The 40-Minute War

Chapter 1

The Saudi fondness for preformed concrete had made Riyadh a study in architectural culture clash exceeded nowhere in the Middle East.

Through the window of his high-rise Riyadh Marriott Hotel room, Ashmead watched the Cadillacs, gleaming in the evening streetlights, cruise by and waited for the phone to ring.

The connecting door to Slick’s room was open and Ashmead’s deputy, in a show of optimism, had finished laying out their operations gear and was changing into his black fireproof jumpsuit which was padded with neoprene at the elbows, shoulders and knees and tailored to fit without binding over his lightweight kevlar body armor.

The sun had set without bringing the telephone call that Ashmead was expecting. He was beginning to worry it might never come—or come bearing the wrong message.

Anything could go wrong, and something usually did: Yael’s informants might be in error and the Islamic Jihad’s martyrs might never show up in the hotel lobby to check in one floor below; Zaki’s agents might have swallowed Iranian/Palestinian/Libyan disinformation whole and thus misdirected Ashmead’s team to the wrong city, the wrong airport, or even the wrong terrorists: the Libyans, at least, were getting better at tradecraft—the holy warriors his people were running to ground might be decoys carrying a suitcase loaded with lead bars and not the bomb.

One thing Ashmead was sure of: there was a bomb and there was a terrorist operation in progress that could change the face of the world, kick off a Gulf spasm war of hideous proportions, or even trigger a nuclear exchange. The fact that these risks were unacceptable to Langley and Ashmead’s Stateside superiors in the National Intelligence Tasking office gave the Islamic Jihad a peculiar advantage upon which the Libyans certainly were counting. A successful nuking of Home Plate would tempt the US to retaliate against the nations involved—Libya and Iran, at least, since Palestine was wherever the exiles hung their AKs—and no American strategic analyst at home in McLean or field collector from Defense or State on-site could bring himself to believe that the budding Pan-Islamic front would risk nuclear annihilation by an aroused superpower.

But the desk boys didn’t understand what martyrdom meant to the Muslims, except perhaps for Marc Beck, who was on the other side of a very high interagency fence but might just be Ashmead’s best hope. Beck had the balls to go against the consensus and the clout to override Stateside qualms about taking action which wouldn’t long remain covert, and taking it in a Gulf State.

Whether or not they got a go order, whether or not their information was correct, they were already inserted and Ashmead was pulling every string his puppeteers could hand him to make sure that if such an order was forthcoming, no Islamic Jihad members commandeered that jumbo bound for Washington International.

Slick, somewhere behind Ashmead, cleared his throat.

The Covert Action Chief turned and regarded his deputy: Slick had donned a thobe—the white, full-length Saudi shirt—which hid his black jumpsuit the way dark glasses hid his pale eyes and a red-and-white Saudi ghutra-and-aghal headdress covered his Western-cut hair. With his bearded chin and his deep tan, Slick would do, even if he had to carry on a conversation: even Ashmead’s sister had been fooled by Slick’s Omani-accented Arabic.

Slick said, “Salaam, Hajji,” soberly; then in English: “I’m going to go check the car again.”

Hajji meant pilgrim and it was Ashmead’s code name for the operation. Slick wanted to check the Mercedes in the garage because it was in the garage, where anyone might slap a load of plastique up against the shocks or jimmy the locking gas cap to put any of a number of detonating devices in its gas tank. Slick had just returned from checking the bugs and passive surveillance equipment ready to monitor whatever might occur in the Islamic Jihad’s suite directly below: since they hadn’t been able to determine whether the bomb was radio detonated, they’d had to make sure that none of their own devices could trigger it.

What no one wanted, and what Ashmead had had to promise his brother-in-law—Turki ibn Abdul Aziz, head of the Saudi Secret Police—there would not be, was a nuclear explosion in the middle of Riyadh.

“Wait until we get a go or a no-go, Slick; I don’t want to be sitting here wondering where the fuck you are.”

“A no-go? You still think they’ll pass? After everything we went through to get those heat and radiation signature detectors up and running? And calling in the Saudi National Guard? And the can-opener?” The “can-opener” could peel back the metal of an aircraft like a sardine can.

