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Authors: David M. Salkin
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system is allowing money to be funneled to terrorist organizations and they won’t make any attempts to stop it. We use them, they use us. It is what it is.”
“Yeah, well, it’s bullshit is what it is,” said Cascaes. “Pardon my French.”
“I speak French. I don’t believe I recognized your dialect,” said Kim with a smile. “Anyway, welcome to the Middle East. Nothing is as it appears. And in the case of these two, I’m not sure they even know when they’re lying.”
“When their mouths are moving,” replied Mackey.
“Pretty much,” said Dex. “I just wanted to give you an idea of what you’re dealing with.”
“Yeah, well that cleared it right up, thanks,” said Cascaes. He thought for a moment. “Awadi’s in Saudi. You said the Qatari Sheikh knows that the prince is funding terrorists, but he’s in Qatar? What’s the connection between these two?”
“Money,” said Kim. The Saudis and Qataris share some of the oil and gas fields along their mutual border. They’re both basically drilling down into the same giant pocket of gas. It’s sensitive, so they play nice together. Prince Awadi owns thousands of acres of desert along the Qatar border. He and the emir have regular communication, and there’s been money exchanged between the two of them for many years, although it isn’t clear why. Most likely, just land leases.”
“I still don’t get it. How does their mutual oil business have anything to do with the prince’s interest in funding terrorists?” asked Chris.
“My guess is, they have an arrangement to make sure they don’t have any conflicts. If the prince funds an attack that hits a gas pipeline or blows up some petro facility, it better not be the emir’s property that gets hit.”
“That’s nice,” said Mackey. “You can blow up whatever you want—just make sure it isn’t my stuff.”
“Sounds just about right,” replied Kim. “It’s also about keeping their governments stable so they can pump oil unmolested. When the hard liners get strong, then they have to allow some Anti-Western muscle flexing. When the moderates are strong, they have to look very professional and first world. The mood changes with the prevailing wind over there. To stay in power, the government has to play to a lot of different factions at the same time.”
Chapter 15
From Riyadh to Paradise
Tariq walked through the loud, crowded market street in an ancient section of the city, south west of Riyadh. The dusty streets were packed with merchants and their customers, children and beggars, goats and dogs. He pushed his way through the hot, narrow street towards the address he had been given. Crates of chickens were stacked six feet high, and they squawked and clucked incessantly. Spice merchants mixed their secret concoctions and swapped brown bags of spices and herbs for cash with women in burqas. The spices, chickens, goats, and sweaty people combined to create a very special local perfume. It was a busy day.
He stopped and looked up at a building, wondering if he was at the correct address. The buildings and streets were all almost the same color, blending into an endless maze of non-descript light brown that was only broken up by an occasional painted door or sign. A large hand squeezed his bicep and a gruff voice said, “Come.” Tariq was then guided through the crowd with a large man on each side of him, moving him quickly down small side alleys. There was another man behind them, and they walked faster than was comfortable through the crowd. Tariq was again pulled down a side alleyway where a small car was waiting. The car took up almost the entire width of the street, and Tariq was told to get into the back seat. The other three men got in and started the car with a cough of black smoke, and then began moving through the labyrinth of streets as they headed out of the city.
“Where are we going?” asked Tariq.
His question was met with a hood being pulled over his head
“Yeah, well, it’s bullshit is what it is,” said Cascaes. “Pardon my French.”
“I speak French. I don’t believe I recognized your dialect,” said Kim with a smile. “Anyway, welcome to the Middle East. Nothing is as it appears. And in the case of these two, I’m not sure they even know when they’re lying.”
“When their mouths are moving,” replied Mackey.
“Pretty much,” said Dex. “I just wanted to give you an idea of what you’re dealing with.”
“Yeah, well that cleared it right up, thanks,” said Cascaes. He thought for a moment. “Awadi’s in Saudi. You said the Qatari Sheikh knows that the prince is funding terrorists, but he’s in Qatar? What’s the connection between these two?”
“Money,” said Kim. The Saudis and Qataris share some of the oil and gas fields along their mutual border. They’re both basically drilling down into the same giant pocket of gas. It’s sensitive, so they play nice together. Prince Awadi owns thousands of acres of desert along the Qatar border. He and the emir have regular communication, and there’s been money exchanged between the two of them for many years, although it isn’t clear why. Most likely, just land leases.”
“I still don’t get it. How does their mutual oil business have anything to do with the prince’s interest in funding terrorists?” asked Chris.
“My guess is, they have an arrangement to make sure they don’t have any conflicts. If the prince funds an attack that hits a gas pipeline or blows up some petro facility, it better not be the emir’s property that gets hit.”
“That’s nice,” said Mackey. “You can blow up whatever you want—just make sure it isn’t my stuff.”
“Sounds just about right,” replied Kim. “It’s also about keeping their governments stable so they can pump oil unmolested. When the hard liners get strong, then they have to allow some Anti-Western muscle flexing. When the moderates are strong, they have to look very professional and first world. The mood changes with the prevailing wind over there. To stay in power, the government has to play to a lot of different factions at the same time.”
Chapter 15
From Riyadh to Paradise
Tariq walked through the loud, crowded market street in an ancient section of the city, south west of Riyadh. The dusty streets were packed with merchants and their customers, children and beggars, goats and dogs. He pushed his way through the hot, narrow street towards the address he had been given. Crates of chickens were stacked six feet high, and they squawked and clucked incessantly. Spice merchants mixed their secret concoctions and swapped brown bags of spices and herbs for cash with women in burqas. The spices, chickens, goats, and sweaty people combined to create a very special local perfume. It was a busy day.
He stopped and looked up at a building, wondering if he was at the correct address. The buildings and streets were all almost the same color, blending into an endless maze of non-descript light brown that was only broken up by an occasional painted door or sign. A large hand squeezed his bicep and a gruff voice said, “Come.” Tariq was then guided through the crowd with a large man on each side of him, moving him quickly down small side alleys. There was another man behind them, and they walked faster than was comfortable through the crowd. Tariq was again pulled down a side alleyway where a small car was waiting. The car took up almost the entire width of the street, and Tariq was told to get into the back seat. The other three men got in and started the car with a cough of black smoke, and then began moving through the labyrinth of streets as they headed out of the city.
“Where are we going?” asked Tariq.
His question was met with a hood being pulled over his head
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