Richard Clarke's 'The Scorpion's Gate'

Oct. 24, 2005 — -- Richard Clarke, former White House counterterrorism chief and current ABC News consultant, has taken his first stab at fiction writing.

In "The Scorpion's Gate," Islamic fundamentalists take control in Saudi Arabia and the United States may be headed toward another war in the Middle East. The book is set five years in the future, and although it is a work of fiction, Clarke said it is not impossible that some of the events could become reality.

"The book intends to raise these issues, but I'm not giving odds that these things will happen," Clarke said. "As a matter of policy, for example, our country advocates democracy in the Middle East. That could lead to the overthrow of the Royal House in Saudi Arabia. If that country did become a republic, it's not clear that the good guys would be in charge. So while I'm not predicting the fall of the House of Saud, I am raising questions that would emerge if that were to happen."

You can read an excerpt from "The Scorpion's Gate" below.

Chapter 1: The Diplomat Hotel

Manama, Bahrain

The waiter flew through the lobby café.

Behind him came a blizzard of glass shards, embeddingragged-edge daggers of shattered windows in arms, eyeballs, legs,brains. The concussion wave bounced off the marble walls with amule-kick punch he felt in his stomach. Then there was the deafeningsound of the explosion, so loud it surrounded him with a physicalforce, shaking every bone and organ in his body.

Brian Douglas dove for the floor, behind a tipped table. His responsewas automatic, as if muscle memory had told him what todo, innate reflexes from those terrible years in Baghdad when thishad happened so many times. As he flattened his body on the plushcarpet, he felt the floor of the Diplomat Hotel shake. He feared thefourteen-story building would collapse on top of him. He thoughtof New York.

Now there were long seconds of silence before the screams began,cries to Allah and God's other names, in Arabic and English. Onceagain there were the shrieking voices of women, painfully highpitchedand piercingly loud. Once again there were men moaning inpain and crying out as glass continued to shatter onto the flooraround them. An alarm rang needlessly above it all. Just a few feetaway from Brian, an old man wailed as the blood streamed downfrom his forehead and spilled across the front of his white robes, "Help, please! Help me, please! Oh God, please, over here, help!"

Although Brian had been through bombings, it chilled his bones,knotted his stomach, made his head throb, blurred his vision, andcaused him to choke, gasping for air. His eardrums were ringing andhe had a sense that he was somehow disconnected from the realityaround him. As he tried to focus, he sensed something was movinginches to the left of his head. With a chill shudder, he realized it wasthe twitching fingers of a hand severed from a body. Rivulets ofblood ran down the upended tabletop to his right, as though someonehad thrown a bottle of red wine against it.

Sofas, chairs, carpets, the palm plants in giant ceramic pots wereburning in the rubble of what had been elegant, the soaring lobby ofa five-star hotel. Then Brian focused on the overpowering scent, asmell that made him gag again as he struggled to roll over. Hecoughed and spit as he inhaled the vile, heavy stench of ammonia,nitrate, and blood. It was a retching smell he hated but knew all toowell. It was the stench of senseless death that brought back painfuldays of friends lost in Iraq.

Through the shattered glass that opened onto the driveway in frontof the hotel came another sound he recognized as automatic gunfire. "Brrrrt, brrrrt..." Seconds later a cacophony of sirens blared, the European-made ones going up and down in singsong, the American-made sirens wailing their imitation of space aliens landing.

Suddenly, Alec, one of Brian Douglas's bodyguards, was overhim. He wondered how long he had been down. Had he been out? "Does it hurt anywhere, sir?" Alec asked.

Brian now noticed that blood was dripping down from his scalp,matting his sandy hair. "No, Alec, somehow my luck has held onceagain," he said, getting up on one knee, grabbing the overturnedtable for support. Brian's head spun like a carnival ride. He tried towipe away some of the blood and dust and rubble from his face. "Where's Ian?" For the three years that Brian Douglas had beenBahrain station chief of SIS, British intelligence, the staff at the stationhad insisted that he take two bodyguards with him wherever hewent, driving to and from his house on Manama's northern beach,going on trips elsewhere in the little country, or visiting the subordinateposts in the other Gulf states. For the last year it had almost alwaysbeen Alec and Ian, two former Scots Guards sergeants. Theyhad watched over him with a mix of professional polish and personalattention, as if he were a favorite nephew.

"Ian was standing watch by the door, sir," the big man replied,helping Brian as he managed finally to stand up. "Ian is no longerwith us." Alec said it with a slow sadness, in his soft Aberdeen lilt, acceptingwhat he could not change, that their friend had been murdered. "There'll be time for that later, sir, but right now we have toget you the hell out of here."

