by Ted Krever
“Well, I have your car! Le Mans winner, first Porsche to—”
“I know what it is. I’m very pleased about the car, of course. I’m merely surprised, with the Paris police searching for you, that your first thought is to bring me a gift. Or do I misunderstand?”
Coming from Rahim, the master of implication, this is a straight shot across the bow. Is he sending me back? Arresting me? I still see no guards nearby, other than the two at the gate.
I take a chance—to not answer directly. “Well, you misunderstand if you consider it a gift.”
He smiles again, thank heavens.
“The Quran says, ‘With Every Difficulty, there is Relief.’ Relief is part of the process, but you must make room for it to occur. We spoke of a price a month or two ago and, as long as I am content with the car, it should not be a problem. I will admit I was disturbed when I heard you were heading here, concerned about the diplomatic ramifications—but when I was told you were arriving on a C5A, I realized there was more here than meets the eye.”
Again, here’s Dieter’s veil protecting us, a system that doesn’t want to know too much. “That’s shrewd of you, as always,” I say.
“And of you, I suspect. Clearly, you’re protected—though by whom is not so clear at the moment.” He stares at me—do I want to clear this up for him? I do not. “I’m willing to do my part. I have arranged a secure location for your discreet short-term use here—a gated community just outside the city, you’ll have your own quarters and I’ll provide open accounts at the local markets and pharmacies, you can call out for anything you need. Your host will be Colonel Qadir, one of my most trusted security men, from a fine family.” You know Colonel Qadir, maybe?
-I am Colonel Qadir.
Oh. Sorry about that. Rahim said your place was terrific. But clearly, no matter what he called it, it was still house arrest. And I couldn’t do that—I had to find Harry.
-You were a guest. You should have trusted us.
Would you have let me out of the house?
-Of course not.
Like I said, I had to find a way to worm out of this. “Um, that’s very gracious, Rahim, however—”
He cuts me off with a look. “The Quran speaks of a guest’s hospitality for three days—any more than that is charity bestowed upon him. And it says whoever believes in God and the Last Day, let him speak good words or else remain silent.”
Which I took to mean, shut up and wait for another opportunity. “I understand your Highness has a watch you want me to sell?”
He brightens—we’re onto business now, comfortable territory. “I do.” He pulls a leather case from under his robes—they have pockets? “We need the best price and you know the sort of person who can help us.”
I open the case and recognize the watch before he can say the name.
“A Rolex, a Reference 4113 Split-Second Chronograph.”
He enunciates every syllable as though the name itself was worth big money. As well he might. This is one of those stories I know by heart. Rolex made twelve, as gifts for racing drivers in the 40’s. Several have changed hands recently for anywhere from 800,000 to 1.6 million Swiss Francs. Watches are quoted in Swiss Francs because, naturally, that’s where the crazy watch collector auctions are held.
“Any idea of the original owner?” One was meant for Ettore Bugatti. If it’s that one…
“Alas, non. But it’s genuine, with a letter of authenticity from the factory. And the original band—fawn leather.”
Is Collecting an official diagnosis yet? Because surely it carries all the hallmarks of a major disease. Hallucinations, delusions and unwarranted euphoria. Extremely bad judgment with money, except for the hardnosed one per cent (like Rahim). Of course, my trade is locating and catering to the afflicted in all walks of life.
“The case looks a bit weathered—”
“—as though someone had driven several races wearing it.” Rahim knows the game and plays it well. I hear his half-smile before I see it.
“You sure you don’t want to keep it for yourself?”
“That would be inappropriate. It was the possession of a man who embezzled funds from his own business.”
“So you took his million-franc wristwatch?”
“To reimburse the investors. He no longer has a wrist, so it is not really inconvenient for him.”
“Oh God, Rahim, don’t tell me that!” I moan, involuntarily, before the image is even fully digested.
“Tell you what?”
“‘He no longer has a wrist…’ You cut his hand off?”
“It is our law and custom.”
“C’mon Rahim, you’re a civilized person.”
“We are a civilized nation.”
