Keys to the Kingdom (24 page)

CHAPTER 33

Langley

Simpson drank his tenth cup of tepid coffee and decided that he was definitely too old for these all night sessions. There had been hundreds of them when he had been younger. The upwardly mobile agents would spend all night at the office when Beirut, Iraq and Afghanistan were at their height. They would pore over every piece of intelligence when the Israelis bumped off some Arab leader or when a mad Arab bomber blew up a busload of Israeli civilians. That was the period when Gallagher first came to his attention. The guy was a legend in the war torn streets of Beirut. The Israelis had tried several times to take him out but they never succeeded. Simpson always considered Gallagher as the best recruit he ever made for the Agency. He looked around the empty office and wondered where the young Turks were tonight. If they were smart and they wanted to make a career, they were in bed with the wife or daughter of some politician. The CIA sure as hell wasn’t the same animal he had joined twenty years ago. He wasn’t sure whether it was the end of the Cold War or the interference of Congress that caused its demise. The bottom line was that since the Evil Empire had evaporated as an enemy, the Company was like a budgetless, rudderless ship looking for a direction. A signal of their impotence was that there had been three Directors in four years and anyone with a thimbleful of sense had quit. They had fucked up over 9/11 and they had covered themselves in shit over the WMDs in Iraq. Afghanistan was a bigger quagmire than Vietnam. The younger agents were departing in droves. It was a hell of a good time to think about retiring. He and Lucius had probably made several million bucks over the past eight hours. Lucius’ idea of the estate in Costa Rica hadn’t been half bad. After Saudi went to shit and hell, the ‘Company’ wouldn’t think twice when it received his request for early retirement. He was forming a vision of himself on the beach in Costa Rica when the phone on his desk started ringing. ‘Simpson,’ he even sounded tired to himself.

‘Geoffrey Burfield here.’

Right on time, Simpson thought. He could hear the strain in Burfield’s voice. The poor bastard must be at his wits end. ‘Hi, Geoff,’ Simpson put as much animation into his voice as he could muster. ‘I guess they’ve had you burning the midnight oil.’

‘Absolutely,’ Burfield laughed falsely. ‘I was safe in my bed when the news came through. The only advantage is that I missed the morning rush hour on my way to the office. Pretty rum news about Ras Tanura.’

‘Like the bumper sticker says, shit happens.’

‘Then you buy the Saudi’s accident story?’

‘Why not. It’s happened before.’ Simpson laughed. ‘Two years before to be exact. Our friends in the Gulf aren’t the most competent folks on earth. We all know that the pressure to find jobs for Saudis has meant that expats have been given the push to make way for the local hot shots. Except that the local shots are not so hot. Some asshole screws up and the refinery goes up in smoke. The fire spreads to the tank farm and we’ve got the kind of disaster that keeps me at the office for nearly twenty hours and drags you from your bed. And I guess there’s some poor French asshole at the Quai d’Orsay who’s been pulled out of his mistress’ bed.’

Burfield heaved a sigh of relief. Simpson usually had his finger on the pulse. ‘And you don’t think Ras Tanura has anything to do with the bomb in Dhahran or Prince Mishuri’s death?’

‘We’ve heard that the Saudi’s have one of the Dhahran bombers,’ Simpson continued smoothly. The one thing that he didn’t need right now was some James Bond antics from the Brits. ‘The poor bastard is probably having his feet beaten as we speak. Our information is that the others involved are already in Pakistan. Mishuri’s another ball of wax. The Princes are queuing up to take over from the King. The next handover isn’t going to be as smooth as either of us would like. These bozos have the habit of settling things in the old tribal way so we can expect a couple more Mishuri’s before the next man, whoever that might be, is installed.’

‘And the attack on the Riyal?’

‘Those guys in the financial markets are pirates. They smell fresh meat better than sharks. The Saudis have fucked up their national finances over the past five years and now they’re going to be made pay for it.’

Burfield could feel the knot in his stomach unravelling. It was all so logical. What had Simpson said: shit happens. And Saudi Arabia had the propensity to have rather a lot of shit happening at the same time.

‘So you’re sitting pat?’ Burfield said.

Simpson could hear the relief in Burfield’s voice. ‘That’s about the size of it. Unless we hear something to the contrary we’re going to buy the Saudi’s story of an accident at the refinery. That’s the message I’m passing to State and I suggest that you do the same with the Foreign Office. Saudi is tied up tighter than a duck’s ass. This is a no worry situation.’ Simpson would eventually go down as one hell of a lousy prophet. But at least he was going to be a rich, lousy prophet.

‘Have you heard anything about Patrick Gallagher?’ Burfield asked.

There was a silence on the other side of the line. ‘Sorry Geoff, one of my guys came in the office,’ Simpson said smoothly.

