or, at worse, some high-level advice.”
“I don’t know that any Arab army has the kind of man we are looking for,” said the Admiral. “We need a skilled Special Forces operator with a sound knowledge of high explosives, close combat fighting, and making detailed plans.”
“I don’t think they have anyone to fill that bill,” said the General. “And anyway, how the hell do we get in there? We can’t suddenly drop sixty parachutists into Saudi Arabia. Too high a risk.”
“Then they’d have to come in by sea,” said Admiral Pires. “But it would be difficult by submarine. The SDV holds only a half-dozen. A ferry service like that would take hours and hours. And they couldn’t swim in. Too far. Too dangerous.”
“That’s the kind of problem that gets solved by an Arab who knows the territory,” said Admiral Pires. “And understands what’s required. The kind of Arab who probably doesn’t exist.”
“I know of one,” said Savary.
“Oh? Who?” asked General Jobert.
“He’s the Commander in Chief of Hamas. Name of Gen. Ravi Rashood. From what I hear, he’s ex–British SAS. He could do it. The Americans think he’s pulled off some terrible stuff these last few years. He could take the air base.”
“But would he?” wondered the General. “Why would he?”
“Because he’s a fanatical Muslim fundamentalist,” replied Savary. “And he hates the Americans, and he wants them out of the Middle East forever. And he knows that without Saudi support and Saudi oil they would have to go. I think you’d find General Rashood more than willing to talk, but I think you’d have to pay him, and Hamas, for the privilege of his involvement.”
“Hmm,” said the General. “Interesting.”
“And now,” continued Savary, “For the biggest question of all…who commands the Saudi mob in Riyadh? Who recruits, organizes, arms, and rallies thousands of citizens who hate the King, but have no idea what to do?”
“I know one thing,” said Admiral Pires. “You need a top-class soldier for that. And top-class soldiers become well known to many people. In all of France, it might be impossible to find such a man, who had the right qualifications and a properly low profile. Those kinds of leaders become public figures. And one sight of this man, leading an attack on the Saudi royal family, would end all of our chances of anonymity.”
“You speak wisely, Admiral,” said Savary. “But there must be someone. A trained fighter somewhere who has been in combat yet has not reached the highest rank. Someone who has perhaps retired in recent years. Someone who would perhaps consider undertaking such an operation for, say, ten million U.S. dollars. Enough to allow him to live his life free of all financial worries.”
All three men grew silent. Savary seemed to be at a loss, but the two military men pondered the problem, each of them running their minds back over a working lifetime in the armed services.
Eventually, surprisingly, it was Savary who spoke up. “There was such a man, you know, who worked for my organization, Secret Service, the DGSE. I never met him, because he was mostly based in Africa, rose to be deputy regional director of a large area—northern, sub-Saharan, and western Africa. He operated out of Dakar.”
“Did he have combat experience?” asked the General.
“And how,” replied Savary. “I believe he started off in the Foreign Legion. And I think he distinguished himself in Chad, that battle against the rebels at Oum Chalouba, 1986. He was decorated as quite a young officer for conspicuous bravery. I’m not sure what he did after that, but he definitely joined the Special Forces.”
“Do you remember his name?” asked Michel Jobert.
“Yes. He was Moroccan by birth. Gamoudi. Jacques Gamoudi. Had some kind of a nickname, which for the moment escapes me.”
General Jobert ruminated. “Yes, Gamoudi. I think I’ve heard that name. He was involved with COS, after his
“I don’t know that any Arab army has the kind of man we are looking for,” said the Admiral. “We need a skilled Special Forces operator with a sound knowledge of high explosives, close combat fighting, and making detailed plans.”
“I don’t think they have anyone to fill that bill,” said the General. “And anyway, how the hell do we get in there? We can’t suddenly drop sixty parachutists into Saudi Arabia. Too high a risk.”
“Then they’d have to come in by sea,” said Admiral Pires. “But it would be difficult by submarine. The SDV holds only a half-dozen. A ferry service like that would take hours and hours. And they couldn’t swim in. Too far. Too dangerous.”
“That’s the kind of problem that gets solved by an Arab who knows the territory,” said Admiral Pires. “And understands what’s required. The kind of Arab who probably doesn’t exist.”
“I know of one,” said Savary.
“Oh? Who?” asked General Jobert.
“He’s the Commander in Chief of Hamas. Name of Gen. Ravi Rashood. From what I hear, he’s ex–British SAS. He could do it. The Americans think he’s pulled off some terrible stuff these last few years. He could take the air base.”
“But would he?” wondered the General. “Why would he?”
“Because he’s a fanatical Muslim fundamentalist,” replied Savary. “And he hates the Americans, and he wants them out of the Middle East forever. And he knows that without Saudi support and Saudi oil they would have to go. I think you’d find General Rashood more than willing to talk, but I think you’d have to pay him, and Hamas, for the privilege of his involvement.”
“Hmm,” said the General. “Interesting.”
“And now,” continued Savary, “For the biggest question of all…who commands the Saudi mob in Riyadh? Who recruits, organizes, arms, and rallies thousands of citizens who hate the King, but have no idea what to do?”
“I know one thing,” said Admiral Pires. “You need a top-class soldier for that. And top-class soldiers become well known to many people. In all of France, it might be impossible to find such a man, who had the right qualifications and a properly low profile. Those kinds of leaders become public figures. And one sight of this man, leading an attack on the Saudi royal family, would end all of our chances of anonymity.”
“You speak wisely, Admiral,” said Savary. “But there must be someone. A trained fighter somewhere who has been in combat yet has not reached the highest rank. Someone who has perhaps retired in recent years. Someone who would perhaps consider undertaking such an operation for, say, ten million U.S. dollars. Enough to allow him to live his life free of all financial worries.”
All three men grew silent. Savary seemed to be at a loss, but the two military men pondered the problem, each of them running their minds back over a working lifetime in the armed services.
Eventually, surprisingly, it was Savary who spoke up. “There was such a man, you know, who worked for my organization, Secret Service, the DGSE. I never met him, because he was mostly based in Africa, rose to be deputy regional director of a large area—northern, sub-Saharan, and western Africa. He operated out of Dakar.”
“Did he have combat experience?” asked the General.
“And how,” replied Savary. “I believe he started off in the Foreign Legion. And I think he distinguished himself in Chad, that battle against the rebels at Oum Chalouba, 1986. He was decorated as quite a young officer for conspicuous bravery. I’m not sure what he did after that, but he definitely joined the Special Forces.”
“Do you remember his name?” asked Michel Jobert.
“Yes. He was Moroccan by birth. Gamoudi. Jacques Gamoudi. Had some kind of a nickname, which for the moment escapes me.”
General Jobert ruminated. “Yes, Gamoudi. I think I’ve heard that name. He was involved with COS, after his
Similar Books