“Sure—in between cutting people’s limbs off.”
“Uncivilized societies are lawless. Our law is ancient; our people know the punishment for bad behavior.”
“You cut his hand off. Don’t tell me that’s a penal code.”
“He met all the conditions. If he was insane or stole under duress, his hand would not be taken. If he stole from his own child or stole the looting of war, he would not lose a hand. If he returns the property before trial or it was stolen from a public place where it was not kept secure, the same thing. If what he stole was Haram—wine or pork—there is no penal action.”
“So if he steals something he’s not supposed to have in the first place, you suspend punishment. That makes no sense at all.”
“It’s outside the boundaries of our system, I suppose. Or possibly these things are simply not valuable to us. The Quran says if the theft is of something not of substantial value, there may be punishment but not a cutting.”
“It’s totally arbitrary.”
“If you think a Yemeni immigrant to Belgium is a danger to society, you arrest him and put him on trial, with lawyers and precedents and evidence presented before a jury. Innocent until proven guilty, you take pride in this. If the same person remained home in Yemen, you send a drone and blow him and everyone near him to the next world without warning. Guilty—and then dead—without process. All systems are arbitrary.”
“And if the thief were a member of the royal family—?”
“That would not happen,” his voice plays a darker melody now. There’s a warning here, if I insist on following this line.
“Of course not; you wouldn’t let it. But maybe someone with a connection to the family—?”
“Compensation would be made.”
“But you wouldn’t chop his hand off.”
“Of course not. He might need it for diplomatic occasions, matters of state.”
“And that isn’t hypocritical?”
“If your plumber finds $100 under your cabinet and walks off with it—and you prosecute him—he’ll go to jail for years, in a filthy facility where he’ll be raped and schooled to be an advanced criminal. If he’s a trader for Goldman Sachs, invests $650 million badly and disrupts the entire Western economy, destroying the security of millions, he will receive a bonus at the end of the quarter.”
“Even I think that’s hypocritical.”
“On the contrary—it’s why I keep my money with Goldman Sachs. Clearly, their investments are protected.”
“Actually, it’s not a bad argument for cutting hands off—you go to lunch with your new broker and—Oh! No hand! Maybe I’ll let someone else invest the pension fund!”
“You see? It’s practical.”
“Makes it easy to pick out the undesirables at a distance.”
“You do the same. They’re your brown-skinned people.”
“You’ve got a great gig, Rahim—rule the world while posing as one of the downtrodden brown people whenever it suits you.”
“It’s because we have a superior God.”
He leads me out of the hangar. The C5A is in the distance, whining its way to the passenger terminal, having left behind the pristine Porsche 917K.
“Ahh—she is lovely. And fearsome.” He
walks around the car, checking each surface for imperfections, of which there are plenty.
“It’s a 1970’s race car, not a Concours d’Elegance model,” I remind him.
“It is exactly the sort of symbol I’d hoped for,” he smiles. He snaps a finger and two soldiers appear out of nowhere, somehow affixing a license plate to the rear of the car. WADIIONE, it reads. Just the thing for an anonymous joyride.
“She really should be seen by the public, with you driving,” I suggest. Anything that might get me off the premises without going directly to house arrest.
He shrugs. “It’s always a conflict; the needs of prestige versus the dignity of my position. Luckily, there are other members of the family who manage this conundrum more skillfully.” He claps me on the shoulder and nods to Diamante. He takes Sara’s hand and kisses it—she meets his eye boldly. “I have arranged an escort for you. Enjoy your stay for this brief period.”
Meaning, don’t overstay your welcome. Which really shouldn’t be a problem. If we’re not out of here in twenty-four hours, Rahim will be the least of our problems.
Grand Prix
-So let us now move on from Prince Rahim.
You wish. He pops up again, as if you didn’t know.
-I think you’d be far better off answering questions—
—than making you nervous. Sure, no problem. I’ll tell you what happened and, at the end, we’ll see who has a better idea what Rahim wants to hear.
-That’s Prince Rahim to you.
