13

 

The White House

Washington, DC

The Saudi ambassador to the United States was literally knocking at the door of the White House complex a few minutes after the data and coordinates had been transmitted from the Rivet Joint, to the Global Hawk, to a command center, and then to an E-3 Sentry AWACS. The town car had pulled up to the gate, and the ambassador had asked to meet with President Camara. He had not called ahead.

Omar al Faisal was usually a polite man. But not at the moment. He’d already made sure that the Saudis and US intelligence agencies were sharing information in real time. The Saudi human intelligence asset on the ground had provided the lead, and the American planes had confirmed that bin Rahman was, in fact, in a car along a highway from Quetta to Zahedan.

He was here, at the end of the day in Washington, to make certain that the Americans would take the necessary action. And if they would not, for whatever reason, he intended to make sure that they shared the coordinates immediately so the Saudi Royal Air Force fighters could take the appropriate action.

“Mr. Ambassador,” a tired voice said over the phone at the guards’ box, “if you’d called ahead…”

“There is not time.” Omar al Faisal closed his eyes to control his anger. “If you can just tell the president that I’m here, and that I need an audience with him immediately.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “Let me connect you with the chief of staff.”

“No, I need—”

There was an audible click. Anshel Gould, the president’s chief of staff, came on the line an instant later. “Mr. Ambassador, how are you this evening?” Dr. Gould said politely. “The president isn’t available at the moment. Perhaps I can help?”

Dr. Gould was an inveterate gatekeeper. No one got to the president without passing by him first. Not even the vice president.

“If I may, Dr. Gould,” said the ambassador, “there isn’t time for a polite talk. I must see the president immediately.”

“It can’t wait until the morning?”

“It cannot,” al Faisal said impatiently. “And I believe you know the reason for my visit.”

“I may,” Dr. Gould said noncommittally, “but still…”

“Can we meet, please?” the ambassador said curtly.

Dr. Gould didn’t hesitate. He never did. “I will be out shortly.”

Anshel Gould had just been reviewing the coordinate file from the reconnaissance planes in Pakistan—which included both a recommended course of action and the troubling news that the voice at the other end of the call in Zahedan was most likely none other than Hussein Bahadur, the head of Iran’s air force.

He grabbed his coat from the back of a nearby chair, where it had been draped since 5 A.M. when he’d arrived at the White House. He made his way quickly through the West Wing complex, stopping only to let his executive assistant know he was headed out to the driveway to greet the Saudi ambassador.

“Do you need someone with you, Dr. Gould?” she’d asked as he’d practically flown by her desk.

“No, I have this,” he said.

He took the spiral staircase that separated the West Wing from the Eisenhower office complex three steps at a time. He practically whirled down the narrow staircase. Just as he got to the bottom, he nearly ran over Daniel James—who had just been named a principal deputy White House press secretary for national security—as he was beginning to make his way up the staircase.

“Dr. Gould!” DJ said, stepping down and off the staircase quickly to avoid a collision. “Is there a fire?”

“No—at least not here.” Dr. Gould started to hurry off but then stopped and turned around to face DJ. “You know what,” he said quickly. “Come with me. I can use the moral support.”

“With?”

“The Saudi ambassador.”

“Omar al Faisal? Why is he here? He’s not on the schedule today.”

“He showed up unannounced. You’ll find out why in a moment because you’re joining me for the meeting. On the driveway.”

“The driveway?”

“He’s in a town car at the gate, demanding to see the president.”

DJ nodded. While this was a little unusual, it occasionally happened with allies who felt they were justified in demanding immediate action from those in the White House they worked with closely— especially on sensitive national security or intelligence matters.

“You’re going to meet at the gate?”

“You bet. It’s as good a place as any. I needed the exercise.”

DJ tried to keep up with Dr. Gould as he made his way down the corridor. He loved these moments. They almost made up for the fourteen-hour days, fast-food dinners, modest pay, and halfhearted office accommodations they afforded the press office staff. Almost.

Dr. Gould burst through the doorway that led to the driveway between the two White House office complexes. The guards had been forewarned and had already stepped aside from the doorway. This wasn’t the first time Dr. Gould had raced from one building to the next. DJ could see that they were keeping a careful, respectful eye on the president’s chief of staff as he marched briskly up to the gate and the guards’ box.

“We’ll just be a moment,” Dr. Gould called out over one shoulder to the guards as he and DJ walked out of the complex to see the Saudi ambassador.

Omar al Faisal was already out of the town car and approaching the gate. He shook Gould’s hand quickly, then said without preamble, “You know what I am seeking, Dr. Gould.”

“I believe I do, and I can assure you we are prepared to take appropriate action,” Gould said.

