Keys to the Kingdom

by Bob Graham

  The aircraft decelerated at the far end, turned 180 degrees, and halted. The three were fixated on the descending passenger ramp as the first burst of automatic weapon fire shredded the asphalt behind the left front tire. Tony and Jaime returned fire with their underwhelming handguns.

  Closing on the Lear, Jamal spun the truck in front of the aircraft so it would not be in the line of gunfire from the rapidly approaching Hummer. “Get out with whatever you’ve got to take and run like hell,” he commanded. Following Jamal’s mandate, in a squat sprint Tony and Jaime reached the ramp.

  With less than thirty meters separating them, Jamal jammed the gas pedal and surged the Toyota toward the Hummer. The incoming machine-gun fusillade turned exclusively to the truck, shattering its front windscreen and strewing jagged glass over the hood and front seat. In less than two seconds the Hummer and Toyota collided nose to nose.

  As Jaime took the first step up the narrow stairs, a fireball erupted upward and the windblast shook the Lear Jet. The aircraft was rolling forward when Tony glanced in horror at the clouds of fire rising from the vehicles, now totally engulfed in flame. The Lear rocked as it struggled to reach critical airspeed. At six hundred feet, the plane turning to the east, Tony looked for the last time as the two vehicles exploded in an orange blast.

  SEPTEMBER 10

  Jeddah

  Laura Billington was assisted into the van by Jason, the newest member of her crew. Bringing on the retired MI5 agent was the first of Tony’s precautions to protect her. With the driver and Walid, the assigned royal aide, Laura and her entourage left the Imperial Hotel by the sun’s first rays for the twenty-minute drive from the Biblical Jeddah walls, through the new portside city, to the King Saud Bridge. As part of a massive reclamation project to create a deepwater port by extending the natural shoreline farther into the Red Sea, two isolated islands totaling about fifty acres were created. The summer palace is connected to the shore by a three-hundred-foot-long grand boulevard planted in an allée of giant date palms. At the portal points and intersections were elaborate inlaid stone designs of khatim, eight-pointed stars representing the seals of the prophets.

  The palace was aesthetically subordinate to the elegant gardens. In the Arabic tradition, fountains and constantly flowing water—the Islamic symbol of purity and provider of a cool oasis in the sweltering heat—were the most conspicuous features. The garden was integrated with meandering paths framed by plants, shrubbery, and shade trees. Laura, in a demure headscarf and black abaya, spent two hours in it assessing possible exterior locations for the royal portrait. Walid assisted with suggestions and the placement of the lights and equipment.

  It was ten o’clock, with the temperature topping one hundred, when Walid invited Laura and her associates to enter the palace. They passed through the foyer, which was decorated to mimic an ornate Bedouin desert tent, skirted a small anteroom where four women wearing black burkas were conversing, and finally entered a previously male-only waiting room. Walid excused himself.

  The room had a twenty-foot ceiling. Several men were standing, with a few more slouched against the wall, resting on colorful pillows. After ninety more minutes of waiting, a palace functionary arrived with documents to be filled out.

  “We are here at the invitation of the king,” Laura declared. “Could you determine when we will be permitted to continue the preparation for our work?”

  “It will be when it pleases the king, madam. He will inform me when that time has arrived.” He turned his back to Laura and exited through a wooden double door.

  She thought back to another of Tony’s warnings: The Saudis are ultrasexists.

  Her tedium was relieved by the increasing number of men in white cotton robes and sandals who filled the waiting room. Although unable to understand Arabic, Laura could tell by body language and response that the dismissive treatment she was experiencing was standard.

  One man caught her attention. Surrounded by a circulating audience of attentive acolytes, he seemed vaguely and strangely familiar. Almost a head taller than any of the others and clean-shaven, he listened closely before responding in soft, short declarations. The same functionary who had delivered Laura’s paperwork appeared, rising on his toes to whisper in the tall man’s ear. Together they strode toward the waiting room’s rear exit. Laura noticed with interest that one of the four women fell in behind the tall man as they disappeared into an adjoining chamber.

