“So what was he after? A lone wolf murderer doesn’t murder an important officer then stick around to open a safe just to exercise his fingers.”
“That we don’t know yet, sir,” answered Geneen. “The Saudis say they are working on it.”
President Tracy shook his head. “Keep me posted, but let’s move on to the central question: The rebellion is growing, but will it succeed?” His eyes darted back to the CIA director.
“Too early to tell, Mr. President. So far, the military seems to be holding it all together, but crowds are making things tricky in the cities and the religious police are really ramping up the shouting, hollering about how the royals betrayed Islam and have to be eliminated.”
“Eliminated?”
“Killed or driven out of the country.” Director Geneen snapped shut the buff folder that was propped on his knees. “The murder of Prince General al-Fahd will shake the confidence of the ruling family. If the commander of the Saudi Royal Guard Regiment can be assassinated by his valet, then who among them is truly safe? We’re picking up backchannel traffic that some of the minor princes are inquiring about possible emergency flights to other countries.”
Hanson studied his notes. “It’s the domino effect. If some leave, they all could start pulling out with the idea of living on their fortunes in investments abroad. The princes head for Monaco, Paris, and New York while the House of Saud falls to the clerics and the mobs.”
“We can’t let that happen,” said the president.
“We can’t stop it,” responded the CIA official.
“So the question is going to boil down to military intervention to support our friends. Do we have forces available to help?”
General Hank Turner, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, picked up the conversation. “Yes, sir. We have one carrier battle group in the area and another can be on station in a week. For ground forces, we can retask divisions out of Iraq and shift armor in there fast. Plenty of air power available throughout in the region.”
“Jesus,” said Steve Hanson. “We jump from one war to another over there. No offense, general, but I don’t know if that’s going to be the answer this time.”
“I never said it was, Steve. The president asked to know his options,” said Turner, unruffled by the oblique challenge. Part of the game.
“What’s on your mind, Steve?” The president and Hanson had come into political office from the business world, where they had headed one of the biggest electronics corporations in the nation. Hanson was never shy about sharing his opinions.
“We need another full-fledged war like a dog needs a scooter. The bottom line is the Saudi oil, which is the only reason the king and his court are important at all.”
“The United States gets more oil from Canada than it does from the Saudis, and almost as much from Mexico,” the CIA director pointed out. “We could actually get along without them for a while, particularly if Iraq develops its full potential.”
Hanson agreed, with a serious look at the president. “It will disrupt the flow, and I don’t think Americans are going to like to deal with oil that could cost hundreds of dollars per barrel. Nevertheless, the kingdom is the world’s gas station. It has one-fifth of the entire global reserves and we’re not the only ones watching what is going on over there. Those reserves need to be protected and traded legitimately on the world market.”
“I don’t like where your scenario is heading, Steve,” said the president. “We will not throw our friends in Riyadh under the bus, let their government fall and then just move in ourselves to take over the Saudi oil operations, even as an honest broker.”
“Sir, the hardest decision the Saudi government might have to face in this crisis would be deciding whether to allow thousands of American troops to enter the country if their own military proves insufficient or riddled with disloyalty. Just because we are willing to commit forces in there does not mean they will allow us to intervene.”
The president crossed his arms and chewed at his thumbnail in silence for a few moments. Thoughts rushed through his mind. So much to do. A new secretary of state must be appointed right away and there will be a state funeral at Arlington tomorrow for my old friend Ken Waring. Saudi Arabia is coming to a fast boil. Perhaps a UN force to stabilize the oil fields? All that and a half-dozen other crisis points on completely different issues that have nothing to do with foreign relations. He rubbed his eyes.
“Is the Saudi ambassador back yet?” President Tracy stood. The meeting was over.
“He’s on the way. Our last word was that he was planning to leave the clinic in England today. Prince Abdullah will be a good guy for us to have around right now.”
“Please let him know that I want to see him as soon as he gets in,” said the president. “There must be some way out of this problem.”
Hanson looked at the others and gave a silent nod and they began to leave the room. “We’re on it, sir,” he said. “Look at it this way. Things could not be much worse.”
“Steve, the one thing that I’ve learned in this job is that things can always get worse.”
16
ENGLAND
WITH THE FIREFIGHT DONE, the British police again took control of the clinic. No medical personnel rushed to assist the downed gunmen. The assassins were no longer objects to be feared, just garbage to be carried away. Kyle handed his H &K MP5 to the first cop he saw, a burly youngster who came through the destroyed stairwell door and stopped abruptly at the sight of the dead man in the hallway.
Swanson walked fast toward the makeshift barrier that blocked the doorway to Sir Jeff’s suite and helped tear it down. He brushed past Prince Abdullah with hardly a glance to get to Lady Pat, who threw her good arm around his neck and hugged him tightly. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek.
“That took you long enough,” she said with a mocking smile.
Delara Tabrizi also gave him another hug, and stood to the side, knowing that her own true welcome would be better delivered in private. She wanted more than a polite hospital room embrace.
Kyle turned to the bed and fought to keep his face neutral. Jeff’s normally round and florid face was almost narrow and the hearty body seemed deflated. Tubes and the bandages and leg casts left no doubt of his grave injuries. The only thing unchanged were the bright gray eyes under the heavy brows, gray eyes that were focused on Kyle. He put his hand lightly on Jeff’s arm. “Hey, buddy. How about you get dressed so we can go have a few pints, chase women, and smoke cigars?” Almost nothing there. He took Jeff’s hand and held it.
Jeff nodded recognition, fighting the sedation. “Not today, lad. Pat won’t allow it,” he whispered. The voice was hoarse from having a breathing tube down his throat for two days. “Glad you’re here.”
The man’s eyes shifted momentarily. “Sybelle?”
“Yes. I’m here, too.” She kissed him on the forehead.
“I thought I heard gunfire. Just a dream?”
“Nothing to worry about,” Sybelle said in a soothing tone. “Kyle and I sorted it out.”
Kyle changed from the serious. “So what the hell happened to you?” Kyle slid a hip onto the bed, his tone remaining gentle.
“You were right. The castle was vulnerable.”
“No shit? Hard way to prove the point. How do you feel, old man?”
“I’ve been worse. Cannot feel my legs and the rest of my body is not much better. Got some kind of hole in my head. Been beaten up harder than this in a rugby scrum.” The frail smile returned.