Riyadh
Claudia Meyers entered the charge d'affaires office in the U.S. Embassy and sought out a volume on the shelf. She found Title 37 U. S. Code and methodically searched through it. Leonard Houston, the charge, had been called away and asked her to cover his appointment this afternoon. Claudia frequently covered for her superior, and in moments she found the section she wanted. She read it twice and marked it. There was no problem, but the procedures had to be observed.
Ordinarily the State Department would not have sent the daughter of a Jewish father and Catholic mother to a position in an Islamic nation, but Claudia Meyers was accustomed to breaking precedent. She had been programmed early for success, and attendance at a Catholic school with very high academic standards had prevented her from taking on a strictly Jewish identity.
Claudia's language ability had won her a succession of positions and the admiration of her superiors. She had learned French at home and was professionally fluent in Arabic. Though religious observance was not part of her upbringing, a shrewd early career move had brought her competency in Hebrew. Thus, she was well suited for Middle East assignments.
Her Anglicized surname, changed three generations ago from Meier, her creamy complexion, and her blond hair belied her more immediate heritage. From a distance she looked a decade less than her actual age of thirty-eight. Only closer could one see the tiny laugh lines either side of her hazel eyes.
There was another reason she was here. Claudia Meyers had requested Riyadh. She knew the Saudi capital was only growing in importance, and she had calculated three years ago that this would be a good career move. Having served in State for almost fifteen years, she had enjoyed the life-styles of Washington and Paris. Now she tolerated the medieval attitude toward women, which still included slavery, in exchange for experience.
Claudia picked up the dossier on Houston's desk and flipped through it again. She gazed at the official photograph of the former naval officer with the usual background of the American flag. He was dressed in a dark blue uniform, wearing the hat featuring what military men called scrambled eggs, and he bore six rows of decorations. She scanned the bare facts of the man's career, which she assumed had been successful by military standards. A fighter pilot, apparently, one of the glamour boys.
Claudia was not fond of military men-overbearing, egocentric macho types, mostly. She had dated a few embassy guards and attaches over the years and two or three had been charming. At least they were preferable to overbearing, egocentric wimps who populated most of the world's embassies. But on the whole, she found the talk of "force structures" and "tasking" deadly dull. There had been no man in her life since she had left the United States and arrived in Arabia, and she did not expect to search for one at the expense of her career.
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Bennett to see you," said the receptionist.
As the door opened Claudia stood up and crossed the floor to meet her visitor.
John L. Bennett had changed into a lightweight summer suit with a yellow shirt which offset his tan. Claudia appraised him at a glance: five feet ten, graying hair, well built. They shook hands and he was impressed with the strength of her grip. He noted the Phi Beta Kappa key on the simple gold chain around her neck. Then he thought of the three yellow stars on Devil's helmet. We all keep trophies, he thought.
Bennett appreciatively observed Claudia's willowy frame and her beautiful legs. He decided that men would remember her bearing, her manner, and her husky voice rather than her face.
Claudia was unprepared for Bennett's cheerful nature. She wondered if he was always in such a good mood. The tan, the startling gray eyes, and the strong white teeth made a favorable impression. When she released her grip and invited him to sit down, she noted the creases on his face and across the bridge of the nose.
"I flew in from Bahrain," he said, taking a chair.
"Yes, I know." What was he getting at?
"Oh, I noticed your look at my face. I saw the same thing in the mirror when I was changing. The oxygen mask has to fit tight and it always leaves a mark for a little while."
"Then you didn't come by commercial airline?"
"Oh, no. I'm a fighter pilot. We hate to leave the driving to somebody else."
Claudia relaxed more. Bennett's comment provided a logical entry to the business she had to discuss with him. She was a firm believer in first impressions, whether good or bad, and Bennett made a good first impression. His easygoing manner, his infectious smile, and his appearance combined to put her at ease. Claudia was conscious of an immediate attraction to this man. He was not at all what she had expected of… what? A mercenary?
Mr. Houston had implied that the meeting with Bennett was more to placate the Israelis than to conduct actual business. Edward Lawrence was meeting with the U. S. air attache while Bennett saw Claudia, so clearly State was covering the bases in response to pressure from elsewhere. But Claudia found she was enjoying the session.
From experience, she had expected Bennett to be defensive in discussing his dealings with the Saudis or to present a blustering facade. But he did neither. Instead, he answered her questions with a directness that she found refreshing.