“Don’t know, Slick.” Ashmead switched to Arabic, telling Slick that the ghazzu—raid—would take place or not, Insh’allah—as God wills; that the Ikhwan—brothers of the army, in this case the Saudi National Guard’s anti-terrorist squad—were ready, and so was the team.

Just then the phone rang, and Ashmead gestured in its direction.

Slick went to answer it, leaving Ashmead with his thoughts once again. It had been less than ten years since a Saudi princess and her unacceptable lover were marched, tranquilized, into a square and publicly beheaded. Ashmead had been there, with his sister and Turki. The veneer of civilization here was still perilously thin; anything could happen. Turki was trying his best to help Ashmead with this operation—not only were they brothers-in-law, but Ashmead had been pivotal to the negotiations that facilitated the training and equipping of the Saudi National Guard by a private American company in California with ties to the Agency. So Turki owed him one, but could easily be overruled by others higher in the House of Saud—there were too many members of the royal family in Riyadh to evacuate while maintaining security, and most of those wanted assurances Ashmead couldn’t give that the bomb wouldn’t explode within their territorial borders.

Slick palmed the phone: “It’s Qadi. He wants to talk to you.”

“Qadi” was Arabic for “judge,” and Turki’s code name.

Ashmead got up and took the receiver from Slick: Turki’s voice was regretful as the police chief told Ashmead that the Saudi government had not yet given the operation its sanction. “Still, Ikhwans await with Elint, as we discussed—there is a higher law than that of the Majlis al Shura”—the Consultative Council—“and it is Shariah”—Islamic Law. “None wants to see the entire Kingdom become like al rabba al khali”—the barren lands. “Salaam alaykum, Hajji.”

“Wa alaykum as salaam, Qadi,” Ashmead replied wryly—“And upon you be peace.”

Slapping the phone irritably into its cradle, Ashmead hoped to hell it would be peace that came upon the Saudis, and not the cleansing peace of a nuclear fireball, either.

He shook his head when he encountered Slick’s questioning gaze: “They’re fighting it; they don’t want it to happen here, and I can’t say that I blame them.”

“Then where?”

“Over clean water, maybe—a shoot-down. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway. But definitely not in this hotel—it’s the airport or nothing.”

Slick flopped down on the Marriott-modern couch: “Bugger all. That means Elint’s got to go aboard.”

“Unless we can cut that girl terrorist loose from her crew if she goes down to the restaurant for dinner; unless we can determine that there’s no radio-detonation option; unless we can do better than a bomb blanket and a big apologetic smile if something goes wrong, I halfway agree with them: if the gas doesn’t hit fast enough, and we can’t be sure it will, one of them could still conceivably make it to that suitcase before we get in the doors and windows and grease ’em. So it’s up to you and Jesse to see if you can’t seduce her away from them so that we can interrogate her: if they lose her, they’ve lost their commander and the whole operation might well go on indefinite hold. If we get a go order.”

“We’d better get it soon, or anything but trying to gas ’em and pry ’em out of that plane will be out of the question. That bitch is a Palestinian; I’m not holding my breath that she’s going to fall madly in love with me at first sight.”

Ignoring Slick, Ashmead began to dress. When he’d secreted all his equipment he pulled on a mislah—a long brown coat trimmed with gold thread—and headed for the door.

“Shit, Rafic, where do you think you’re going? What if—”

The phone’s ring interrupted Slick and he dived for it as if it were a live grenade that had just landed in front of him.

Slick said: “Salaam.” Then: “Black Widow.” Then: “Say again?” Then: “We copy that, Uncle.” Then he hung up.

Ashmead looked at him questioningly, his hand suddenly slippery on the doorknob: “So?” Slick’s use of the recognition code “Black Widow” meant that it was the call they’d been waiting for—a go or no-go relayed from Ashmead’s staff headquarters.

Slick looked up at him gloomily: “It’s a no-go. Let’s pack up and get out of here.”

Ashmead’s stomach sank: “Then they’ve found another way that sits better with the Saudis—probably a shoot-down in international waters. Sure.”

Slick said nothing and Ashmead came back and began to strip, setting a stoic example but a silent one. If he opened his mouth again, all the resentment he felt for the Stateside desk jockeys who’d worked up a flow chart and subjected their data to analysis and then backed off would come pouring out. And Slick didn’t need to hear it.

