23
THE FOUR SEASONS HOTEL, GEORGETOWN, D.C.
Marcus, still in his suit from dinner with Annie, had decided to bring Jenny.
She was, after all, fluent in Arabic.
They passed through the lobby and headed to the lounge straight ahead. They saw no one. They quickly searched the main floor but still didn’t find the Saudi spy chief. Then a single-word text came into Marcus’s phone.
Heading down one level, they still found no one. It made little sense to head down farther, for the basement level was only ballrooms. Out of options, however, they went anyway and finally found Prince Abdullah bin Rashid pacing the floor of one of the empty and darkened halls, smoking a cigarette and nursing a tumbler of what looked like bourbon.
“Hey, this is Washington, not Riyadh,” Marcus teased. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to smoke in here.”
“It’s been a long day, Mr. Ryker.” The prince sighed, raising his glass as if making a toast.
“Tell me about it,” Marcus replied. “But thanks for making time. You remember Agent Morris.”
“Yes, of course, the brilliant and beautiful Jennifer.” He smiled, kissing her hand in a gesture not exactly characteristic of an Arab Muslim man.
“Cunning and crafty as always.” She smiled back, surprising him by snatching the tumbler out of his hand, turning it around to face the side he had not sipped from, and downing the rest of his drink.
The prince’s eyes went wide. “This one I like, Ryker. Don’t let her get away.”
Marcus shook his head. He was more than familiar with the spy chief’s aversion to religion, piety, rules, and customs. “You said you have something for us,” he said, in no mood for banter.
Rashid took a final drag on his cigarette, dropped the butt to the floor, stamped it out, and kicked it aside. Then he pulled out his phone, entered his password, and brought up an audio file.
“Yesterday, my guys back in Riyadh intercepted a phone call that originated in Bandar Abbas from what we believe is a senior IRGC operative,” he explained. “We don’t know the recipient of the call, but we know it was to a satellite account in Yemen.”
“Where exactly?” Jenny asked.
“A suburb of Sana’a,” the prince replied, referring to the Yemeni capital.
“Let’s hear it,” Marcus said.
They listened to the brief call, and Jenny translated it.
CALLER: Tell me you’re ready to hit back.
RECEIVER: We are putting pieces into place.
CALLER: You must strike hard and fast.
RECEIVER: This one is complicated. It will take time.
CALLER: How much time?
RECEIVER: I cannot say. There are many variables.
CALLER: Do you need cash?
RECEIVER: Always, but mostly logistical assistance.
CALLER: Anything you need, but there can be no fingerprints.
RECEIVER: I understand.
CALLER: I cannot overemphasize this point.
RECEIVER: I told you I understand.
CALLER: I need a time frame.
RECEIVER: The first operation is almost ready.
CALLER: That one is easy. What about the second?
RECEIVER: I don’t know.
CALLER: Give me your best guess.
RECEIVER: Not yet.
CALLER: Time is short. It must be soon.
RECEIVER: Of course.
CALLER: I can move the first tranche now.
RECEIVER: And I can report that to my superiors?
CALLER: You can.
RECEIVER: Good. Two days?
CALLER: That works. In the place we last agreed upon?
RECEIVER: Yes, I can do that.
CALLER: Until then.
RECEIVER: Allah be with you.
CALLER: And with you.
“Did Jenny get it right?” Marcus asked when his partner had finished translating.
“Very impressive, Agent Morris,” the prince replied, giving her a nod.
“So the Iranians want to hit us—presumably for the humiliation in Lebanon, not to mention in the East China Sea—but they want to use Kairos operatives as their proxies, to give Tehran plausible deniability,” Marcus said.
The prince nodded.
“And they want to use our strike in Libya as a pretext,” Jenny added.
“It’s a pretty good one, too,” the prince said. “Unfortunately, as I said, we can’t say who precisely received the call. And both phones were turned off immediately following the call, so we were not able to track them. But if nothing else, this certainly underscores the crown prince’s growing concerns that the sudden convergence of senior level Kairos operatives in Yemen—now in direct contact with the Iranians—means that a major attack or series of attacks on the U.S. is coming.”
Lighting up another cigarette and offering ones to Marcus and Jenny, both of whom declined, Prince Abdullah bin Rashid glanced around the ballroom to make sure they were still alone, then lowered his voice as he stepped closer to them. “I don’t have to recount for you two my country’s history in Yemen,” he said. “Long. Bitter. Messy. And plenty of mistakes. But you also know that we did what we came to do. Decimate the Houthis, who were fast becoming Tehran’s proxy of choice and who were attacking our airports and cities and civilian populations week after week with Iranian-built missiles and drones. Now, I’m not saying there is no Houthi presence left in that pitiful country whom Allah has clearly forsaken. But they are no longer a strategic threat to us and no longer much use to the IRGC. The problem is that, like Afghanistan and Libya before it, Yemen is becoming a haunt of jackals. If Abu Nakba were still alive, I guarantee you, Yemen would be his home base. But even with him gone—and for this we cannot thank you enough—but even now, his lieutenants are still out there, planning, plotting, preparing, with Tehran’s help, no less. I fear a great disaster is coming. You had better get ready.”