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  Pavlov’s face infused with blood. “Comrade Deputy Minister,” he said through his teeth, “if you still believe it is in your interest to maintain amicable relations with the KGB, I suggest you adopt a less nationalistic attitude.” On more than one occasion Pavlov had expressed the view that Pozoga and many of his colleagues were more Polish than they were Communist.

  Pozoga retorted with some asperity, “’Amicable relations,’ as you term them, Comrade General, seem to consist of the SB providing the KGB with all the intelligence it collects, but receiving in return precious little of value.”

  Pavlov turned to Morozov. “Yuriy Grigor’ich, is it not true that we plan to share some valuable encryption technology with our SB brethren?”

  “Yes, Comrade General. The equipment is scheduled to be turned over next week.”

  Pavlov turned back to Pozoga. “Do you think this brotherly exchange should take place?”

  What Pozoga knew, but the KGB General hopefully did not, was that SB technicians were standing by to replace the encryption keys in the equipment the General had described. This would for the first time make it possible for Polish Intelligence to transmit encrypted messages that the Russians could not read. Pozoga knew that this would come as an unpleasant surprise for the KGB – something he would have to deal with at a later date. The Poles could not afford to lose the opportunity, and Pozoga had no choice but to cave to the Russian’s demand.

  “As I said, Comrade General,” he said, adopting a more conciliatory if not quite groveling tone, “the Saudi national has been released and deported. Of what use could the Lebanese possibly be?”

  “What do you think, Yuriy Grigor’ich?” Pavlov raised an eyebrow at Morozov.

  “I think we have nothing to lose and possibly a great deal to gain. The Lebanese obviously is close to the Saudis. It was a grave error to release the Saudi,” he said, with a stern glance in Pozoga’s direction that made Pavlov smile. “But we should examine what we have left and see if there is any ore still to be mined here. If the Lebanese proves useless or refuses to cooperate, we can always hand him back to Polish ‘justice.’”

  Pavlov stood abruptly, and the others followed suit. Striding to the door, the General paused and said without looking back at Pozoga, “Have all the files on this case delivered to me personally not later than three o’clock this afternoon.” He pushed his way through the door. “Good day -- Comrade.”

  When the Russians had gone, Pozoga immediately returned to his desk and rang his secretary. Lighting a much needed cigarette, he instructed her to have the officer in charge of the Forum Hotel case report to him immediately with all his files. Whoever the idiot is, he thought, he'll soon find himself directing traffic in Poznan!

  Chapter 23

  Paris

  I was back at No. 2, Place des Saussaies. Picard sat at his desk beaming at me as though I had handed him the winning ticket to the national lottery. "My friend, Harry," he said, "Luck has smiled upon us. Our sources tell us that the Saudi Crown Prince plans a visit to Paris – one of his numerous 'shopping' trips to the City of Light. He's reserved rooms at the Ritz."

  The Imperial Suite of the Ritz Hotel suited the Prince well. The richness of its 18th century décor and the vivid red and gold upholstered furniture appealed to his sense of propriety and self-importance. The $15,000 per day that the venerable establishment charged for the three bedroom suite was of little consequence to the Prince. So little, in fact, that his entourage was similarly housed in three other of the hotel’s so-called “prestige suites.”

  Jacques Picard and I strode toward the hotel’s main entrance across the cobblestoned expanse of the Place Vendome, its colonnaded buildings gilded sumptuously by the sunshine of the late summer afternoon. Atop the column in the center of the square, the statue of Napoleon Bonaparte as a Roman emperor cast its shadow over us. I loved the richness of this vibrant city, so imbued with history and culture. But now I was focused on the job at hand.

  Entering the marbled foyer, we informed the concierge that we had an appointment with the Prince, and waited for one of the Saudi's factotums to escort us. When the man arrived, we both displayed credentials that identified us as officials of the Dirección de la Surveillance du Territoire.