  There was another man, perhaps about her own age (she found it difficult to assess the chronology of Arab males). Through his thick, gold-rimmed bifocals, he appeared to notice her and crossed the room. He wore the uniform white cotton robe, sandals, and black-and-white patterned headdress. He approached Laura, careful not to make any contact.

  “Madame,” he said, “could you be Ms. Billington of London?”

  “I am,” she replied.

  “If I may introduce myself, my name is Zaid al Swainee, a grandson of King Khalid Ibn Abdul Aziz. The family is most pleased you have offered to photograph His Highness. We have seen your work, most recently the portrait of Queen Elizabeth. You are very talented.”

  “I am most appreciative of your observations. It was an honor to receive the invitation of His Highness. Few have the distinction of being in his presence. It had been my intention to assist in my minor way to allow the world a deeper appreciation of his essence.”

  “Had been?” Zaid asked, removing his glasses.

  Laura nodded, feigning great sadness.

  “What could have dissuaded you? You have come so far.”

  “Your Royal Highness, with my colleagues, I have been waiting for four hours. Other than the drudgery of forms, we have had no hospitality extended. Our time is valuable; we have come at the king’s solicitation. Apparently we will not be received and thus are preparing to return to our hotel and take the evening flight to London.”

  “Madame, please desist while I determine your status. Will you give me that opportunity?”

  “Yes, but not for long.”

  Twenty minutes passed. Zaid returned. “The Steward of the Two Noble Sanctuaries has had an unexpected conference which necessitates that your work be delayed until tomorrow at ten. I regret this inconvenience and would be honored at the opportunity to show you our city and share dinner.”

  “Are you confident tomorrow will not be a repetition of today?”

  “May Allah strike me down if it were not true. I have arranged for your colleagues to leave their equipment and I will guarantee its safety. At your convenience we can leave.”

  Zaid held open the door of a red Alfa Romeo convertible for Laura. Leaving the shoreside end of the King Saud Bridge, he turned toward the corniche that paralleled the Red Sea and the modern buildings of the new Jeddah. In the next two hours, with the convertible’s roof down and the gentle wind blowing through her hair, Zaid introduced Laura to one of the world’s most fabled and ancient cities. The tour concluded as Zaid eased the Alfa into the entrance of the Imperial Hotel.

  At twelve stories, it was a fusion of traditional and European design and materials. Designed by the same French architect who had overseen the restoration of important holy sites in the kingdom, its exterior was clad in local sandstone highlighted by mandarin marble.

  Leaving the convertible with a valet, Zaid assisted Laura into the Imperial’s lobby, which was dominated by an oasis pool surrounded by date palms. In a private parlor adjacent to but screened from the public lounge, he joined her on a burgundy leather couch and ordered a Maker’s Mark for her and a scotch and water for himself. As he finished his second glass, he said, “It was a personal honor to be with you and share a fresh vision of my city through your aesthetic eyes. When one spends much of his life in one place, there is a tendency to become numb to the details.”

  It was time to press her advantage. “Zaid,” Laura said, moving closer to him. “It is a handsome city and you bring its history and culture to life. But, I, I would like to know more about you. What is it
like to be the grandson of one of the most powerful men in the world?”

  “I’m a long way from the king. My father is the fifth of seven sons, and I am the twenty-third grandson in succession. Whatever my capabilities, I will never be king, will never be a serious member of the kingdom’s leadership. I am approaching forty and still awaiting my first assignment. Last week I was told that the position I had sought, ambassador to Singapore, was going to another, younger grandson.”

  Laura placed her hand on his, mentally calculating the effect she was having.

  “I am confident,” he continued, “that I can be successful, but the opportunity to demonstrate that is slipping away. Sometimes I feel trapped.” He had finished his third scotch when he said, “I wish I had your freedom.”

