The Secret Soldier Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1 - MONTEGO BAY JAMAICA

  CHAPTER 2 - MANAMA

  CHAPTER 3 - MONTEGO BAY

  CHAPTER 4 - RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

  CHAPTER 5 - JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

  CHAPTER 6 - NORTH CONWAY, NEW HAMPSHIRE

  CHAPTER 7 - NEW YORK CITY

  CHAPTER 8 - BEKAA VALLEY, LEBANON

  CHAPTER 9

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 10 - JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

  CHAPTER 11 - NICE, FRANCE,

  CHAPTER 12 - RIYADH

  CHAPTER 13 - BEKAA VALLEY, LEBANON

  CHAPTER 14 - LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  CHAPTER 15 - BEKAA VALLEY

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17 - EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 18 - RIYADH

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20 - JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22 - JEDDAH

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgements

  ALSO BY ALEX BERENSON

  THE MIDNIGHT HOUSE

  THE SILENT MAN

  THE GHOST WAR

  THE FAITHFUL SPY

  THE NUMBER (nonfiction)

  PUTNAM

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS Publishers Since 1838 Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2011 by Alex Berenson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Berenson, Alex. The secret soldier / Alex Berenson.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47571-3

  1. United States. Central Intelligence Agency—Fiction. 2. Intelligence officers—Fiction. 3. Saudi Arabia—Fiction. I. Title. PS3602.E75146S’.6—dc22

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The House of Saud, which is the ruling family of Saudi Arabia, provides a central structure to fictional events in this novel. The descriptions of the rise of the House of Saud and its relationship to Wahhabi Islam are factually accurate, to the best of the author’s knowledge, and based on reliable nonfiction histories. However, imaginary people are intermingled freely with real ones, so, for example, Princes Saeed and Mansour are wholly fictional characters and are not, of course, the defense minister and the director of the mukhabarat, respectively, of the present-day Saudi Arabian government. Similarly, although King Abdullah is real, his plan to install his son on the throne—along with all other dialogue, action, and motives attributed to him or other members of the ruling family, whether real or fictional—is a product of the author’s imagination and is not based upon actual events. Finally, references to unidentified members of the Saud ruling family are also fictional and bear no resemblance to any real person, living or dead.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  FOR MY WIFE

  PROLOGUE

  MANAMA, BAHRAIN

  JJ’s HAD COLD CARLSBERG ON TAP AND A DOZEN FLAT-SCREEN televisions on its dark wooden walls. It was an above-average bar, generic Irish, and it would have fit in fine in London or Chicago. Instead it occupied the ground floor of a low-rise building in downtown Manama, the capital of Bahrain, a small island in the Persian Gulf.

  By eleven p.m., JJ’s would be packed with men and women pressing their bodies together in search of pleasures great and small. Now, at nine, the bar was crowded enough to have a vibe, not too crowded to move. A skinny kid with bleached-blond hair spun Lady Gaga and Jay-Z from his iPod as a dozen women danced badly but enthusiastically. The crowd was mostly European expatriate workers, along with American sailors from the Fifth Fleet, which was headquartered in Bahrain.

  Robby Duke had gotten to JJ’s early. The best girls were taken by midnight. Robby was twenty-eight, built like a rugby player, squat and wide, with long blond hair and an easy smile. Plenty of girls liked him, and he liked plenty of girls. Expat birds were all more or less the same. British, European, whatever, they came to the Gulf for adventure, and adventure usually meant a few easy nights.

  Dwight Gasser was Robby’s wingman. He was soft-spoken, almost shy. He wasn’t much use as a wingman, but some women liked his curly hair and sleepy eyes. “Them two,” he said, nudging Robby toward the corner. A blonde with a round face and nice thick lips. The other skinnier and darker. Spanish maybe. They sat side by side, facing a table with two empty seats.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Robby squared up and headed for them. Once he’d decided to go for it, he didn’t see the sense in mucking about.

  “Room for two more?”

  The blonde sipped her drink and looked at him like a copper who’d caught him pissing in an alley and wasn’t sure whether to give him a ticket or wave him on.

  “All yours,” she finally said.

  Robby extended a hand. “I’m Robby Duke.”

  “Josephine.”

  They shook. Robby sat. Robby looked around for Dwight, but he’d disappeared, as he sometimes did when an introduction didn’t seem to be going well. Annoying bastard. Though he’d be back soon enough, might even have a beer for Robby by way of apology.

  “Josephine. A fellow commoner. Where you from? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “London.”

  “The center of the universe.” He’d bet his right leg that she didn’t live in London.

  “Slough, really.”

  Slough was a suburb west of London, just past Heathrow Airport. Slough was more like it, Robby thought. He could line Slough up and send it into the right corner and the keeper wouldn’t do anything but wave.

