His efforts to engage the three young men in conversation failed totally, even though at least two of them were apparently fluent in English. At least, he thought, there is no blindfold involved yet. Despite his ability to watch where they were going, Russell MacIntyre doubted he could reconstruct the route down alleys and side streets without street signs. Finally, the minivan stopped on a dusty back street lined with run-down apartment buildings. “He’s waiting for you,” Fadl said, pulling back the door.
“Where?” MacIntyre asked, looking down a barely lit pedestrian passage between the buildings directly in front of the van door.
“Over there. In the Mustafa Café,” Fadl said, pointing across the street in the other direction, where a storefront was lit and a small Pepsi sign glowed dimly, with the name of the shop written in Arabic below. MacIntyre got out and walked across the little three-way intersection to the store. One street was unpaved, dirt. On the others, the curbing was intermittent. The parked cars were old and beat-up. The street lighting was occasional. This was not the highrent district. As he pushed open the door, a little bell overhead rang to let the owner know someone had come in. It was a combination convenience store and café. Not the kind of place that would be open at midnight.
“Mr. MacIntyre, over here,” a man said from the farthest of the four tables along the wall. He rose and walked toward the American, holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming to my part of town. Hope you don’t mind. I am Dr. Ahmed bin Rashid. I understand you wanted to see me.”
They shook hands and sat down at the little table. Rashid was drinking a Pepsi and had a second bottle opened and a glass waiting for his guest. MacIntyre noticed there was no one else in the shop.
“Dr. Rashid, America has many intelligence organizations. I am from one of them,” MacIntyre said as he placed his business card on the table. He doubted many recruitments had been done quite this way. “Our job is not to run operations but to interpret information that others collect. Sometimes, however, when we are not getting the information we need, we go to the field ourselves to learn. I am here to learn, from you.”
Ahmed examined the business card and then dug out one of his own. It said he was “Attending Physician, Cardiology, Intensive Care Unit, Salmaniyah Medical Center.” Noticing Rusty’s smile as he read the card, Ahmed added, “And, as you know, my brother is Abdullah bin Rashid, a member of the Islamyah Shura. What would you like to learn about, Mr. MacIntyre?”
“About the Shura and how America could deal with it in a way that prevents a long period of hostility. I personally — and I stress this is just my belief — I personally think that our two countries could be reconciled. Unless, of course, the Shura is intent on adopting policies that will make it impossible for us.”
“What would those policies be, Mr. MacIntyre?” Ahmed asked stiffly, formally.
“Policies that enforce a strict Wahhabist approach, denying human rights, exporting terrorism. Policies that might involve the introduction of weapons of mass destruction, or restricting the export of oil to one market. But I am not here as a policy maker or negotiator. As I said, I am here to learn, Dr. Rashid.”
“You must come to a café on a dirty back street in Manama to learn about Islamyah because you cannot learn from your embassy in Riyadh. You closed it, out of fear and lack of understanding.” Ahmed shifted in his chair. “Very well. Here is what you must learn. The pronouncements of your government, particularly the Pentagon, make it sound as though you have not accepted what has happened in my country. The Sauds are gone from power, Mr. MacIntyre, and they took the people’s money with them. And your ministers consort with them to bring them back to the throne. This drives some on the Shura to look for ways to protect our country from America. It strengthens the hands of the faction who also want the Wahhabist policies you object to.”
MacIntyre spoke slowly, softly. “Dr. Rashid, I am not too sure I know all the factions in the Shura, but I do know that your brother, Abdullah, was a member of al Qaeda. I don’t know whether he personally killed any of my fellow Americans, but I can tell you that the presence of people in your government who are or have been terrorists makes it very difficult for our two countries to have normal relations.”
Ahmed stood up abruptly, his white robe swirling after him. He stood by the empty halal meat display container, folded his arms across his narrow chest, and looked down at the American. “You deal with Israeli prime ministers who were terrorist fighters, who killed British troops. You deal with Palestinian leaders whom you called terrorists earlier. You talk to the Irish terrorists in the White House. Let me ask you, was Samuel Adams, the man they named the beer after, was he a terrorist? My brother acted to free his country from an oppressive, illegitimate regime that was stealing the people’s patrimony. Yes, he had to associate with some unsavory people in the process. Have you never associated with unsavory people, Mr. MacIntyre?”
“I am sure the American government, which is now well into its third century, has made a lot of mistakes. It has also done more to promote democracy and human rights than any other world power since the dawn of time,” Rusty said, reflexively. “And Sam Adams was a patriot.”
Ahmed continued on. “My brother, sir, is a patriot. Abdullah saw the U.S. troops after your first war with Saddam, how the troops stayed in our country against your promise to leave after the war. He saw that the al Sauds were being propped up by America so that you could get access to the oil. You waste the oil, worse than anyone. You could do so many other things with all your technology, but you don’t really try, you give lip service to other energy sources. Why? Because you think you have special access to the biggest oil supply in the world. Let everyone else be efficient. Who cares what the al Sauds do with the money? Who cares if they mismanage the kingdom?”
MacIntyre turned to face Rashid and crossed his legs to appear relaxed, trying to defuse the tension. “There have been times when terrorists have renounced terrorism, particularly after they came to power or entered into peace talks. We would welcome that from the leaders of Islamyah. But I am also serious when I say that we do not know about factions and we may be doing things that help the wrong faction, precisely because we do not know who is who or what is going on in the Shura. Its meetings are not exactly broadcast on C-Span or al Jazeera. Maybe if we can open a way for us to talk, we will be better informed.”
Rashid unfolded his arms and walked over to the small table. “All right, Russell. Let’s talk.” He sat down and took a swig of Pepsi. “Because America acts as if it will subvert our regime to have a countercoup and Saud restoration, my brother’s opponents are talking with the Chinese. I noticed in the Washington Post last week that you have discovered the new Chinese missiles in my country. There are no nuclear warheads on them. But there are those in the Shura who might decide to get some, if they are pushed.
“Because America seized the al Saud assets but will not give them back to us, it is harder for my brother when he argues that imposing Sharia law and other Wahhabist acts will cause us to be rejected by the rest of the modern world. His opponents point out that we are already rejected, and unable to benefit fully from the technological revolutions. America keeps pressure on the Europeans to maintain economic sanctions on us.”
Rusty found the young doctor to be a strange mix, a highly Westernized doctor but also a spokesman for a radical Islamic government that had come to power by killing. He wanted to know more about him. “So, Dr. Rashid, are you telling me that your brother opposes using the Sharia religious law as the basis of the Islamyah legal system? That he opposes exporting the Wahhabist philosophy of hating non-Muslims?”