The Dove Page 11

  It was with a clear conscience and a well-defined sense of purpose that Mohammed Attar left his apartment on his way to a meeting with James Abbot. Afterwards, he would head to Heathrow to catch a flight to Paris. Unaware of the events that had placed him at the intersection of KGB and CIA interests, he had been summoned there unexpectedly by a call from the Prince's secretary that very morning.

  He stepped out of a taxi and hurried up the steep steps to the Italianate entrance of the Reform Club in Pall Mall. He was late for the meeting with James Abbott.

  He announced himself to the porter, who pointed to Abbot who was chatting with another member in the club’s spectacular multi-storied atrium. Attar waited at a respectful distance until Abbott spotted him and broke off his conversation to greet the diminutive Lebanese gentleman.

  “You’re just in time for lunch, old man,” he said. “Shall we move into the Coffee Room?” This room, located on the club’s ground floor, served as a members’ restaurant and a place where guests were permitted.

  “Certainly,” replied Attar, “With pleasure.”

  As they crossed the marbled expanse of the atrium, the Lebanese reflected wryly on the irony of Abbott’s belonging to a club that touted its criteria for membership as “character, talent, and achievement.”

  He did not look forward to the meal, not because of Abbott’s smarmy company, but because he found the Club’s food abominable.

  Once seated at the otherwise unoccupied end of one of the long common tables, a predictably unappetizing salad consisting of wilted lettuce, a few slices of cucumber and a wedge of rock-hard tomato in front of him, Attar announced that he would be absent from London for a short time. “The Prince has invited me to visit him in Paris. He’s there for a short stay.”

  The use of the word “invited” was a euphemism. When the Prince “invited” Attar into his presence, it was a command. The two had developed an easy relationship over the years, but when the Prince asked Attar to do something, the Lebanese had learned that alternative courses of action were unacceptable.

  Abbott was unconcerned. “Ah, gay Paree. You’re a lucky man, Mohammed. I hope you’ll remember me to the Prince.”

  “I suspect you’ll be seeing him again soon yourself,” said Attar.

  “What’s the reason for your trip?”

  Attar surveyed the space around them and lowered his voice. “Al Sakir, I should think. He probably wants my reading of the Geneva meeting. I am informed that the Prime Minister has arranged for the credits required for the purchase to go forward.” He referred to Wafiq al Salah’s recent conversation with the Prime Minister.

  Abbott was ecstatic at this news. “So, the money will start to flow at last!”

  The Minister of State for Defense Procurement was not referring strictly to an exchange of funds between the British and Saudi governments, Attar knew.

  “Yes,” he replied drily, “I am certain of that.”

  “Excellent!”

  “When do you leave for Paris?”

  “This afternoon.”

  Abbott finished his bangers and mash with exultant gusto, completely oblivious to the disgust the dish aroused in his companion. Attar shoved the less than presentable lettuce around his plate, anxious to be on his way.

  He hoped the Russians would soon recruit Abbott so that he would no longer have to deal with the avaricious Brit.

  At Heathrow, Attar was surprised to find Wafiq al Salah waiting in the First Class lounge to board the same flight to Paris.

  “Wafiq, what are you doing here?”

  “The Prince called and asked me to come see him.” Al Salah smiled broadly at the sight of his old friend. “You too, I see.”

  Attar sighed theatrically, “Oh, yes. Summoned once again into his radiant presence. I wonder if he has developed a sudden requirement for French girls.

  Wafiq’s smile cooled a degree. “I don’t think so, Mohammed. I think it’s business.”

  “I don’t know. The call just said to be there this evening.”

  “Well, we’ll find out soon enough,” said Wafiq as they settled into their seats.

  Three hours later a cab deposited them at the hotel entrance on the Place Vendome.

