ONE DAY LATER
CAFALA BAHR, INDIAN OCEAN, OFF VILLINGILI ISLAND, MALDIVES—MAY 1, 2018—08:40 / 8:40 A.M. MVT
Saad Salim dove into the pool, then glided in the cool water. Already it was 30 degrees Celsius with the humidity approaching 90 percent, so any time in the water was better than time spent only lounging beside it. Surfacing after a quarter of the length, he began a long, graceful stroke.
Much of his youth had been spent in a pool, at first just playing but eventually swimming competitively. He’d had hopes of representing his country in the Olympics, but then his family fell out of favor with then-King Fahd. A relocation from Saudi Arabia to Doha, Qatar, had essentially left him without a home country.
After four laps, he lifted himself out of the water. A steward held a robe for him, and he slipped it on before padding barefoot to the elevator, where an operator punched a button lowering them three levels. When the doors opened, he stepped into his master suite. With a sleeping area, a large sitting room, and a mini theater, this one room took up much of the yacht’s center deck. Walking past his oversized king bed, he entered the en suite, where he stripped off his swim trunks, stepped into the shower, and let the multiple heads wash the chlorine from his skin.
When he stepped out, he paused to admire his body in the full-length mirror. Despite having reached his mid-fifties, he was still fit with just the faintest outline of the six-pack of his youth still on his abdomen. Rather than submit to the vanity of hair coloring, though, he’d let the beginnings of gray sow themselves through his full head of hair. And although the skin on his clean-shaven face was dark and tight after years spent outside overseeing his oil fields, he still could pass for a man a decade younger.
Going to his closet, he lifted a pair of white linen pants off a hanger, then grabbed a light-blue cotton shirt. After dressing, he slipped on a pair of boat shoes, leaving his socks in the drawer, and made his way to the upper deck for breakfast. He had 24 crew on board this boat, and for now, they were all there to serve just two people—him and one other.
When he exited the elevator, he saw his guest sitting at a table with a flute that held orange juice, no doubt mixed with champagne—their usual. Spread out in front of him sat bowls of fresh fruit and baskets of pastries.
Saad had heard the helicopter land on the forward helipad late last night, but he hadn’t come out of his suite to greet the man. Even though the general was his friend, he’d instructed his head steward to direct him to a guest suite and let him know the master of this yacht would meet him at breakfast the next morning. A certain decorum was important for everyone to remember who was who in the overall hierarchy.
The man noticed Saad coming toward him and quickly stood. “Good morning, my friend.”
Seeing the general in shorts and a flowered shirt buttoned only halfway up, it was hard for Saad to picture him receiving the salutes of battle-hardened soldiers of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.
“General Mousavi, I am glad to see you have arrived safely.” He shook the man’s proffered hand. “Welcome back to the Ibn Tamiyyah.”
Ibn Tamiyyah was not the name painted on the prow of the boat. In fact, he’d shared that secret name with very few. Anyone gazing at Saad’s yacht cruising by would read the words Cafala Bahr. Cafala was a combination of the first two letters of his three daughters’ names—Cantara, Fariha, and Lateefah. The Arabic word for “sea”—bahr—was added to make it sound more like a boat’s name.
While the craft was under construction, however, Saad had sought a name that did honor to Allah and to his faith as a Salafi Muslim. He could think of no better moniker than that of the greatest of the Salafi jurists, the fourteenth-century Ibn Tamiyyah, also known as Shaykh al-Islam. So much of reform Islam could be traced back to his wise teachings, including those of the Wahabis and others who knew the importance of true jihad.
Undoubtedly, the great Muslim scholar would have been horrified at so ostentatious a display of wealth as a $650 million yacht. Yet many of the meetings held on board spread the reach of Islam and furthered the man’s vision of power through conflict. Sheikhs and caliphs, military men and heads of false-front NGOs, politicians and scientists had all been on this yacht. Even Mohsen Fakhrizadeh, whom Netanyahu had gone on about in that speech yesterday, had been on his boat twice with his wife for meetings with scientists from Egypt, North Korea, and some European nations.
The problem was that sailing a yacht around the world with the name of one of the fathers of the jihad movement painted on its side would be a good way to get torpedoed by a U.S. submarine or targeted with an Israeli limpet mine. So it was Ibn Tamiyyah to his chosen few and Cafala Bahr to everyone else.
Saad continued. “I hope you have found your accommodations to your liking.”
“As always, your generosity is unparalleled, and your hospitality knows no bounds.”
“Please, return to your meal.” Saad indicated the general’s chair, then sat opposite him and spooned some fruit into a bowl. “For now, it is just the two of us, Arash. Tonight, we will be joined by others whom you may find much more attractive than I.”
“You keep yourself quite fit, my friend, but I’m afraid your body does not curve in the most necessary places,” the general said with a wink.
The two carried on the small talk etiquette required throughout breakfast. Then finally, Saad said, “Did you watch that Jewish circus yesterday?”
“The prime minister is a fool and a dog. Yet I must admit this is a victory for the evil side. The Supreme Leader is desperately angry. He is looking for arrests and executions.”
Saad pulled back from a croissant he’d been reaching for. “Are you—”
“Oh, no. I am in no danger. The clowns in the security branch who thought it wise to hide all our nuclear secrets in a warehouse with no guards at night are the ones in peril.”
Reaching again for the pastry, Saad said, “That truly is a baffling choice, and it has given quite the victory to the enemy.”
The general refilled his flute, this time skipping the orange juice part of his mimosa. “Inshallah, the victory will be short-lived. Already we are spreading the word that the documents are false. Many in the UN will buy it.”
“But they are irrelevant. What matters is that the deranged U.S. president will use it as a pretext to destroy the nuclear deal.”
“This is true, which is why we must always think long-term, Saad.” Taking a ring of orange, he perched it on his glass, then took a sip. “We must survive only four years of this fool, eight at most. Then the next administration will come in and undo what he has done, much the same way he has undone the actions of his own predecessor. That is why the American system of government is so illogical.”
“But it is also unpredictable, Arash. There is no telling what this man will do in the next four years. I believe you and your friends best keep your eyes open.”
The general laughed. “I know, but some lines even the Americans will not cross. I was speaking with General Soleimani about this very thing just yesterday. He believes there is nothing to worry about. I tend to agree with him. Our nuclear program will progress. We will achieve our bomb, and then the world will quake.”
“You know the situation better than I do. I will have to trust you. Now, down to our real business. Tell me about the UAV training taking place with your militias in Iraq and Syria, and then let me know where my money can make the most impact.”