they barely did any shooting, so perhaps even
then you would have been safe.” He patted one of the men on the back. “I can’t
imagine things having gone any better.”

Khalid
rotated his shoulder, wincing slightly.

“What is
wrong?”

Khalid
shook his head. “Nothing. One of your men pulled me out of the car a little
roughly, but it is no matter.”

Al
Tahir’s face flushed with anger as he turned toward his men. “Which one of you
hurt His Royal Highness?”

Eyes all
dropped to the ground, one man glancing nervously at another who was trembling.

“Step
forward, now!”

The man,
visibly shaking now, took a hesitant step forward.

“Explain
yourself!”

“I-I
didn’t mean to hurt His Royal Highness. I merely wanted it to look real in case
anyone was watching. If-if I was too gentle, p-people may have become
suspicious.”

Al Tahir
nodded slowly, looking at Khalid. “He’s right, of course.”

“Indeed.”

Al Tahir
unholstered his handgun and put two bullets in the man’s chest, the look of
shock on his face as he grabbed at his wounds while collapsing to the ground
matched by no one—none dared show surprise at Al Tahir’s ruthlessness. Khalid
had been dealing with the man for several years now and had found him to be a
violent, temperamental tyrant who never accepted failure.

He was
also an incredibly effective leader, his men loyal to a fault, his charisma
when he spoke of their cause infectious, even Khalid swayed to his way of
thinking after hearing him speak only once.

For his analysis
of the Koran and the hadiths could have only one logical interpretation, and
once their plan had been completed, Islam would be returned to the true path.

“Back to
work!”

The men
all jumped then rushed back to what they were doing, those who hadn’t been busy
quickly making themselves look so. Al Tahir turned to Khalid.

“I
apologize for my man’s actions. I will arrange for your physician to be brought
here at once.”

“It’s
not necessary. Besides, he’s served me faithfully over the years and I’d hate
to have to kill him just for knowing what we are involved in.”

Al Tahir
smiled. “Soon it will be of no matter. Once our task is complete, he will have
no choice
but
to believe, and after a few years have passed, all Muslims
everywhere will wonder why they ever followed such a blasphemous practice.”

They
entered a large Bedouin tent, tea steeping in a fire at the entrance. A servant
leapt forward with a bowl of rose water, Khalid washing his hands and drying
them with the provided towel. He lay down on a thick carpet, pillows abundant,
and made himself comfortable as tea was brought. He looked at Al Tahir, sitting
across from him.

“Our
message must be seen by the world. Have you secured the reporter yet?”

Al Tahir
nodded. “He will be here tomorrow.”

“Excellent.
The sooner this task is done the better. Though I have faith we are doing the
Prophet’s work, peace be upon him, I fear Satan may interfere with our
actions.”

Al Tahir
nodded.

“Or the
Great Satan.”

Khalid
smiled.

“With
our men speaking English, suspicion will be directed at them. By the time they
know what’s going on, it will be too late.”

Mabahith General Investigation Directorate

Ministry of the Interior, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

“This is unbelievable! Unacceptable!”

Colonel
Faisal bin Nayef watched as his General ranted from behind his desk, picking up
a stapler and hurling it into the corner, it smashing against the marble wall
and clattering to the floor, joining several other objects that had been within
his reach during his tirade.

Suddenly
the General stopped, glaring at the corner for a moment, then at Nayef. “At
ease.”

Nayef
spread his legs slightly, clasping his hands behind his back, thankful the
display was complete. Displays like this were tiring, predictable and all too
expected when dealing with the Saud family. Whenever anything bad happened to
one of them there was the requisite anger at the injustice or crocodile tears
at the loss. It reminded him of when Kim Jong-il had died. Those who didn’t cry
“hard enough” were taken away and beaten, some killed.

The
level of grief displayed publicly became a matter of survival for those
unfortunate souls.

It
wasn’t quite so bad here.

Yet.

He was a
distant cousin in the entire scheme of things so he had many perks living in
Saudi Arabia, but his relationship was so tenuous, he didn’t have the lavish
lifestyle the truly direct descendants enjoyed.

Like the
man in front of him.

“What is
the latest?”

Nayef
bowed slightly. “General, survivors have confirmed that His Royal Highness was
taken by force by a group of men who stormed the Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque,
killing the ceremonial guard and several of the Ulama. They then removed their
clothing, revealing uniforms of the ceremonial guard underneath. They took the
transport vehicle with the Black Stone and the other escort vehicles, driving
out of the city unchallenged.”

 The
general shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve heard the story half a dozen times
already and I still can’t believe it. Are there any leads on who did this?”

Nayef
hesitated for a moment, the latest piece of reported intel so incredible, he
felt the General would appreciate the dramatic pause.

The man
leaned forward expectantly.

“One of
the survivors reported that the men who kidnapped His Royal Highness and stole
the Black Stone…”

“Yes?”

“…were
speaking English.”

Saudi Arabia, near the Yemini border

“Put these on, quickly!”

Josh
Pullman finished toweling himself off, the unexpected bath he had been provided
a shock—a welcome one, though still a shock. He had vomited all over himself
the day before when he had been hauled away, his friend and colleague, Bill
O’Toole, left to die in the street. He was ashamed that it wasn’t the sight of
his friend that had caused him to vomit, but that of the orange jumpsuit they
had handed him at their first stop.

He had
watched the videos that most Americans hadn’t, those of his fellow journalists
and aid workers being beheaded by barbarians, those of Christians lined up on a
beach and massacred, all because they refused to convert to the only religion on
the planet that demanded all who left it die.

There
were many lively discussions among himself and his colleagues, especially when
the liquor started to flow in the hotel room—finding a bar in a devoutly
Islamic country difficult at the best of times, impossible when the zealots
were running around with canes and guns, whipping and killing anyone who
violated their strict interpretation of Islam.

But
someone always managed to sneak a bottle or two in with the camera equipment.

About
the only time they bit their tongue was when an Al Jazeera reporter was in the
room, though sometimes they were the most outspoken, a refreshingly unexpected turn
when it did happen.