populous Iran, with its teeming millions. Iran was well armed, with a huge conventional army as well as thousands of terrorists and guerrillas it could field to infiltrate, subvert, and destroy the foe.
Iran could take Saudi Arabia simply by marching an army into the kingdom. The mullahs in Tehran and the holy city of Qom would become the masters of the world's richest reserves of high-grade oil.
Standing between Iran's conquest of the kingdom was the bulwark of the United States. Washington and Riyadh have had a long and complicated relationship (like a hostile married couple, they stayed together for the sake of 'the children') — that is, the oil fields.
Despite deep currents of hostility, suspicion, and mutual detestation, the two nations needed each other. The United States needs Saudi oil, and the Saudi royals need the United States to guarantee their throne and sovereignty.
Now a crisis was approaching. U.S. involvement in Iraqi nation building was reaching the beginning of the end. The misadventure had caused the United States to hemorrhage vast amounts of blood and treasure. Further gargantuan sums were required to keep the U.S. Navy and Air Force patrolling the vital sea-lanes of the Persian Gulf — Arabian Sea, by kingdom lights. The cruisers, destroyers, submarines, aircraft carriers, air bases, and all the other components of the U.S. military infrastructure burned vast reserves of oil every day to maintain the status quo.
Washington had recently made it clear to the royals in Riyadh that it needed some relief from the gnawing expense. Even the long-suffering American taxpayer was beginning to grumble with obvious signs of discontent. The Saudi royals' resistance to American pressure began to crumble.
The result was Cloak of Night.
Cloak of Night — that was the royals' term for a bold economic thrust on the world market.
The Americans, the oil executives, diplomats, and military attaches who'd helped broker the deal for Washington, called the forthcoming market glut Operation Petro Surge.
One result of the surge would be a sudden drop in gas prices at the pump and in home heating fuel costs. Extra money in the pockets of American consumers — a welcome event in what was shaping up as a tricky election year for the incumbent Administration.
The oil glut would be a onetime phenomenon. The Saudis had agreed to it this once because of the immediate threat presented by Iran's expansionist activities in the Gulf. It was a guarantor of American military protection.
Best of all, no real harm would be done to the kingdom's long-term interests. The oil glut would be soaked up and absorbed by the market, and prices would once more begin to rise, zooming upward. It would stifle any flickering impulses on the part of the Americans to develop some degree of energy independence, ultimately making them even more dependent on Saudi oil.
Most important of all, it would check the Iranians — hard.
The theory was simplicity itself: supply trumps demand. The kingdom maintained a vast sea of oil reserves, storage tank reservoirs containing millions of barrels of high-grade oil. They sat on it, carefully shepherding it to avoid putting too much on the market at once. A glut of oil would, at least temporarily, depress prices.
That cut into Saudi profits.
The boldness of Cloak of Night lay in its counterintuitive nature. It proposed to release those reserves, flooding them on the open market and dramatically driving down prices.
At first glance, it was seemingly contrary to Saudi interests. It also countered the dictates of OPEC, the global petroleum producers' price-fixing cartel, an organization of which Saudi Arabia was an integral part. As was Iran, the kingdom's dreaded rival and immediate threat.
Cloak of Night, the Saudi planners called it, a phrase with a self-consciously archaicizing feel. The newly freed reserves comprised a sea of night-black oil. But there was a deeper meaning. The oil ploy was an act of darkness, for it would directly benefit the unbelievers and crusaders of the Western adversary, particularly the Great Satan, U.S.A.
But not for long.
Minister Fedallah continued, 'As expected, Cloak has produced no small amount of unrest at all levels of the populace, in cities and villages.'
Khalid, of the religious police — a key ally of Imam Omar — was unreceptive, quarrelsome. 'Who can blame them? Bad enough that we, the shepherds of the faithful, must oversee a process that rewards the Western foe who seeks to destroy us.'
Fedallah countered, 'Dissent is an act of disloyalty against His Majesty himself and therefore a crime, no matter how nicely motivated. To tolerate unrest is a betrayal.'
Tariq noted, 'No one will ever reproach your zeal in the service of the King, Fedallah.'
Imam Omar said, 'The King has spoken, his will must be done.'
'I'm glad you feel that way, Imam,' Fedallah said. 'Some of the rioters and provocateurs are persons associated with your mosque.'
'Then they are no followers of mine, for I counsel obedience to His Majesty's commands.'
'Still, they listen to you and respect you. Words from you on cheerful obedience to the King's command would go a long way in quelling some of the more unruly and rebellious sentiment.'
'I will speak on this matter on my very next program, Minister Fedallah.'
Fedallah's gaze encompassed all eleven members seated at the table. He said, 'Traitors and usurpers are everywhere, always seeking to exploit the thorny issues of the day to their own benefit. Yet in the end, their machinations and infamies shall yield them only… a mouthful of sand.'
4. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 A.M. AND 9 A.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME
An hour can make a world of difference.
Earlier, when Jack Bauer had jumped in the SUV and gone cruising in search of Vikki Valence or Colonel Paz, the scene he'd left behind at the Golden Pole had been one of bleak and forlorn stillness.
Except for the corpses cluttering Fairview Street and the presence of Pete Malo and a scattering of civilian early risers, the area had seemed deserted and abandoned. It had an eerie quality, like the bare stage of a theater after the performance has ended and the audience and players have all gone home.
Even Bourbon Street was bereft of all but a few lone vehicles rolling up and down the thoroughfare. Not only had the police not yet arrived, but the quietude of the dawn was unbroken by the sound of approaching sirens of patrol cars and emergency vehicles.
Now, little more than sixty minutes later, the scene had taken on an entirely different aspect. New Orleans had come awake and alive, to discover that the day had begun with a spectacular massacre.
The Golden Pole shootings had plenty of coverage now. The site was not only a crime scene; it was the center of a national security investigation with international implications.
The area was a hive of activity, swarming with police, press, and public officials.
A cordon had been thrown up around it, a blockade consisting of several concentric rings of barriers that grew tighter the closer one approached the center.
The outermost ring was made up of uniformed police who detoured unauthorized vehicles away from a cluster of several city blocks surrounding the club building.
The detour had created a traffic jam of impressive proportions, with noise to match.
A racketing clamor was compounded of honking car and truck horns, angry shouts of frustrated drivers, barked commands of traffic cops, the rumble of idling engines, the hiss of overheated car radiators, and the electronic wheep-beeping of police and emergency vehicles trying to make headway against the thicket of creeping masses of metal.
The heavy, humid air was now flavored with exhaust clouds from the vehicles stuck in the jam. No breath of
