10
Saudi Arabia—Tabuk Province, the Wadi-as-Sirhan
18 August 0032 Local (GMT+3.00)
After prayers and sunset
Sinan was called to Abdul Aziz’s tent, arriving to find four others already waiting outside with the commanding officer. Since coming to the camp, Aziz had forgone his
thobe
for the more military desert fatigues the rest of them wore, so it surprised Sinan to see that Aziz was once again in his cotton robe.
“You men are coming with me tonight,” Aziz told them, and gestured toward the old Russian truck, draped with camouflage netting and parked in the shadow of the wadi wall. “Get in the back.”
They moved to the truck, climbing into the bed as directed. There were wooden benches bolted at either side in the back, and the canvas top had trapped the heat of the day within. Sinan heard grumbles from some of the men as they took their seats, stowing their Kalashnikovs either beneath them or between their legs.
The drive was long and uncomfortable, the truck bouncing and hopping along the almost-roads out of the camp and into the desert. With the canvas flaps thrown back, Sinan could see the desert stretching forever into the night, and the stars were brilliant, thick in the sky. There was no illumination except for what the heavens provided; the truck drove without headlights, the driver wearing NVG.
Of the four others with Sinan, three were Saudi. The fourth was an Afghani named Matteen, and he had good stories of fighting Americans and British near Tora-Bora, and to relieve the boredom of the trip, he shared them. Sinan listened to the veteran’s tales with absolute attention, eager to learn from Matteen’s experience.
“They tried to bomb us, you know?” Matteen told them. “For days and days they dropped bombs on us, and the whole earth shook and shuddered, as if Satan was trying to climb free. But Allah protected us in the caves, and their bombs did nothing. They tried to murder us for days, and in the end, their bombs did nothing. We were protected because we were righteous.”
All of them nodded.
“Back in the camp,” Matteen continued, “it’s the same thing. The wadi is a good place, very safe from the air. No satellites to spy on us, and if the
mushrikun
try to bomb us, there are many places to wait and stay safe. A very good place.”
“If they come on foot?” Sinan asked.
The Saudis laughed. “It will never happen,” one of them said.
Matteen shook his head, barely visible in the cowled darkness of the back of the truck. “You don’t know, you don’t know. Your rulers allowed Americans to build bases on our holy soil. There are
mushrikun
in Riyadh, and they are cowards. Spineless, gutless . . . Don’t believe for a moment that we won’t be sacrificed on the altar of their greed if it comes to that.”
“The Crown has always supported us in the past.”
“In the
past,
yes. But even with the West in its death throes, there are still those who want to pacify the Americans. Look what happened to our brothers in Riyadh and Sakakah after the bombings last year. It was
your
leaders who rounded up those
muwahhidun
and had them executed, all to appease the apes and pigs of the West.”
Matteen waited to see if the man would offer a counter, but none came.
“If they come on foot, Matteen?” Sinan asked again.
“The same thing, like we did in Afghanistan. Know the land, Sinan, and use it. Anyone who comes to us, comes to us blind. But
we
fight with our eyes open, and with clear vision, we are victorious.”
Sinan thought about that, looking out at the desert lit by stars. Since his arrival, he’d spent almost all of his time in the camp, with the exception of the successful trip to the West Bank. His days, spent mostly in prayer, classes, and training, left little time for exploration of the surrounding area. But he would find the time, he resolved.
Anything that made him a better warrior, Sinan would do it.
•
Sinan felt the change, the truck’s tires moving from cracked and desiccated earth to pavement, and he guessed they were soon to arrive at their journey’s end. He had no idea where it might be, but he also lacked any feeling of apprehension. Abdul Aziz was in the cab, leading them, and it was Abdul Aziz who had brought him this far, after all.
The truck slowed, then stopped, but the engine remained running. Sinan heard one of the cab doors open and Abdul Aziz’s voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. A man’s voice answered, and there was the sound of machinery, and the truck shook slightly as the cab door slammed closed again. The truck started forward with a lurch that nearly sent each of them toppling one against the other. Sinan righted himself and looked out the back to see that they had passed through a gate into a compound of some sort. The gate was closing now, and in the illumination from the guard post, he saw two men dressed like paramilitaries.