They worked without a word, like automatons: Slick had very little time to pack up Elint’s electronics and the gas canisters whose lines Slick had fed with tubing through carefully drilled holes in the floor which exited above the ornate light fixtures in the ceilings of the rooms below.

They’d just finished wrestling the canisters into the huge steamer trunk they’d used to bring them upstairs when, once more, the phone rang.

“That’s Elint,” Slick predicted. “You tell him, Rafic. I haven’t got the stomach for it.”

Ashmead nodded and went slowly to the phone, picking it up on its fourth ring: “Scrub,” he said simply in English, not waiting for the party on the other end of the line to identify himself.

“What?” said a guarded female voice: “This is Black Web to Widow. Say again?”

Ashmead snapped: “What the fuck now?”

“We’ve got a priority mail package for you, Widow; just came in and it contradicts the last letter you got. I say again: your uncle has had a change of heart. You’re go.”

“Affirmative and understood, sweetheart. See you tomorrow.”

“That would be nice,” said the female voice, wistful now. “Tell your nephew good luck and I’ll be waiting for him.”

“Will do.”

Slick was watching him, narrow-eyed, hands on hips, by the time Ashmead cradled the phone gently. “Not Zaki?”

“Control. We got a priority override—Beck, I’ll bet a month’s expense-account vouchers. Well, don’t just stand there. Let’s put all this stuff back together again. Oh, yeah, that little girl of yours said to wish you good luck.”

Surveying the jumble of equipment in the trunk and the cords he’d thrown in at random, Slick said: “Yeah? That’s nice. We’re going to need it.”

Chapter 2

To most Foreign Service officers, even in the Mediterranean, word came earlier than it did to Marc Beck, who was babysitting a convention of genetic engineers with astronomical security clearances at a private estate on the Red Sea when an aide slipped him a note.

The State Department being what it was, the note was cryptic—SM/NSB B-1; RSVP—but the Israeli hand holding it out to him was as white as the paper and shaking like a leaf: one look at the blanched face of the Saiyeret commando was all Beck needed to confirm the urgency of the coded message.

The prefix SM was familiar, even routine: Shariah Mosque—Riyadh; following it, instead of an operation’s cryptonym, was the acronym for Nuclear Surface Blast; after that came the standard letter-number intelligence appraisal, B-1, which told Beck that the information was from a usually reliable source and confirmed by other sources; the RSVP appended was somebody’s cynical joke.

Given the above, he left the genetic engineers to their Israeli hosts and RSVP’d toward Jerusalem at a hundred eighty klicks per hour, eschewing a driver and pushing his Corps Diplomatique Plymouth well beyond the laws of man and physics in exactly the way every new diplomat was warned against when first posted overseas.

He would never remember the cars he ran off the road into the soft sand, and later into one another; he only remembered the sky, which he watched through his double-gradient aviator’s glasses for some sign of thermal shock wave, a flash of light, a mushroom cloud, a doomsday darkening in the southeast over the Gulf or northeast over Iran—and the radio, which was stubbornly refusing to confirm or deny what the little piece of State Department letterhead in his pocket said.

Beck wasn’t naive, but he couldn’t believe that the bombing of Saudi Arabia’s capital wasn’t newsworthy. Damn it to hell, Ashmead had ignored the pullback order and, though his report had been right, his tactics hadn’t: a Gulf war which could render radioactive every barrel of oil on which the West depended was likely to be the result.

So the Islamic Jihad had actually done it! Nobody believed they could—or would… nobody but a handful of Ashmead’s field-weary counterterrorists, who couldn’t write a grammatical report and didn’t seem to understand that a nuclear blast in Riyadh was simply unacceptable and, under the conditions the counterterrorists had detailed in their situation report, probably unavoidable as soon as any interdiction plan was undertaken. His mind reeling with possible implications, Beck tromped the gas pedal. He hoped to hell that by the time he reached Jerusalem Ashmead and his team of cowboy operatives had been pulled in by the ears and were waiting for him. He was going to personally kick Ashmead’s butt around the block.

