The Command

The boilerplate over, one of the departments briefed on a resurgence of unrest among the Shi’a. Israeli suppression of the Palestinians had put hate for Israel and America in the air. Here that translated into resentment of the ruling family. He warned everyone to be alert for riots and possibly new acts of terror. Next was a report from what seemed to be an unofficial Saudi liaison, or perhaps he was official— everyone seemed to know him and he wasn’t introduced, so she couldn’t tell. His report was about the spread of religious extremism, but his definition of “extremism” seemed vague. The first part was in English; the second, Arabic. She could follow most of it, though she missed a word here and there. The Arabic segment was about “poly-theist” missionaries, and how to “welcome” them — actually, how to block their activities and find pretexts to ask them to leave the country. The Saudi seemed concerned the Bahrainis weren’t taking the problem seriously.

Aisha caught Gough’s glance, evaluating how she was taking it. She smiled back. Caught a blank look on the face of the CIA man — it was going past him — a politely interested expression on the face of the security minister.

For a moment she tried to imagine the tightrope he must be trying to walk. On one side, literally, they were right across the causeway, the Saudis. On the other, the British and Americans. The Iraqis threatening from up north. The Iranians, coreligionists of the Shi’ite majority, across the Gulf. On one hand, bazaar fundamentalism, whipped up by the repression and house-bulldozings in Israel. On the other, pressure from the steadily educating middle class to democratize. Beneath it all, the knowledge that soon the oil would stop flowing and Bahrain would become again a barren, waterless desert.

No, she didn’t envy him at all.

* * *

Like all Arab meetings, when it was over everyone scattered instantly. In seconds the room was empty. Diehl tilted his watch. “Half the fuckin’ day shot in the ass.”

“You don’t need to use language like that, Bob.”

“D’you copy any of that? What they were sayin’?”

“Most of it.”

“Anything worth hearing?”

“It’ll all be in my report,” she said.

Hooker came back from talking to a heavyset white man she thought was FBI. “Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time here.” He still looked furious, and she knew it was about the missing explosives and guns, and even more, that Gough knew about them. Which meant he had sources of information inside the base.

“What were you talking to the general about?” he wanted to know as soon as they were in the car.

She said, startled, “To Gough? Nothing. He was just showing off his Arabic.”

“Did you tell him about the thefts? And that Yousif, you had your heads together for a long time there.”

“I did not tell them about the thefts, or anything else. Do you really think I would—”

“Bob, you were there, did she say anything?”

Diehl stirred uneasily. “Uh — they were talking Arabic—”

“I did not say anything about that,” she said. “That is internal need to know and I would never discuss it with anyone off base. With anyone. If you don’t believe that, sir, we’d better have a private talk.”

“No, no, forget it.” He sat back.

She jerked the car around, almost sideswiping a taxi, so mad she could spit. At both of them; Diehl hadn’t even pretended to defend her. The security officer muttered something, some halfhearted apology, but by then she was taking deep, even breaths, forcing it down, down. To where his instant assumption — that because she spoke Arabic, because she was Muslim, because she was black, she was not to be trusted — could not hurt her at all.

15

Off Jiddah, the Red Sea

Horn had her own little convoy for a few days. Yazd and a break-1 ibulk cargo tramp Georges Leygues had caught smuggling nine hundred tons of Iraqi crude out of Jordan under a blanket of olive oil. The crude was heavier than the olive oil, but the French had sampled with a tube rather than a dip bottle and found it. The tanker was old and very slow. They slogged down to Jiddah, the principal Saudi port on the Red Sea, at the blazing pace of six knots when not actually hove to to fix breakdowns.

At Jiddah a patrol boat escorted Yazd and the break-bulk into the Royal Saudi Naval Facility. There the mysterious tubes would be pulled out of Yadz’s hold for examination by UN inspectors. Rashik had been packed off to purgatory with the State Department and Immigration and Naturalization. The Saudis would deliver the captured vessels to the custody area while the mill wheels of international enforcement ground their way to their disposition.