savage cuts in every family’s income from the oil, the offensive ties to the United States of America, the loss of the true Islamic religion in favor of the ideals of a different, godless world to the West.
Jacques Gamoudi nodded. One of four million Muslims resident in France, he still tried to obey the laws of the Koran, although it was difficult to attend a mosque up there in the mountains. But his parents had been devout in the teachings of the Prophet, and there was no question in the mind of Colonel Gamoudi:
On their twice-yearly trips to Paris — one at Christmas with the boys — Jacques always took Giselle to the great Moorish-style Paris Mosque, with its towering minaret, almost one hundred feet high, located directly opposite the Natural History Museum in the
Years of military service in North Africa had kept his religious upbringing alive, and he understood implicitly what so many millions of Saudi Arabians felt about their ruling family. He could not imagine life without the Koran and its teachings, but he could imagine the desolation any Muslim might feel watching the systematic erosion of religion in the day-to-day life of a country like Saudi Arabia.
“There are many great problems in Saudi Arabia,” he said. “But I am at a loss to understand why they should concern me, and why you have journeyed here to see me.”
“Well, Jacques,” said Savary. “One month ago, the President of France had a private visit from one of the most senior princes of the Saudi royal family. And he has asked us for our help in overthrowing the present regime and returning the Saudis to their pure Bedouin roots. And now General Jobert will explain to you what has happened, and what we intend to do to help them.”
The following ten minutes were, possibly, the most astounding in Colonel Gamoudi’s not uneventful life. He listened wide-eyed to the plan for the Navy to knock out the entire Saudi oil industry, bringing that vast and fabulously wealthy country financially to its knees.
He nodded in general understanding of the plan to hit the air base at King Khalid when the Saudi armed forces’ morale was at its lowest possible ebb. And he indicated his general acceptance of the need to take Riyadh, and for the people to rise up and perhaps storm the palace. All in the moments before the Crown Prince appeared on television to announce he had taken command of the country and that the old King, one of his one hundred-odd uncles, was dead.
He also understood that these two men were here in his home seeking his advice.
But when General Jobert coolly told him that he, Col. Jacques Gamoudi, was the man chosen by the French Army to command the operation in Riyadh, he almost shot hot, scalding coffee straight up his nose.
To tell the truth, stated like that, Gaston Savary thought they might all be dreaming. But General Jobert was dead serious. “You have all of the required qualifications, Jacques. And we believe you will be leading a revolution against which there will be no opposition. We expect the Army will have given up by then…you just need to take the palace.”
“But what about the guards? What about the King’s bodyguards? What about the protectors in the palace?”
“I don’t recall such trifling matters ever having discouraged you before,” said Michel Jobert drolly.
“I was rather thinking we might hire one of those Muslim suicide bombers,” said the General. “Have him flatten the main royal palace without much fuss — same as all those Saudi terrorists on 9/11. No one was firing AK-47s that day.”
“General, am I supposed to be taking this seriously? I mean, who’s going to arm this throng? Who’s going to train them? Get them to move forward as a fighting force? What about supplies? Hardware? Ordnance?”
“I assure you, Jacques, there will be endless supplies, every last request granted. For this operation there will be no expense spared.”
“Well, General, when I read about it in the
“But you are still a young man, Jacques. What are you, forty-five years old? And by the look of you, very, very fit. Climbing mountains all day, you should be.”
“General, I want to make myself very clear: I cannot, will not, be involved. I have my wife and family to consider. General, I would not undertake this for a million dollars.”
Michel Jobert smiled. But he did not answer for a few moments. Then he did. “How about ten?” he said.
On a day of truly outlandish suggestions, this one beat them all.
“I think you heard me,” said General Jobert. “How about ten million dollars, with a further five million bonus when Prince Nasir assumes the throne of Saudi Arabia?”
Jacques Gamoudi was absolutely stunned. He rose to his feet and walked from one end of the room to the other. He walked back, shaking his head, reflecting on the outrageous proposition. It was outrageous in its assumptions, outrageous in its arrogance, outrageous in its rewards.
The Moroccan-born Colonel had been around in his time. But never had he heard anything to match this. He spoke slowly. “You want me, General, somehow to smuggle myself into Saudi Arabia, then into Riyadh, then find myself a headquarters, and start recruiting people to join a popular revolution. And when I have enough, to attack the royal palaces?”
“Try not to be absurd, Colonel. You will be flown into Saudi Arabia by private jet from the French Air Force. You will be chauffeur-driven to a small palace on the outskirts of Riyadh. And there you will meet the Saudi military commanders loyal to the Crown Prince, and there you will meet the terrorist commanders who mostly have ties to al-Qaeda. And there you will be briefed as to the size of your force and its assets.
“From then on, you will decide what you require. Transport. Armored vehicles. Maybe some artillery, which is currently being stored in the desert. Helicopters. Maybe tanks. Everything is available. But you will mastermind the entire operation. Communications and, above all, the attack on the King’s palace. Anything you ask will be provided.”
“And for all this I am to be paid ten million dollars, and five more when Prince Nasir takes over. And what then? Do I stay on in Riyadh?”
“No. You leave, probably within a few days. A French Air Force jet will be waiting to fly you directly home to Pau-Pyrenees Airport.”
“And who’s supposed to wipe out the King and his immediate family and advisers?”
“I think that is an honor we would leave to you. Because that way there will be no mistakes,” said Savary. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Jacques Gamoudi poured himself another cup of coffee. “How long would I be in Riyadh?”
“Several months. You would be attended at all times by personal bodyguards, with a staff of perhaps six former Saudi Army officers, handpicked men who know the country and love it, but are tired of the King and his entourage.
“You would move around locally with a driver, in a Saudi government car. There’s dozens of them in Riyadh. Yours would be provided by the Crown Prince. For longer journeys you would be provided with a helicopter and a pilot. Royal Saudi Air Force, courtesy of Prince Nasir. You would get to know him well.”
“And if I continue to refuse?”
“You won’t, Colonel. This is your country sounding the bugle for battle. And you will, as you always have, answer that call.”
“But there must be others? Younger officers. Men who have just as good qualifications.”
“We have chosen you, Jacques. And we have informed two people only of our choice. The President of the French Republic, and the Foreign Minister of France.”
“Oh, nothing serious,” said Colonel Gamoudi. “It’s nice to keep things on a low level, eh?”
“And the money?” asked the General.
“Well, of course, that’s enough to tempt any man. I think of all I could do for my family. It would be beyond
