National Security

CHAPTER 10

Sheikh Husseini al Farooq never traveled unless accompanied by at least two of his three most trusted men — and Zafir knew he was favored above all. Ratib and Jabolah had grown up with the sheik, and indeed these two men were considered family. But Zafir had proved his loyalty when he lost three fingers of his left hand saving the sheikh from an assassin’s sword. For the lowly Bedouin, Farooq reserved a trust beyond that given even to his closest brother.

At forty-one, Zafir was ten years the sheikh’s junior. Where the master was short and neat with finely chiseled, almost feminine features, the Bedouin was tall and unkempt. His black hair swept from a high forehead in a wild mane, revealing dark eyes that pinched into a permanent scowl. He looked as if he’d just ridden a fine horse to death only to walk the remainder of a long journey — every step in service of his master.

Today, he was dressed, as were Farooq and the other seven men at the meeting, in the dazzling white cotton dishdasha of a Saudi businessman. Unlike the others, Zafir’s face twitched and his body ached for the rougher robes of the Bedouin. He took a sip of strong coffee, letting the bitterness and familiar bite of cardamom soothe his nerves. As always, he kept a wary eye on all those near the sheikh.

Dictated by long tradition, Farooq, as the host, had ground the beans in front of his guest and served the coffee himself.

“The Americans are reeling,” the sheikh said as he served a tiny cup to Malik, a fat man from Baghdad. “They are full of self-righteous indignation over our little bombing at their shopping mall. But they believe bombing is all we know how to do. They believe us to be weak and ignorant.”

The men sat on quilted cushions around a low mahogany table piled high with fruit, flat bread, and al-kabsa — a dish of rice and spiced lamb. Malik had hogged nearly all the dates, though no one but Zafir appeared to notice.

“They think us inferior because we choose to live in a desert and keep control of our women where they cannot.”

Each man at the table nodded in somber agreement. Nassif, the dapper first deputy to the Saudi foreign minister sipped his coffee, but all there knew he agreed. A man of his standing would have never met with the sheikh unless they had already come to some accord. The fat Iraqi snorted over the last two dates he’d shoved in his mouth, highly offended that anyone would think him inferior.

Farooq continued, “The Americans are bad players of chess. They have failed to see the mall bombing for what it was, the push of a pawn. They believe their ultimate win is inevitable merely because they have the greater number of pieces on the board. And that is exactly what I want them to think. For now, we will play their game—”

“I have heard,” Malik, the Iraqi, interrupted, wiping thick hands on a linen napkin as his spoke, “that the Prophet — may Allah be pleased with him — forbade the playing of chess.”

Several of the men at the table, all adherents to the strict Wahabi sect of Islam, nodded in agreement. Nassif, the deputy minister, kept his thoughts, if he had any, to himself.

Haziz al Duri, a wealthy hotel owner from Riyadh, put a hand to his goatee. “Indeed Ali — may Allah be pleased with him — said chess was gambling — worse even than backgammon.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” the Iraqi shook his jowly face. “It was Ibn Umar — may Allah be pleased with him — who said it was worse than backgammon.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Farooq raised his hand and smiled meekly. Only Zafir saw the twitch in his left eye that revealed his true displeasure with the Iraqi. “Though I am certain chess has value to the mind and is indeed halal if it does not cause us to miss prayers or gamble, I speak here only of a figurative game. Perhaps we might save our discussion of such merits for a later time.”

“I have pledged my assets to the effort,” Malik said. “I wish to see the Americans crumble as much as anyone.”

“And your generosity is appreciated,” Farooq said. “Our latest operation in France was only a test, but it was far more successful than we’d imagined it would be.”

“But we have heard nothing of consequence in the news,” the merchant from Riyadh said. “Only that an American airliner crashed into the ocean. I fail to see how that is a success.”

Farooq took a deep breath, then held it for a moment before exhaling through thin nostrils. “Again, if I might compare our work to the strategy of chess without beginning a debate. The American news reports the plane crashed, but I believe the Americans shot it from the sky. The U.S. is frightened because they believe they know what we are up to. At the same time, they believe they have won, because the French killed our Algerian brothers and took the contents of their lab. They are certain to think us incapable of anything more intelligent than infecting an airliner.

“Of course there will be those among the Americans who suspect more, but they will be disbelieved. It is their defense mechanism. And even if some do choose to believe, while they stand mesmerized by one battle raging on the board, we will strike from a completely different angle, ending the game while the haughty devils still believe they have beaten us.”

“Would you care to enlighten us with the remainder of your plan?” The fat Iraqi scooped a pile of al-kabsa onto his saucer with a piece of flatbread.

A smile blossomed on Farooq’s face, turning his lips into a pale gash beneath a sparse goatee. “My friend, I would be delighted to do just that. If you would all be so gracious…” The sheikh raised a hand. Ratib slid back the woolen curtain that covered a heavy glass partition separating them from a dimly lit room.

The men around the table grew pale. The hotel owner’s hand shot to his mouth and he turned away in horror. Nassif, the government man, tried to take another sip of coffee, but his hand shook too badly to get the cup to his lips.

Sheikh Husseini al Farooq reclined against his cushion and yawned. He considered the back of his manicured hand as he spoke. “We are fortunate, I think, to have the laboratories and veterinary scientists so near at King Faisal University. Of course, to do this to animals would be strictly haram. I would take no part in such a thing. Americans are worse than devils to be sure, and Allah, may it please him, will surely sanction our plan. What you see, Allah willing, is but a small taste of what the infidels have in store.”

Zafir stared at the glass, transfixed at the scene on the other side. Tonight was the night he would ask of his master the greatest of all favors — to play a more central part in the game. That’s what the sheikh called it—the Game. And with a man as supremely wise as Farooq pushing the pieces on the board, it was a game they were certain to win.

A rumbling gurgle drew the Bedouin’s attention away from the window. Malik, the fat Iraqi, had vomited in his plate.