The Scorpion's Gate

2

The lead and chase Chevy Suburbans pulled to the curb after being waved through the first checkpoint near the Ellipse. The black Chrysler 300M they had protected moved swiftly to the second guardhouse. The uniformed Secret Service officer dropped the metal V barrier designed to stop an eighteen-wheel tractor-trailer.

MacIntyre watched his young analyst’s eyes grow big as they approached the fence line and the large gates that opened onto West Executive Avenue. “Ever been to the White House before, Susan?” he asked.

“Just on the tourist line in high school. Red Room, Blue Room, Green Room, but we never saw anything over here.” Susan Connor fumbled for her badge as MacIntyre showed his to the Secret Service officer through the car window.

“Well, the thing to remember is it’s just a government building filled with civil servants — and, of course, the guy who lives above

the shop.” The car stopped outside an awning-covered set of double doors that led to the basement, or ground level, of the West Wing. “You’ll be amazed at how small everything in the West Wing is. It’s a one-hundred-year-old building that hasn’t been enlarged in half a century.

“This street, West Executive Avenue? It’s the most sought-after parking lot in town. Tourists and local residents used to walk down it whenever they wanted to. Now it’s behind three layers of security. Most of the White House staff is actually in this big building behind us,” he said, pointing at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, the EOB. “At one time, the entire Departments of War, Navy, and State fit into the EOB. That was when an Army general named Dwight Eisenhower would go get a voucher to pay for the trolley ride to Capitol Hill when he had to brief the Senate Armed Services Committee.”

As MacIntyre spoke of the military leadership of seventy-five years before, the motorcade of the current civilian leader of the Pentagon screeched to a halt in front of the West Wing awning. Surrounded by civilian and military aides with briefcases and binders, Secretary of Defense Henry Conrad alighted from his armored Lincoln Navigator and strode through the open doors with barely a glance at MacIntyre and Connor, all the while jabbing his finger at another man.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Susan snorted. “Who was the horse’s ass on the receiving end?”

“That was the go-to guy, by far the most important of the many faceless princelings who do the bidding of the great one,” MacIntyre said. “Sorry. I mean, that was Under Secretary of Defense Ronald Kashigian, getting reamed out for something by his highness, the National Command Authority.”

Connor shot her boss a glance. “I thought the President was the National Command Authority.”

“Half right. The President and the Secretary of Defense are both the NCA. Either can give orders for the use of force, including nuclear force.” Seeing Susan screw up her face in doubt, Rusty explained, “It’s meant to make a decapitation attack difficult, and also to prevent a slow response as someone tracks down the President while he’s getting his picture taken with the Red Sox again. Let’s go in.”

Once inside the ground level of the West Wing, Susan was surprised that the hallways were dark, with low ceilings. A Secret Service guard in a blue blazer asked to see their badges and checked their names on a computer as young White House staffers breezed by with food trays. MacIntyre continued his tour-guide role. “The White House Mess is down the hall. It’s a Navy-run restaurant that also does take-out for busy staffers who prove their importance by eating at their desks. Navy does the Mess, Air Force flies Air Force One, the Marines fly the chopper, and the Army runs the comms.”

“You worked here once, didn’t you?” Susan asked her boss.

“Clinton National Security Council Staff for three years,” Rusty whispered.

“I won’t tell a soul,” Susan whispered back.

They walked down a few steps and turned to face a wooden door, a television camera, and a telephone. On the door was a large colored plaster-of-paris Seal of the President of the United States and a brass plaque reading, “Situation Room, Restricted Access.” Rusty picked up the phone and looked into the camera. “MacIntyre plus one.” The door buzzed and they walked into a cramped anteroom.

Off the anteroom was a small, wood-paneled conference room. Ten large leather seats were forced in tightly around the solid, onepiece wooden table. A brass sign holder sat in front of every seat with a name of a principal, or member of the Cabinet-level National Security Council’s Principals Committee. A dozen smaller seats lined the walls. On the wall above the chair at the head of the table there was another presidential seal. In one corner Susan noticed a closed-circuit camera behind a darkened glass globe. A door with a peephole was in another corner. A large white phone console sat on a sideboard near the head of the table. The far wall had three digital clocks: “Baghdad,” “Zulu,” and “POTUS.” Zulu, Susan knew, was military speak for Greenwich Mean Time, or London. Doing the math quickly, she realized that today POTUS was Los Angeles time, the President of the United States was on a West Coast swing. POTUS time was whatever time zone the commander in chief occupied. “I never saw the final talking points for your boss’s meeting with the Chinese Premier,” Defense Secretary Conrad was complaining as he leaned over the table across from Deputy Secretary of State Rose Cohen. “You guys have to be tough with those bastards. They are after the same oil we are.” Cohen was sitting in for the Secretary of State, who was in Asia. Before she could even start to respond, Dr. William Caulder, the National Security Advisor, moved quickly into the room and sat at the head of the table, under the President’s seal.