"But there are people here who need help," Brian stammered asAlec grabbed him firmly by the arm and moved him expertly throughthe mounds of wreckage and out the door to the pool deck.

"Aye, and there are experts coming to help them, sir, and besides,you're in no shape to be helpin' anyone." Alec had found the servicestairwell next to the pool and was steering Brian toward it. "Hear allof that shootin' out front? This is not yet over."

The two men moved through the smoldering debris, trying notto step into the pools of blood or onto the pieces of pink and whiteand gray that had so recently been living flesh and bone and brain.Glass crunched under their weight as they moved to the stair anddown to the exit door. An emergency lighting box provided a palebeam as the men headed down the darkened stairs. At the bottom,Alec tried the door.

"She would be locked tight, of course," said Alec as he motionedBrian to stand back. Pulling his Browning Hi-Power .40-caliber gunout of the holster beneath his left arm, Alec blasted three shots at thedoorknob and lock. The roar of the shooting in the concrete stairwellbrought the throbbing in Brian's head to a peak of pain. Kicking thedoor open, Alec smiled as he turned back to Brian. "Don't worry," hesaid as he reholstered the pistol, "there are nine more in that clip."

Brian followed Alec through a long service tunnel. At its end, hesaw two other station men, standing by a door to the alley behindthe hotel. "The station has had this route on the list for four years,since that foreign ministers' conference here," he heard Alec saythrough the ringing. The two big men by the door, folding Belgianmachine guns slung under their windbreakers, rushed Brian to anunmarked white Bedford van blocking the alley. In seconds, the vanwas moving quickly down the streets of Manama, away from theburning tower of devastation that had been the Diplomat Hotel,from the fires, from the dead, and from those who wished throughtheir pain that they were dead.

The van barreled past the Hilton and Sheraton hotels, where police officers and security guards scurried about the entrances erectingbarricades in case they were the next to be hit. The van sped pastNumber 21 Government Avenue, site of the Kutty, the British diplomaticcompound in Bahrain since 1902.

Alec and Brian nodded with appreciation as they saw the Gurkhaguards, with their foot-long kukri knives and the Belgian folding automaticweapons, ready for action, lining the street in front of theembassy. They were members of the 2nd Battalion of the RoyalGurkha Rifles, headquartered in Brunei. These short soldiers weresome of the few Nepalese left who still served as part of the Britisharmy, a tradition that dated back almost two centuries. Alec hadhelped train the 2nd Battalion when Whitehall had decided theGurkhas would protect British embassies in the Gulf. "Silent, ruthless,dangerous little men," said Alec as the van continued downGovernment Avenue past the embassy. "They'd give their lives ifthey had to, to protect the Kutty."

As soon as they heard the bomb blast, the Station began implementingthe response plan for a terrorist action, bypassing the BritishEmbassy, a possible target for a follow-on attack, and moving seniorstation staff to a clandestine facility off-site.

The Bedford slowed as it turned left onto Isa al Kabeer Avenue,just past the embassy, and headed to a compound two blocks downon the right. As it made the turn, Brian looked out the slit in the backdoorwindow and saw three Bahraini army Warrior armored vehicleslumbering, black smoke snorting up from their exhaust pipes.The Warriors moved to the front of the Foreign Ministry buildingacross Government Avenue. At the precise second that the Bedfordreached the gray metal gate of the Al Mudynah Machine Workscompound, the covert home of the backup station, a 15-foot-highgate moved aside. The van dashed forward into the courtyard andthen braked hard. Armed men rushed around the vehicle. Secondsbehind them, a British army medic in civilian clothes slid open theside door of the van and scrambled inside. He tended to Brian Douglas'head wound before the station chief got out.

Brian's number two, Nancy Weldon-Jones, was standing next tothe van as he emerged. She flinched as she saw the bandage on hishead. "No need to worry, Nance. I'm going to live." He paused andlooked at the asphalt. "Unfortunately, Ian isn't." Then he looked upagain. "Now, then, what's the report?"

"I got on to Admiral Adams over at the Navy base," Nancy said."There's dead Brits and Americans, maybe a dozen each. Threetimes that many in local staff and guest workers. We think it was atruck bomb, probably an RDX mix over ammonium perchlorate."She offered her arm to Douglas, but he shook his head and steppedforward. She continued her report: "A drive-by shooting followed,just as the rescue workers showed up. Word is that the drive-byshooter was in a Red Crescent wagon. An American Under Secretaryfor something-or-other was on an upper floor. Of course, thelucky bastard was unharmed. He wasn't in the lobby café becausehe had them open up the al Fanar Club on the roof for a private littlebreakfast with somebody."

With Alec urging them forward, gun in hand, the station chiefand his deputy crossed the yard and went inside the white concrete blockbuilding. "Okay, Nance, but we know first reports are usuallywrong. Any claims of responsibility?"

