Alex Berenson - The Secret Soldier

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The House of Saud, which is the ruling family of Saudi Arabia, provides a central structure to fictional events in this novel. The descriptions of the rise of the House of Saud and its relationship to Wahhabi Islam are factually accurate, to the best of the author’s knowledge, and based on reliable nonfiction histories. However, imaginary people are intermingled freely with real ones, so, for example, Princes Saeed and Mansour are wholly fictional characters and are not, of course, the defense minister and the director of the mukhabarat , respectively, of the present-day Saudi Arabian government. Similarly, although King Abdullah is real, his plan to install his son on the throne — along with all other dialogue, action, and motives attributed to him or other members of the ruling family, whether real or fictional — is a product of the author’s imagination and is not based upon actual events. Finally, references to unidentified members of the Saud ruling family are also fictional and bear no resemblance to any real person, living or dead.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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JJ’s HAD COLD CARLSBERG ON TAP AND A DOZEN FLAT-SCREEN televisions on its dark wooden walls. It was an above-average bar, generic Irish, and it would have fit in fine in London or Chicago. Instead it occupied the ground floor of a low-rise building in downtown Manama, the capital of Bahrain, a small island in the Persian Gulf.

By eleven p.m., JJ’s would be packed with men and women pressing their bodies together in search of pleasures great and small. Now, at nine, the bar was crowded enough to have a vibe, not too crowded to move. A skinny kid with bleached-blond hair spun Lady Gaga and Jay-Z from his iPod as a dozen women danced badly but enthusiastically. The crowd was mostly European expatriate workers, along with American sailors from the Fifth Fleet, which was headquartered in Bahrain.

Robby Duke had gotten to JJ’s early. The best girls were taken by midnight. Robby was twenty-eight, built like a rugby player, squat and wide, with long blond hair and an easy smile. Plenty of girls liked him, and he liked plenty of girls. Expat birds were all more or less the same. British, European, whatever, they came to the Gulf for adventure, and adventure usually meant a few easy nights.

Dwight Gasser was Robby’s wingman. He was soft-spoken, almost shy. He wasn’t much use as a wingman, but some women liked his curly hair and sleepy eyes. “Them two,” he said, nudging Robby toward the corner. A blonde with a round face and nice thick lips. The other skinnier and darker. Spanish maybe. They sat side by side, facing a table with two empty seats.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Robby squared up and headed for them. Once he’d decided to go for it, he didn’t see the sense in mucking about.

“Room for two more?”

The blonde sipped her drink and looked at him like a copper who’d caught him pissing in an alley and wasn’t sure whether to give him a ticket or wave him on.

“All yours,” she finally said.

Robby extended a hand. “I’m Robby Duke.”

“Josephine.”

They shook. Robby sat. Robby looked around for Dwight, but he’d disappeared, as he sometimes did when an introduction didn’t seem to be going well. Annoying bastard. Though he’d be back soon enough, might even have a beer for Robby by way of apology.

“Josephine. A fellow commoner. Where you from? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“London.”

“The center of the universe.” He’d bet his right leg that she didn’t live in London.

“Slough, really.”

Slough was a suburb west of London, just past Heathrow Airport. Slough was more like it, Robby thought. He could line Slough up and send it into the right corner and the keeper wouldn’t do anything but wave.

“Slough sounds like London to a Manchester boy like me.” He turned to the dark-haired girl. “You from London, too?”

“Rome.”

“Rome. The city of—” Robby couldn’t remember what Rome was the city of. “Anyhow, the plot thickens. What brings you ladies to JJ’s?”

“We’re cabin crew,” the Italian girl said. “For Emirates”—the biggest airline in the Middle East, known for its shiny new planes and equally shiny flight attendants.

“Emirates. Have you flown the A-three-eighty, then?”

“It’s a beast,” Josephine said. “Who thought a plane with eight hundred seats was a good idea?”

“Not glamorous, then?”

“About as glamorous as the Tube.”

“I like it,” the Italian said. “I know it’s stupid, but still, there’s something amazing about it. How something so big can fly.”

Robby turned to face the Italian. She had a big nose, but she wasn’t bad. Those dark eyes and that long black hair. And the accent. Most important, she looked happy to talk to him, unlike Josephine. “What’s your name, Italiano?”

“Cinzia.” Beside her, Josephine sighed. Have fun with Dwight, Robby almost said. You two will get along great. Instead, he raised his glass. “Here’s to Italy.”

“To Italy.”

“And to Bahrain on a Thursday night.” He took a long swallow of his beer. And we’re off.

THE BLACK MERCEDES E190 rolled down the King Fahad Causeway, the ten-mile bridge between Saudi Arabia and Bahrain. Below the asphalt was the water of the Persian Gulf, warm as a bathtub and nearly as flat.

Omar al-Rashid sat behind the wheel. His younger brother, Fakir, slept beside him in the passenger seat. A line of drool curled into Fakir’s pure white thobe, the long gown that Saudi men wore. Fakir had the soft bulk of a high school nose tackle. His thobe draped his round stomach like a pillowcase. He was eighteen, two years younger than Omar.

“Fakir.”

Fakir grunted irritably. “Let me sleep.”

“You’ve been asleep since the Eastern Province. And you’re drooling.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You’re as stupid as a donkey.”

“Better to be stupid than scared.”

“I’m not scared.” Omar punched Fakir, his fist thumping against Fakir’s biceps. And then wished he hadn’t, for Fakir didn’t complain, didn’t even rub his arm.

“It’s all right, brother. If you want to back out. We can do it without you.”

“I’m not scared.” For the first time in his life, Omar hated his brother. He was scared. Anyone would be scared. Anyone but a donkey like Fakir. But now he’d gone too far. The humiliation of quitting outweighed the fear of death. And maybe the imams were right. Maybe virgins and endless treasures awaited them on the other end.

Though he didn’t see the imams lining up to find out.

Three minutes later they reached the tiny barrier island that marked the border of Saudi Arabia and Bahrain. A bored guard checked the Mercedes’s registration. A hundred meters on, an immigration agent swiped their passports and waved them through without asking their plans. Everyone knew why Saudis went to Bahrain. They went for a drink, or two, or ten. They went to hang out with their girlfriends without being hassled by the muttawa, the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice. The Saudi religious police. They went to watch movies in public, movie theaters being another pleasure forbidden in the Kingdom.