“Let’s begin. This is mainly about China, but we will do some current odds and ends as well.” He opened a loose-leaf binder to the agenda. Reading aloud, he ticked off the business at hand. “China: strategic assessment and then Chinese missiles in Islamyah, MacIntyre, IAC; bombings in Bahrain, Peters, National Counterterrorism Center; Bright Star Exercise, General Burns, and then you wanted to raise a restricted item, Henry?” The National Security Advisor looked above his half-glasses at the Secretary of Defense, who nodded back.

Like Deputy Secretary of State Rose Cohen, MacIntyre was also standing in for his bosses, Sol Rubenstein at the IAC and Anthony Giambi, the Director of National Intelligence, both of whom had begun skipping more and more of the contentious sessions. Rusty had, therefore, briefed the Principals Committee many times before. The PC, as it was known, was all the National Security Council members except for the President and Vice President. If the national security departments and agencies made up one big conglomerate, then the PC was their board of directors.

“Okay, first, the summary of the latest intelligence estimate on China, a briefing from the Intelligence Analysis Center, Mr. MacIntyre,” the National Security Advisor intoned, sounding as though he were chairing someone’s Ph.D. oral exam.

As MacIntyre opened his briefing book, a wooden panel receded into the wall, revealing a large plasma screen. On it flashed the first slide of his briefing, “China Emboldened by Economic Power.” He began, “The stunning economic growth that China experienced over the last decade has enabled it to modernize its cities, create a domestic automobile industry that is now successfully exporting here, develop its own impressive technological research capability, and deploy a potent, although smaller, military.” Pictures of the Beijing Olympics venues, the Gwangju skyline, and a research park appeared on the screen, followed by charts showing China’s dramatic economic growth.

“With this progress has come the usual downsides of modernization, including social disruption, particularly in rural areas and in the old industrial cities, industrial and vehicular air pollution, and, most important, a growth in their oil and gas requirements. As you can see from this chart, China is now a close second to the United States in oil and gas imports. It may surpass us in the next two years. They are still well below us in electricity generated per capita, so we can expect the import curve to continue up as they will need more gas to generate higher amounts of electricity.

“This makes China dependent, again, on Russia and the former Soviet states in central Asia, from which they get the bulk of their oil and gas imports. Intelligence sources report that the Chinese leadership does not like that dependence and is seeking to diversify its sources. That may be why we see their new presence in Islamyah, which I will get to in a minute.” MacIntyre realized he had their rapt attention.

As Rusty was about to launch into the military brief, Treasury Secretary Fulton Winters seemed to awaken and broke the trance Rusty had induced on the Principals. Winters usually stopped rolling his tie up and down long enough to deliver one delphic pronouncement per meeting.

“Usually people talk about the Chinese military threat to America,” Winters began. “There really isn’t one. The Chinese economy is tied completely to ours. We are their market. Now, it’s true that they hold most of our government debt through purchases of T-notes and, theoretically, they could sell them or stop buying them. That would spike inflation here and probably burst the real estate bubble. But they won’t”—Winters smiled—“because an economic divorce would hurt them much more than it would us.”

No one commented. Winters returned to rolling his tie.

Rusty continued, “Well, actually, one of the more surprising strategic developments has been the growth of the Chinese navy. For decades, they had utilized Soviet castoffs and small, lowtechnology coastal ships such as frigates and destroyers. Then they bought some modern cruisers and primitive aircraft carriers from Ukraine and Russia. Now, within the last five years, they have put into service three modern, indigenously designed aircraft carriers with strike and fighter aircraft, the Zheng He, the Hung Bao, and the Zhou Man. They also built a port at Gwadar in Pakistan, at the mouth of the Persian Gulf.

