Steve took a sip of the sweet tea. “Just a guess. I’m glad I was able to help. Shiites?” he asked, avoiding the question implied by the colonel who certainly didn’t need to know of Steve’s training at a CIA base in North Carolina some years before. “Is there an Iranian hand here?”
The colonel laughed. “Does a camel give milk? Seventy percent of our population is Shiite, and our northern neighbor is definitely in an expansionist mood. The terrorists communicated with an Iranian navy ship before and during the attack.”
“This type of problem could be solved by the Rapid Reaction Force if it was based here in Bahrain,” Steve said. “And that’s why I’m here. We, West Gate that is, can handle it all from the conceptual phase to hands-on training.”
The colonel’s quizzical grin told Steve that he might be moving too fast and he changed gears. “Do you think these terrorists were Bahrainis? Homegrown and trained here?”
The colonel moved his bulk forward. “Homegrown? Maybe. But definitely trained in Iran. The main actor in this and other terrorist attacks is al-Quds, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps’ flying squad,” he said slapping his arm rest. “The IRGC uses al Quds as an elite action arm. They are behind Hizballah in Lebanon, and they are responsible for the assassinations of opposition leaders outside Iran. One of the victims yesterday was Ali Karrubi, who has been in open opposition to the current Iranian regime for years and who happened to be in the hotel, not a coincidence.
“Al-Quds also play an important role in funding and arming the militias in Iraq. It is the vanguard of Iranian imperialism. Ali Mousavi, their intelligence chief, is a snake,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “But you have gained credibility for the project you want to speak to us about. I’ll arrange meetings for you tomorrow. Your timing is impeccable. In the meantime, if you want to visit the gold market in the morning, one of my men will take you. We’ll have lunch and then you can make your proposal.” He paused and, looking in Steve’s eyes said, “None of this would be happening if your government cut the head of the snake.”
On the way back to a private apartment that the colonel had arranged for him, Steve was thinking about the colonel’s “snake” comment when he received another call from Thérèse’s special assistant.
“Steve, you’re hard to reach,” she said quietly, a reminder that the head of the National Clandestine Service deserved more courtesy. Uneasy that he was in the back of an official Bahraini Government limousine and that his part of the conversation was probably being taped or at least listened to by the driver, Steve nevertheless felt that he had to take the call. Courtesy.
Thérèse came on before Steve could reply. “Steve, your name just came across my desk,” she said after a brief greeting and mention that Steve’s father, Marshall, a semi-retired CIA officer, had told her that Steve was in Bahrain. “The Bahrainis are asking for background information on you. I gather you played a role in bringing the hotel attack under control. Congratulations. How do you get yourself in these situations?” she chuckled.
“Impeccable timing, I guess,” he replied borrowing from the colonel’s comments. “I was a guest in the Panorama Hotel at the time, so I didn’t have a lot of choice. Waiting in my room to get shot is not my style. When I helped the Moroccans a couple of years ago after barely escaping getting killed in Rabat, that wasn’t by choice either. Stuff happens.”
“I remember,” she said. Steve’s stopping an Islamic cell in Morocco had prompted the CIA to ask for Steve’s help in gathering information on the movement’s leader since Steve had met the jihadist leader when getting his master’s at the Université Libre de Bruxelles. Steve had gone beyond his brief. Eventually breaking off the CIA connection out of frustration with an overly controlling headquarters support officer, he had nevertheless continued his part of the operation, which had ended in an underground secret military weapons bunker in Israel.
“Bahraini Security sounds grateful and impressed and also extremely suspicious,” Thérèse added. “They were really asking if you were one of our deep cover officers. They’re lucky you were there.”
“If any one suspects me of intelligence activities, they’re badly informed. I’m here only on business,” Steve said speaking directly into the microphones he assumed were in the backrest of the car’s front seats.
“Don’t worry. Nothing we said will get you in trouble. But I have something to ask you that I would rather discuss with you in person. It involves travel, and I have the green light from your CEO. When can you come to my office? You can also tell me about the nature of your business in Bahrain. I understand you want to create and run a mercenary army for the Gulf emirates?”
“To be determined. ‘Mercenary’? Where did that come from? If Bahrain wants a force made up of foreigners, I guess that’s up to Bahrain. I’ll come to see you as soon as I get back, two, three days.”
“I have a plane in Bahrain now. It’s coming back tomorrow night. We’ll make arrangements to get you on the passenger list.”
Thérèse hung up before he could say no, and Steve slapped the seat beside him in frustration. How could the Bahrainis avoid thinking he was with the CIA when he used CIA aircraft?
Steve felt irritated he might not have time to finish his
