Blowback

Yet another reference to Mecca. Everything in Saudi Arabia seemed inexorably linked to the two greatest shrines in Islam, Mecca and Medina. “Do you know about any secret spring there?” asked Harvath.

“I’ve heard some cock-and-bull story our little exporter Prince Hamal was spreading about one, but who knows? If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Saudi Arabia has more secrets than it does sand. The key is knowing which secrets to leave buried.”

“Well, this definitely isn’t one of them,” said Harvath.

“Do you think that’s what’s in those bottles?”

“That’s what we intend to find out,” said Jillian.

“Does Aramco have a lab that she can use?” asked Harvath.

Reynolds looked at his watch. “At this hour it should be completely empty.”

“Good. We’ll need to get her set up right away. In the meantime, what else can you tell me about the prince who owned that warehouse and the militants he’s been working with?”

“Quite a bit,” replied Reynolds. “I’ve got backup copies of my dossiers on all of them back at my office.”

“Including photos?”

“Including photos. Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure I know what their next move is going to be.”

After setting Jillian up in Aramco’s extensive, state-of-the-art lab with her samples and arranging for one of his men to take care of Zafir’s body, Reynolds led Harvath to the elevator and up to where the corporate security offices were located.

His supply of prayer rugs now depleted, Reynolds had forgone the Remington in favor of the Les Baer 1911 pistol he had secreted under the front seat of his Land Cruiser. Upon seeing his office door standing wide open, he pulled the weapon from his ankle holster and motioned for Harvath to be quiet.

Having ditched the Koran briefcase back at the warehouse, Harvath drew his H amp;K from the plastic trash bag he was now using and covered their six as he and Reynolds crept down the hallway toward his office. Stepping inside, they saw that it had been completely ransacked.

“Goddamn it,” spat Reynolds as he picked up his phone and called the security desk downstairs. After a terse conversation in Arabic, he hung up and said, “I can’t believe it. They let the deputy intelligence minister, Faruq al-Hafez, up here.”

“The one you saw meeting with the militants and the members of the different military branches?”

“He said it was official business.”

“You think he did this?” asked Harvath.

“Oh, yeah. And I’d be willing to bet he was behind what just happened at the warehouse,” said Reynolds as he pulled a bottle of Bushmills from his credenza and poured himself a drink. “When I made my first trip there, I butt-stroked a guy with my Remington. He must have seen enough of my face to describe me to Faruq. You want one?” he added, holding up another glass.

“No thanks,” replied Harvath. “How can you be so sure he’s involved?”

Reynolds took a long swallow of the Irish whiskey and said, “ Saudi Arabia has two militaries. One of them is the Saudi Arabian National Guard, which as you so succinctly put it in the warehouse is loyal to the Saudi Royal Family, the al-Sauds. The other is the Royal Saudi Land Forces, ostensibly established to protect against all external threats to the kingdom, but which in reality was created as a balance against the SANG, should the Royal Family decide to wipe out any of the clans hostile to the al-Sauds.”

“Let me guess,” said Harvath. “Faruq is from a clan hostile to the Royal Family.”

“Bingo.”

“How the hell did he get his job then?”

“Just like marrying two children from warring factions, the Saudi Family has put a lot of their lesser enemies in positions of moderate power in hopes of securing their loyalty.”

Harvath shook his head. “A lot of good it did them in this case.”

“Actually,” said Reynolds, “Faruq was extremely loyal for a very long time. He uncovered numerous plots against the Monarchy, even within his own clan, and brought the perpetrators to justice.”

“So why the change?”

“He found religion.”

“Wahhabism,” said Harvath, the disgust evident in his voice.

“Yup, and there’s nothing worse than a born-again Muslim.”

“But doesn’t the Royal Family know he’s gone the Wahhabi route?”

“I would hope so. Faruq’s boss is one of the Saudi princes-Prince Nawaf bin Abdul Aziz. If Aziz isn’t keeping up on this kind of stuff, he’s got no one but himself to blame if things go south. The problem is that the Royal Family operates under a very clouded delusion that it’s still in control. Until a man like Faruq fucks up, they think everything is okay.”

“In this case, though, once Faruq fucks up, it’s going to be too late for the Saudis to do anything.”

“Exactly,” said Reynolds as he took another sip. “All the rioting we’re seeing? Faruq’s the perfect person to have sowed the rumors among the Wahhabi leadership. He easily could have fabricated enough evidence to support the claims of a U.S.-influenced crackdown by the monarchy and the police. In fact, he is in a perfect position to actually orchestrate police crackdowns, giving the militants prime examples to rally behind.”