“They have also launched their own air defense cruisers and nuclear-powered submarines. The visit of their Zhou Man carrier battle group to Sydney last year gave us a good chance to take a closeup look in many ways, and these are impressive ships,” MacIntyre said, showing photographs of the Chinese ships at port in Australia.

“Zhou Man sounds like something my fourteen-year-old son would say,” General Burns joked.

“Actually, General, Zhou Man was a Chinese admiral whose fleet explored Australia and much more around 1420,” MacIntyre replied. “The other carriers are also named for admirals from the 1400s whose fleets explored the Pacific and Indian oceans. The message in the names is that the Chinese navy once ruled the world’s seas supreme and may again. But enough about the Chinese navy: to more immediate matters…” MacIntyre said, hitting the clicker that brought up a new image on the flat screen.

It was a stunningly vivid picture of the missile base in Islamyah. Rusty began his presentation. “IAC analysts discovered this new Chinese-made missile complex in Islamyah two days ago. It appears ready to go operational. In 1987 the Saudis secretly acquired Chinese medium-range missiles. Confronted by the Reagan administration, they pledged that the missiles would not be nuclear-armed. The CEP of those missiles was such that they could have done little damage to anyone, except perhaps their own launch crews who handled the liquid fuel in the aboveground launch facilities.”

The National Security Advisor, who was reading his briefing book, looked up above his glasses. “CEP?”

“Circular error probability, Billy. It’s their accuracy,” the Secretary of Defense chided. “Go on, go on,” he said, flicking his wrist at MacIntyre.

“Now, two decades later, replacement missiles show up. Some mobile missiles on trucks and some silo-based, solid-fuel, highly accurate. In the Chinese strategic forces, they carry nuclear weapons, three per missile. Intelligence indicates that there are twenty-three hundred Chinese personnel at the main base, in the middle of the Empty Quarter. We estimate twenty-four missiles on launchers, probably some reloads.

“Beyond their military value, this secret deployment indicates that the Chinese have a much closer relationship with the revolutionary regime in Riyadh than we had earlier estimated. Although the missiles were originally ordered by the al Sauds, the delivery and deployment went ahead in secret after the revolution. We believe that the cash-strapped Islamyah government, suffering from our sanctions, is paying in oil.

“There is no indication yet from a variety of special intelligence programs and sources, nothing that indicates the presence of any nuclear weapons. We estimate that China would be reluctant to provide such warheads in violation of the Nuclear Proliferation Treaty and that the accuracy of these weapons is such that…”

“Bullshit, MacIntyre!” Secretary of Defense Conrad interrupted, leaning forward once again, his scowling face and dark eyes focused like a laser on Rusty. “What the fuck do you think they bought these things for, Chinese fireworks for Ramadan?” The Situation Room was suddenly still; all eyes were on the SECDEF, who continued his tirade.

“I’m telling you that these al Qaeda murderers in Riyadh are out to get nuclear capability. Maybe Beijing won’t give them the bomb, maybe. But they can get it from the nuts in North Korea or their al Qaeda East buddies in Pakistan. You mean to tell me those guys in Islamabad won’t sell their ideological brethren a few of their bombs? Hell, A. Q. Khan was doing it a decade ago out of the Pakistani larder.” No one spoke as Conrad shook his head and pursed his lips. “IAC just doesn’t understand the threat these regimes pose.”

Finally, MacIntyre raised his hand with two fingers up and spoke slowly but forcefully. “I disagree, for two reasons. First, these weapons were clearly ordered by our friends the al Sauds while they were in power. The lead time is such that they could not have been both ordered and delivered in the year since the Sauds were thrown out. Second, only a Chinese-made warhead could be mated to these missiles. You can’t just take a big Pakistani aerial bomb and fit it on a CSS-27. These things are precision weapons. I think for now what we have is a very accurate, high-explosive delivery system, a blockbuster in the original sense of the term, a weapon that has been brought in to deter Iran by bringing downtown Tehran under range of conventionally armed missiles.”

The Secretary of Defense emitted a sound, “Pfffft,” as he flipped through his briefing book.

“Well then, thank you, Russell. Now the bombings in Bahrain. NCTC?”

National Counter Terrorism Center Director Sean Peters described the techniques used in the attack on the hotels in Bahrain, the effects, and a possible culprit. “Most likely Iran’s Qods Force, or Jerusalem Force, a combination covert-operations and special-forces group that has been active in bombings in Bahrain and elsewhere in the Gulf for years,” Peters concluded.