Beck, in fifteen years of overseas postings, had never been party to an error of this magnitude. He’d signed off on a negative analysis of Ashmead’s intelligence, along with everyone else whose opinion he respected, with Beck’s own confidential notation appended that, despite Ashmead’s record and predilections, Ashmead would obey a simple pullback order if it was given—a tragic misjudgment of the covert actor’s character which had probably just destroyed years of productive relations between the US and the House of Saud. Beck had visions of himself standing rigidly while Aramco and Bechtel VPs helped his superiors decide just where Beck was going to be posted next—Greenland, if he was lucky; the Manchurian border, if he wasn’t.

Because Beck had loyally stood up for Ashmead when others had questioned the wisdom of assuming that the area’s Covert Action Staff Chief would simply follow orders, it wasn’t going to look nearly as bad in Beck’s superiors’ files as it was in his. He wheeled the competent Plymouth past an Israeli convoy on the move, their desert camouflage reminding him, if he needed the reminder, that he was posted in a war zone.

The worst that could happen, he decided, was that he’d be sent Stateside—headquarters wouldn’t sack the lot of them, even if the entire House of Saud was a puff of radioactive dust wafting over the Empty Quarter by now.

And that wouldn’t be all bad, as far as Beck was concerned—he was ready for a rest. He’d been here seventeen months as State’s liaison without portfolio, trying to reduce friction among the various intelligence services crawling over Israel like ants on a picnic table.

And he’d been doing pretty well—Ashmead had trusted Beck, and Ashmead didn’t trust anybody; Mossad and Shin Bet honchos invited Beck to weapons tests and gave him Saiyeret commandos, no questions asked, when he needed security boys, as he had for this conference—pretty well, until today.

Suddenly, wondering which way the wind was blowing, Beck focused through the Plymouth’s tinted glass on the sun-baked road ahead, blinked, then cranked the steering wheel around and the Plymouth went up on two wheels to avoid a woman and a donkey crossing the road directly in his path. Beyond them, eucalyptus whispered, their leaves shimmying in a white-hot breeze blowing steadily to the southeast.

Pretty well, Beck knew, wasn’t good enough when you were in the field. He had no doubt that, by qualifying CIA’s high-priority-flagged warning of an imminent terrorist attack on Home Plate and Ashmead’s ability to deal with it, the blame for this was going to end squarely in INR’s—more specifically Beck’s—lap.

Ashmead and his team had end-run themselves this time. Beck hoped to hell they hadn’t end-run the whole intelligence community—or the whole blessed US of A: a “Nuclear Incident” like this could start a damned war. Worse, it could destroy the all-important “liaison service” relationships American intelligence enjoyed with a host of other nations, if word got out that a field agent had ignored a pullback.

The thought made him nervous and he began punching buttons on the Plymouth’s multiband. When the radio chattered on blithely in Hebrew, Arabic and English of quotidian affairs between musical interludes, he could only assume that stringent Israeli security measures were in effect.

And that made good sense: only the parental and unceasing care of the US kept Israel from destruction by her enemies. But then again, it was ridiculous to assume that even the Israelis would censor news of this magnitude or that even Israeli paranoia could look at what had happened in Riyadh and assume it meant the destruction of the State of Israel. So it had to be something more: sensitive negotiations to keep the true situation top secret must be in progress.

And this, finally, cracked Beck’s calm: in the air-conditioned sedan, he began to sweat. If Ashmead had really fucked up, and the bomb went off in downtown Riyadh, not only might the US have to pack up and go home, so far as the Gulf States were concerned, at least, and probably throughout the Middle East, but retaliation became a real possibility: if the Saudis demanded American help or used American weapons to go after Libya, Iran, and the Palestinians headquartered now in Jordan with nuclear or even conventional weapons, Beck was in on the beginning of World War III—the Soviets couldn’t stand by and let their client states take it on their collective chin.

By the time he careened into East Jerusalem, Beck was getting visual confirmation of a mobilized Israel and a deep security hush in place: too many of the wrong kind of official vehicles on the streets; too few of others.

Driving up to the new temporary American Consulate, he was praying in nonsectarian fashion for the English-language radio commentator to drop even a hint of the nuking of Riyadh—if it went public, that was a sign that repercussions had been or could be contained.

But it wasn’t forthcoming. He told himself that there was no way it could be as bad as he was assuming it might be—a state of actual war in the Gulf ought to leak, even in Israel.

RSVP. Right. Check.

