“They are, but our friends in Baghdad are having difficulties with the Kurds and Sunnis. Some of our people think it may soon be time to break off Basra.”
The cleric rose, arranged his robes, and walked slowly to the window looking out on the snow-covered spruce. He turned back to the general. “You and the Qods Force have done so much for us, so well, for such a long time: chasing the Israelis out of Lebanon using the Hezbollah, the Buenos Aires bombings, all the things Mugniyah has done, merging Zawahiri’s group into al Qaeda, the covert support to bin Laden, getting the Americans to back our man and throw out Saddam, then the Baghdad government…
“But your big plan, this is much more complicated, much riskier. There are many moving parts, including now, perhaps, the Chinese.” The cleric fingered his beads.
“With respect, sir, they all know we have the nuclears.” The General rose and walked toward the fire. “They do not know how many and they do not know where. If for some reason the big plan does not go well, we are still secure. Allah will provide.”
The cleric nodded. “I believe it is our destiny to be an agent for Allah, to unite the Shiites and bring for them a golden age,” the cleric said, his enthusiasm returning. He walked toward the Qods Force commander and placed his hands on the General’s shoulders. “Yes, you are right. Allah will provide.”
3
Brian Douglas drove his own car, a green Jaguar, from his beach villa out of town to the Juffair district, home to ASU Bahrain, as the American Fifth Fleet headquarters was known. The sixty-acre compound was surrounded by a high sand-colored masonry wall. A Marine in combat gear stopped the Jag and directed Douglas to pull into the vehicle inspection lane.
“Please open the hood, trunk, all four doors, and back away from the car, sir,” a female Marine with an M16 rifle said, as another Marine approached with a German shepherd. As he stood aside and watched the dog sniff its way through the Jaguar, Douglas heard a helicopter engine getting very close. A matte-gray Black Hawk flared down onto the heliport on the other side of the wall, kicking up a small sandstorm near the soccer field.
Cleared to proceed, Douglas drove to the stucco archway that was the main gate. It looked as though it had been left on some
Hollywood back lot from the set of Gunga Din. Flashing his Navyissued ID, Douglas was directed to Building 903, with its typical U.S. Navy gobbledegook signage: “HQ-COMUSNAVCENT.”
Douglas had no sooner been seated in the waiting room when a large man in a Navy flight jacket bounded into the suite and right up to Douglas. “Brian Douglas, it’s good to see you, you old bloke.” His thinning strawberry blond hair and baby face made him look like anything other than the Fifth Fleet commander.
“Come on in, Bri. Ensign, two big mugs of coffee. Just choppered in from two days on the Reagan.” The British SIS station chief followed in the admiral’s wake into the cavernous office.
“Sorry I haven’t had you over since I got in last month, but it’s been a whirlwind of get-to-know-you meetings up and down the Gulf. I’ve memorized more royal family trees in the last week than I did studying European history,” Admiral Adams continued, moving across the room. “Here, let’s sit at the conference table. You know my N-2, the intel guy here, Johnny Hardy.” The three men sat at the long staff table.
“Johnny, Brian Douglas and I first got to know each other back in twenty-oh-three in the Green Zone, chasing bad guys, when I was assigned to CENTCOM staff in Iraq. Hangin’ out together in the HVT Bar out at the airport after hours. He has more embarrassing information on me than you guys in Naval Intelligence will ever have, so whenever he says he needs to see me like he did this morning, he gets right in. I’m here for you. You’re the best ally we’ve got left, almost the only one we got left, right, Johnny?”
“Well, Admiral, I appreciate your willingness to see me on such short notice.” Douglas looked down at the giant coffee mug, to which somebody had already added a great deal of milk.
“You’ve been stationed in Bahrain for a while. Real expert on the region. How long you been here now, Brian? Tell Johnny your career,” the admiral said as he reached for the tray of cookies.
“Well, sir, as you know, I served here as a station officer during Desert Storm, then Baghdad after the Second Gulf War, now back here as SIS station chief for Bahrain, Qatar, Oman, and the United Arab Emirates. I’m completing twelve years in the Gulf, ’fraid to say.” Douglas tried to sound modest.
“You must like it here in Bahrain.” Captain Hardy dunked a ladyfinger in his mug.
The admiral jumped in. “Lots of people do. “Hell, I wouldn’t be an admiral without Bahrain. They came up with the word amir, meaning the guy in charge of the dhows. Shit, they were sailing dhows to Africa and India when we Anglo-Saxons were still painting ourselves blue and fighting the Romans.” He turned to Douglas for affirmation.
“I think it may have been my people, the Picts, who painted themselves blue, but yes, this is a very ancient, well-fought-over piece of turf. Which is why I wanted to see you, sir,” the station chief said, trying to get the conversation back on track.
“Yes, Brian, you’re not here to discuss history. What’s up?” Adams sat back in the chair at the head of the table and focused on his guest.
“I’ve already been on to your embassy and told my brethren from the Agency, but I wanted to pass it directly to you as well.” Brian Douglas withdrew a paper from inside his suit coat and read, “ ‘Highly reliable SIS sources have revealed that the Iranian Qods Force has designated ASU-Bahrain as a target for a terrorist-style attack, probably within the next four weeks. The sources also reveal that Iran may be planning to stimulate a Shi’a uprising in Bahrain, as it attempted to do in 1996 and 2001.’ ” Douglas passed the paper to Captain Hardy, thinking of how successful his monitoring of Ahmed Rashid had been.
“Interesting. You’re the second group to tell me today that my little base here will be the target for an attack. That’s why we are on a high force protection status, Threatcon Charlie. Of course, I did that myself after the Diplomat and Crowne Plaza attacks.” Admiral Adams took the report from his intelligence officer. “But the Pentagon seems to think the attack will be carried out by agents of Islamyah.”
The British spy coughed and sipped the heavily milk-laden coffee. “With all due respect to the Pentagon, the import of our report is that Tehran may be intending that you believe the attack comes from Riyadh. But Riyadh? Their lot couldn’t stage a successful attack on the ASU. Al Qods is capable of it. Moreover, and this is not in what we gave Washington or the Agency here, we have reason to believe that Islamyah knows that the Iranians are setting them up to get the blame.”
“Well, whoever it is, they will have a hard time. This place is buttoned up tight, Admiral,” the N-2 asserted.
“Maybe, Johnny, maybe, but any place can be struck. I can step up protection, but the way to handle this is to get them before they get us.” The admiral leaned across the table toward Douglas. “Can the Bahrainis do that? Can you and the Agency find these guys, whoever they are?”
“The Bahraini Security Service is very good, SIS-trained.” Douglas smiled. “And we and the Agency each have our own sources as well. If we can find the attack team, the Bahrainis can wipe them up.”
“I also have SEALs and a Fleet Anti-Terrorism Security Team here if they need any help.” Brad Adams got up out of his chair. “They prefer the offense to sniffing around diplomats’ Jags.” Brian laughed; Adams had done his homework. As they walked to the door, Adams changed his tone and style. He said softly to Douglas, “We can’t have another Baghdad here. I can’t stand the thought of more U.S. troops KIA. I wasn’t in Iraq as long as you, but you remember those nights out at the HTV, drinking away our sorrows with the Agency guys and the Special Forces. I was there two years, working the Sunni insurgency, trying to counter the Iranians.”