  “Freedom always seems more appealing from afar,” Laura said. “There is an American country song that says, ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.’ Your access to the innermost secrets of the kingdom would be only a dream for me. I can record the powerful, but only at a distance, and am sometimes treated with the disdain you observed.”

  Zaid ordered another round. Laura declined, motioning to her still half-filled glass. “Zaid, you are too modest. Tell me about yourself, your experiences, what one can learn living on the inside of the most powerful monarchy in the world.”

  He dropped his head and lifted it upward, smiling. “I have had some, but my experiences with women have been limited, especially women of your status. I want you to overcome the bitterness caused by your treatment earlier today. If my insights on the royal court would contribute to that, I will be as open as discretion will permit, but please interrupt if I become boring.”

  Laura lifted the amber tumbler from the waiter’s tray, placing it in his hand. “Zaid, your courtesies and candor have erased any ill feeling. Your charm is mesmerizing. The least of my concerns is that you will become a bore. Please tell me more.” Yes, she was having the desired effect.

  Leaning back, he sipped from his fourth scotch. “I mentioned in the car the time when Americans came to meet with the king. The Persian Gulf War had just ended. It had been a great fright to the family; without help from America the Iraqis could have overwhelmed our kingdom. You would have thought the king would have been appreciative, gracious. Rather, he was afire with scorn and indignation.”

  “I remember that period as a teenager,” Laura said. “What was the reason for the king’s anger?”

  “He confronted the Americans with the information our agents in Baghdad had uncovered. Saddam Hussein was within a few months of completing a nuclear weapons program, and the Americans, without our knowledge, certainly without our consent, had been assisting him for seven years.”

  “Assisting Saddam? How?”

  “By the fourth year the war against Iran was going badly for Iraq. Saddam was deploying chemical weapons against the waves of Iranian troops invading his country, and also against the Kurds and other internal rebels. An envoy from your country told the Iraqis America might reconsider and soften its policy against providing dual-use materials.”

  “What does ‘dual use’ mean?”

  “Items that have a commercial use but could also be utilized militarily, like parts for industrial or medical application, but that can be used in electronic isotope separators or centrifuges—critical technologies for speeding up the production of highly enriched uranium. Saddam was desperate to do so, and with assistance from your country, he did.” Zaid took a drink of his scotch.

  “Saddam thought this would turn the tide of war, either by actually using nuclear weapons or just the Iranians’ awareness that he had that capability. Only Saddam’s stupid invasion of Kuwait and humiliating defeat kept him from realizing his goal. I was a young man. I will never forget the king’s outrage at your country’s perfidy. But ...”

  Laura looked at him quizzically. “Our relations today, even after the events of 9/11, seem to be as strong as they were at the end of World War II. How was His Royal Highness placated?”

  Zaid called the waiter and ordered another scotch. “My English is not the best, so I am not sure of the word ‘placated.’ He gave the Americans the challenge of providing to our kingdom the same level of assistance it had extended to Saddam.”

  “The same assistance?” Laura said as she stiffened. “The king knows us well enough to understand that no American official would consider such a proposal. It would be contrary to our treaty commitments and a rank betrayal of Israel.”

  “That’s what I remember the Americans saying. But the king asked them to explain why those same restraints had not kept them from assisting Saddam. There was no answer.”

  The drink was poured and glasses clinked before Zaid continued. “The Americans withdrew with assurances they would return with an answer to the king’s demand.”

  “So?” Laura left her question dangling.

  Zaid moved to close the remaining space between them. “Why don’t we have dinner in your suite, where we can continue in the privacy this topic requires?”

  “I would like that,” Laura said with a sultry smile. Zaid drained his glass.

  From the balcony of the twelfth-floor penthouse, Jeddah spread out before them. The bright lights of the city center escalated toward the south and the new portside sector, dimmed to candle strength toward the traditional neighborhoods at the foothills, and faded to black in the mountains beyond. The salt-tinged breeze off the Red Sea had a bite of fall. Laura suggested they return to the living room and commence dinner.

