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  “Now perhaps you should explain to me why you have traced me to my mountain lair.”

  “I will let Gaston outline for you the background to our visit. It involves a foreign country, and indeed the President of France…”

  And for the next ten minutes the Secret Service Chief outlined the interior problems of Saudi Arabia, the prolific spending of the royal family, the monumental cost of that family, the deep unrest within the kingdom, the savage cuts in every family’s income from the oil, the offensive ties to the United States of America, the loss of the true Islamic religion in favor of the ideals of a different, godless world to the West.

  Jacques Gamoudi nodded. One of four million Muslims resident in France, he still tried to obey the laws of the Koran, although it was difficult to attend a mosque up there in the mountains. But his parents had been devout in the teachings of the Prophet, and there was no question in the mind of Colonel Gamoudi: There is only one God. Allah is great.

  On their twice-yearly trips to Paris—one at Christmas with the boys—Jacques always took Giselle to the great Moorish-style Paris Mosque, with its towering minaret, almost one hundred feet high, located directly opposite the Natural History Museum in the Jardin des Plantes. This was the home of the Grand Imam, and it was extremely important to Jacques that he attend the mosque whenever he reasonably could.

  Years of military service in North Africa had kept his religious upbringing alive, and he understood implicitly what so many millions of Saudi Arabians felt about their ruling family. He could not imagine life without the Koran and its teachings, but he could imagine the desolation any Muslim might feel watching the systematic erosion of religion in the day-to-day life of a country like Saudi Arabia.

  “There are many great problems in Saudi Arabia,” he said. “But I am at a loss to understand why they should concern me, and why you have journeyed here to see me.”

  “Well, Jacques,” said Savary. “One month ago, the President of France had a private visit from one of the most senior princes of the Saudi royal family. And he has asked us for our help in overthrowing the present regime and returning the Saudis to their pure Bedouin roots. And now General Jobert will explain to you what has happened, and what we intend to do to help them.”

  The following ten minutes were, possibly, the most astounding in Colonel Gamoudi’s not uneventful life. He listened wide-eyed to the plan for the Navy to knock out the entire Saudi oil industry, bringing that vast and fabulously wealthy country financially to its knees.

  He nodded in general understanding of the plan to hit the air base at King Khalid when the Saudi armed forces’ morale was at its lowest possible ebb. And he indicated his general acceptance of the need to take Riyadh, and for the people to rise up and perhaps storm the palace. All in the moments before the Crown Prince appeared on television to announce he had taken command of the country and that the old King, one of his one hundred-odd uncles, was dead.

  He also understood that these two men were here in his home seeking his advice.

  But when General Jobert coolly told him that he, Col. Jacques Gamoudi, was the man chosen by the French Army to command the operation in Riyadh, he almost shot hot, scalding coffee straight up his nose.

  “ME!” he shouted. “YOU WANT ME TO CAPTURE THE CITY OF RIYADH? You have to be dreaming!”

  To tell the truth, stated like that, Gaston Savary thought they might all be dreaming. But General Jobert was dead serious. “You have all of the required qualifications, Jacques. And we believe you will be leading a revolution against which there will be no opposition. We expect the Army will have given up by then…you just need to take the palace.”

  “But what about the guards? What about the King’s bodyguards? What about the protectors in the palace?”

  “I don’t recall such trifling matters ever having discouraged you before,” said Michel Jobert drolly.

  “TRIFLING!” snapped Gamoudi. “About a hundred armed men with AK-47s firing one thousand rounds a minute at you?”

  “I was rather thinking we might hire one of those Muslim suicide bombers,” said the General. “Have him flatten the main royal palace without much fuss—same as all those Saudi terrorists on 9/11. No one was firing AK-47s that day.”

  “General, am I supposed to be taking this seriously? I mean, who’s going to arm this throng? Who’s going to train them? Get them to move forward as a fighting force? What about supplies? Hardware? Ordnance?”