  “Slough sounds like London to a Manchester boy like me.” He turned to the dark-haired girl. “You from London, too?”

  “Rome.”

  “Rome. The city of—” Robby couldn’t remember what Rome was the city of. “Anyhow, the plot thickens. What brings you ladies to JJ’s?”

  “We’re cabin crew,” the Italian girl said. “For Emirates”—the biggest airline in the Middle East, known for its shiny new planes and equally s
hiny flight attendants.

  “Emirates. Have you flown the A-three-eighty, then?”

  “It’s a beast,” Josephine said. “Who thought a plane with eight hundred seats was a good idea?”

  “Not glamorous, then?”

  “About as glamorous as the Tube.”

  “I like it,” the Italian said. “I know it’s stupid, but still, there’s something amazing about it. How something so big can fly.”

  Robby turned to face the Italian. She had a big nose, but she wasn’t bad. Those dark eyes and that long black hair. And the accent. Most important, she looked happy to talk to him, unlike Josephine. “What’s your name, Italiano?”

  “Cinzia.” Beside her, Josephine sighed. Have fun with Dwight, Robby almost said. You two will get along great. Instead, he raised his glass. “Here’s to Italy.”

  “To Italy.”

  “And to Bahrain on a Thursday night.” He took a long swallow of his beer. And we’re off.

  THE BLACK MERCEDES E190 rolled down the King Fahad Causeway, the ten-mile bridge between Saudi Arabia and Bahrain. Below the asphalt was the water of the Persian Gulf, warm as a bathtub and nearly as flat.

  Omar al-Rashid sat behind the wheel. His younger brother, Fakir, slept beside him in the passenger seat. A line of drool curled into Fakir’s pure white thobe, the long gown that Saudi men wore. Fakir had the soft bulk of a high school nose tackle. His thobe draped his round stomach like a pillowcase. He was eighteen, two years younger than Omar.

  “Fakir.”

  Fakir grunted irritably. “Let me sleep.”

  “You’ve been asleep since the Eastern Province. And you’re drooling.”

  “I’m relaxed.”

  “You’re as stupid as a donkey.”

  “Better to be stupid than scared.”

  “I’m not scared.” Omar punched Fakir, his fist thumping against Fakir’s biceps. And then wished he hadn’t, for Fakir didn’t complain, didn’t even rub his arm.

  “It’s all right, brother. If you want to back out. We can do it without you.”

  “I’m not scared.” For the first time in his life, Omar hated his brother. He was scared. Anyone would be scared. Anyone but a donkey like Fakir. But now he’d gone too far. The humiliation of quitting outweighed the fear of death. And maybe the imams were right. Maybe virgins and endless treasures awaited them on the other end.

  Though he didn’t see the imams lining up to find out.

  Three minutes later they reached the tiny barrier island that marked the border of Saudi Arabia and Bahrain. A bored guard checked the Mercedes’s registration. A hundred meters on, an immigration agent swiped their passports and waved them through without asking their plans. Everyone knew why Saudis went to Bahrain. They went for a drink, or two, or ten. They went to hang out with their girlfriends without being hassled by the muttawa, the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice. The Saudi religious police. They went to watch movies in public, movie theaters being another pleasure forbidden in the Kingdom.

  After Bahraini immigration, they were waved into a shed for a customs inspection. An officer nodded toward the blue travel bag in the backseat. “Open it, please.” Omar unzipped the bag, revealing jeans, sneakers, and black T-shirts. The clothes were hardly suspicious. Saudi men often changed into Western-style clothes in Bahrain. “Enjoy your visit,” the officer said, and waved them on.

  “We will,” Fakir said.

  AT JJ’s, ROBBY WAS off his game. Dwight had won Cinzia’s attention, leaving Robby with Josephine. He decided to go the tried-andtrue route of getting her drunk.

  “Time for another round. What’s your pleasure?”

  Josephine raised her glass, still half full. “No thanks, Frodo.”

  “Frodo!” Robby said, in what he hoped sounded like mock horror. In reality the joke cut a bit close. “Hope I’m bigger than he is.”

  “I hope so, too. For your sake.” She glanced at Cinzia.

  “Figuring the odds you’ll be stuck with me?”

  “Exactly.” She swallowed the rest of her drink. “All right, then. Vodka and tonic. Grey Goose.”

  Of course, Grey Goose, Robbie thought. Top-shelf all the way, this one. And thin odds I’ll get more than a peck on the cheek. “One Grey Goose and tonic coming up.”

  Five minutes later, he was back with fresh glasses. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “What about you? Live here?”

  “Indeed.” Even this one would melt a bit when she heard his next line. “I teach.” Robby grinned. “I know what you’re thinking. How could I teach? You probably think I barely made my O-levels”—the basic British high school graduation exams. “But these kids are special.”

