Nassar passed through the opulent interior and found King Faisal sitting alone on a sectional sofa near the rear bulkhead. There was an oxygen mask next to him but the tank it was attached to was tastefully hidden. Eighty-six years of life and hundreds of thousands of American cigarettes had left the man with emphysema and congestive heart failure. But as near as Nassar’s people could tell, maddeningly free of cancer.
“It’s my understanding that preparations for tomorrow’s operation are proceeding acceptably,” Faisal said, dispensing with the formalities he’d reveled in as a younger man. With so few breaths left, he now tried to use them wisely.
“This is my understanding as well, Your Highness.”
“I also hear that you’ve decided to involve yourself personally.”
“You are indeed well-informed.”
“Do you think it’s wise?”
“The risk to me is minimal and the importance of this operation can’t be overstated. If we move quickly, the capture or assassination of Mullah Halabi is within the realm of possibility.”
“Is that something that we would handle ourselves?”
“No, Highness. I think it would be much wiser to have the Americans take the lead.”
Faisal nodded, his blue-hued lips pursed into a perceptible frown. It had been the king’s strategy for decades—let the West protect his privilege while he quietly undermined them. It wouldn’t work for much longer, though, and Faisal knew this better than anyone. He was one of the smartest royals and had the impressive distinction of being perhaps the most selfish. He saw the growing power of the jihadists and understood the horrors that a confrontation would bring. He just wanted to make sure that confrontation didn’t occur until he was gone.
“And what of the other matter?”
“You’re referring to Tha’labah?”
“You know I am.”
Tha’labah was a Saudi blogger who despised the monarchy and was becoming increasingly bold in airing that distaste.
“It’s an issue we’re still studying, Excellency.”
“‘Studying’? If Khaled was still in charge of our intelligence efforts, this problem would have been resolved long ago.”
It was hard to argue the point. Prince Khaled, in addition to being a complete idiot, had been almost comically heavy-handed. He liked to make an example of anyone who defied the royal family with a public trial and an even more public execution. Unfortunately, with every agitator killed, a thousand more were created.
“May I remind you that this is precisely why you found it necessary to remove Khaled, Your Highness. Any overt action against Tha’labah will only martyr him. News of his death will spread across social media like wildfire, consuming everyone who reads it.”
“But he’s associated with ISIS!” Faisal protested. “And you tell me there’s nothing we can do?”
The old fool was incapable of understanding the world that had grown up around him. Affiliations were fluid at best, meaningless marketing declarations at worst. ISIS was as much an idea as an organization. An idea that was infecting Saudi Arabia’s youth like it had the youth of Iraq and Syria. An idea that would soon overwhelm everything.
“Discretion is why you hired me, Your Majesty. And so that your family could be insulated from these things.”
“What about the Americans?”
“They won’t act against Tha’labah. Freedom of speech is one of their most dearly held values.”
Faisal finally reached for his oxygen mask and continued to stare at his intelligence chief while gulping from it. With falling oil prices, he could no longer provide sufficient entitlements to keep his people docile. They were beginning to turn on him, fueled by the fanaticism beat into them by the Wahhabi madrassas he’d built to blind them.
His relationship with the West was all that stood between him and his own people. Unfortunately, the Americans had begun to tire of spending billions supporting a country that was anathema to everything they stood for. Worse, terrorism was becoming more important to them than oil, and Saudi Arabia was among the largest exporters of both.
ISIS could be defeated. It was a trivial matter, really. But the idea that it represented would not be so easily vanquished. With ISIS gone, what would fill the vacuum left behind? History had answered this question countless times. Eventually, extremist forces had their day. The only question was whether Saudi Arabia would lead those forces or be consumed by them.
The king removed his oxygen mask and allowed his withered frame to sink deeper into the sofa. “The President of the United States has demanded a meeting with our ambassador. No information has been provided as to the reason. This is unprecedented. Do you have any thoughts as to what would prompt such a request?”
“None whatsoever,” Nassar said, but his mind immediately went to Prince bin Musaid’s actions in Morocco.
“The ambassador is quite worried. He believes that the lack of an agenda is intentional. That they don’t want to give him the ability to prepare.”
It seemed obvious to the point of being self-evident, but then, Saudi Arabia’s ambassador to America was a drooling moron. Unfortunately, he was also King Faisal’s cousin.
“Would you like me to attend that meeting, Your Highness?”
The king smiled. “I assumed that you would resist, Aali.”
Normally he would have, but if there was any chance that the Americans had information on what had happened in Rabat, it would be unwise to let the ambassador go alone to that meeting.
“I am yours to command as always,” Nassar said.
“You’ve never met President Alexander, have you?”
“No, Highness.”
For a man in his position, he had met very few Americans—-something that was by design and not chance. He hated their arrogance. Their obsession with peace and money. They had traded the privilege of serving their god for order, comfort, and pleasure.
President Joshua Alexander took this one step further. He had been attacking the Saudi way of life since he was a young politician—trying to transform the kingdom into a modern, secular blend of Eastern and Western values. To force the followers of Allah to make the same bargain with the devil that his own countrymen had.
“Perhaps this would be a good time.”
“It would be my honor, Your Highness.”
Faisal nodded regally. “Success in your action against General al-Omari should be enough to put us in a position of strength with regard to the Americans.”
He covered his mouth with the mask again. His next words were muffled but still intelligible. “Yes . . . al-Omari’s head will keep the Americans docile for a bit longer . . .”
CHAPTER 11
East of Manassas
Virginia
U.S.A.
AND that?” Irene Kennedy said, pointing to a partially completed stone dome.
The afternoon had turned warm and the sky was marred by only a few white clouds to the east. Claudia had just mowed the lawn with a John Deere tractor that was her new favorite possession, and the scent of freshly cut grass still hung in the air.
“Pizza oven, I think.”
Kennedy took an austere sip of her wine, trying to hide her smile.
“What?”
“Most of us would have bet against Mitch Rapp ever owning a pizza oven.”
“Maybe I’m less of a one-trick pony than you thought.”