  “I assure you, Jacques, there will be endless supplies, every last request granted. For this operation there will be no expense spared.”

  “Well, General, when I read about it in the Le Figaro, at least I’ll know what’s happening. But I could not possibly partake, not in any way whatsoever. I’m retired now. I don’t have the stomach for it anymore.”

  “But you are still a young man, Jacques. What are you, forty-five years old? And by the look of you, very, very fit. Climbing mountains all day, you should be.”

  “General, I want to make myself very clear: I cannot, will not, be involved. I have my wife and family to consider. General, I would not undertake this for a million dollars.”

  Michel Jobert smiled. But he did not answer for a few moments. Then he did. “How about ten?” he said.

  On a day of truly outlandish suggestions, this one beat them all.

  “HOW MUCH?” exclaimed Gamoudi.

  “I think you heard me,” said General Jobert. “How about ten million dollars, with a further five million bonus when Prince Nasir assumes the throne of Saudi Arabia?”

  Jacques Gamoudi was absolutely stunned. He rose to his feet and walked from one end of the room to the other. He walked back, shaking his head, reflecting on the outrageous proposition. It was outrageous in its assumptions, outrageous in its arrogance, outrageous in its rewards.

  The Moroccan-born Colonel had been around in his time. But never had he heard anything to match this. He spoke slowly. “You want me, General, somehow to smuggle myself into Saudi Arabia, then into Riyadh, then find myself a headquarters, and start recruiting people to join a popular revolution. And when I have enough, to attack the royal palaces?”

  “Try not to be absurd, Colonel. You will be flown into Saudi Arabia by private jet from the French Air Force. You will be chauffeur-driven to a small palace on the outskirts of Riyadh. And there you will meet the Saudi military commanders loyal to the Crown Prince, and there you will meet the terrorist commanders who mostly have ties to al-Qaeda. And there you will be briefed as to the size of your force and its assets.

  “From then on, you will decide what you require. Transport. Armored vehicles. Maybe some artillery, which is currently being stored in the desert. Helicopters. Maybe tanks. Everything is available. But you will mastermind the entire operation. Communications and, above all, the attack on the King’s palace. Anything you ask will be provided.”

  “And for all this I am to be paid ten million dollars, and five more when Prince Nasir takes over. And what then? Do I stay on in Riyadh?”

  “No. You leave, probably within a few days. A French Air Force jet will be waiting to fly you directly home to Pau-Pyrenees Airport.”

  “And who’s supposed to wipe out the King and his immediate family and advisers?”

  “I think that is an honor we would leave to you. Because that way there will be no mistakes,” said Savary. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Jacques Gamoudi poured himself another cup of coffee. “How long would I be in Riyadh?”

  “Several months. You would be attended at all times by personal bodyguards, with a staff of perhaps six former Saudi Army officers, handpicked men who know the country and love it, but are tired of the King and his entourage.

  “You would move around locally with a driver, in a Saudi government car. There’s dozens of them in Riyadh. Yours would be provided by the Crown Prince. For longer journeys you would be provided with a helicopter and a pilot. Royal Saudi Air Force, courtesy of Prince Nasir. You would get to
know him well.”

  “And if I continue to refuse?”

  “You won’t, Colonel. This is your country sounding the bugle for battle. And you will, as you always have, answer that call.”

  “But there must be others? Younger officers. Men who have just as good qualifications.”

  “We have chosen you, Jacques. And we have informed two people only of our choice. The President of the French Republic, and the Foreign Minister of France.”

  “Oh, nothing serious,” said Colonel Gamoudi. “It’s nice to keep things on a low level, eh?”

  “And the money?” asked the General.

  “Well, of course, that’s enough to tempt any man. I think of all I could do for my family. It would be beyond my dreams to be that rich. But why dollars, why not euros?”

  “You mentioned dollars first, Jacques. You said not for a million dollars—and I stayed in that currency because ultimately you would be paid in dollars, by the Saudis, through us, for the good of France.”