“Nonsense! Dr. Caulder, I despair of these supposed intelligence briefings. It wasn’t the Iranians.” This time the SECDEF actually pounded the table. “Ron, tell ’em. After all, they were trying to kill you.”

From the back bench behind Secretary Conrad, Under Secretary Ronald Kashigian cleared his throat and stood. The thick glasses and buzz-cut hair made Kashigian look like a college basketball coach. “Well, I was in the hotel as it was attacked. And our intelligence people assume I was the target.” Red was rising into his ears. “They, the experts in the region, say this was definitely the Islamygians… Riyadh.” Kashigian sat back down.

“We are convinced, Billy,” the Secretary of Defense said, stabbing his finger in the air at the National Security Advisor, “that this al Qaeda regime in Riyadh is sending a message to King Hamad in Bahrain to kick the Americans out, or else they will destabilize the place with bombings like these. These people are not satisfied with just their fanatical caliphate in Saudi Arabia; they want to export their revolution throughout the Gulf!”

Dr. Caulder, a former University of Chicago professor who had stepped in as National Security Advisor six months ago after his predecessor had suddenly died of a stroke, asked meekly, “Who do the Bahrainis think did it?”

The NCTC Director stood at his seat along the wall, said, “They don’t know, Dr. Caulder,” and sat down.

“Well then, moving on, maybe we can agree on, what is it, Exercise Bright Star? General Burnside.”

“Burns, sir.” The handsome and relaxed Air Force four-star had spent a career flying and was now the second most senior military officer in the United States, the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Bright Star is a CENTCOM exercise series with the Gypoes, ah, the Egyptians, going back over twenty-five years.

“It lapsed for a while and in recent years has only been carried out on a small scale, but now with the revolution in Saudi, Cairo is interested in a show of force in the Red Sea, to demonstrate to Riyadh that Egypt has the full military support of the United States, just in case the Islamyah government is thinking about exporting their revolution to Egypt.

“We plan the largest amphibious operation in recent history, the largest airborne drop, and one of the largest bombing exercises we have ever had. Three MAUs, Marine Amphibious Units, will go ashore at three points along the Egyptian Red Sea coast, about fifteen thousand men.” He used a laser pointer to put a red dot on the flat screen. “Two brigades of the 82nd Airborne will drop in behind the beachhead, about nine thousand personnel. The target areas will be softened up by Air Force B-1s and B-2s from CONUS and by Navair from the Bush and the Reagan battle groups in the Red Sea.

“The Marines and Airborne will link up with the Egyptian First and Second Armored Divisions and then move up the Nile Valley in a combined operation to demonstrate interoperability. All of this will be done in a way that allows the folks in Riyadh to see on TV and through their sources what the awesome firepower of the United States of America can do.” General Burns turned off his laser.

“Any questions of General Burns? No? Then thank you all. If I could ask everybody to leave except the principal or acting principal from each agency,” Dr. Caulder said.

“I’ll meet you in the car, Susan.” MacIntyre turned from the table and whispered to his analyst, who had been back-benching behind him.

After the shuffling had settled down, National Security Advisor Caulder turned to the Secretary of Defense. “What was it, Henry, that you wanted to talk about in a smaller group?”

Tall and broad-shouldered, Conrad, dressed in what appeared to be an expensive double-breasted suit, radiated overflowing energy, fidgeting in his seat. “Well, it’s just very sensitive, you know, Billy,” Conrad said in a softer tone than he had used to the full house. “The reason I was so adamant, MacIntyre, I’m sorry, is that we have sources, really good sources, inside the PLA, the Chinese People’s Liberation Army.

“These sources tell us that there was an order given to the PLA and its navy to prepare to send, secretly, a division of infantry to Saudi using roll-on/roll-off cargo ships and, get this, Air China 777s. The movement is to be protected by a Chinese navy expeditionary force, including two of the new aircraft carriers, accompanied by their cruisers with their new antiship missile, and their subs.

“The naval movement will be couched as a show-the-flag thing, with port calls in Perth, Pakistan, and then in the Saudis’ ports.

“ ’Course it will scare the shit out of the Gulfies, I mean the smaller Gulf states, and Iran and drive the Indians bonkers, which is good for us, but all in all this is a bad deal. Red Chinese infantry in Saudi. Their fleet in the Indian Ocean for the first time.