See? That’s why I’m going to have the right answer and you won’t.
Anyway, Rahim’s disappeared, leaving us alone with a huge airport and a 917. And we hear the approach of rolling thunder.
It’s a carnival of extravagant toys. A deep gray Lamborghini Aventador and a jade green convertible twin, three red Ferrari’s, an XX, La Ferrari and a fantastic old Daytona, a naked-aluminum Bugatti Veyron, an old-school British Racing Green Aston Martin, two Maserati’s and a silver Porsche Carrera GT, all of them revving their engines, the Aventador spitting flames just for fun. Roughly $25 million in investment cars, except these guys are driving them in broad daylight.
Sara says, “I feel under-dressed.”
Doors open and five or six young men lift themselves out of the cars, two in the white robe/keffiyeh look, the others in an odd array of branded t-shirts and khakis, expensive sneakers and gold chains. Geek gangstas with money.
The Bugatti pulls to the front, polished-aluminum front end blinding in the desert sun, the reflection nearly blotting out the red-and-black painted rear end of the car. The door pops straight up and some sort of deafening Middle-Eastern hip-hop bellows from inside—tabla, congas, oud, electronic percussion and a bass note to stop your heart.
And rising up out of the car is Rahim’s brother Yusuf.
“Yo Dog, whattup?”
If Rahim is the heart of the royal family, Yusuf is its acid reflux. He is maybe twenty-three, with the big eyes and narrow chin of a child, dressed in a black-and-red Manchester United jersey, workout pants, a pair of limited-edition Jordan’s I could resell in Japan for a couple thou if they aren’t too worn and a watch that redefines the limits of bling.
“What’s with the watch, Yusuf?”
“Seeeeriously, dog!” Yusuf lifts it to give me the full-on view. There’s a huge logo, smack in the middle, that I don’t recognize. The case, however, requires pumping iron just to raise to eye-height. Yusuf swings it up and down like a barbell, biceps popping. “Car—watch—car—watch?” The logo says…B?
“Bugatti makes watches?”
“It’s dope, my brother, just like this car you’ve brought me!” he says, eyeing the 917 hungrily.
-You gave Prince Rahim’s 917 to Prince Yusuf?
Why? You have a problem with Prince Yusuf?
-Of course not. Prince Yusuf is an invaluable member of the ruling family. I just thought—
You thought he’d crash it the first ten seconds in the driver’s seat—so did I. No, of course, I didn’t give it to him. If a two-year-old wants nitroglycerine, he’s at least going to have to arm-wrestle me for it.
“Rahim’s car,” I reply, as casually as I can.
“Yeah yeah, it’s his, of course,” Yusuf sputters. “But he won’t mind, once I drop you off.” To House Arrest—now that it’s me against Yusuf, that ain’t happening. By the way, why didn’t you come to escort me?
-I was in a conference on the mainland. I could not return in time—
And of all the people in the world to replace you, Rahim—who’s no fool—picked Yusuf? Just chew on that one for a while.
Yusuf pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and lets it flutter in the breeze. “You’re getting kind of common, Nicky. Cheque made to ‘Cash’?”
“I’m just a man of the people,” I smile, snatching it out of his hand before he can drop it. Which he would, just for kicks. I’ve made a few bucks off of Yusuf but never without more trouble than it’s worth.
So then he starts to vlog.
-To—I’m sorry?
You haven’t seen Yusuf’s vlog’s? You’re probably not his demographic. He’s the video blog king of the Middle East. A new episode posts nearly every day, heavily watched all around the region, doing major social media PR for the kingdom. Yusuf’s posse figure heavily in most episodes, trading in one supercar for another, zooming around the highways in packs, bouncing dune buggies over the beach and shopping for all kinds of insanely-priced, limited-edition bling.
Most of his homeboys live with their parents in what look to Westerners like middle-class homes, concrete boxes with a carport and a little garden on the side, nothing fancy—but with a couple of Lamborgini’s in the driveway, a separate room for the video game consoles, the 4K television with the seven-way speakers and VR headset and they stay up all night once a year for Apple Day, the rollout of the new line, taking in the hype and paying through the nose to glom the best and latest models as soon as they’re released. Wadiirah pays its citizens for being citizens and Yusuf is their aspirational role model.