  It had not been difficult for me to convince Picard to agree to this plan. In turn, the Frenchman was able without too much resistance to persuade his superiors at the DST to provide the credentials for me. The French authorities were favorably inclined toward damaging British relations with the Saudis, and I had proposed a way to do so, but hopefully not mortally damaging British interests and American ones. That's why I wanted to tag along.

  “The provenance of the information is the key,” I had explained to Picard several days earlier. “Coming from other than an official source, I don’t think it would be believed. And the Prince is not likely to agree to a meeting with some stranger off the street.”

  “Do you think this will stop the Saudis from buying from the Brits?”

  “No. Things have progressed well beyond the point where it can be stopped altogether. Too much money already has changed hands both above and below the table. Promises have been made. Saudi flight crews are already being trained in England.”

  Picard shook his head, his mouth turned down in disgust and disappointment. “Then of what use would such an action be?”

  I thought I knew the French heart well and was prepared with an answer.

  “Scandal,” I said, “a tremendous scandal. We know that there is a huge amount of corruption associated with Al Sakir, even within the British Government. At the very least, if we're successful, some of this will become public and there will be considerable fall-out. I’m certain you could convince the French press to cooperate, and there are elements of the British press that will jump all over it, The Guardian in particular. The British Government will be embarrassed. Politicians will lose their posts. Some might go to jail. The sale will proceed, but you can exact a measure of revenge.”

  “Revenge,” The Frenchman repeated the word slowly, testing its taste and texture on his tongue. “It’s a tempting idea.”

  I pressed the point. “There are no guarantees, but the Saudis would certainly be very grateful, maybe even grateful enough eventually to increase their arms purchases from France, perhaps even substitute some of the compromised Al Sakir acquisitions for purchases from you. After all, some of the British weapons systems they intend to acquire have been compromised.”

  “Now you’re on the right track,” said Picard, warming to the idea. “This is a convincing argument.”

  The Prince made us wait in the foyer of the plush Ritz suite for an “appropriately respectful” twenty minutes before we were ushered into the royal presence. For this meeting the Prince had chosen to wear the traditional Saudi thawb, a loosely fitting, black full length garment with a gold border, and a white ghutra an iqal on his head, secured by a black band. He was seated on an impressive brocaded sofa in the middle of the salon, his considerable bulk taking up most of the space, and did not rise when we entered. He gestured regally for us to be seated opposite him.

  The Prince was Governor of Saudi Arabia’s oil rich Eastern Province, a position that provided a lot of power. It was well known that he subscribed to a principle shared by most of the large group of Saudi princes: “Grab as much as you can as soon as you can.” There were a lot of Saudi princes; the Kingdom itself amounted to little more than a family business.

  The Prince was greedy, but not especially stingy. In the course of his many trips to the West he was known to spend millions in a single day, and he was extremely generous to those who served him. He could not sustain such a lifestyle were it not for graft – his penchant for “commissions” from those who wished to do business in his country was well-known.

  “I'm curious about the reason the DST asked for this meeting.” The Prince spoke English, a language he had perfected during his college days at the University of Southern California. “
I hope you don’t mind speaking English.”

  “Not at all, your Royal Highness,” began Picard. “I'm grateful for the opportunity to speak with you. But I'm afraid I bring information that may cause you some distress. It's precisely because this information directly concerns your Royal person and could cause you some personal discomfort that I am here."

  Several thoughts crossed the Prince’s agile mind. He could think of several hundred matters that could be embarrassing to one degree or another should they become public. He wondered which one the French had stumbled upon and waited for Picard to continue. The Prince’s mustache twitched with mild curiosity. How much will it cost to keep this quiet?

  Picard withdrew a sheaf of photocopies from the briefcase he carried and laid them on the coffee table.

  “What's this?” asked the Prince, not deigning to pick up the documents. He gestured for the assistant standing behind his chair to examine them.

  Picard responded. “Your Highness. These documents provide details of certain weapons systems to be delivered to your country by the British - very sensitive information. Each document here has a cover sheet indicating that it was provided to you personally.”