"Not yet. No need, really. There's no question it's BahrainiHezbollah, otherwise known as your friendly Iranian Rev Guardsand their lovely Qods Force boys." Qods Force, or Jerusalem Force,was the covert action arm of the Iranian Revolutionary GuardsCorps. "Is London up on secure vid yet?" Douglas asked as he forcedhimself slowly up the stairs to the station's backup communicationscenter.

"Up and waiting. You should have the Big Four: the director, herdeputy, chief of staff, and ..." She smiled. "The ME division chief." "Ah, good, what could we do without the ME division chief ?"Douglas asked sarcastically. Roddy Touraine, nominally his immediatesupervisor, seemed to delight in making Brian's professional lifemiserable.

Brian and Nancy made their way through two vault doors to aroom within a room, its walls, floor, and ceiling made of heavy see-throughplastic. Exhaust fans buzzed loudly in the walls. The "boy ina bubble" room was just large enough for the plastic conference tablethat filled it. Attached to the far wall was a 42-inch flat screen showingthe crisp image of a far more elegant conference room, completewith wood paneling and a china tea service. Just sitting downin her pale blue chair at the head of that table in Vauxhall Cross wasBarbara Currier, director of the British Secret Intelligence Service.

As soon as she sat down, the director began the meeting. "Douglas,you look an awful mess. My deepest sympathies about Ian Martin.I will ring up his wife as soon as we are done here. We will, ofcourse, take care of her." Currier took a cup of tea being offered toher by ME Division Chief Touraine. "Do we understand, Brian, thatthis is the beginning of an overt destabilization effort directedagainst Bahrain by the new rulers in Riyadh?"

"I agree it's unlikely a one-off, Director," the station chief said ashe looked into the camera above the monitor, "unless they had itout for someone specific, perhaps that visiting American dig. No, Iwould advise Whitehall that this is the start of something, but not inour view inspired by Riyadh. More likely Iranian-inspired and intendedto get the little king here to kick out the Americans fromtheir Navy base."

"Will King Hamad fall for that, Brian?" asked Currier's chief ofstaff, Pamela Braithwaite, who had been chief of staff for three directorsof SIS.

"Not bloody likely, Pam. They're a savvy group here. They maybe close to the Americans, but they can and do think for themselves."Douglas leaned back, running his fingers through his unkempthair and adjusting the bandage. "I think what we have here isthe opening of a new terror wave in Bahrain, controlled by Tehran.And remember," Douglas continued as he glanced at some papersthat his deputy slid in front of him, "the Shi'a are in the majorityhere, even though the king's government is largely Sunni. Iran hasseen that as a potential weakness here for years. Failed every timethey tried to exploit it, but haven't given up."

Douglas saw his nemesis, SIS Middle East Division Chief RoddyTouraine, lean into the camera's frame of view. "With all deference toour heroic and, I see, bloodied station chief, I think in the thick of it, asit were, Director, that he overlooks the obvious. This is not an Iranianattack. It comes across the causeway from Saudi. The Riyadh crowdwants to make sure King Hamad doesn't let the Yanks use this littleisland as a base for operations against their fledgling little caliphate."

"Whoever it is, Director," Douglas responded, his face reddening, "we will give all assistance to the king here, but we shall not be alonein that. The Americans won't abandon this place. The little Gulf statesare all that they have left after the fall of the House of Saud and thecreation of Islamyah, coming right after their pullout from Iraq.The Yanks are like sandwich meat spread thin onto the Gulfies betweentwo very big hunks of hostile bread, Iran and Islamyah."

In London, Barbara Currier shook her head in sadness. "Kickedout of Iran in '79, politely pushed out of Saudi in '03, invited to leaveIraq by their Frankenstein in '06. Then the fall of the al Sauds lastyear. Now they are just hanging on in the region, with only the littleguys to help them: Kuwait, Bahrain, Qatar, the Emirates, Oman.And how long can they hang on there? Sic transit gloria imperi. Justask us." She paused at a noise coming from the Bahrain end of theconference call. "What was that?"

A long, low rumble shook the bubble room in Bahrain. The exhaustfans seemed to cough. From London, Currier could see onher flat screen that someone who had just entered the room inBahrain was bending over Brian Douglas, whispering something.Douglas had his hand over the microphone. He spoke briefly tothose around him, and then he looked back up at the camera.

"The attack on the Diplomat was not a one-off, Director. Thenoise that you just heard was the sound of the Crowne Plaza, downthe street from the Diplomat, pancaking."

Reprinted from "The Scorpion's Gate" by Richard A. Clarke, by arrangement with G.P. Putnam's Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., Copyright (c) 2005 by RAC Enterprises, Inc.