The truck stopped again, and this time the engine died. Doors opened for a second time and then Abdul Aziz appeared, lowering the gate to let them out.
“Treat our host with respect,” he warned them. “No matter what he asks or what he says, he is worthy of your respect, and he is your host.”
Sinan dropped out of the vehicle behind Matteen, adjusting the strap of his rifle on his shoulder. The others fell in, and Aziz motioned for the men to follow.
They were in an enormous courtyard, the size of a football pitch to Sinan’s eyes, and that alone would have been amazing, but more than half of it appeared to be comprised of an immaculately maintained lawn. In the starlight all colors washed away, but from the scent of it, Sinan knew it was lush and green. Centered on the lawn was a fountain, perhaps eleven feet high, spurting water in arcs that shimmered as they fell to the pool at its base. As they walked along the tiled driveway that skirted the lawn, Sinan felt the sand and dirt in his clothes, grinding against his skin.
Following Aziz, they made their way to the front of an enormous, sprawling mansion. Marble steps led to a massive door where two more paramilitaries, wearing grenades and pistols on their belts, each holding a submachine gun, watched their approach. Sinan thought the men looked bored and wondered if they would ask for his rifle, and then wondered what he would do if they did. Much as he hated the thought of it, he decided he would hand it over, in order to show respect.
It turned out that the rifles didn’t interest the guards; they wanted their boots. Following Abdul Aziz’s lead, each man removed his shoes, setting them in a matched pair on the second step, before proceeding inside.
The group moved into a cavernous entry hall, so brightly lit that Sinan’s eyes began to tear from the glare. Chandeliers glowed above, and sconces along each wall, and there was more marble here, on the floor, on the walls, on the curving staircase that climbed to the upper floors. Fixtures glittered gold and silver, compounding the effect.
A young man in a black
thobe
and white
kuffiyah
came through a door down the hall, followed by a boy no older than ten.
“Salaam alaykum,”
the man said.
“Salaam alaykum,”
Abdul Aziz echoed.
The man reached for Aziz’s right hand, placed his left on Aziz’s right shoulder, and Aziz mirrored him. They exchanged kisses on each cheek before releasing the grip.
“Hazim will take them to the study,” the man told Aziz. “But His Royal Highness wishes to see you first, upstairs.”
“Very well.” Aziz turned to them. “Go with the boy.”
Sinan nodded, reassured. It explained the extravagance of the mansion, the mysteriousness of their journey, the guards, everything. This was the home of a prince to the House of Saud. At least now he understood where they were, if not why.
Hazim led them down the hall and through another set of doors, and here the marble floor gave way to smooth stone and a new flight of stairs, this one leading down. They descended perhaps twenty feet into what Sinan would have called a rec room but that he assumed was the indicated study.
The floor was carpeted in an emerald-green shag that felt strangely uncomfortable to Sinan’s bared feet. Three large televisions occupied the far wall, spaced irregularly, two of them plasma screens, one of them a projection model. All three were on, and all were broadcasting sports, two football games, one basketball. A billiard table stood to one side, purple felt with fittings that Sinan first thought were brass but on second look decided were gold. Books and magazines were strewn on the easy chairs and couches, and he was shocked to see that a number of them were pornographic. CD jewel boxes and DVD cases littered the floor. The titles ranged from Arabic to English, pop music from the Middle East and the West.
Sinan looked to Matteen, and Matteen frowned, made the faintest shake of his head.
“Please, be comfortable,” Hazim told them, and then vanished through a door off to a side.
The group stood still for a few moments longer, and then two of the Saudis propped their Kalashnikovs against one of the easy chairs and took up pool cues. Matteen moved to the nearest couch, facing one of the football matches, the remaining Saudi joining him. Only Sinan didn’t move.
It was all so Western, he thought, and this made him uneasy. It had been years since he’d been anyplace like this, in a space like this, and it was a space for William Leacock, not for Sinan bin al-Baari.
He didn’t like it, and he didn’t like it in the home of a Prince of the House of Saud most of all.