  The Prince looked up at his assistant who was perusing the documents and who nodded in confirmation. Puzzled because he had never asked for nor received such documents from the Brits or anyone else, the Prince asked, “Are you telling me that you have stolen these documents from the British?”

  “No, sir,” said Picard. “We obtained these documents from a source in the Russian Intelligence Service, the KGB. The same source reported that the details of the weapons systems your country is buying from Great Britain are being given to the Iranian government by the Russians. We believe this threatens your country’s national security.”

  The Iranian ploy was my idea. The Sunni Wahabis had no love for their belligerent Shiite neighbors.

  The Prince was a not unintelligent man. He was quite aware of the threat posed to his country by the Iranian “apostates.” He was also suspicious because he understood that the French would do anything they could to spoil the Saudi-British arms deal.

  “Why don’t you tell the British that they have a leak?”

  “I’m afraid there's worse to come, sir. Given the fact that the documents in question are associated closely with you, indeed were apparently intended for you personally, there could be serious repercussions should it become public that they were given to the Russians. That's why we are here. We're certain the leak is from someone very close to you, a trusted person within your own entourage.”

  “Impossible!”

  “I’m sorry to say that it’s very possible, sir, in fact true,” persisted Picard as he prepared to drive the nail in the coffin. “We believe that when you check the facts you will find that it could only someone in your entourage directly involved in the British deal.”

  An hour later, our business with the Prince concluded, we exited the hotel and crossed to the arcade on the other side of the Place Vendome. We decided to walk back to DST Headquarters and turned towards the Seine and then west on the Rue de Rivoli as we talked. Picard had left the sheaf of incriminating documents with a disturbed and angry Prince.

  “I’d say that someone's goose is cooked,” I said.

  My French companion was not so sure. “He might be able to talk his way out of it.”

  “He won’t last long under Saudi interrogation.”

  “It was your idea to suggest to the Prince that he should ‘invite’ the suspects to accompany him back to Riyadh to sort things out.”

  “And of you, Jacques, to assure him that the French authorities would not interfere, even if the suspects objected.”

  Mortal decisions are a part of intelligence work. We do all in our power to protect our own sources. When it comes to the sources of the enemy, however, there is no such obligation. There is no pity for enemy spies, unless, of course, we can double them back against their masters.

  Nevertheless, I felt a twinge when I thought about what awaited these guys in Riyadh. I'm only human.

  Chapter 24

  Mohammed’s Journey

  When Mohammed Attar miraculously reappeared in Paris two weeks after Wafiq al Salah’s expulsion from Poland, his Saudi friend had been overjoyed. Upon his own release, Wafiq had flown immediately to Riyadh to engage the aid of his cousin, Prince Saud, the Saudi Foreign Minister, to secure the release of his friend but had received no news whatsoever. When Mohammed called him from Paris, Wafiq boarded another flight to go and personally escort his friend back to Riyadh.

  Mohammed professed ignorance of the reason for his unexpected release, and the two friends speculated that Saudi diplomatic pressure had been more effective than had been expected. In any event, Wafiq could never forget the debt he owed Mohammed for his selfless declaration of guilt in that Polish interrogation room. From that day forward Wafiq ensured that Mohammed Attar would never want for anything.

  Out of both gratitude and guilt he secured a position for his friend as personal assistant to his cousin, the son of the Saudi King. In such a position his friend would never want for money. Over the years Attar had thrived and prospered, becoming the Prince’s main “fixer,” which meant that he travelled with the Prince, made living arrangements for him, and was responsible for handling the vast sums of money the Prince received as “commissions” or outright bribes.

  Not to put too fine a line on it, he was the Prince’s bag man.

  Mohammed Attar did not regret the harm his spying for the Russians might do to the British or the Saudis. He especially despised the Royal family and all its hundreds of “princes,” and most specifically his disgusting employer.

  When he had first been inducted into the Prince’s entourage thanks to the intercession of his friend he had been thrilled. Most of the friends of his youth had been Saudis, thanks to his mother’s influence. He considered Wafiq Al-Salah as a brother, someone for whom he had been willing to sacrifice his life.