‘Our man in Riyadh claims that he saw Patrick Gallagher coming out of the Grand Mosque after Friday prayers.’

‘You’re kidding, right,’ Simpson said. ‘Gallagher’s been dead for more than ten years. ‘

‘I know,’ Burfield said. ‘I think that maybe our man might have been mistaken.’

‘We’ve got proof of his death,’ Simpson said. ‘Photos, DNA, all kinds of shit.’

‘I’m glad I called you, Alan. I was beginning to get the willies about Saudi. Let’s stay in touch on this one.’

‘Sure thing. Right now I need a shower and about ten hours sleep. Be talkin’ to you.’ Simpson put down the phone and blew his cheeks out. In the next few days all hell was going to break loose in Saudi Arabia. He was sure that he had managed to deflect Burfield for the present. All he needed was another forty-eight hours. It was getting close to the denouement. He smiled to himself. Burfield had better be wearing his brown britches when Gallagher dealt his final hand.

CHAPTER 34

Riyadh

Abbas bin Naseem packed away the final consignment of Semtex behind the cushions in the King’s majlis at the Al Hokm Palace. The detonators had been delivered to him the previous evening and he had placed them exactly as Nasrullah had instructed him. The tiny control device that would trigger the detonators was in his pocket. It had skilfully been incorporated into the body of a ballpoint pen. When the detonators had been set all he would have to do would be to press the button on the top of the pen and the room where he was standing and the Palace surrounding it would cease to exist. He moved behind the cushions and looked for signs of his handiwork. There was nothing visible to the naked eye. Nasrullah had told him that the guards would search carefully before the King would be permitted to enter but Abbas was certain that his work would be blessed by Allah and that nothing would be found. All that remained now was to wait.

Gallagher and Nasrullah sat back against the cushions in the Majlis at Prince Kareem’s villa in Sulaimania. The news from Ras Tanura had exceeded Gallagher’s expectations. The refinery, tank farm and loading terminal had all been destroyed. More than two hundred people had lost their lives in the conflagration but that was an eventuality that could not have been avoided. Gallagher sipped a mint tea. There were times when he wished that the Prophet had not been so tough on the consumption of alcohol. Being an Irish Muslim was a bit of an oxymoron. The Prince’s usual scowl had been replaced by what could generally pass for a smile as the reports of the devastation at Ras Tanura had been relayed to him. It would be over soon, Gallagher thought as he watched the Prince preen himself. The stupid bastard already had himself crowned king of the new Islamic republic. Gallagher wondered whether much would be permitted to change under the new rulers. In the first phase, old scores would be settled. Land and money would be confiscated and maybe a wife or two would change hands. There would be a certain amount of bloodletting before the commercial interests began to assert themselves and they would begin the slow reversion towards the bad old days of today. The French had it right –
plus ça change, plus ça reste le meme
.

‘Allah is indeed great,’ Prince Kareem said replacing the phone on its cradle. ‘You have surpassed everything that has been written and said about you, Abu Ma’aath. The government is in chaos. The King and his advisors are in disarray. They don’t know where to turn. There are reports of rioting in the streets of Dhahran. The Shias have taken the opportunity to rebel and already the National Guard has been shooting the transgressors. The Iranian Ambassador has asked for an urgent meeting with the King but that will, of course, be refused. We will deal with those dogs when the Al Sauds have been eliminated. The story of these days will be told for a thousand years at the campfires of the Bedouin.’ Kareem motioned for the women to come forward and replenish the cups of his guests.

Gallagher looked up into the eyes of the woman serving him. They were of deep brown and reminded him so much of his own dead wife’s eyes that he was startled for a second. The eyes were the only part of the woman’s face that was visible and he wanted desperately to see the rest. He could see from the colour of her eyes and the lightness of the skin around them that she was not a true Saudi. He guessed that she hailed from the north. Perhaps Syria or even Lebanon. He wondered if she looked like Leila. That once beautiful face was lying decayed not very far from where he now sat. He had asked Kareem to try and locate the resting place of his wife and child. But women were buried in unmarked graves in Saudi Arabia and no record had been kept of the place where she took her final rest. A hole had simply been dug and her headless body had been shovelled into it. He would never be able to pray above her and beg her forgiveness for not being with her in her final hour. That rankled with him. At least he should have had the opportunity to beg her forgiveness. The woman’s eyes linked with his as she poured the mint tea into the glass in his outstretched hands.