A pair of stone-faced Marines stopped him at the compound gates, their M16s on full auto. It was the weapons which told him for sure, before one Marine said, “I guess you know we’d really appreciate a confirm or deny on this, Sir, if and when you can—some sort of prognosis, damage estimates….”

“As soon as I know, Sergeant. What are all those people doing in there?” Beyond the guardpost, a queue of civilians had formed. Beck could imagine what the Americans in their rumpled polyesters wanted—emergency travel arrangements home; he was just trying to cover his own confusion.

A glance in the rearview mirror showed him a taxi pulling up and a woman with a boyish haircut and the custom-tailored bush jacket of a press type getting out, a carryall in hand. Her face was pale and her jaw squared.

“Just citizens, sir; and newsies. You know you can’t keep something like this… rumors, that is… quiet long,” said the Marine sergeant thickly.

When Beck looked up at the guard, he saw that the man’s chin had doubled and his lips were white. “Hey there,” Beck caught the Marine’s gaze and held it, “this isn’t Teheran. And anyway… when the going gets tough… Right?”

The Marine squared his shoulders: “That’s right, Sir,” he replied. “As long as we’ve got a compound to protect… well, you know—it’s got us.”

Haven’t lost your touch, anyway, Beck told himself.

By then the woman with the carryall was hiking up the drive, hallooing and breaking into a trot. She had on sensible tennis shoes and the bag was now over her shoulder.

Beck was about to put the Plymouth in gear when she put a hand holding a cassette recorder on its fender, then on the half-open glass of his window: “American Consular Corps?” Her voice was husky, but it might have been from emotion. She ducked her head to peer into his car and he decided she was very pretty—she shielded her eyes and said, “Thank God… I saw the CD on your car… look, let me go in with you. I can’t stand in that line. I’ve got to get a statement. Please?”

The Marine was telling her with firm politeness not to bother Beck and the way was clear before him, the Plymouth idling. All he had to do was drive on.

But the woman was grasping the window, ignoring the Marine, leaning in so that the press credentials on her breast pocket were easy for him to read: The New York Times. “Come on,” she said insis tently, “give a fellow countryman some help: we’ve had a report of a nuclear bomb going off at the Riyadh airport. Can you confirm or deny? What’s the chance of it touching off a war, Mister—?”

Newsie or not, she was exceptionally pretty. And she’d given him a piece of information. “Ms…. Patrick, you know I can’t help you. You’ll have to stand on line with the others. As for a statement, I’m afraid I can’t comment at this point in time.” He gave her a cool smile and from the driver’s side pushed the button that caused the electric passenger window to roll slowly upward.

Taking her hand away, she said hopefully through the closing window, “Maybe later, then, Mister—?” as the Marine took her firmly by the shoulder and Beck accelerated away from the guardpost toward his parking slot.

As he walked around toward the front of the building he got a glimpse, through the open window of Dickson’s office, of Ashmead, his deputy, and the leonine head of the Ambassador himself.

It was going to be one hell of a hairy meeting, with the Ambassador in attendance. The only consolations Beck could think of were that Ashmead and his deputy were alive to take the blame and that the meeting wasn’t taking place in Tel Aviv—a sign that no one had any intention of making more of this mess than was absolutely necessary.

The RSVP had been an invitation to this “party” at which a cover story would be developed—that meant that they were going to need one, and that meant that State and Defense and CIA had decided the matter was containable.

No longer worried that he’d been instrumental in starting World War III, Beck began to get angry. Ashmead and his deputy better have a damned good explanation for jumping that order.

Inside—once he’d threaded his way through the confusion of nervous tourists who had no intention of spending any longer than necessary in the volatile Middle East now that there’d been a nuclear incident, and reporters slavering for details—he learned that Ashmead didn’t have any explanation whatsoever.

“I’ve got a goddamned tape on its way here from my station of the priority go order as it came in from Langley,” Ashmead was saying through gritted teeth, his big hands trying to strangle the windowsill, as Beck came in and closed the door behind him.

Ashmead’s deputy, whom Beck knew only by dossier, nodded from where he leaned insolently in a corner, arms folded across his chest.

