“Saddam never would have paused at the Saudi border had he realized America would be given those bases. This time, you can bet the tanks won’t stop rolling until they’re parked in downtown Riyadh.
“Furthermore, despite President Bush’s assurances to the contrary, the Gulf War was fought over oil and nothing else. The Americans didn’t care about the plight of the Kuwaiti people. Until the war, most Americans probably thought Kuwait was a type of fruit. No higher principles, no moral calling, just good, sound economic policy. Well, in ten years, nine now, America won’t give a goddamn about oil. They’re going to turn off the valve and let the Middle East collapse. If a combined front of Iraqis and Iranians try again, Congress is going to say the hell with it.” Trevor slipped into a mocking American accent. “ ‘Let the fig-eating sand niggers kill each other all they want. It no longer concerns us,’ some Southern senator will say. They won’t commit combat troops to a cause that doesn’t affect American wallets. Period.
“With Saudi Arabia cut in half by Iraqi troops and Hormuz closed by Iranian and UAE gunboats, the Americans couldn’t do anything anyway. They would have no tactical presence in the region. They’d have to use airfields in Turkey and Cyprus, at the extreme range of Coalition jets, and a land-based invasion force assembled in western Anatolia would face rugged mountains that have staggered armies for millennia. They wouldn’t stand a chance, no matter how many smart bombs and stealth fighters they used. No, my friend, it would most certainly not be a replay of the Gulf War. And think of this — with Iran and Iraq ruling the Gulf with the help of a UAE puppet regime, you can bet the dominoes would start falling. Jordan, Syria, even Israel could be swallowed as soon as the dust settled.”
Khalid sat back as if physically struck. What Trevor said was entirely feasible. The defining principle behind the United States’ Middle Eastern policy was the assurance of an uninterrupted flow of Gulf crude. Take away that need and the region became as unimportant as Togo or Bhutan. America poured billions of dollars into the Levant in the form of military loans in an attempt to maintain a balance of power between the nations. Usually these attempts were one-sided and heavy-handed, creating the very dictators the United States feared. Still, oil had flowed for fifty years with only a few minor hiccups.
Without the thirst for crude, America had really no interest in Middle Eastern politics. They would rattle their swords and pass a few condemning resolutions in the United Nations, but they wouldn’t act. History was full of wars. Most textbooks highlight their causes and effects, as if warfare was the water-shed in civilization’s development. Without exception they had all been fought for economic gain.
“I see one major flaw in your thinking,” Khuddari finally replied. “The UAE would never join Iran and Iraq if they invaded Kuwait or Saudi Arabia.”
Trevor had the uncanny knack of a school headmaster, the ability to shrivel another person with just a glance. “With the exception of the great democracies, the average life span of a ruling government for most nations is something like eight years. The UAE has existed for nearly thirty, and I think your time may be up.”
“You mean Rufti?”
“Precisely.”
“I spoke to the Crown Prince about the same thing, and I have to agree with his assessment. You may be right about Rufti, but the threat is still several years away, more than enough time to deal with him.”
“Are you dense, old fruit? He may not try for the whole government right away, but I’m damned certain he wouldn’t mind occupying your office for a while. Christ, the way he’s been swaggering around London, you’d swear he was already Petro Minister for the entire UAE, not just his own dusty corner of the country.”
Khalid hadn’t considered this.
While his job was to a large degree administrative, Khalid knew that an OPEC Oil Minister still possessed a great deal of respect in the international economic community. It would be a great starting point for someone wanting to gain power without calling attention to himself. Given the tense climate within the UAE’s seven-member Supreme Federal Council, it would be possible for the smaller Emirates to pressure the Crown Prince to appoint Rufti if Khalid was somehow not able to carry out his duties. If he was, for example, dead.
“Steady, old son, you look as if you’d just seen a ghost,” Trevor said, snapping Khalid from his thoughts.
“Yes, I did. Mine.” The training facility that he’d inspected with Bigelow took on an even more ominous dimension. “Listen, are you sure about Rufti and the Iraqis?”
“Well, I put a lot of it together myself,” Trevor admitted. “The information from the tape was sketchy, but it certainly fits. Especially in light of the way you’ve been acting recently.”
Khalid looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go to a reception at the British Museum. The Saudis are lending a bunch of early Islamic texts to the museum, and tonight is the opening. It’s supposed to be a big gala and it’s part of the OPEC agenda, an informal get-together before tomorrow’s meetings. Listen, I wouldn’t ask this normally, but we need to get together later at my hotel. It would mean breaking your date with Miss Gray.”
“If it means that much, and I know it does, I’ll be there.” Trevor stood with Khalid and they shook hands. “And by the way, it’s Mrs. Gray, not Miss. Well, Lady Gray, actually.”
Khalid waited for a moment under the Savoy’s dark portico for his limo to be brought around. A doorman escorted him to the Daimler, and seconds later they were back in traffic, heading toward the Bloomsbury section of London and the British Museum. Uncomfortable in limousines, Khalid wanted to talk with the driver to help pass the short commute, but the dark glass partition between them was closed and would not respond when he tried to lower it.
He considered rapping on the glass but instead sat back to watch the parade of interesting people as they drove through Soho. At Cambridge Circus, they turned right onto Bloomsbury Street, where the darkness of the night was held at bay by theater marquees and advertising signs. Rain streaked past the windows of the limo like Christmas tinsel.
Past New Oxford Street, the whole character of the cityscape changed. Low Tudor buildings, wooden signs swinging over cramped storefronts, and the occasional gas streetlamp gave an impression reminiscent of Dickens. The great stone edifice of the British Museum was just ahead on the right, an unnatural glow pouring down Great Russell Street from the television lights set up to capture famous faces headed into the opening. Even from this distance, Khalid could see the reflection of flashbulbs popping like lightning. Such enthusiastic photo taking could only mean a film or recording star had just arrived.
The limo turned on to Great Russell, the museum looming before them on the left, a small side street to their right shooting down between heavily windowed eighteenth-century buildings. Just past the gates of the museum entrance, the road was blocked by police cars, a security van, and a couple of motorcycles. Uniformed bobbies manned a temporary barricade to keep back junior members of the press and the hundred or so curious onlookers. Senior reporters and photographers were on the museum grounds, solidly flanking the steps up to the building.
The scene was familiar. Although he’d been to the museum many times during his schooling, Khalid had the feeling that he’d somehow seen this night before. The barricade, the streets, and even the buildings were like the vague outline of a dream.
The desert, a training camp just recently abandoned but thoroughly destroyed, streets, buildings, this place.
Even as the realization struck him, the partition between the passenger and driver compartments began sliding down. The limo had stopped in a line of other luxury automobiles waiting to enter the museum grounds. The West Indian who’d driven him from his hotel to the Savoy had been replaced by a Turk, or maybe an Afghani. Khalid had just enough time to notice this when the man raised an automatic pistol into view.