  Chapter 25

  The Prince received Wafiq and Mohammed warmly, inquired solicitously about Wafiq’s family, and chatted with them for several minutes. He then unexpectedly announced that he wished the two to fly back to Riyadh with him that same day. Both Wafiq and Mohammed were taken aback by the unexpected request. Wafiq, with more independence than Mohammed, had protested that he had pressing matters awaiting him in London, but the Prince had dismissed his concern with a careless wave of his hand.

  “You both will be in Riyadh tomorrow,” he stated flatly, the warmth now absent from his voice. The presence of the Prince’s bodyguards made it clear that this was an invitation not to be refused.

  The flight was long and, at least psychologically uncomfortable for the two old comrades. The time was passed mostly in silence, given the all too obvious presence of guards on either side of them. The experience reminded them both too much of their Warsaw adventure fifteen years earlier, but still, Wafiq could conjure up no idea of what infraction they might have committed.

  Mohammed appeared similarly nonplussed. There was big money at stake, and the Prince was notoriously greedy. Could this be about just money? That would not explain the presence of Wafiq al Salah, who didn’t need the Prince’s money. But the arms deal was the only commonality between them that involved the Prince.

  They did not see the Prince again after Paris. When the plane landed, they were bundled down the rear boarding stairs straight into a waiting closed van. Emblazoned on its side was the symbol of the Saudi Ministry of the Interior.

  They had been handed over to the notorious mabahith, the Saudi Secret Police.

  The van ride did not last long, although neither had any idea of where they might be in the city. When the rear doors opened they saw that they were in a large courtyard, encircled by a high brick wall topped with razor wire. Despite their muddled protestations, they were shoved roughly across the courtyard and into a low building that stood opposite the electric gates through which the van had entered. They were issued prison garb and placed together in a locked room that was at least air conditioned, and both, now accustomed to the cooler clime of the United Kingdom, felt some relief from the stifling heat outside.

  “What’s going on, Wafiq?” Mohammed was the first to speak.

  “I have no idea. I’ve done nothing to merit such treatment. If this has something to do with Al Sakir, they should know that had it not been for me, they would have no deal at all.”

  “Maybe he’s after more money.”

  “Money!!!” Wafiq was suddenly indignant. “What can this have to do with money? Anything I am due to receive in connection with this is purely symbolic, and it’s certainly not enough to provoke the Prince to such an extent. I’ve known him since I was a boy. This is unlike him.”

  “You’ve known him since you were a boy,” repeated Mohammed, “but I’ve known him as a man. You know how he is these days – no amount of money is too small to escape his greed.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Wafiq.

  The interrogations began the following morning when four large men burst into the cell and without a word proceeded to punch and kick the two prisoners, pick them up and bounce them off the walls. This went on for about fifteen minutes, and then they were left alone, bleeding on the floor, gasping for breath.

  Long hours passed, and then another day, before the four thugs paid a return visit, and the interrogations became serious. This time they carried canes, slender lengths of bamboo used in traditional punishments in The Kingdom. The two were taken to separate but adjoining cells where they were bound to tables flat on their stomachs and their feet secured in stocks. The canes came quickly into play. Wafiq had never felt such pain as when they began to beat the soles of his feet with the slender rods
.

  The baring of the soles of one’s feet is particularly humiliating in Arab culture, and this added to the overall effectiveness of the punishment. Had sturdier implements been used, the two men could have been crippled for some time, if not for life. But as it was, their interrogators were following the orders of the Prince only to inflict enough pain to elicit confessions. In the absence of confessions, the punishment would increase in vigor. And it did.

  The mabahith interrogators were well practiced in extracting information. They adopted the practice of torturing the two in turns, so that one could hear the cries of the other from the adjoining cell.

  The bizarre questions put to him confounded Wafiq. Why did they keep asking about spying for the Russians? This was a ridiculous accusation.

  Mohammed, of course, now understood why they had been taken. The Prince had somehow discovered his secret! From the next cell, he could hear the interrogators questioning Wafiq al Salah.