“And I lost a man better than any of you,” Ashmead continued, “at the airport—my electronics specialist, Zaki. And the last thing I want to hear is that that kid’s relatives aren’t going to get suitable compensation because of some fucking internecine squabble or glitch in the chain of command or—worse—that you gutless wonders have decided to put new meaning into the term ‘total deniability.’ We got our orders and we followed them. That’s what we’re paid to do, folks,” Ashmead flashed a look of fond commiseration at Beck.

The Ambassador turned away from Ashmead with a shake of his huge head and said, patting his white mane, to Beck: “Marc, it seems we have a bit of a problem, as you may have gathered. Langley says you sent them a priority override, a go order on your authority. Did you? Without consult ing anyone, not me or Chief Dickson or anyone whomsoever?”

“What? ” Beck was astonished. “Jesus.” He looked around for a vacant chair, realized that there were none because the three extras in the room were taken by others he didn’t know—a honey-haired girl, a lanky pilot in a baseball cap, and a tall Semite with shooter’s eyes, all of whom were watching him as he went to Dickson’s desk and stood before it.

Beck’s chief wouldn’t meet his eyes, but it was the fond look Ashmead had shot him which made him understand exactly what was happening.

He considered for a moment trying to avoid the consequences, keeping up a protest that there had been an error though it was clear enough that someone, somewhere, had decided that the buck was going to stop with him.

Then he stopped trying to get Dickson, who was heroically suppressing a smirk, to meet his eyes and turned to the Ambassador.

“Mister Ambassador, I think we ought to consider what the consequences would have been if that nuke had gone off in Washington, don’t you? And get started with a damage assessment so that we can do whatever is possible to minimize repercussions? Containment has to be our top priority. I’m sure Ashmead’s contacts in Riyadh are security-minded. No one else has to know that American intelligence officers were involved. If we can leak this as an Islamic Jihad-sponsored terrorist action against the Arab moderates, we ought to be able to turn it to our advantage.”

Dickson snorted.

Beck ignored him: Beck could always go into the private sector, if this didn’t work. Muffy had been after him to do that for years.

“So you don’t deny taking matters into your own hands, Marc?” the Ambassador said slowly, his face reddening.

“How can I, Ambassador?”

Behind him, Beck heard the fellow with the baseball cap on backwards whisper to the woman beside him: “Told you. Rafic’s never wrong.”

From the window, Ashmead gave Beck a thumb’s up.

Chapter 3

Chris Patrick was still waiting outside the Jerusalem US Consulate when Mercedes 600 limousines with privacy glass began to pull up out front.

Beside her was a sandy-haired BBC correspondent with whom she’d shared a passionate night under fire in Samaria and who, because he’d been a standup correspondent in the Middle East for five years and, some said, a stringer for British Intelligence, knew who was whom among the players of the various diplomatic corps.

When the Ambassador and his entourage began to file out of the mission to duck into the waiting limos, she was carried forward with the Brit and his cameraman and had just enough time to point out the impeccably-attired diplomat she’d accosted at the gatepost and ask her sometimes-lover, “Who’s that?”

“That? That’s sodding Marc Beck, State’s won der boy. Don’t bother with him, he won’t give you the time of day—he’s INR as well as an Assistant Secretary in charge of no-one-knows-what.”

Then the Brit was shoving his mike in the Ambassador’s face and the cameraman muscled her aside with a muttered, “Sorry, then, but you’ll excuse me,” and the shove moved her up one step to where Beck was drifting sideways through the security men, briefcase in hand, toward a second limousine whose door was already open.

“Secretary Beck!” she called as she charged toward him, stumbling on a step.

A strong hand caught her by the elbow, before her knees hit the stone, and helped her to her feet.

Then Marc Beck was staring at her quizzically, and electricity shot through her as if her cassette deck had shorted.

“You must be more careful, Ms. Patrick,” he said in an amused, but not taunting, voice.

His hand was still on her arm; it was his left hand and there was no wedding band on it.

Then he let her go and she looked back at his face. “A statement?” she asked hopefully. “From an unidentified State Department source?”

He chuckled briefly: “Sorry, Ms. Patrick. Your sources are too good as it is. Now, you’ll have to excuse me….”

And he ducked into his limousine along with a heavy-set, rough-featured man who wore a rumpled suit, and the car drew away with the purr of German automotive excellence.

She stood watching it, thinking that at least he hadn’t given her a brusque “No comment,” and that, in a town as small as Jerusalem, she was sure to run into him again.