In the tractor, the commander and the Armenian settled in for the drive ahead. “Let’s go,” said the captain, eager to put distance between the team and the Iraqi border. The commander understood that the discovery of the Toyota Corolla and its contents would result in a manhunt. As the truck moved south down Road 15, Yoni Ben Zeev slowly unwound, his body relaxing for the first time since he stepped foot on the American Chinook helicopter in Kuwait. He had not slept in almost 24 hours. He knew he needed to. He turned to his Armenian friend. “Head into Ilam. Wake me if you have any question. Wake me if we have trouble. Finally, wake me when we are closing in on Ilam. Okay?”
“Ilam. Got it.”
“You okay? Good to drive?”
“I am good.” The Armenian thought about his next words, debating different ways to phrase his point. “I am happy to have your team on board.”
“Thank you, Hamak. It is mutual. You are a brave man.” Ben Zeev reclined his seat the few inches available. He closed his eyes. The sleep washed over him. Even the lateral G-forces of the endless mountain curves could not diminish his body’s desire to shut down and recover. In the hidden compartment only ten feet or so behind the captain, the men of Task Force Camel attempted to join their commander in sleep, some finding it easier than others.
Hamak Arsadian did not mind the deep sleep of his companion despite the occasional snoring that would start and last until the next hard mountain curve threw the Israeli’s head to the opposite side and interrupted his snoring pattern. The captain’s sleep allowed Hamak to smoke without enduring comment or dirty looks. He was not a chain smoker, but he needed a cigarette every hour or so. He had just finished his fifth cigarette since Point Kabob II when a sign for Ilam jogged his memory. He reached over and shook the left shoulder of the Israeli commando. “Younis. Wake up. We are nearing Ilam.” He looked to his right for an instant. “Younis.” He was almost shouting.
Ben Zeev’s mind slowly found its way back to consciousness. He opened his eyes. “Where are we?”
“Close to Ilam. You wanted me to wake you up.”
“What time is it?” In response, Arsadian simply pointed to the dashboard clock with his right hand. The time was 2:47 in the afternoon. “Good,” replied the captain, his mind now regaining its full tactical awareness. “What road are we on now?”
“Seventeen.”
“I want to take a different route.”
The Armenian took the news in stride. He had fully bought into the adventure of this mission. He would drive that truck wherever Ben Zeev commanded. “Okay. Where?”
“Stay on Road 17 and follow the signs to the Ilam Airport. When we get to the Darreh Shahr Road, turn left. It’s the same road that goes past the airport entrance. Take that road south to Darreh Shahr. Have you been this way?”
The driver shook his head. “Not that I recall. But we will find out soon what it’s like. It can’t be worse than Road 15 is south of Dezli.” There was excitement in the driver’s voice and Ben Zeev picked up on that. This was the same type of reaction from the Armenian that had caused the captain to grow to like him so much while they trained in Yerevan. If Arsadian were younger, thought the commander, he would recruit the man into Sayeret Matkal.
40 — Handshake across the Desert
Sheikh Talal bin Walid walked into his fourth floor corner office in the sprawling Ministry of Foreign Affairs building on the corner of Prince Talal Road and Al Imam Abdulaziz bin Muhammad bin Saud Road in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The office was temporary for the Sheikh since the headquarters building of the agency he ran was undergoing renovation and reconstruction following a bombing the prior summer. On the wall hung a series of digital readouts that had the local time in eight of the world’s largest and most important cities. In the middle of the city times, a single device read out two different dates. On the top, the date read “28 Dhu al-Qa’da 1434,” which was the date according to the Hijri, or Islamic calendar. Underneath, the date read “04 October.”
On his desk, Sheikh Talal’s male aide had laid out the prior day’s edition of the New York Times and Wall Street Journal, a morning reading ritual that dated from the days of his youth as a student at Columbia University. After thirty minutes of perusing the various articles, his aide entered the office with a tea setting and a red manila file. The file contained summarized reports of the key events that had occurred overnight.
“Don’t forget your appointment with the King today for lunch,” the aide said. The aide acted as the Shiekh’s secretary and valet.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Aziz,” replied the Sheikh. The aide quietly left the office, closing the door behind him.
Sheikh Talal bin Walid, the head of Saudi Arabian intelligence, enjoyed a sip of his favorite tea, Earl Grey. He opened the red file, beginning the next portion of his morning routine. On his desk, a Blackberry cell phone sat in a cradle in a permanent state of recharging. It was not his regular cell phone. This phone never left his office.
The Sheikh noticed a red light blinking in the upper right corner of the phone. He returned his tea cup to its sterling silver tray and reached for the Blackberry. The phone had been provided to him by his internal communications group. The SIM card had been randomly and anonymously purchased in Paris. The phone had only one purpose: Every day or every other day — it didn’t really matter — an innocuous text would come in. Every text was the typical type of text that a daughter who was off to college would send to a loving father.
He turned on the phone and opened the text messages icon on the screen. He then touched the single text to open it on the screen.
Hi daddy. I’m flying home tomorrow and land at 17:00. Will you pick me up at the airport? Love you.
He typed a response.
Yes, of course. See you tomorrow.
He hit send. The head of Saudi intelligence had just communicated with someone within Israeli Mossad who was based in Paris and using an equally anonymous cell phone. The Sheikh deleted the text and replaced the cell phone in its cradle. He then hit a button on his office phone. “Aziz, please have General Ratish come see me this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the electronic voice. “What time?”
“Anytime after I am back from seeing the King.”
“Yes, sir.”
41 — Midnight Flight
A formation of four IAF C-130 Karnafs leveled out at flight level 280 as it headed east over the northern Saudi desert. The mission was a routine training exercise and a continuation of the large formations flown by the IAF seemingly every month around the new moon. The formation flew with the full knowledge and approval of both the USAF and the Royal Saudi Air Force, but was still spread far apart to maximize its radar signature. The four planes maintained vertical separations of 200 feet, with the lowest airplane, the one trailing the formation, maintaining 28,200 feet.
The night of October 4 was the new moon. Over the desert sands of northern Saudi Arabia, with the few small towns offering almost no light, the view out of the cockpit window was the color that inspired the term “midnight black.” With absolutely no visual horizon, the pilots of the trailing C-130 had to concentrate on their flight instruments. It was closing in on midnight local time and only the navigation lights of the other three transports were visible. Somewhere above them, a flight of three F-16C jet fighters that had just refueled behind a KC-707 aerial tanker was keeping watch over the four turboprop airplanes. But these welcome guardians were not visible to the crew of this C-130.