The beefy American laughed and punched the shoulder of the driver, Jamal, who glanced at him with a touch of humor in his own eyes. “The Big Lie, boys. Things are still pretty quiet because of all of the security protecting the oil fields, but little ole Khobz is no bed of roses. I will personally escort y’all through customs, which is tougher than usual but still not a problem if you have the right papers and some baksheesh, bribes. You do have your IDs, right? I’m supposed to tell all of you that everyone is confined to the protected zone, absolutely no going beyond downtown, and that a nine o’clock curfew starts tonight.”
Kyle asked, “So since the king is dead, who’s really in charge?”
“The government is still in control, very truly so, but no successor has been chosen. Without the king to keep them in line, the Religious Police are getting pretty harsh and that’s building resentment among the locals. Some gangs are running around claiming to be enforcing their sharia law, through the quasi-governmental outfit called the Committee on Virtue.”
“So the extreme clerics are grabbing power,” Swanson observed. “That’s a pretty familiar song.”
“Looks that way. They ain’t the Taliban yet, but some of the fanatics want to see how far they can push. That squeezes the government, which has been allied with the guys in the mosques from the very start of modern Saudi Arabia.”
“Are we talking about civil war?” asked Henry Tsang.
“Not quite to that point, buddy. Not even with the assassination of the king. The princes are still in charge, so they will pick a successor pretty quickly, but the trouble is growing. Take right here in Khobz. A teenaged girl was murdered a few days ago at the biggest mall in town by the religious cops for talking with a boy on a cell phone. She pulled a knife and carved up one of them so badly that the bastard died, good for her, and she hit a second one with pepper spray. Normally, the Saudis would blame the girl for causing the trouble, but the muttaween went too far and dozens of witnesses saw her beaten to death by those mean bastards.”
“Are we safe?” The Belgian was almost frantic.
Homer Boykin waved a big hand and smiled. “Oh, yeah. Y’all just be careful and keep yourselves informed through your company security teams and international news channels; don’t expect any straight answers from the government. Information has never been available on almost anything in Saudi Arabia; they block Internet sites and they don’t like reporters. The truth is getting hard to come by, but you boys are oil dudes. They aren’t about to start killing off the guys who bring in the gold.”
“They shot at us!” The Belgian protested.
Boykin just chuckled, and the minivan coasted to an easy stop. He led them into the customs area. The large room was patrolled by uniformed soldiers with machine guns, and all new arrivals stood in line to be thoroughly searched and have their papers carefully examined.
Kyle went through the process with disinterest, having anticipated the heightened arrival security procedures. His first task had just been to get into Saudi Arabia, which he was doing. Somehow, between Sybelle and the Lizard in Washington and some spec ops magic, weapons and assistance were to be provided.
He used the time in line to watch what was happening in the terminal beyond the customs area, where a crowd of civilians milled about. Worried men were talking with airline representatives and women tended crying children. Couples were embracing as if they would never see each other again, and the tension was almost electric. Civilians getting their families out, he thought. Little private planes drawing fire. Not good. There has been no warning by either the American or the Saudi governments for noncombatants to leave the area, but the foreigners who live here obviously feel trouble is on the way and are heading for safety.
Their group finally cleared customs and the Belgian engineer and the Chinese accountant drifted away to find their companies. Kyle went to the airport’s small restaurant, bought a sandwich and a soda, then moved to a table near a big window to continue his surveillance. Women, kids, and a few men were loading onto small charter planes that were lined up in a row, awaiting their turns at the two departure gates. Baggage carts were stacked to overflowing. Lot of folks getting out of Dodge, not many coming in, and nobody seemed to be enjoying their day. He bit into a soggy egg salad croissant with lettuce and tomato sliding out of the middle and sipped the warm Coke.
Boykin, the big American with the crew-cut hair approached his table with a Pepsi in his hand and sat down uninvited. “Welcome to a brewing shitstorm, brother.” Boykin fished an ice cube from his glass and used it to write XUSMC by tracing water on the smooth blue plastic tabletop. Then he wiped it away with his palm, found a fresh cube and drew a crude symbol that looked like a pitchfork: TRIDENT. Boykin wiped that off, too, and broke into a friendly grin. “I’ve been in contact with my boss and Sybelle Summers, so let’s get you gunned up and take a ride around town.”
25
THE BOYKIN GROUP WAS headquartered in a nondescript building in an industrial district cluttered with small warehouses, stacks of steel shipping containers, and pyramids of pipe and other oil line gear. The company sign was painted on a weathered wooden door behind a little screened entranceway that kept out the flies. Jamal, a short and muscular man who moved with smooth efficiency, went into the screen enclosure, unlocked the wooden door and pulled it outward. Behind it stood a strong steel door with two heavy locks that threw bolts into the surrounding steel frame.
The office was nothing much. A floor of bland greenish linoleum with some of the tiles torn, and plaster walls covered with many coats of cheap white paint. Two second-hand desks faced each other. Thick shades covered the windows on each wall to keep out the sun, but if he chose to look outside, Boykin had an almost 360-degree view of the surrounding area. Bulletin boards were peppered with pinpoint holes, some hanging notes and a few old clipboards hanging on nails, their jaws chomping wads of paper. Overhead fluorescent lights hummed and flickered. The place looked as common as the dirt.
“This joint was built years back when construction was booming around the new port and nobody raised an eyebrow,” Homer explained. “Lots of weird construction was going on back then and our contractors and laborers were flown in along with the necessary specialized equipment, did their jobs, then left. No locals were involved. Did it all in less than thirty days.”
Kyle Swanson recognized it for what it was as he stood in front of an air-conditioning vent and let it blast the sweat on his back. “CIA safe house,” he said. The intelligence-gathering outpost was created because the Agency wanted trained eyes and ears in one of the world’s most important oil installations.
“Come on downstairs,” Boykin said, pushing a panel button. A section of the wall folded back, revealing a staircase. “The builders had a hell of a time drilling and pouring support columns for the basement. They kept striking oil. Damn stuff just oozed out of the sand and would fill the holes overnight if they didn’t pump it out.”
The basement was larger than the house above it and was cooler by being below ground level. Fans kept filtered air moving around the communications suite along one wall where secure computers, printers, speakers, and security camera feeds were in place. Cupboards containing emergency rations and boxes of bottled water were built along another wall and a chemical toilet and a small shower were curtained off in a corner. Folding cots leaned against one cabinet. At the far end, a steel ladder ascended one corner up to a hatch that exited into a rusting shipping container anchored on a concrete pad that was separated by a small driveway from the headquarters. It was maintained to appear to be a storage shed for tools. Emergency exit.