  “Do I still have a choice? What if I do refuse?”

  “I think that would be spectacularly unwise,” said the General.

  “You are the man we have selected. This is the biggest operation for France since World War Two. It means more to us than any action by a French government since we joined the European Union. It will seal our prosperity for a hundred years.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would.” And again Colonel Gamoudi seemed overwhelmed by it all. He stood up and paced the room again, eventually turning around and asking, “But why me?”

  “Because you are an experienced combat fighter. You understand command, and you understand a sudden and ruthless assault on an objective. You know how to deploy troops. You understand the critical path of any attack, you know what cannot be left undone. More importantly, you are an expert with high explosives.

  “Even more importantly, you are a Muslim, and you are expert at working with Muslims, at home in their environment. With the massive military and financial backup of the French Republic and Saudi Arabia, there is an excellent probability that our mission will be accomplished.”

  Jacques Gamoudi stood still. And then he said, “How and when will I be paid?”

  Gaston Savary took over. “You will receive five million dollars upon your verbal agreement to undertake the task. This will be wired into an account that will be opened in your name at the Bank of Boston at one-zero-four, Avenue des Champs Elysées. It will be an account controlled solely by you. Once the money is paid, no one can touch it save for you and your wife, unless you so specify. There will be irrevocable documents to that effect.”

  “And the second installment?”

  “That will be wired into the same account forty-eight hours before your attack commences. And you will be in a position to check its arrival. Plainly, if it does not come you will not launch the attack.” Gaston Savary looked quizzical. “Jacques,” he said, “I assure you, your paltry sum of ten million dollars is the very least of the problems facing the French government and the incoming Saudi regime at this time.”

  “Am I obliged to keep the money in France? Perhaps to avoid taxes?” asked Colonel Gamoudi.

  “Colonel,” said General Jobert, “you will have a letter, signed by the President of France, absolving you from all French government taxes for the remainder of your lifetime, and that of Giselle.”

  Jacques Gamoudi whistled through his front teeth. “And my bonus?” he said.

  “That will be presented in the form of a no-refund, no-recall cashier’s check, to be held by Giselle. But dated for one month after the operation. She will be given the check at the precise time we pay the second five-million-dollar installment.”

  “And if the attack should fail?”

  “Our emissaries will call at the house to retrieve the check.”

  “And if I should be killed in action?”

  “Giselle will keep the check and deposit it to her account at the Bank of Boston.”

  “And am I free to move the money around if I wish? Perhaps to a different bank?”

  “It is no business of ours what you do with the money,” said Gaston Savary. “No business at all. Except for us to express our immense gratitude for what you will have done for your country. And to wish you the best of fortune and prosperity in the future.”

  “And what if the attacks from the sea should fail, and the Saudi oil industry is somehow saved?”

  “If that happened the operation would be canceled. You keep the initial five million, and come home.”

  “And the second five million?”

  “We are paying ten million for you to launch the attack and take Riyadh,” said Savary flatly. “Clearly, we don’t pay if you do not attack. And the attack would be impossible if the King remained in control of the Army, which he would, if the oil keeps flowing. Everything depends on the destruction of the oil industry.”

  “You make it very clear, and very tempting,” said Jacques Gamoudi. “Giselle?”

  “Well, I don’t want you to die,” she said. “And I did think we were past all this fighting and battles. I am very happy here, and you are happy. However, I cannot pretend that I would not wish to have all that money. How dangerous is this?”

  “Very,” said Gamoudi, without hesitation. “But we fight a weakened enemy. Maybe one with no stomach for the fight. I think your Saudi prince is correct—no army wants to fight for someone who may not pay them. It knocks the stuffing out of them. Soldiers too have wives and families, and I think the Saudi Army may feel they have no alternative but to join the new regime. That way they carry on getting paid.