“See, this is why I don’t think it’s impossible that they will deliver the nuclear warheads to accompany MacIntyre’s missiles. When there are lots of Chinese troops in country, they can deliver the nuclear warheads for the missiles because they think we won’t bomb a bunch of Chinese troops.

“They are bucking up this I-Salamie regime when it is new and weak, just to get long-term access to all the oil they got there.

“Here we are depleting the strategic oil reserve, freezing from Michigan to Maine, because we sanctioned Saudi oil. Paying top dollar in the spot market, where we are probably buying the Saudi oil anyway but getting it from middlemen. We’re pumping Alaska dry, dealing with the very people who told us to get out of Iraq, and the Chinkos are going to lock up Saudi oil in long-term deals protected by their goddamn army!”

Once again, the Secretary had silenced the Situation Room.

“When is this supposed to happen?” Deputy Secretary Cohen asked meekly.

“Sometime in March,” the SECDEF answered without any hesitation. “We may have to confront them, block them from getting their troop ships into the Gulf.”

Deputy Secretary Cohen had had enough and slapped her hand on the conference table. “There is absolutely no legal authority for you to do that, Henry. It would be an act of war to embargo military shipments, like the Cuban Missile Crisis, which almost ended in a nuclear war. What the hell are you after, a war with China, a nuclear war?” she asked.

“There is a draft finding, which I wrote,” Conrad responded. “It’s now on the President’s desk. It will order us to overthrow those murdering, fanatic pretenders in Riyadh. We could add the naval embargo to that decision package. We need to act before the Chinese take over. The Chinese will back down in the face of firm U.S. action. They know we could sink their entire fleet in an hour. And the Indians would help us, too.” Secretary Conrad slammed closed his briefing book.

“Dr. Caulder, I know of no such finding,” said Cohen, almost quivering with anger as she turned with indignation to the National Security Advisor.

“That’s because you’re not cleared for it, dear,” Conrad sneered as he got up from the table and pushed his way out of the Situation Room.

The National Security Advisor turned to Rose Cohen and said, “It’s not under active consideration, Rose. That’s why he’s so mad.” Dr. Caulder then quickly followed Secretary Conrad out of the Situation Room, leaving his briefing book on the table and calling, “Henry, wait up.”

“Well, I guess that means this meeting is over,” Rusty said to no one in particular. Kashigian, who had stayed when the other backbenchers left, brushed by MacIntyre, bumping his shoulder. “Don’t get in the way of this, MacIntyre. Otherwise you and your boss Rubenstein will be on the wrong end of history, if you know what I mean.”

“I have no idea what any of what you just said means, but it sounded like you threatened me,” MacIntyre said in a loud voice so that others could hear.

“Just swim in your own lane, okay?” Kashigian said, and he spun about as he left the Sit Room, moving quickly to catch up with the SECDEF and the motorcade waiting outside.

The Situation Room conference room was suddenly empty. MacIntyre headed over to the Mess, where he stood at the take-out window and ordered two frozen yogurts. Balancing the two cups on a tray and his briefing book under his arm, he walked outside past the Secret Service guards, and headed over to Susan Connor, who was standing next to the black Chrysler on West Exec.

“Rusty, it’s February. Who the hell eats ice cream in February?” Susan blurted out.

“Glad to see you got over the Mr. MacIntyre thing. They’re yogurts, not ice cream, and after that meeting I wanted to cool down,” MacIntyre said, handing her a cup.

“They’re nuts, boss,” Susan said, taking the cup of frozen yogurt. “The whole damn Pentagon is nuts!”

The two got into the warm, waiting car. “The Pentagon is a building with about thirty thousand people. The Defense Department is about three million. Not all of them are nuts.” Rusty spooned the yogurt as the Chrysler and its two escort vehicles pulled out through the Eisenhower Building’s courtyard and crossed through a second courtyard to exit onto 17th Street. A Secret Service agent threw the traffic lights to red for the outside street traffic to stop as the lead Suburban pulled out of the gate.

“Well, their Secretary certainly is certifiable,” Susan chortled. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Welcome to the big leagues.” MacIntyre smiled. “You missed the best part. Secretary Conrad is so gung-ho to get the Sauds back on the throne that he is willing to risk a shooting war with China. In the next few weeks.”