  Mohammed experienced a dizzying sense of déjà vu. All those years ago when he had made a false confession to save his friend, his motive had been pure. Through his pain, or perhaps because of it, he now achieved clarity of thought, a sense of purpose that brought upon him a calmness that would have amazed his tormentors. He knew that the key was purity. He, the triple agent, was nevertheless pure. His motives were borne of devotion to Allah and a cause greater than himself. He knew what he had to do.

  Over the cacophony of his own screams as the mabahith interrogator ripped out a second fingernail, Wafiq heard his friend’s shout. “Wafiq is innocent! I’m the one you want.”

  What is he saying? Wafiq slipped into unconsciousness in the adjoining cell.

  Chapter 26

  When he awoke in darkness, chained again to the wall, Wafiq thought he was alone, but then he heard a soft, disembodied moan from somewhere across the room. “Mohammed?”

  It was several moments before the answer came, floating like a fragile bubble in the darkness.

  “Wafiq.”

  “What’s going on? I thought I heard you say something before I passed out.”

  A deep sigh, then, “I did. I’m guilty of what they say.”

  “My brother, not again. You cannot sacrifice yourself again for me. We are both innocent of what they say. Try to be strong and resist the temptation to confess. It will not end the pain.”

  From out of the gloom emerged a gurgle that might have been a laugh, rising from deep within Mohammed’s chest. “The pain is good. It clears the mind and prepares the way to Heaven. I will be a shahid, you know.”

  Mohammed's senseless babbling alarmed Wafiq. “Don’t do this. It won’t do any good. This is not Warsaw.”

  Again the soft, gurgling laugh.

  “No, it is not Warsaw, my brother. It is Riyadh, the world’s capital of corruption and vice. The Land of the Prophet ruled by apostates!”

  “Mohammed, what are you saying?”

  As much as he loved Wafiq al Salah, Mohammed had long ago despaired of his friend ever finding the True Path. Wafiq had been beguiled by the easy life his riches provided, had married an infidel and adapted to their ways. How could he ever understand? But he was still Mohammed’s friend.

  “I am saying that, yes, I have been an agent of the infidel Russians. It was the price to escape from Warsaw. But since then I have pursued a hidden course, the course of righteousness, the way of Allah, blessed be His name, which was opened for me. I shall die a martyr for Islam, my brother, not for the Russians, and my sins will be forgiven.”

  “The Russians? I don’t understand.”

  Mohammed’s words were contradictory – had the torture driven his friend mad?

  “They made a proposition I could not refuse all those long years ago in Warsaw. It was my only escape from rotting in a Polish prison. I was young. I grasped the nettle, and they set me free.”

  Wafiq’s mind was in turmoil. “I … don’t understand,” was all he finally managed to say.

  Out of the darkness: “My life is unimportant, my brother. I give it up gladly. You are guilty of many sins, but you are not guilty of the actions that brought us to this place, and you are still my brother.”

  The following day the guards removed Wafiq from the cell, leaving Mohammed behind.

  “Farewell, my brother,” the voice wafted out of the darkness behind him.

  Wafiq was too overcome by emotion to reply.

  They took him to an infirmary somewhere in the bowels of the mabahith prison where he was allowed to take a shower, and then they dressed his wounds. The clothes he had worn when he travelled from London to Paris were returned, cleaned and freshly pressed.

  Barely able to walk on his bruised feet, he was helped out into the sunlight where a stretch Mercedes limousine was waiting in the courtyard, accompanied by two SUV chase cars filled with armed men. He found the Prince waiting inside the limousine.

  “Wafiq, my dear cousin, you cannot know how much it disturbs me that you have been subjected to such treatment.”

  The Prince’s voice betrayed no concern or repentance.

  Wafiq said nothing, fearing what might come out of his mouth if he opened it. He was angry, deeply angry, and the object of his ire was sitting right there beside him, close enough to dig his fingers into the fat neck and strangle.