  “Special how?”

  “Autistic. Developmentally disabled, we call it.”

  “That must be hard.”

  “I feel lucky every day.” Robby wasn’t lying. He did feel lucky. Lucky he wasn’t one of the monsters. Half of them spent their days spinning and screaming whop-whop-whop every ten seconds like they were getting paid to imitate helicopters. The other half punched you when you asked them to look you in the eyes like they were actual human beings. Once in a while, Robby felt he was getting through. Mostly he could have been playing video games in the corner for the good he did. Lucky, indeed.

  “My cousin’s son, he’s autistic.” Josephine’s mouth curled into a smile Robby couldn’t read.

  “Are you close with him?”

  “Hah. Real little bugger, inn’t he? Talk to him, he runs off and bangs his head against the wall. Pick him up, he claws at you like you’re about to toss him out the window. Six months of his mum telling him, ‘Pick up the spoon, Jimmy, pick up the spoon.’ And he picks up a bloody spoon. And we’re supposed to pretend he’s solved cancer or some such. But come on, the kid’s basically a vegetable with arms and legs and a mouth for screaming. Pick up the spoon already and be done with it.”

  Robby was speechless. Of course, what she’d said wasn’t that different from what he’d been thinking, but you weren’t supposed to say it. It wasn’t civilized.

  “I wish you could see the look on your face. Like I’d suggested putting the darlings in the incinerator.”

  “Is that what you think we should do?”

  “Only if they misbehave.” She smiled. “My. I’ve shocked you again. I’m pulling your leg, Robby. Honest to God, I don’t have any idea what to do with them. Do you?”

  “They’re people. Could have been any of us.”

  Josephine took another sip of her Grey Goose. “Could have been, but it warn’t. Why should we all run around and pretend that the facts of life aren’t so?”

  “Maybe sometimes pretending is the only way to get by.”

  OMAR AND FAKIR HAD grown up in Majmaah, a desert town in north-central Saudi Arabia. Omar’s father, Faisal, was a big man who wore a red-and-white head scarf and kept his thobe short around his thick calves, the practice followed by conservative Muslims. He saw Omar and Fakir—the youngest sons of his third wife—only rarely.

  By the time Omar reached puberty he understood that he was a spare, to be watered and fed in case his older brothers died. The knowledge hollowed his insides, but he never complained. His brother was simpler and happier than he. They were best friends, their strengths complementary. Omar helped Fakir with his lessons, and Fakir pulled Omar out of his doldrums. They spent their teens in a madrassa, a religious school, where they learned to recite the Quran by heart.

  When Omar was seventeen and Fakir was fifteen, the madrassa’s imam brought the boys into his office to watch mujahid videos. Helicopters crashed into mountains, and Humvees exploded on desert roads. “One day you’ll have the chance to fight,” the imam said. “And you may give your life. But you needn’t fear. You will be remembered forever. In this world and the next.”

  The imam couldn’t have chosen a better pitch for a boy who hardly believed he existed. Omar offered himself to the cause, and Fakir fo
llowed. A few months later, they were blindfolded and taken to a date farm tucked in a wadi—a desert valley whose low hills offered faint protection from the sun. A man who called himself Nawif trained them and two other teenagers for months, teaching them how to shoot and take cover. How to clean and strip assault rifles, to wire the fuses on a suicide vest.

  One day Nawif said, “Each of you must tell me you’re ready.” And one by one they pledged themselves to die for the cause. Then Nawif outlined their mission. Allah had smiled on them, he said. Their targets were Christians. American sailors. Drinkers and drug-takers. Any Muslims in the place were even worse, guilty of apostasy, forsaking the faith, the deadliest of sins.

  They spent the next week walking through the attack. Just before they left the farm, Nawif announced that Omar would be the group’s leader. Omar wasn’t surprised. He was the oldest of the four, the best shooter. Despite his vague doubts about the mission, he was proud to be chosen.

  On the night they left, the stars were as bright as they would ever be, the desert air cool and silent. A van waited, its exhaust burbling. Nawif held a blindfold. Omar submitted without complaint. He felt like a passenger in his own body.

  Ten hours later, they stepped onto a Riyadh street filed with two-story concrete buildings. Nawif led them past a butcher store, flies swirling over the meat, to a dirty two-room apartment with a rattling air conditioner. Nawif handed them passports with their real names and photos.

  “How—”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll need this, too.” Nawif tossed Omar a car key. “There’s a Mercedes outside. You’ll take a practice run this afternoon.”

  The highway to Bahrain was flat and fast. They reached the border post in five hours, just after sunset. A Saudi immigration officer flipped through their passports.