“Where does he get off acting like God made him Viceroy of Earth?” Susan lisped, her tongue now frozen from the yogurt. “Where’d we get him anyway? Does he have pictures of the President and a goat or something?”

“He was a takeover expert on Wall Street. Buy an ailing company on the cheap, fix it, then sell it for a multiple of six or seven what he paid for it.” MacIntyre looked out of the car at the few tourists on the sidewalk, all trying to see what big shot was in the car leaving the White House. “Then he ran for Governor of Pennsylvania, where he’s from. Some Main Line blueblood, out to ‘help the people help themselves.’ Or so his campaign claimed. Supposedly turned Pennsylvania around, too. And he delivered the state to the President, along with three hundred million in Wall Street cash. The President thinks Conrad is brilliant.”

“What magic are you going to do?” she asked, again serious.

“As Otter told the boys of Delta Tau Chi, it’s time for a road trip.” MacIntyre took a big bite of the frozen yogurt as their car sped past the Corcoran Gallery and headed toward Foggy Bottom.

Susan Connor frowned. “Was that some kind of seventies reference?”

Returning to the Intelligence Analysis Center, MacIntyre went straight for his boss’s office to debrief him on the meeting. Sol Rubenstein was poring over a draft analysis on North Korea. Without looking up, he welcomed his young deputy with “So I hear you got into a little contretemps with the almighty Secretary of Defense.”

“Word travels fast,” Rusty said, plunking down into one of the two chairs next to the desk.

“I got good sources,” Rubenstein replied, coming around into the other chair. “Rosie called me from the car. She said you stood up to him, the son of a bitch. Good for you. Fuck him.”

Rusty smiled at the support from his boss. “I don’t believe his Defense Intelligence source about the Chinese. Selling missiles is one thing, but sending troops to prop up Islamyah, and then the nutty idea they would give them nukes. Shit, I don’t believe that Islamyah would even ask for that kind of help. More infidels in their holy land?” MacIntyre said, leaning toward his boss.

“I dunno, Rusty, I dunno. Stranger things have happened. It’s possible, it’s possible,” the Director of IAC mused. “Listen, if you were running Islamyah, wouldn’t you want some protection right now? Your weapons don’t work because the Americans all left and won’t send parts. Secretary Conrad is giving a speech a week about how bad the people in Riyadh are. The Iranians are screwing around in Bahrain again. Tehran’s got the Iraqis on their side now. Who knows?”

“I feel like there are an awful lot of moving parts right now, too many pieces on the chessboard, three-level chess,” MacIntyre suggested.

“There are. Lotta balls in the air at the moment. That’s when America needs really good analysis,” Rubenstein said, and then he sat up straight. “Here’s what I suggest you do. Fly over to London. They have smart guys there on this stuff, with good contacts, better than ours, stuff they don’t share through normal liaison channels with CIA. For someone of your rank, they’ll open up. Besides, it’ll give you a chance to buy Sarah something nice on Portobello Road. She’s into antiques, right?”

“You are well informed,” Rusty said, rising out of his chair. “Does someone of my rank get to fly first class this time?”

“No, business class,” Rubenstein said, going back to his papers on North Korea.

MacIntyre walked up to Rubenstein’s desk and quietly placed a small blue device on it.

“What the hell is that?” Rubenstein asked.

“It’s a BlackBerry. It’s already programmed for you with a Yahoo account in your name. It’s also programmed to send me PGPencrypted e-mail at a Yahoo address that only you and a few others know. In short, it’s our own private communications system. I’ll stay in touch that way while I’m on the road.” MacIntyre handed him the BlackBerry.

“I’ll never figure out how to work it,” Rubenstein said, holding the device as if it were some extraterrestrial artifact.

“I know. One of my new analysts will help you. Susan Connor— very tech-savvy. Unlike some.” MacIntyre laughed as he walked toward the door.

Finally, Rubenstein looked up. “You don’t mind, do you, going to talk to the Brits?”

“I already told Debbie to book the flight,” Rusty said. “Just came in here to persuade you.”

“Argh,” the Director bellowed. “Get the fuck out of here!”

“Dr. Rashid, I am so glad you have joined us, and I want you to know that if there is anything we can do to help you get settled, you have only to ask.” The cute young Pakistani nurse was positively effusive as she said good night to the new doctor. It was the end of Ahmed’s first shift and he was bone-tired, but he could not rest. He had a lot more to do tonight.

