Free The Scorpion's Gate by Richard A. Clarke

the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, Paul Robinson. Every senior Senator had a hideaway, an anonymous office where they could go to work without bumping into constituents and reporters. It was also a place where meetings could occur without there being records of the get-togethers, without prying eyes noticing whom the Senator was seeing. It was a good place to get campaign contributions from lobbyists with an interest in a committee’s work. Robinson, however, didn’t take contributions from anyone who lived outside of his native Iowa. He didn’t really need to. No one had opposed him in his last reelection.
    Robinson was standing by a bar trolley pouring two Wild Turkey bourbons, neat. As he handed one to MacIntyre, he said only, “Getting a little raw outside? Here, warm up.”
    Before he accepted the drink, MacIntyre pulled a paper out from inside his suit coat and placed it on the desk. “It’s the estimate of Chinese oil consumption you asked for.” He took a big gulp of the Kentucky whiskey. “You were right. They are consuming almost as much as we are. Lots of cars now. Booming industry. And they have few long-term contracts, so they often get stuck paying the higher spot market prices, like we do now.
    “The Pentagon is all in a fever over China. The growth of their navy, their export of the missiles to Islamyah. And by the way, it was the Sauds who bought the missiles before they got thrown out, not the new Islamyah crowd. Defense Intel even has some uncorroborated story about a Chinese People’s Liberation Army expeditionary force secretly going to Islamyah.”
    The Senator twisted about. “Tell me you’re kidding. The PLA in Arabia?”
    “Well, I think somebody is probably kidding Defense Intel, but they all believe it over at the Pentagon. And it’s very hush-hush. We aren’t supposed to brief you and the committees yet,” MacIntyre admitted, following the Senator to the stuffed leather chairs next to the artificial fireplace.
    “So what’s so important that we have to do our weekly little private session tonight, when I could be enjoying a boring reception for the Future Fucking Farmers of America?” the Senator joked.
    “I won’t be here the rest of the week. I’m off to London to see if I can learn anything from the Cousins. I just think something’s up,” MacIntyre replied, sipping what was left of the Wild Turkey. “Number one, we’ve got our fearless Secretary of Defense talking about some bullshit Defense Intelligence source that says the Chinese Navy deployment in the Indian Ocean is cover for Beijing moving an infantry division to Saudi—ah, Islamyah.”
    “Well, you just said the Chinese need oil, but I can’t see the Islamyah Shura Council agreeing to let a lot of infidels into their precious desert, can you?” the Senator said, leaning back in the chair.
    “No, I can’t. Moreover, no other source has noticed a Chinese division moving. But there’s more. Number two, Secretary Conrad is planning a gigantic amphibious and airborne exercise on the Egyptian Red Sea coast next month.”
    Senator Robinson arched an eyebrow.
    “Number three, Senator, the British SIS just reported that it’s really Iran that is staging the bombings in Bahrain, not Islamyah, that the Iranians want to bomb our base there and blame Islamyah, and that they are planning some sort of uprising among the Shi’a majority in Bahrain. The King there is Sunni, but he has been reaching out to the Shi’a and doing a good job.
    “Number four, I am having a hard time believing that the new government in Islamyah is as bad as everybody else in Washington seems to think. Yes, I know some of them were al Qaeda–related at some point, but we have one source who says they’re planning real national elections next year.”
    “And you put all this in your famous analytical blender and get what, Rusty?” Senator Robinson asked, staring into his glass.
    “I don’t know, and that’s what bothers me. I