THERE WAS ANOTHER break in the proceedings, this time while Carter tried to divine how to light the gas fire. He stood mystified before the grate for a moment, then, with a glance toward Gabriel, appealed for assistance. Gabriel found the key on the mantel, used it to start the flow of gas, then ignited it with an ornamental match.
“How many years do you give them, Gabriel? How long before the House of Saud collapses and the Islamic Republic of Arabia rises in its place? Five years? Ten? Or is it more like twenty? We’ve never been really good about making predictions like that. We thought the Soviet empire would last forever.”
“And we thought Hamas could never win an election.”
Carter chuckled mirthlessly. “Our best minds give them seven years at the most. His Majesty is prepared to spend that seven years playing the game by the old rules: provide cheap oil and pseudofriendship to us while at the same time paying lip service to the forces of Islam and bribing them not to attack him. And when it’s over, he’ll flee to his string of palaces along the Riviera and live out the rest of his days in a luxury that is too grotesque even to contemplate, hopefully with his head still attached to his body.”
Carter lifted his palms toward the fire. “It’s not hot,” he said.
“The logs are made of ceramic. Give it a minute to heat up.”
Carter appeared incredulous. Gabriel drifted over to the window and peered into the street as a car rolled slowly past and vanished around the next corner. Carter gave up on the fire and returned to his seat.
“And then there are those in the Royal Family who are willing to play the game by a different set of rules. We’ll call them the True Believers. They think the only way the al-Saud can survive is to renew the covenant they formed with Muhammad Abdul Wahhab two centuries ago in the Najd. But this new covenant has to take into account new realities. The monster that the al-Saud created two hundred years ago now holds all the cards, and the True Believers are prepared to give the monster what it wants. Infidel blood. Jihad without end. Some of these True Believers want to go further. The expulsion of all infidels from the Peninsula. An embargo on oil sales to America and any other country that does business with yours. They believe oil should no longer be treated as simply an unending pool of liquid money that flows from the terminals of Ras Tanura into the Zurich bank accounts of the al-Saud. They want to use it as a weapon-a weapon that could be used to cripple the American economy and make the Wahhabis masters of the planet, just as Allah intended when he placed that sea of oil beneath the sands of the al-Hassa. And some of these True Believers, such as the chairman and CEO of AAB Holdings of Riyadh, Geneva, and points in between, are actually willing to shed a little infidel blood themselves.”
“You’re referring to Abdul Aziz al-Bakari?”
“I am indeed,” said Carter. “Know much about him?”
“At last accounting, he was something like the fifteenth richest man in the world, with a personal fortune in the vicinity of ten billion dollars.”
“Give or take a billion or two.”
“He’s the president, chairman, and lord high emperor of AAB Holdings-A for Abdul, A for Aziz, and B for al-Bakari. AAB owns banks and investment houses. AAB does shipping and steel. AAB is cutting down the forests of the Amazon and strip-mining the Andes of Peru and Bolivia. AAB has a Belgian chemical company and a Dutch pharmaceutical. AAB’s real estate and development division is one of the world’s largest. Abdul Aziz al-Bakari owns more hotels than anyone else in the world.”
Carter picked up where Gabriel left off. “He has a palace in Riyadh he rarely visits and two former wives there he never sees. He owns a mansion on the Île de la Cité in Paris, a princely estate in the English countryside, a townhouse in Mayfair, oceanfront villas in Saint-Tropez, Marbella, and Maui, ski chalets in Zermatt and Aspen, a Park Avenue apartment recently appraised at forty million dollars, and a sprawling compound overlooking the Potomac that I pass every day on the way to work.”
Carter seemed to find the mansion on the Potomac the most grievous of al-Bakari’s sins. Carter’s father had been an Episcopal minister from New Hampshire, and beneath his placid exterior beat the heart of a Puritan.
“Al-Bakari and his entourage travel the world in a gold-plated 747,” he continued. “Twice a year, once in February and again in August, AAB’s operations go seaborne when al-Bakari and his entourage set up shop aboard Alexandra, his three-hundred-foot yacht. Have I forgotten anything?”
“His friends call him Zizi,” Gabriel replied. “He has one of the world’s largest private collections of French Impressionist art, and we’ve been telling you for years that he’s up to his eyeballs in funding terrorism, especially against us.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
“Realize what?”
“That Zizi’s a collector.”
“A very aggressive one, actually.”
“Ever had the pleasure of meeting him?”
“I’m afraid Zizi and I are at different ends of the trade.” Gabriel frowned. “So what’s the connection between Zizi al-Bakari and Ahmed bin Shafiq?”
Carter blew thoughtfully on his tea, a sign that he was not yet ready to answer Gabriel’s question.
“An interesting fellow, al-Bakari. Did you know that his father was Ibn Saud’s personal banker? As you might expect, Papa al-Bakari did quite well-well enough to give his son ten million dollars to start his own company. That was nothing compared to the seed money he got from the al-Saud when things started to take off. A hundred million, if the rumor mill is to be believed. AAB is still a favorite dumping ground for Saudi Royal cash, which is one of the reasons why Zizi is so interested in making sure the House of Saud survives.”
Gabriel’s heart sank as Carter reached for the tobacco pouch.
“He’s among the world’s richest men,” Carter said, “and one of the world’s most charitable. He’s built mosques and Islamic centers all across Europe. He’s financed development projects in the Nile Delta and famine relief in Sudan. He’s given millions to the Palestinian refugees and millions more to development projects in the West Bank and Gaza.”
“And more than thirty million dollars to that Saudi telethon to raise money for suicide bombers,” Gabriel added. “Zizi was the largest single donor. Now answer my question, Adrian.”
“Which question is that?”
“What’s the connection between Zizi and bin Shafiq?”
“You’re a quick study, Gabriel. You tell me.”
“Obviously Zizi is bankrolling bin Shafiq’s network.”
“Obviously,” said Carter in agreement.
“But bin Shafiq is a Saudi. He can get money anywhere. Zizi has something more valuable than money. Zizi has a global infrastructure through which bin Shafiq can move men and matériel. And Zizi has a perfect place for a mastermind like bin Shafiq to hide.”
“AAB Holdings of Riyadh, Geneva, and points in between.”
A SILENCE FELL between them like a curtain while Carter drowsily loaded his pipe. Gabriel was still standing in the window, peering into the street. He was tempted to remain there, for Carter’s tobacco, when ignited, smelled like a combination of burning hay and wet dog. He knew, however, that the conversation had passed the point where it might be conducted in front of an insecure window. Reluctantly he lowered himself into the chair opposite Carter and they gazed at each other in silence, Carter puffing contemplatively and Gabriel wearily waving the smoke from his eyes.
“How sure are you?”
“Very.”
“How do you know?”
“Sources and methods,” said Carter mechanically. “Sources and methods.”
“How do you know, Adrian?”
“Because we listen to him,” Carter said. “The National Security Agency is a wonderful thing. We also have sources inside the moderate wing of the House of Saud and the GID who are willing to tell us things. Ahmed bin Shafiq is living largely in the West under an assumed identity. He is buried somewhere within Zizi’s financial empire and the two of them confer on a regular basis. Of this, we are certain.”