Ahmed bin Rashid walked to the nearly empty parking lot and started the battered Nissan that had been waiting for him, along

with the apartment, along with the job. His brother’s people had seen to everything. He drove to his apartment building on the Manama Corniche and parked on the street, near the long coastal promenade, with its sweeping views of the bay. Entering the lobby of the modern structure, he went down the stairs to the basement and exited into the alley behind the building. There he found the motorbike where someone had left it for him. He drove it three miles to an old high-rise apartment block on the al Lulu Road near the Central Market. Ahmed entered the building through the service door, conveniently left unlocked. As soon as he stepped through the portal, a pair of hands grabbed him by his shoulders and spun him around, locking him in a tight grip just above the elbows. Stunned, his eyes unfocused in the dark, Ahmed tried to pull away, but whoever was holding him was much stronger.

“A moment, please, Doctor,” a voice said calmly in Arabic. An instant later, another pair of hands expertly patted him down.

The men were apparently satisfied. The lock on Ahmed’s arms abruptly released, and the voice spoke again. “This way.”

The two men moved ahead and, with his vision adjusting to the dark, Ahmed followed the shapes becoming clear before him. As his racing heartbeat returned to normal, he gave silent thanks that he hadn’t embarrassed himself by acting like a scared little girl before what he presumed was his personal collection of spies.

Ahmed followed the man through another door and into a dimly lit basement storage room. Three more men were waiting. Now, he thought, now it begins. Suddenly, he was no longer tired.

The man who had grabbed him turned and spoke. “Welcome, brother. We are your team. My name is Saif, and we await your orders.” The man had broad shoulders and the look of a bodybuilder. Ahmed guessed Saif was in his mid-to late twenties, which probably made him the oldest of the group of young men.

Ahmed caught his breath, painfully aware that despite the fact that he was the amateur in the room, they were waiting for him to take charge, because he was supposed to be in charge. “Why don’t we start by each of you telling me where you work and how you came to the cause.”

They were all Bahraini Sunni, but not from the wealthiest families. They were from the second tier of Bahraini society, for whom good higher education was hard to come by, for whom good jobs were scarcer yet. Three had gone to religious training in Riyadh four and five years earlier. There they’d been recruited and sent back to Bahrain, where they had brought in two old friends.

“We are a small cell, but we believe there are other cells,” the one who was their leader, Saif bin Razaq, said. Ahmed said nothing. “Our strength is in the nature of our penetrations,” Saif continued, pointing to each man in turn. “We work at the travel office at the American Navy base, the telephone switching center for overseas calls, the Foreign Ministry, the airport, and I work at an Iranian import/export office in Sitra. It is actually a front for the Qods Force.”

“But why do you run these risks for us? What do you hope for?” Ahmed asked, straining to see the faces of the five zealots in the dim light.

“Not for you, Doctor, for Allah,” Fadl, the youngest-looking one, said softly. “We want Bahrain to be part of the new Islamyah. Now Bahrain is run by one family, who are Sunnis, yes, but they are threatened by the Shi’a majority here.”

“Iran is helping the Shi’a,” Saif joined in. “The mullahs have sworn that they will add Bahrain to Iran, just as the Shah wanted to do thirty years ago. Liberate the majority Shi’a from oppression. Tppt.” He spit on the floor. “From here they will move on the Eastern Province of Islamyah, where they say they will go to liberate the Shi’a majority there, too, but really they just want to seize the oil.”

“If Bahrain can become part of the greater Islamyah, we Sunnis here will be part of the majority of a great new Muslim nation, which can hold back the Persian forces,” Fadl finished the thought.

“The Persians have a very long memory and an equally long time horizon,” Ahmed responded. “They think that if they wait, and keep their hand in, these things will fall to them like ripened figs from the trees.”

“No, Doctor, they do not plan to wait.” Saif was excited. “This is the news we have for you! They are working on something big in the month of first Jamada. This is why they do these bombings now in Manama and blame it on us.” Saif pulled out an American newspaper. “Look at these lies that they spread, look here: ‘The work of Islamyah’s terrorist cells,’ they say!”

“Do you know for certain the bombings were done by the Persians?” Ahmed asked, taking the copy of USA Today.