  During the long final night in their shared cell, Mohammed Attar had bared his soul to his friend. From his unexpected encounter with KGB Colonel Morozov in Warsaw to the inspiration and forgiveness he had experienced from the Sheik and his discovery of true Islam. Securing his position with the Prince, something Wafiq had intended as a boon to his dearest friend, had soured Mohammed’s soul. The Prince’s greed, his debaucheries, everything about him had served only to shrivel Mohammed’s spirit and drive him into the arms of dangerous fanatics. Wafiq respected his friend’s deepening spirituality, which had been clear enough to see, but he had never suspected the extremes to which it had led him.

  “I understand your silence,” the Prince continued when he decided that no reply would be forthcoming from Wafiq. “But you must understand that everything you experienced at the hands of the mabahith was, unfortunately, necessary. The crimes committed by that Lebanese dog are detestable. They are transgressions against the very fabric that holds The Kingdom together and protects the Holy Cities. It was, after all, you who vouched for him and suggested him for my service. What was I to think? I had to be sure.”

  The Prince paused to light a cigarette. “The dog’s own words have convicted him. Your cell was equipped with microphones, of course. We heard everything he said, and I ordered your immediate release. You’ll be on a plane to London today -- one of my own planes. You are due every courtesy and the thanks of The Kingdom.”

  Wafiq nodded. There was nothing he could do. Right now, his overriding concern was to get out of The Kingdom. He hoped never to see it again.

  Chapter 27

  “Mohammed Attar has disappeared.”

  Picard and I sat at a small sidewalk table at a café on Boulevard St. Germain. Half-finished glasses of beer and the remains of sandwiches littered the table top. A week had passed since the meeting with the Prince.

  “Well,” I said, “I think we know where he is. According to your surveillance, he was picked up at Charles de Gaulle in a car owned by the Prince and driven straight to the Ritz. There was another man with him identified him as Wafiq al Salah, a high roller from London.”

  The DST had placed Attar and his companion under surveillance at Charles DeGaulle. When they arrived at the Place Vendome we observed Attar and Al Salah enter the hotel. Not long after, they were escorted out to a waiting limousine. The car took them to Orly Airport, south of the city, where a private jet was waiting. The plane’s crew had filed a flight plan to Riyadh.

  “That’s the last time anyone has seen either man, as far as we know,” said Picard. "Al Salah hasn't returned to London.

  “I don’t think we’ll be seeing them again if I know the Saudis,” I
replied.

  We clinked our glasses and drained the last of the beer. Then we ordered more beer, and I lit a cigar. I know that cigars are best not smoked in the open air, but it was a good day, and we were at Les Deux Magots.

  I was certain recent days had not been so kind to Attar and Al Salah.

  But a week later, one of the two re-appeared, and we waited to see what would happen next.

  Chapter 28

  London

  Becky Haversham al Salah was distinctly unhappy. Her husband had left for what he had assured her would be a short business trip to Paris two weeks ago, and she had heard not a word from him since. This was unlike Wafiq al Salah, and Becky was desperately concerned.

  She had called the Ritz Hotel in Paris to inquire whether her husband was still there with the Prince but the hotel informed her that the royal party had departed unexpectedly to return to Saudi Arabia. Becky tried to convince herself that her husband had simply been unable to let her know of his plans and would be contacting her soon. But the phone refused to ring.

  In her growing desperation, she had even placed a call to the odious Mohammed Attar’s flat, but there was no answer.

  Finally, Wafiq returned. Becky heard the crunch of wheels in the drive and ran to open the door in time to see him descend from an airport cab.

  Despite the relief that fluttered her heart, her initial reaction was anger over his long, mysterious and frighteningly uncommunicative absence, but the words of reproach died on her lips as soon as she beheld her husband as he made his way painfully up the steps.

  “Wafiq, what in the world?”

  She ran to his side to support him when he staggered slightly. He put his arms around her and clung tightly, his body wracked by suddenly heaving sobs.