customary red-and-white
Prince Nasir loved the desert. Those who knew him well talked often of his hatred of the gaudy palaces of the royal family. It was said that when he first saw his own new official residence, on the outskirts of Riyadh, he took one look at his sumptuously decorated bedroom and walked out of the door, marching along the upstairs corridor until he came to a small, almost bare, spare room. “I’m happier in here,” said the great-great-grandson of Ibn Saud.
And even now, many years later, the fifty-six-year-old Prince still preferred the old ways to the new. And still, almost every night, his servants drove him out to the desert, where they pitched the great three-sided tent and sat out under the stars and told their stories and discussed the politics of the day and the coming revolution.
Behind the tent, Jacques could see the cooks at work over modern barbecue grills; he could see the line of Range Rovers parked nearby; he could smell the roasting lamb; and he could see the great bowls of dates and the tall glasses of iced camel’s milk.
He sometimes had to give himself a reality check. And this was one of them, as he stood next to a royal family of Bedouins, robed, speaking quietly, close to the timeless oasis of Dir’aiyah. It was a scene that had scarcely changed for thousands of years. Except for the Range Rovers.
He stared at the tall, bearded Prince of the blood who accompanied him, and he watched the deference bestowed upon him — the gentle bowing of heads, the graceful sweep of the right arm from the forehead, the murmured “
Four days from now he was to try and capture their country for them, with tanks, high explosive, gunfire, and mayhem.
But the Prince was bidding him to be seated. And he was placed next to Nasir on the vast rug set upon the hot sands. Above them the sky was clear and the temperature was rising by the day in the central desert, now four weeks on from the cold nights of mid-February. Tonight it was around eighty-one degrees. A pale moon was rising above the endless shifting dunes to the southeast, and the great revolutionaries of the Saudi royal family were relaxed.
Which was a sight more than Jacques Gamoudi was. He had spent his weeks here scheming and planning a simultaneous attack on several targets. His advisers had promised him that he would have an army to help him. But he had never seen that army. He knew there were immense stores of small arms and ammunition in the city, and he of course could see the heavy artillery he had around him, the armored vehicles and tanks.
When the time for the attack came, Le Chasseur would make no mistakes. So long as he was obeyed, he would take Riyadh. But where the hell was his army? That’s what he wanted to know. So far as he could tell, he had about twenty-four known fighting men, all Saudi, all al-Qaeda, most of whom he saw every day. The rest were a mystery.
And since he was probably going to take to the streets four days from now, he ventured to ask Prince Nasir whether he was absolutely sure the army would show up.
The Prince smiled while thoughtfully eating a couple of dates. “Jacques,” he said, “You will have an army of thousands, a great army that will sweep away everything in its path. And you will lead them, and explain to them the critical targets you have chosen. They will follow you and your chosen commanders, and you will be astounded at their bravery and determination.
“And remember, as you look around this very oasis, when Dir’aiyah fell to the army of the Ottoman Empire, in 1818, that was the
Colonel Gamoudi actually thought that was all very well. And he was used to the flowery language of Arab military wannabes, which he privately thought the Prince was. He looked the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia straight in the eye and said softly, in French,
“Jacques,” said the Prince, “as you know, we have been stockpiling arms in the city for many weeks. We have vast caches of weapons stored in two houses in the Makkah Road. We have them on Al Mather Street and Al Malek Saud Street. Our main ammunition dumps are in great houses on Olaya Street. I’m mostly discussing AK-47s and hand grenades. But we have handheld rocket and grenade launchers.”
“Sir,” said Colonel Gamoudi, “you will remember I had asked about the possibility of a suicide bomber aiming a plane straight at the main royal palace. I still think that’s the quickest and most effective way of spreading instant chaos. And striking at the heart of the rulers. Is that likely to happen?”
“So far we have only 230 volunteers for perhaps the greatest act of martyrdom in our history. They are men who understand they will be saving their families, their friends, and their country. They are all
Jacques brightened up considerably. “But, sir,” he said, “when will our great army begin to muster? Remember, I’ve never even seen it.”
“Jacques, I have observed you since you have been here, and I have observed the great importance you put upon communications. I have seen you demand the most expensive cell phones, radio, and satellite communications in the world…and I know you have briefed your commanding officers in the greatest detail.
“Each one of the men you speak to every day, the Saudi officers who will fight for us, the men who masterminded the acquisition of the arms, have an area of the city that they control. And many, many people understand that something is going to happen soon. On Wednesday night, after ten o’clock, the people will begin to gather their arms at our safe houses all over the city.
“Jacques, when you lead our convoy of tanks and armored vehicles down the main road and into the city, the people will come from every dwelling in Riyadh. They will come in the thousands, and they will flock behind your battle tanks, and they will march with you and your high command. And they will follow you into the mouth of hell.
“Oh yes, Jacques Gamoudi. They will come. They will most definitely come…
Colonel Gamoudi brightened up some more. But he said, “You mean I will never see this army until it falls into line behind our artillery?”
“No one will ever see this army until it falls into line behind your artillery. We must both have faith.”
Right now Jacques understood why he was being paid a minimum of $10 million dollars to organize this people’s revolution. It was Sunday evening, and he knew that on Tuesday morning there would be $5 million paid into his private account in the Bank of Boston in the Champs-Elysees. He also knew his bonus check of yet another $5 million was being handed to Giselle at their home in the Pyrenees.
She would instantly call and inform the Bank of Boston that her check had arrived. At 2 P.M., here in Saudi Arabia, given the three-hour time difference from Paris, Jacques would dial the bank’s number on his cell phone and tell the operator, “Extension three-eight-seven.”
The reply would be simple: “Three-eight-six.” And he would cut the call off.
Either that, or he, Jacques Gamoudi, was on the next plane out of King Khalid for Paris, $5 million richer, and no further obligations. The money from the French government, he knew, would be there.
“Your Highness,” he said, “I have faith in you. And I have faith in the officers I have met here in Riyadh. I have been impressed by their planning, and their staff work. Each of them knows and understands our objectives. I am sure that on Friday morning they will confuse and demoralize our enemies, with their audacity and daring.”
Prince Nasir smiled. “Then your opening attack will follow the master plan you have worked on?” he asked. “The military vehicles will leave here in convoy the moment we hear that Khamis Mushayt has fallen? Two combat tanks and eight vehicles will head cross-country, straight to the airport, and you head into the city, where Colonel Bandar’s brigade will peel off and go directly for the principal television station?”
“Correct,” replied the French Colonel. “It is essential that we control the airport, and hold power over all