Princess Nadia shuddered as she looked into Gallagher’s eyes. Her hands shook and she splashed tea into his cup. She glanced quickly in the direction of her husband to see whether he had noticed her transgression. His face was impassive. If he had noticed, she would pay for it with a weal later. Her eyes flicked back to Abu Ma’aath. Whoever had named this man the ‘Father of Death’ had named him well. She had never looked into anything so cold and impenetrable as his eyes, such dead eyes. The hooded lids flickered as their eyes locked and much as she was drawn towards those dead orbs, she turned her glance away. She prayed that this man did not have the ability to read her mind but she would not have been surprised to learn that he had that skill. There was something magical about the look in his eyes. She tried to burn the man’s likeness into her brain because Mary Jo would ask her about the man when they next met. She desperately needed to urinate but she suppressed the feeling.

‘In the name of Allah, Abu Ma’aath, when will you strike?’ Prince Kareem asked.

Gallagher had only half heard the question. His eyes continued to follow the woman serving the tea. He could feel her nervousness.

Nasrullah rammed his elbow into Gallagher’s ribs.

‘May you live long, Prince’ Gallagher said still watching the woman as she retreated to the other end of the room and sat quietly watching them. He turned his gaze reluctantly to Kareem. ‘It will be soon. The trouble in the streets will spread and the King will be obliged to hold a Majlis to discuss the situation with the family. Since Mishuri’s demise you have the ear of the King. Influence him to hold the Majlis in the Al Hokm Palace. The bolt will come from the breast of Allah to destroy our foes.’ The woman at the end of the room was staring directly at him and he wondered what was going on behind the leather mask that covered her face. There was a fire in her eyes that could not be hidden. She could be Leila and yet she could never be. Leila had been a soldier, the equal or better than most of the men with whom she served. She would never have accepted a life of servitude. Although he had embraced Islam for the love of Leila, it sometimes puzzled him. Some looked upon the religion as giving women a dignity that their station as wives and mothers deserved. Others looked to the Koran to justify their treatment of women as second-class citizens, chattels to be bought and sold like other goods. He was well aware of the role of women in Saudi society. Those who entered the harem with any brain cells soon had them softened by the stultifying life of sloth and boredom. And yet the eyes that peered at him from the slits in the mask appeared to be lively and intelligent. What are you thinking? he wondered.

Princess Nadia watched her husband and the two strangers at the other end of the room. The Palestinian was the one who had assassinated Mishuri. As soon as the two men had arrived she had dismissed the servants and bundled herself in her abaya. She herself had served them in order to listen to their plans but so far she had understood nothing. The events at Ras Tanura and the riots in the streets of Dhahran came as a shock to her. She wanted Kareem and his Ikhwan friends to fail but she could see that the events in the streets were going to change their lives forever. The fact that they might no longer have a life of privilege made her fearful for the future. She must force herself to concentrate on what the men were saying. Mary Jo was her only hope of stopping them and she would have to relate exactly what they were saying.

‘The javelin of Allah will fly from the breast of Allah,’ Kareem said smiling. ‘And all our foes will perish. That is an image the desert people would appreciate. The King has already been primed. Every day he becomes more fearful for his birthright. He is convinced that Mishuri’s assassination and the destruction of Ras Tanura are part of a plot by his enemies in the Family to usurp his position. He has instructed the National Guard to be at their most vigilant. We have all been issued with these abominations.’ He picked up a Kevlar vest and flung it into the corner of the room. ‘The flood of dollars have turned the Al Sauds into a tribe of women. They begin to fear their own shadows. Allah be kind to us, but the King and his brothers are at this moment discussing the holding of the majlis. The King thinks the Majlis will calm the people and the trouble will cease as rapidly as it began.’ Kareem bared his teeth. ‘They do not realise that the desert wolf is at their very door and is waiting to devour them. The army is ready to rise up the moment your javelin strikes home. A heavy burden rests on your shoulders, Abu Ma’aath. And if you succeed, your name will be forever spoken among the Ikhwan.’  Kareem stopped and turned as a young man in the traditional white
thobe
entered the room.

‘Salaam Alaikum,’ Kareem said rising quickly to greet his guest.

‘Alaikum Salaam,’ the young man replied. ‘And may the blessings of Allah be on your house and family.’

‘You are welcome, brother, in the name of Allah.’

Kareem motioned to a place beside him on the floor and Mohammed Al Tawil took his place beside his mentor.

Kareem turned to face Gallagher. ‘This is the young man I told you of, a true servant of Allah and my closest confidante. He knows everything that I know.’

‘May Allah bless your work, Abu Ma’aath,’ Al Tawil said looking at Gallagher. He had heard of the great terrorist but this was the first time he had seen him. He felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle when Gallagher returned his stare.

‘In the name of Allah the most powerful I greet you,’ Gallagher said. ‘This is my colleague, Nasrullah.’

The Palestinian bowed and Al Tawil nodded imperceptibly.

Kareem motioned to the end of the room.

