Kate frowned. “Yes, but isn’t it a little close to the old Arab world? Islamyah? Iran? You can see the lights of the Iranian oil platforms from the bar on the top of the Dubai Tower.” She stabbed a pepper on the antipasto plate that had appeared.
“Yes, that’s why we’re a little worried,” Nakeel said, putting down the menu. “That’s what I want to talk with you about.”
“I’m all ears.”
“For generations, the mullahs in Iran have wanted to unite the Shi’a world into a single power, ruled from Tehran or Qom, the seat of their religious leaders,” he began. “Right after they took power in 1979, they started to stir up the Shi’a majority in Iraq. That’s why Saddam attacked them in 1980.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Kate replied, breaking a breadstick. “Or maybe he just thought he’d grab their oil province while they were weak after the fall of the Shah.”
“The point is,” Nakeel continued, “that almost a million people died in that war over eight years, until both sides quit from exhaustion, and nobody won. Fifteen years later, the U.S. Army comes along and topples Saddam in three weeks. Three years later and the Shi’a are practically running Iraq under Iranian guidance. Washington did Tehran’s work for them. While all the American attention was focused on car bombs in Baghdad, the Iranians secretly built nuclear weapons while denying it and tricking the Europeans and Americans into thinking that they were five years away from a bomb.”
Kate looked bored. “Jassim, that’s your version of history. I think we prevented Iraq from getting WMD again and we gave it democracy. Democracy means majority rule, so the Shi’a rule, but that doesn’t mean Iran is in charge of Iraq. So what else is new?”
“The next steps, Kate. They are about to happen.” He tasted the splash of Barolo the waiter offered for his approval and nodded for him to pour for the lady. “Now they want the Shi’a majority in Bahrain to take power and facilitate Iranian activity across the Gulf. Do you really believe that Pentagon crap that it’s Islamyah behind the bombings in Bahrain?” Nakeel scoffed.
“No, I don’t, but my editors seem to. They spiked my story blaming it on Tehran and ran a piece by our Pentagon reporter demonizing Riyadh,” Kate admitted.
“Your Defense Secretary Conrad has been demonizing them since the day they drove the Sauds out.” He paused and looked her in the eye. “We think Conrad is on the al Saud payroll,” Nakeel said softly.
“ ‘We’? The Dubai real estate development board?” Kate shot back. “Or do you have another job, too?”
He ignored her question. “If you want a story your editors can’t spike, Kate, talk with my friend in Bahrain.” As he spoke, the Burj al Arab and the hotel next to it that was shaped like a giant wave both erupted into a galaxy of twinkling stars, fireworks shot from their roofs, and the speakers in the souk played “Rocket Man.”
“I’m actually booked there on Gulf Air tomorrow afternoon, but I appreciate the advice, Jassim,” she said flatly.
“Well then, may I suggest someone you might want to interview there, a tip from the Dubai real estate board?” He smiled as they brought his veal scaloppine and her roasted pork loin. The music switched to ABBA.
“You’re not afraid to be in a hotel lobby in Bahrain, Ms. Delmarco?” Ahmed said as he sat in the chair opposite her in the coffee shop. He was wearing a blue blazer and khakis, and looked like a thin, young American assistant professor.
“Should I be, Doctor?” she asked as she extended her hand, testing to see if he would take it. He did.
“Perhaps. Many people died in the Diplomat and Crowne Plaza, but not, as your paper claims, at the hands of Islamyah,” he said quickly, settling into his seat.
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Rashid. I know you are a busy man at the hospital and…everything else,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I met an American naval intelligence officer today at the base, who told me that Riyadh was definitely behind the terrorism, part of a plan to push the Navy out of Bahrain.”
“We have to ban smoking in Bahrain,” Ahmed joked. “And lies. You should have better sources than this Navy intelligence man.”
“I guess everyone has their vices,” she said, snubbing out the Kent after two puffs. “That captain’s vices apparently include trying to pick up female reporters. We’re having dinner tonight. What are your vices, Doctor?”
“I have an addiction to American television comedies.” He smiled. “My family would never understand. Do you know Frasier?”
Kate thought Ahmed had a warm, genuine smile, and that the spy business was definitely a second career for him. As much as she liked Brian Douglas, it was going to be a lot easier getting information out of the good doctor. “Frasier? But you’re not a psychologist, you’re a cardiologist. You worry about hearts.” She signaled for the waiter. “And minds?”
“Some people are trying to sow fear in the minds of Americans, Ms. Delmarco, but America does not need to fear the new government in Islamyah. We have replaced a corrupt, undemocratic government with one more in line with our traditions and beliefs as a people. We still sell oil on the world market. We do not attack Americans. Why not let us alone?” Again, he flashed the charming, boyish smile.
“ ‘We,’ Doctor? I thought you were a physician who just happened to have a highly placed brother in Riyadh, a brother from whom the Islamyah embassy press attaché assures me you are estranged. What does that mean, ‘estranged’?” she said, taking out her digital recorder.
“May I call you Kate?” he asked. She nodded. “Then, Kate, let’s stop the dance. I was told I could trust you, and you were told the same about me. I have known the Nakeels for twenty years. My parents have owned a vacation house next to theirs in Spain forever. Yes, many people in our new government would not talk to an American reporter, a woman reporter, but because I support that government, I will. I will try to help you see the truth, assuming you will report it.” Ahmed stopped abruptly and touched his cell phone’s Bluetooth earpiece. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”
Kate sipped her coffee, trying to hear something of what was being said into Ahmed’s ear. His face had changed; he looked concerned, almost afraid.
“I apologize. I have to get back to the intensive care unit. May we meet tomorrow? May I call you?” he said, placing Bahrain dinars on the table.
She smiled and handed him her card, with the Dubai cell phone number. “Anytime, Doctor.”
In a moment, he was gone. Kate Delmarco turned off the recorder and wondered what could happen at the ICU to put fear into such a pleasant young man.
The beat-up Nissan was no more. He had ditched what the cell had given him and purchased something more to his liking. Ahmed Rashid’s new BMW 325 was supposed to be parked at the hotel door, thanks to a small contribution he had made to the doorman, but it was nowhere in sight. A young man in a valet’s uniform ran over, key in hand.
“Excuse me, sir, but we had to move your car. It’s just around the corner. Should I bring it or would you like to follow me?”
Impatient, Ahmed waved him forward. “Let’s go.”
The valet nodded and stepped smartly, Ahmed behind. The valet turned the corner and disappeared. Ahmed could see the front of his BMW as he moved past the building’s edge. He vaguely wondered where the valet had gone when he spotted something moving to his right. As he turned his head, he saw the valet, hand out in front. But instead of car keys in his hand, the valet held something large and metal and black. As Ahmed realized it was a gun, the valet suddenly lurched and fell to his knees and then on his face. Ahmed now faced Saif, breathing rapidly, eyes narrow and dark.