  “A popular rising by the people is often the easiest of military operations. Because there are too many reasons for their opponents not to fight—one of these is normally money, the second is usually more important; all soldiers have a natural distaste for turning their guns on their own people. They don’t like it. And quite often they refuse to do it.”

  “If I agree, will you do it?” asked Giselle.

  Before the ex–Foreign Legion commander could reply, Gaston Savary stood up and Michel Jobert gave a suggestion of a nod.

  “Jacques,” said Savary, “you and Giselle have much to discuss. We were thinking in terms of one week. I am going to give you two business cards: one is for me and my personal line, the other is for the General and his private number at COS headquarters. If you and Giselle decide to go ahead, you will call one of us, and say very simply that you wish to talk. Nothing more. You will then replace the telephone and wait.

  “Meanwhile, remember, the only people in the whole of France who know anything of this are the President, the Foreign Minister, the four people in this room, and two Admirals of the French Navy. That’s eight. I need hardly mention, you will say nothing to anyone. But of course we know you never would. We know your record.”

  And with that, the two callers from Paris stood up and shook hands warmly with the mountain guide and his wife. But before they left, Savary had one last question. “Jacques Gamoudi,” he said, “Why Hooks? Such a strange name for a Frenchman to adopt.”

  Colonel Gamoudi laughed. “Oh,” he said, “that was the name of the U.S. Ambassador we successfully evacuated out of Brazzaville back in June, 1999. Fourteen U.S. citizens altogether. Ambassador Aubrey Hooks was a good and brave man.”

  TWO MONTHS LATER, AUGUST 2009

  It had been a long, somewhat intensive, road to Bab Tourma Street, in the old part of the city of Damascus. There had been a zillion contacts with Hezbollah, even more with the militant end of the Iranian government. There had been countless clandestine talks with contacts inside al-Qaeda, mostly orchestrated by Prince Nasir. And finally a succession of e-mail exchanges with the leaders of the most feared of all terrorist groups, Hamas.

  But Gaston Savary and Gen. Michel Jobert had finally made it. The Syrian government staff car, containing two local bodyguards and the two Frenchmen, pulled smoothly to a halt outside the big house near the historic gate in the ci
ty wall. This was the secretive and well-guarded home of the Hamas Commander in Chief, Gen. Ravi Rashood, and his beautiful Palestinian wife, Shakira.

  And Prince Nasir had been insistent. We need this man. He will bring us military discipline, and he will bring with him heavily armed, experienced Arab freedom fighters. We can’t destroy a military air base with a bunch of amateurs, and this Hamas C-in-C is the best they’ve ever had.

  And now Gaston Savary and General Jobert were about to meet him, on his own ground. But, nonetheless, as allies. France’s roots in Syria go very deep, but the key to this forthcoming conversation rested in one simple fact—there could never be an Islamic nation that stretched from the Arabian Gulf to the Atlantic end of North Africa so long as Saudi Arabia operated with one foot in the United States of America. Every Islamic fundamentalist knew that, every Islamic fundamentalist understood that there was something treacherous, non-Arabian, about the way the Saudi King both ran with the fox and hunted with the hounds. Or whatever the desert equivalent of that saying may be.

  And now these two Frenchmen were here, about to enter the lair of the greatest terrorist the world had ever known. And they were bringing with them, perhaps, a formula to change everything. Savary and Jobert would be made very welcome by General Rashood, the native Iranian who had once served as an SAS Commander in the British army.

  The door was opened by a slim young Syrian dressed in the customary long white robe. He bowed his head slightly and said quietly, “General Rashood is awaiting you.” They were led down a long, bright, stone-floored corridor to a tall pair of dark wood doors. The Syrian opened one of them and motioned the Frenchmen through. Their two bodyguards, provided by the government, took up positions outside.

  The room was not large, and General Rashood was alone, as agreed. He sat at a wide antique desk with a green leather top. To his left was a silver tea service, which had been brought in as the government car arrived. To his right a service revolver was placed on the desk, symbolically next to a leather-bound copy of the Koran.