Nadia rose slowly and made her way forward towards the four men. The rats were assembling. She knew of this Mohammed Al Tawil. The pig should be taken into a shed and gutted. She had listened to his wives’ stories many times. The man was a sadist who used his females to satisfy his own base lusts. Two of his wives had already been admitted to King Fahd Hospital in Dhahran for surgery to their private parts following his excesses. She was also aware that he had insisted on both of his daughters being circumcised and that the girls had suffered dreadful disfigurement because of this. Yet nobody spoke of these atrocities outside the harem. Al Tawil was the trusted friend of her husband and a relation by marriage of the Al Sauds. What he did with his women was his own affair. Her mouth twisted beneath her mask as she was forced to serve tea to this monster.

‘My friend Al Tawil particularly wanted to meet you,’ Kareem said his thick lips forming into a smile. ‘He has some information for you.’

Gallagher turned his gaze into the young man’s face. There was a sly look to the man’s eyes and a smirk on his handsome face. He tried to place the look and finally succeeded. It was the look of a child when it was about to tell the secret of its closest friend.

‘I was visited in my office two days ago by a member of the staff of the British Embassy,’ Al Tawil began relishing his importance. ‘During our conversation he asked me if I knew something of Patrick Joseph Gallagher.’ He watched Gallagher’s face. The only reaction was a slight movement of the ridges in his forehead. However, both Kareem and the Palestinian sucked in their breath together. ‘It appears that this man thought that he had seen this Patrick Gallagher several weeks ago at the Great Mosque in Riyadh. I, of course, informed him that there was no possibility that a terrorist who had been dead for over ten years could suddenly appear alive and well in Saudi Arabia.’

‘And the man’s name?’ Gallagher asked.

‘Arthur St. John Worley, a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service operating from the Embassy.’

Gallagher didn’t speak but looked directly ahead. Arthur St. John Worley. It had been a long time. He could hear the air-conditioner buzzing somewhere above his head but his mind was no longer in Riyadh. The smell of fetid bog water made his nose twitch and he could almost feel the squelch of their feet as they walked out into the centre of the bog. Their destination was a boghole that the locals of South Armagh believed went all the way to the centre of the earth. Captain Robert St. John Worley of the Special Air Service stumbled along in front of him. They had spent two days interrogating the poor demented bastard but he had told them nothing other than his name, rank and his serial number. However, someone had forgotten to tell Robert Worley that the Geneva Convention didn’t apply to terrorist warfare. You lived as long as you were useful and then you died. No honour, no glory, no escape, just a bullet in the back of the head and a grave that would never be located. Worley was almost all in when he had pushed him to his knees. He always expected them to crumble at the last minute and spill their guts. Worley simply fell to the ground and looked at the course turf in front of him. For a split second Gallagher had pitied the poor bastard. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Worley had come to Ulster to play his part in pacifying the rowdy natives, not to die an ignominious death in a bog. Armagh was his Passendale, his Anzio. Ulster was death without honour or remembrance. Neither of them had spoken on Worley’s last journey. There had been the only one courtesy he could extend his adversary. He had done the honourable thing by dispatching him without ceremony. The bullet had blown the top off Worley’s head and he had slumped forward into the pit that led to the centre of the earth. The brown bog water had enveloped him like a mother’s arms and he was no more. Gallagher remembered Worley no better or no worse than he did the other poor souls that he had sent to meet their Maker. He was not the kind of man who spent sleepless hours tossing and turning while horrible blood soaked faces rushed at him from some mist-laden void. That was the stock in trade of the B-movie maker. Gallagher had long ago rationalised his role in life’s pageant. He made no apologies for it. Now he remembered the brother. A face pushed itself into his mind and he recalled the words he had heard from his sister’s mouth in Belfast less than a week before. – a good-looking bloke. That had to be the same man who had been pointed out to him in a bar in West Belfast. The boys had thought it a great gag that the SASman’s brother had come looking for the body. They‘d coined a joke on a piece of advice for him. ‘Find the deepest hole you can and jump in. The two of youse might meet down there near the centre of the earth.’ They’d watched the brother for a few days until they realised that he was a pathetic, poor gobshite. Then they’d left him to wander around making a nuisance of himself. Now that same Worley had seen him in Riyadh. His mind flipped back to his first meeting with Kareem. He’d had the feeling that he was being watched but it had been only momentary and he had discounted it. But why had Worley gone to Belfast? Surely not to search for a dead man. No. He had gone to Belfast looking for evidence of a live man. But had he gotten it? He doubted it. A chance sighting and the bastard is off on the trail again, like some ragged old terrier. First Antwerp and now this. He realised that nobody had spoken for the past few minutes and he looked at the faces of the other three men. They looked expectantly at him.