“Then what’s my next step, uncle?” Bakr expected to be told that he should go to Afghanistan, join the jihad there.
Instead, his uncle sketched out a very different path.
AT TWENTY, BAKR JOINED the National Guard — the one-hundred-thousand-man militia that served as the Saud family’s private fighting force. For the next eight years, he served ably, getting the military training he knew he would need. He kept his fundamentalist views concealed. To his superiors, he was a devout Muslim but a loyal Saudi.
Meantime, he quietly looked for men who might one day prove useful in his quest. The
Eight years passed. Then, on a spring morning, as Bakr napped in his two-room apartment in the National Guard barracks outside Mecca, a knock woke him. He opened the door to see two military police officers. “Captain Bakr? Please come with us. And leave your sidearm.”
“What’s this about?”
But they wouldn’t answer. And somehow he knew. The
They drove along the edge of the base, which stretched over thousands of acres and housed an entire battalion, two thousand five hundred soldiers, plus air support. The Saudi government had built it after the 1979 fundamentalist attack on the Grand Mosque. If terrorists ever again tried to seize the mosque, the battalion’s soldiers could reach it in fifteen minutes.
A windowless two-story concrete building squatted near the southwest corner of the base. It housed the battalion’s internal security unit. Bakr knew he should be frightened. Yet he wasn’t. Whatever was about to happen would be Allah’s work. And Allah had guided him since that moment in the desert.
They drove past the security headquarters and parked at a warehouse two hundred meters on. The warehouse had once housed spare parts for the vehicles in the battalion but had been abandoned because of its inconvenient location. Now its front door was open. “Go on,” the military police sergeant said.
The warehouse was hot and stank of epoxy. Inside, the overhead lights illuminated a concrete floor. Broken pallets lay at the far end of the building. A man in an officer’s crisp olive uniform stood near them. As Bakr approached, he saw crossed swords and three stars on the officer’s shoulderboards. Not merely an officer. An
“At ease, Captain Bakr. Do you know who I am?”
“No, sir.”
“General Ibrahim.”
Bakr hadn’t recognized the face, but he knew the name. Though not a royal, Walid Ibrahim was a cousin of a low-ranking prince. He was also head of internal security for the western brigades of the National Guard. He was rarely seen and much feared. His men handled “political problems”—as they were euphemistically known — with a brutality that would have pleased a commissar for Stalin.
The general stood toe-to-toe with Bakr. He was light-skinned, taller than Bakr, with pockmarked skin and a neatly trimmed goatee. His breath stank of coffee and cardamom. “One of your men has confessed, Captain Bakr.”
“Sir?”
Ibrahim slapped Bakr, catching his cheek with all five fingers. “Must I repeat myself? A man in your cell has confessed. Step back. Three steps. And go to your knees.”
The concrete was warm through Bakr’s khakis. He wondered whether Allah would save him again. Perhaps he didn’t deserve to be saved, not after being so stupid as to trust Gamal.
Ibrahim unholstered his pistol. “Lieutenant Gamal al-Aziz has told us that you’ve recruited a cell of traitors”—Ibrahim spat on the concrete floor, the sound echoing softly—“and you plan to steal weapons from this base.”
“He’s mistaken, sir.”
Bakr found himself looking at the pistol’s dark eye. It didn’t shake, not even a fraction. He didn’t doubt that Ibrahim would pull the trigger. “Hands behind your back, captain. And don’t move your head, no matter what I do.”
Bakr intertwined his fingers behind his back. Ibrahim disappeared behind him, his clipped steps echoing on the concrete. Now he was just a voice. “It’s my business to evaluate men like this. And he’s telling the truth. He came to us of his own accord. Says he had an attack of conscience. Probably he got scared. He’s hoping for clemency. You made a mistake with him.”
Sweat ran down Bakr’s chest. He promised himself that whatever happened, he wouldn’t betray the men he’d recruited.
“But here’s the thing, captain. He only has four names. He says there’s more, but he doesn’t know them.”
“There is no cell.”
“Tell me the truth. Or I’ll put a bullet through your neck. If you’re lucky, you’ll die right away. If not, you’ll wind up paralyzed for a few miserable years. Then you’ll die.”
“Sir. Lieutenant Gamal is mistaken—”
“Three seconds. Two—” Bakr bit his tongue so he couldn’t speak. “One—” The pistol touched the nape of his neck, settled in. Bakr closed his eyes.
The pistol pulled back. The shot echoed in Bakr’s ears — and nothing changed. He felt the concrete against his legs. He opened his eyes. He was still in the warehouse.
“Last chance,” Ibrahim said. Another endless pause—
“Stand up and face me.” Ibrahim holstered his pistol. “I know that lieutenant is telling the truth. But I’ve been looking for a man like you. I’m sick of the corruption, too. We’re on the same side. I’m going to give you a chance. I’ve sent Gamal to his barracks. Take care of him and we’ll talk.”
Bakr didn’t trust himself to speak.
“You won’t be suspected, captain. For now, I’m the only one who knows what he’s said. My men brought him directly to me.”
“Sir—”
“You have forty-eight hours. If you don’t solve this problem by then, my men will be back for you.” Ibrahim handed a handkerchief to Bakr. “And clean yourself up. You’re bleeding.”
BAKR MOPPED AT THE blood dribbling from his skull as he stumbled to his barracks. The day had turned scorching, forty-eight degrees Celsius — one hundred eighteen degrees Fahrenheit. The devils in his head danced. In his quarters, he pulled the shades and draped a wet towel over his skull and tried to think through what had happened. Maybe Ibrahim was trapping him, hoping to make him incriminate himself. Gamal had confessed, but Ibrahim didn’t have enough evidence to bring a case.
Then why not just arrest him and the others, and shake out the truth? Ibrahim had brought him to the warehouse to test him. Oneon-one, without witnesses.
A trap, or a lifeline? Perhaps he should ask Gamal directly, let the man defend himself. Bakr lay on his bed and closed his eyes. His head ached terribly, and he squeezed his eyes tight. Then, suddenly, the headache passed and he knew what to do.
It was six p.m., the dinner hour. The barracks were nearly empty. Bakr scribbled a note—