One wall was covered with framed photographs, and Sinan made his way to it, picking his steps carefully to avoid the debris. The pictures were a mix, black and white as well as color, and as far as he could see, the only unifying factor was that the same man appeared in most of them. If there was a purpose to the display, Sinan figured it was in presenting their host the Prince in as many roles as possible.
Most often, the Prince appeared in a black
thobe
and white
kuffiyah,
with trimmed black beard and mustache, often wearing sunglasses that failed to flatter his face. There was one of the Prince with King Fahd, and another, apparently more recent, with Crown Prince Abdullah. Another, elegantly framed and dominantly placed, showed the Prince seated between Usama bin Laden and Mullah Omar, taken at a camp, presumably in Afghanistan before the Coalition had arrived. Still others showed the Prince with various holy men, Sheikh Wajdi Hamzeh al-Ghazawi and Sheikh Muhammad Saleh al-Munajjid, and Dr. Faud bin Abdullah al-Shimmari.
It wasn’t all vanity. There were three photographs of racehorses, beautiful creatures at a gallop, breaking away from the pack. Another of a kindergarten graduation ceremony, and Sinan recognized it instantly, because he’d seen others of its kind before. Beaming Palestinian children, wrapped in pretend bomb harnesses, their hands dripping with the red paint that signified the blood of the apes and pigs.
The door opened again and Hazim returned carrying a silver tray laden with small cups. The boy served the men at the pool table first, then worked his way around the room, offering coffee to each of them in turn. Sinan sipped his, savoring the flavor, the hint of cardamom mixed into the drink. By the time he’d finished the cup, the boy was making second rounds, and this time Sinan waggled the cup in his hand back and forth, indicating that he was fine, that he didn’t wish another serving. The coffee had driven the taste of the desert from his mouth but had failed to do anything for his thirst.
He moved away from the wall of photographs, toward one of the couches. Matteen was still engrossed in the match he was watching, and the Saudi who wasn’t playing pool was flipping through a magazine. He was one of the veterans, named Jabr, and had been in the camp when Sinan had arrived. Jabr had taken delight in mocking Sinan and Aamil, hazing them as rookies.
At least until Sinan had returned alone.
Jabr stopped on a photo spread of a pale blonde, holding her thighs apart, head back, breasts artificially full and defiant. Beneath her belly, inked into the skin above her shaved opening, was a red and black tattoo of a valentine’s heart.
“Sinan, you ever had one like this?” Jabr asked, raising the magazine. “Back home, you must have fucked one like this, yes?”
Sinan glared at him, shook his head. The magazine was contraband in Saudi Arabia, it shouldn’t have even been there. If any of them had been found with such a thing in their possession at the camp, they’d have been beaten, if not killed. In Riyadh, it would lead to prison, or worse.
But here in the Prince’s house, it was easy and available, and the hypocrisy made Sinan want to spit.
“Never?” Jabr grinned at him, not believing the answer. “Not even once?”
Sinan shook his head a second time. The room was air-conditioned, the whole house was, heavily so, but he felt himself growing warm, heat crawling along his spine.
He tore the magazine from the man’s hands, threw it down on the carpet. Jabr cursed, starting to his feet, fists turning to balls. Sinan swung his Kalashnikov on its strap, bringing the weapon up and into line, trapping the butt against his hip with his forearm, and Jabr stopped cold, looking up the barrel.
The pool game had stopped.
“Sinan, lower that weapon,” Abdul Aziz ordered from the bottom of the stairs.
Everyone except Sinan and Jabr turned to look. Jabr didn’t because he was still fixed on the gun leveled at him; Sinan didn’t because, at first, he hadn’t heard the order. Then the words penetrated, and he let his finger return to the trigger guard, and he stepped back from Jabr on the couch, lowering the weapon.
The man in the photographs on the wall was standing beside Aziz, looking at Sinan with delight. “If he needs to shoot him, could he do it outside?”
“He doesn’t need to,” Aziz said. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding. It was a misunderstanding, wasn’t it, Jabr?”
Jabr, still looking at Sinan, nodded.
“Sinan?”
“Yes.”
“So you see, Your Highness,” Aziz said. “A misunderstanding, nothing more.”
The Prince frowned. “I’m not certain they’re the best men for me, for this, if there are misunderstandings of this kind, my friend. You understand my concern.”