Only then did Omar al Faisal glance at DJ. “I can talk with him present?”

“By all means.” Gould nodded. “The president regularly includes him in such discussions.”

“Very well,” the Saudi ambassador said. “What, exactly, do you mean by ‘appropriate action’?”

Gould knew the Saudis would eventually see some version of the conversation picked up by the planes, so he chose not to conceal it. “There is a slight complication.”

“Complication?”

“The person that bin Rahman is meeting in Zahedan is someone of note in Iran. Given the delicate situation we are in with our relationship to the leadership of Iran, we must be exceedingly careful.”

The blood nearly drained from the Saudi ambassador’s face. “We do not care if he is racing to meet the Supreme Leader himself…”

“Hardly. We both know that Reverend Shahidi rarely leaves Tehran. No, it is one of their top military officials.”

“Fine!” the Saudi ambassador said brusquely. “Then let him—whoever it is—be collateral damage. We both know that bin Rahman is responsible for the terrorist attack on our prince at Dulles.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Gould said mildly.

“We are arguing technicalities, while the opportunity slips through our grasp like the sands of an hourglass.” Omar al Faisal’s face darkened with anger. “If you will not act against bin Rahman immediately, then please do what you have always promised. Give us the coordinates so we may take action.”

DJ held his breath. He was frantically trying to read between the lines of this conversation. It wasn’t easy. But as far as he could divine, American reconnaissance planes had picked up the notorious al Qaeda deputy Ali bin Rahman on his way to a meeting in Iran. DJ was stunned that bin Rahman would risk exposure by leaving his safe house in the mountains of Pakistan. There must be an awfully good reason, he thought.

DJ could only guess the identity of the person bin Rahman was meeting in Zahedan. Most likely, he reasoned, it was either Iran’s air force chief, Hussein Bahadur, or the head of the Revolutionary Guards, General Ali Zhubin. He couldn’t imagine why either would be there, however.

What really complicated matters, DJ knew, was that the US government was in direct talks with Iran’s leadership about a peaceful resolution of the Palestinian problem and a ceasefire with Israel. The near-nuclear confrontation between Iran and Israel was off the table while the talks were underway. But it wouldn’t take much to derail the talks—and push Iran and Israel to the brink of war again.

If the US ordered a strike against bin Rahman, and there was any collateral damage against either of Iran’s top military leaders, then the uneasy peace between Iran and Israel would be immediately shattered. It would be nearly impossible to predict what might happen in such a scenario. Iran’s leadership was stable—but also highly capable of irrational overreactions.

DJ closely watched Dr. Gould. Instinctively, he knew that Gould would act to protect the United States’ interests first, and then Israel’s. The Saudi interest, while important, was a distant third. If pushed against the wall, Dr. Gould would let bin Rahman slip through the net rather than risk a move that set Iran against Israel again.

Anshel Gould took a deep breath and made his decision. The joint chiefs had recommended an immediate strike upon receipt of the coordinates at the Sit Room—or none at all.

They’d moved very quickly. The war fighters had set out for Zahedan instantly. But getting to the location wasn’t easy. They’d been forced to navigate through not one, but two, air defense systems in both Iran and Pakistan.

By the time the fighters had reached the target, the car that had almost certainly carried bin Rahman had already arrived in Zahedan. They knew his location. They could take out both the car and the house where he was most likely meeting with Bahadur. That wasn’t a problem—at all.

But taking out bin Rahman also meant that Iran’s air force chief would be collateral damage. There would be no way to explain it away— not to Iran’s theocracy. The fragile peace would be over.

So, Gould knew, the president and the joint chiefs had ordered the fighters to “sit” on their target. They would wait for bin Rahman to finish his meeting with Bahadur and cross back into Pakistan. They would wait until he was safely away from Iran before moving.

But he could not tell any of this to the Saudi ambassador—not right now. Because, Gould knew, the Saudis would not wait. They would act against bin Rahman immediately, no matter who else was in that house with him.

They wouldn’t care if it ended the Iran-Israel peace talks. The Saudi royal family was generally still in favor of a confrontation between Iran and Israel. It was in their interests to see a vastly weakened Iran— and a war with Israel would do precisely that, provided it didn’t spread beyond those two nations.

“Mr. Ambassador, I give you my word that we have taken appropriate action,” Gould said.

“Which is, precisely, what?”

“We have sent fighter jets to the location. They have acquired the target.”

“And have they fired on it?” the ambassador asked grimly.

“They intend to, at the first available opportunity.”

“Again, when will that be?” the ambassador pressed.

“When and if the opportunity presents itself, they will fire on the target,” Gould said. “You have my word.”