  Zaid lifted a Leica from the penthouse coffee table. Rotating the camera to observe all the functions, he asked Laura, “Could you show me how to use this?”

  “Certainly. This is not what I will be using tomorrow. I keep the Leica nearby for unexpected opportunities. We will start the lesson after dinner.”

  Zaid nodded with pleasure.

  After lentil shurba and an assortment of Arabian appetizers, the main course of grilled lamb was served. Zaid resumed his recollections. “In about a month the Americans returned. I was not allowed into this meeting, but my older brother described it to me. The Americans said they would honor the king’s request for assistance, but there would be conditions. The king would commit to keep any weapons or materials secure, and none would be removed from the king’s personal control without the explicit approval of the Americans. The Americans demanded that this, this—what would I call it, partnership? Yes, partnership would not be disclosed to any parties—the king committing to protect the secrecy of the program in the kingdom and the Americans in your country.”

  As the plates were being removed, Laura inquired, “Were there other conditions?”

  Zaid leaned back in his stately chair. “I fear this is all becoming very tedious. You had indicated after dinner there might be a beginner’s lesson in photography from the ultimate professor. Could we commence?”

  “As you wish, Your Highness,” she said rising. “You are so fascinating. I have spent my life freezing life and its emotions. You breathe life into them. I want to hear every detail—but after I have had the honor of introducing you to what has meant so much in my life. Before doing so I ask your indulgence if I slip out of these work clothes.”

  Zaid nodded assent and Laura disappeared into her bedroom.

  In ten minutes she returned in a rose-blush shimmering silk robe, loosened to expose her breasts to the edge of the nipple. She was preceded by the seductive fragrance of Dior’s J’adore. Folding both legs under her, Laura eased into the lushly pillowed sofa, gesturing Zaid to her side.

  She instructed him on the basics of shutter adjustment, lighting, and framing the subject. “The best instructor,” Laura said, “is actual experience. I will be your model.”

  He grasped the camera firmly and pointed the lens at Laura.

  As each set of frames was completed, Laura rotated to emphasize the variety of her allures: her facial features, careful to provide maximum exposure to what she considered to b
e her more seductive, right side; stretching full length, delicately lifting her gown to expose her thighs.

  “You are so thoughtful and such a gifted student. You caress the camera as you would a beautiful woman. Would it interfere, if I were to ask a few more questions drawing on your personal reservoir of experiences?”

  “Of course not, if my esteemed teacher will allow me to complete her first assignment while I respond.”

  As Laura settled herself in another pose, she asked again, “Were there any other conditions on the partnership between the king and the Americans?”

  “There were other conditions. My brother described the king as distraught with the Americans’ demand that the kingdom pay them, through a banking scheme to be devised, what amounted to more than three billion pounds, to be paid in less than two years. Remember the prewar price of oil had been less than twenty dollars a barrel. Three billion pounds, even for His Highness, was a staggering sum.”

  Laura rotated her pelvis and thrust her hip at the camera. The pace of Zaid’s photo snapping accelerated. The tension within him between the provocative woman and his recitation of history produced thinness in his voice.

  “When the king objected, the Americans said they knew of funds the kingdom was receiving from another source that would easily cover their demand.”

  “What did the king say?” Laura asked as she posed for what would be the final scene, a nonchalant declension of her décolletage to uncover her left breast.

  After the final exposure, Zaid turned his head toward the balcony, gathered himself, and continued. “He was reticent, questioning whether the Americans could maintain confidentiality with funds of this magnitude flowing into their treasury in a matter of months. The American my brother described as having an accent from your South, assured His Highness these payments would not be publicly accounted for; they would be held in a private trust. My brother told me neither side wanted to put the partnership in writing, so they shook hands and pledged their honor to the completion of the transaction.”