  Any illusions Mohammed might have had that all Saudis were like Wafiq, however, had been quickly shattered by his association with the Prince.

  The secret shame he carried over his agreement with the KGB led him to question many things. The carefree, fun-seeking young man he had been disappeared forever and the sycophancy of his former relationships with his Saudi friends was replaced by circumspection. Most important of all, Mohammed had turned to religion as a way to assuage his guilt. He had not done this in any spectacular fashion, but rather quietly, at first by studying the Qur’an on his own, and then regular attendance at one of Riyadh's many mosques.

  His Saudi friends viewed this as a positive development and attributed it to Mohammed’s gratitude to Allah for his delivery from the infidels.

  Less than a month after the Polish nightmare, in December 1974, the Soviets invaded Afghanistan, an aggression against a Muslim nation that infuriated many Saudis, especially the young. Mohammed had become enamored of the works of Hassan al-Banna and even more so those of Sayyid Qutb of the Muslim Brotherhood. Qutb especially demanded the imposition of Sharia through Jihad. Of supreme importance in Mohammed’s final epiphany had been his acquaintance with the son of a fabulously wealthy Saudi family, a true sheik, who also hated the Saudi royals.

  As his religious devotion deepened, so did his detestation of the Prince and his sinful ways. The fat Prince travelled widely and frequently to the West where he controlled companies and owned many properties. He had his finger in every pie, collecting vast amounts of wealth through graft and corruption.

  For some reason he trusted Mohammed Attar from the beginning, and the young man soon found himself enmeshed in the Prince’s most secret and intimate interests. He was expected to arrange for the Prince’s travel and handle all his personal contacts. He followed the Prince’s orders to arrange for prostitutes whenever he travelled to the West and had personally witnessed the fat Saudi’s depravities. His revulsion turned quickly into an abiding hatred for the
entire Saudi royal family and all it represented.

  He did not mind in the least passing Saudi secrets to the Russians. He rationalized that they would use the information to harm the sinful royal family in some way. But the Russian invasion of a Muslim land ended the accommodation he had made with his own conscience. He felt that he had betrayed not only the profligate Saudi royals, but also his deepest beliefs to infidels determined to destroy that which he held dear.

  Mohammed arrived at a fateful decision. He would confess his crimes and offer his neck to the executioner’s blade, perhaps thus atoning for his sins. If permitted by some miracle to live, he would leave Saudi Arabia to join with the mujahedeen fighting the Russians in Afghanistan. His new mentor, the Sheik, was deeply involved in financing and sending fighters to face the Russians.

  And so it was that Mohammed tearfully confessed the perfidy of his KGB affiliation to the Sheik, prostrating himself before the tall, dark-skinned firebrand, and placing himself at his mercy. He divulged everything, from the sinful events of the evening leading to his and Wafiq’s arrest in Warsaw, to the stark choice presented to him by the KGB.

  The Sheik had said nothing for several minutes, his long, ascetic face a placid mask, his eyes closed in contemplation. Finally he spoke, and Mohammed would never forget that mellifluous, kind voice as the Sheik forgave him, even praised him for having the courage to confess. His mentor told him to rise and sit beside him. Tears coursed down Mohammed’s face as he grasped the Saudi’s hand and kissed it repeatedly.

  The Sheik did not accept Mohammed’s request to be sent to Afghanistan. No, there was a more important mission, and Allah, Blessed be His name, had sent Mohammed Attar to carry it out. The Sheik’s most fervent desire was to overthrow the corrupt House of Saud and the entire extended family that brought nothing but shame to the Land of the Prophet, and Attar was perfectly positioned to assist. Rather than become a rifle-carrying mujahedeen, Mohammed was to become a fighter of a different sort, preserving his association with the Russians and deepening his relationship with the Prince. He could thus be of greatest service as a source of information and influence that the Sheik would put to use when the time was ripe.