His Vlog is an online campaign of self-love and consumerism, reminding outsiders how great Wadiirah is and reminding Wadiiran homeboys how envied they are by everyone else.
-Why should we not be proud of our system?
Sure, why not? There hasn’t been a revolution yet and surely that is the point.
-There will never be a revolution here.
Not as long as the money holds out.
Yusuf pulls his phone out and starts zipping around the 917, inches from the surface, sharing his new toy online and inspecting it far more closely than Rahim did. He’s smitten, as any little boy would be.
In that infatuation, I see opportunity.
I help Diamante pull the portable starter into position. “Exactly how do I drive from here to Harry’s hotel?” I ask him.
On the mapping program, thankfully, it’s a simple trip—eleven miles away, fourth exit off the freeway leading directly to the waterfront development.
Diamante attaches the starter. I switch on the two fuel pumps, work the choke, pump the throttle and hit the black starter button. The thing coughs, coughs again, spouts grey smoke and, thank you, turns over. LOUD! She’s a race car, twelve cylinders, no muffler, no pollution control, no restraint. I pop the throttle a couple times and she blasts a throaty roar, overwhelming the garden-variety Ferraris and Bugattis with their metallic paint and boytoy airbags. SAFETY equipment? We don’t need no stinkin’ safety equipment!
Yusuf swells to double his normal height. “Whoa, let me at her, dog!! I can’t wait to drop the hammer!”
Now, at this point, I should mention that Yusuf has appeared out of the passenger seat of his Bugatti. Amani, his sister, appears now out of the driver seat.
Amani is sharp as a knife, funny and lovely, beautiful shape, hair and make-up (she gives lessons on her own vlog three times a week). She’s got this half-smile, the boys call her the Qumrahdi Mona Lisa. If you’ve got a f
eminist wife (like me, for the moment), you recognize that face and sense of humor, a world-weary combination of strained tolerance and condescension. It can’t be easy being the woman in this boy-gang.
Yusuf has the fanciest, fastest cars going but contents himself shooting the vlog and talking trash while his sister does the driving. That’s also made Amani a feminist icon (something no one would dare call her out loud) in the Arab world. It’s wonderful and incongruous, as a Westerner, to watch her, knowing that, twenty minutes away (ten for her), women aren’t allowed to drive at all. She’s a visible counter-argument to that world and Wadiirah’s PR cabal have cannily unleashed her on Yusuf’s vlog without ever openly promoting her or even admitting she exists. A woman driving is only low-profile if no one mentions it so no one does—but that doesn’t make her one bit less subversive. Amani’s online appearances are yet another reason for her neighbors to hate Wadiirah.
-I will point out that we have cordial relationships with all our neighbors.
Okay, so we both feel the need to put things ‘on the record’ here.
-I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Anyway, there is a gap in both sibling’s motoring education—and I know what it is.
“Amani doesn’t drive a stick, does she?” I ask Yusuf innocently, already knowing the answer—they’re both too young to have ever needed to master a clutch. “Do you?”
“I’ve seen them,” he says. “How hard can it be?” But he knows better. The clutch is the downfall of shallow drivers everywhere. Crestfallen suddenly, he’s a boy who can’t take home the puppy until it gets its shots. Yusuf really is about nine or ten in grown-up years. He’s never had a desire denied or a goal beyond the mall, the car dealer or the Apple Store. Until now.
“It’s not a problem,” I tell him, visualizing the map on Diamante’s phone. “I’m hungry. Let’s air her out, blast on over someplace for lunch. You can see how she runs, shoot some video for the blog, then you get yourself a couple clutch lessons and you’ll be good to go. Sara, why don’t you ride with Amani—I assume Yusuf wants the passenger seat?”
“Hell yeah, I want the passenger seat!” he says and fastens himself onto the shelf next to the driver’s bucket.