WASHINGTON, DC
The Watergate Hotel’s Kingbird Restaurant had been a fixture in the city long before the Nixon years made the whole sprawling site infamous, a popular haunt for politicos and diplomats.
Ali Shadid, cultural attaché to the Saudi ambassador to the United States, dined there frequently, always alone and always at the same table, nestled in the shadows, out of sight of anyone who might be peering through the glass wall that looked out into a courtyard on the restaurant’s southern side. Shadid’s server had just set his dessert, the house specialty of lavender-infused crème brûlée, before him, when a woman took the chair on the other side of the table.
“Excellent choice,” Lia Ganz said, everything in her demeanor suggesting she’d been expected, a ruse she intended to continue. “Although I’ve always favored the chocolate tart.”
“I had that yesterday,” Shadid managed, forcing a smile.
“I hope it was as good as I remember, General,” Lia followed, addressing Shadid by his former rank in the Saudi military. Now he was a high-ranking officer with the General Intelligence Presidency, that country’s equivalent of the CIA, also known as al Mukhabarat al ’Amma al Mamlaka al Arabyah Saudihya.
“That depends on when you were last in Washington, Colonel.”
“It has been a while.”
“I thought it would likely be forever, given your retirement.”
“Circumstances forced me to rethink my plans.”
“So I heard,” Shadid said, ignoring his dessert and the espresso that had been placed alongside it. “I trust you’re not here to blame my country for that drone attack.”
“Not at all, General. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m here to give you the opportunity to help me prevent a potentially much greater attack.”
“Since when did Israel’s problems become my problems?”
“Since this particular attack looks to be aimed at the United States.”
Shadid’s deep-set eyes, laden with heavy bags beneath them, flashed. “The problems of the United States are not my problems either.”
“This one will be. And I’m giving you the opportunity to be either the country that helps save the day or the country that will suffer the bulk of recriminations if this attack isn’t stopped.”
“So why am I talking to an ex–Israeli intelligence officer instead of an active American one?”
“Because I was on that beach in Caesarea, Ali, and I tracked down the bomb maker behind those drones. Perhaps you’ve heard of him: Dar Ibrahim al-Bis.”
“I’ve heard of him. Hamas.”
“But he was born in Saudi Arabia. Turns out he’s also been implicated in the Metro bombing and, by connection, the bigger attack yet to come. How do you think the Americans will respond to a national of yours being party to something like that?”
Shadid’s expression curled into the semblance of a snarl. “Al-Bis hasn’t been to Saudi Arabia since he was four years old.”
“The newspapers are likely to leave that out of their headlines, especially after Mossad offers proof of Saudi collaboration in that major attack.”
“Lies!” Shadid said, loud enough to draw the attention of diners from nearby tables.
“Lies are dangerous things, Ali,” Lia told him. “You know what’s even more dangerous? Well-funded terrorist operations. Saudi Arabia managed to survive the recriminations that followed nine eleven. You won’t survive this time.”
Shadid softened his expression and spooned out a small bite of his dessert. “This is the way you treat a friend?”
“We were never friends, just colleagues. This is the way I treat colleagues, and friends, when lives are at stake.”
Shadid leaned back in his chair, espresso and crème brûlée forgotten for now. “What do you want from me, Colonel?”
“We’ve fought many battles, General. Some on the same side and some against each other. This is a battle you can’t afford to see lost.”
“Even though it isn’t our fight.”
“It’s yours as much as it is mine. Mine because of Caesarea. Yours because your country will be the first America targets in her crosshairs, if indications about the magnitude of the attack are proven true. Your future king can kill all the journalists he wants, but he won’t be able to kill that particular truth. And there will be no future in Saudi Arabia for him to preside over.”
“I ask again, Colonel, what do you want of me?”
“Everything, General, points to the fact that whoever’s behind the Metro bombing and whatever’s to come is going to make Islamic terrorists the fall guy. I don’t know whether they want a rationale to start a war, to invade the Middle East, or if something even more nefarious may be afoot.”
“You don’t consider starting a war or invading a region to be nefarious enough?”
“Everything’s relative,” Lia told him. “I don’t have to tell you that.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Something else I shouldn’t have to tell you. I have meetings already set up with the Turks, the Egyptians, the Syrians, and the Iranians. The message I intend to pass to all of them is the very same one I’ve given you. I came to you first, out of courtesy and respect for those times in which we’ve fought on the same side. Make no mistake, though—I will go elsewhere, should you disappoint me.”
Shadid leaned forward, lowering his voice ever so slightly. “And what do I need to do to avoid disappointing you?”
Lia let him see her smile. “Glad you asked, General. Glad you asked…”