“As I said, Doctor, I work in the building that is the front company for al Qods, the Iranian special services. I repair their photocopier and the printers.” He smiled for the first time. “And sometimes I help myself to what they print.” Now Saif handed over a thick wad of paper in a red file folder. “The Qods Force here is to step up the bombing, targeting the American Navy. Then in first Jamada they plan to be ready to stage a coup, and a popular uprising, as they had planned to do in 2001. Only this time, they think the American fleet will not be here and the Persian forces will be able to land quickly to support the uprising.”

“The American fleet never really leaves Bahrain,” Ahmed scoffed as he opened the red file. “It only sails nearby in the Gulf.”

“Doctor, over the last several years, the Americans have pulled their soldiers and ships out of Lebanon, Somalia, Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, and Iraq.” Fadl looked up, smiling. “Maybe the Persians know when they plan to leave here, too.”

Yes, Ahmed thought. Maybe they do. He turned. “Saif, your cell must find out when and how al Qods Force plans to hit the American Navy Base.” He stood up to leave. “The Persians cannot be allowed to pin that attack on Islamyah. We cannot give the Americans an excuse to attack us.” Ahmed bin Rashid moved to the door. “Find out, Saif.” He walked down the darkened basement corridor and out to the motorbike in the alley.

Mounting the little motorbike, Ahmed was pleased by the quality of the men in his cell, and equally pleased by his inaugural performance as spymaster. He would use the contacts and abilties of his men to produce intelligence for Islamyah, to prove his worth to his brother, Abdullah. If he could prove that the Iranians were going to blame Islamyah for an attack they would make against the Americans… better yet, if he could stop the attack.

As he drove through the parking lot behind the high-rise apartment building, Ahmed’s image appeared on a small black-and-white screen in a Bedford step van parked across the street. “Well, thank you, Dr. Rashid,” an English voice whispered. “We had been wondering who was going to run that cell for Riyadh. Mr. Douglas will like this information.”

“The Elburz are beautiful in the snow,” the man in the business suit said.

“Yes, they are, General. The mountains are beautiful all year round,” the cleric replied. “Let’s sit by the fire and have some hot chai.” The two moved to large chairs by the stone fireplace. A teapot sat on the table between them.

“Phase One of Devil’s Fish Tank is complete. The pro-Islamyah website has claimed the credit, but the Bahraini secret police believe it was our Shi’a brethren. They will begin to take measures against them,” the General reported.

“Very good. So the Americans will think it was Riyadh that blew up the hotels in Bahrain, and the al Khalifas ruling Bahrain will crack down on the Shi’a.” The cleric smiled broadly. “Nicely done. What’s next?”

“We complete Devil’s Fish Tank. Then the Armenian and his boss will demand action against Riyadh for the slaughter of so many brave sailors,” the General said, pouring tea for himself and the cleric.

“You trust the Armenian and his boss? Completely?” the cleric asked.

“I trust no one but you completely.” The General smiled. “But they are gullible and greedy. And because they must know that we have our meeting with him on videotape, they will not risk exposure by double-crossing us.”

“You will use Iraqis in Phase Two?” the cleric asked, and the General nodded. “The Iraqis are proving to be useful?”

“They are, but our friends in Baghdad are having difficulties with the Kurds and Sunnis. Some of our people think it may soon be time to break off Basra.”

The cleric rose, arranged his robes, and walked slowly to the window looking out on the snow-covered spruce. He turned back to the general. “You and the Qods Force have done so much for us, so well, for such a long time: chasing the Israelis out of Lebanon using the Hezbollah, the Buenos Aires bombings, all the things Mugniyah has done, merging Zawahiri’s group into al Qaeda, the covert support to bin Laden, getting the Americans to back our man and throw out Saddam, then the Baghdad government…

“But your big plan, this is much more complicated, much riskier. There are many moving parts, including now, perhaps, the Chinese.” The cleric fingered his beads.

“With respect, sir, they all know we have the nuclears.” The General rose and walked toward the fire. “They do not know how many and they do not know where. If for some reason the big plan does not go well, we are still secure. Allah will provide.”

The cleric nodded. “I believe it is our destiny to be an agent for Allah, to unite the Shiites and bring for them a golden age,” the cleric said, his enthusiasm returning. He walked toward the Qods Force commander and placed his hands on the General’s shoulders. “Yes, you are right. Allah will provide.”