"Commander, I've reviewed the facts of your contract with the Saudi government and there is no problem. I merely wish to confirm our understanding of the situation."
"I understand, Miss Meyers. Go right ahead."
Claudia folded her hands on the desk and learned forward. She was a student of body language and noted that Bennett leaned toward her as well. "You are helping the Saudis build an air defense force which-if you'll excuse the expression-will be separate from but equal to their existing air force. Is that correct?"
"Yes, that's right." He briefly explained the king's concern about maintaining the sophisticated aircraft already on hand, and their vulnerability to foreign embargo of parts and mechanics from the West.
"What do the Saudi Air Force leaders think of this situation? Aren't they likely to be jealous of you and your people?"
"That's one of the things Ed Lawrence is discussing with the air attache," explained Bennett. "But I can tell you that the king has guaranteed my organization a free hand, clear of rivalries and intraservice politics." Bennett thought for a moment, wondering how far to carry his discussion with this diplomat. What the hell, he thought. If she's any good at her job she'll already know the facts. "I would not have taken the offer under any other circumstances. You see, service politics is one reason I retired from the Navy. I don't want to fight that battle again-in any language." He laughed, then added, "With any luck, I won't have to do so. Inshallah. "
Claudia shared the humor, secretly surprised and pleased that the aviator possessed a knowledge of Arabic philosophy. But there was something of the hunter about this man. In a strange way-new to her-it was an appealing quality.
Much to her surprise, after the interview Claudia noted that she had spent ten minutes more than the thirty allotted with Bennett. His grasp of regional politics and the importance of maintaining American influence in the region drew her increasing attention and admiration.
She escorted Bennett to the door and shook hands before leaving. Conscious of the pressure in his grip, she said, "I expect you'll get to Riyadh fairly often. Maybe I'll see you again."
Bennett's gaze held hers and she felt mild anger when her eyes lowered despite herself. Two strong personalities, Claudia, she told herself. That could mean trouble. Then she said, "Have a good flight back."
"These kids have come a long way in six months," Ed Lawrence said. "But do you think they're going to make fighter pilots?"
John Bennett glanced down the ordered rows of cadets. They wore neat khaki uniforms devoid of insignia except for the collar pins of the duty officers. Duty officer was a rotational assignment in each fifteen- or sixteen-man section in the first class. The duty allowed the instructors to gauge each cadet's leadership potential.
"We'll know soon enough," Bennett replied. "At least we wer
en't excessive in our estimates for preflight."
Lawrence agreed. Of the sixty-five students in Class One, all but two had finished the six months indoctrination and ground school, though two more were being held back for Class Two because of marginal English fluency. Some of the others were borderline in mathematics and navigation, but overall the quality was high. The IPs expected forty or more to win their wings.
The Saudi drill instructor bellowed the order in the manner of drill instructors from time immemorial. The cadets snapped to attention, saluted the reviewing stand, and momentarily remained still. Their uniformly high state of physical fitness was evident from tensed muscles, even beneath their clothes. Preflight had invested heavily in cardiovascular development with running, step tests, and weight lifting. Even swimming was emphasized.
Now, Bennett reflected, these youngsters were in the best condition of their lives. He knew they would need that advantage to meet the challenge before them.
At the dismiss order, the students broke formation and were overcome in a sea of congratulatory shouts and gestures. Friends, family members, and cadets of the two newer classes crowded around to offer good wishes.
The two Americans walked into the shade of a pavilion after standing in the Arabian sun for the previous half-hour. They had wanted to make their presence conspicuous for the graduating cadets but neither was wholly acclimatized to the forenoon heat. They accepted iced tea from the waiter and found an unoccupied corner.
Lawrence downed half his drink in one gulp. "You know, Skipper, if you want to leave for a couple weeks I'm glad to fill in."
"Yeah, I think I will, Ed. I sure appreciate your taking up the slack. I guess I still feel guilty about not being there when Paul married his girl. Now that I'm a grandfather I really should go see the kids."
General Mohammad Abd Maila walked over, immaculate in dress uniform. He had been involved with formation of the F-20 program from the start but maintained a discrete distance from administration of the force. Both Americans regarded him as a friend of Tiger Force, yet wondered at the man's apparent inability to perspire. Offering his hand to Bennett and Lawrence, he said, "Gentlemen, my heartiest congratulations. I saw the scores of your first graduating class's academic tests. Seventy percent are above our target median. I really must have our training people consult with you."
"We'll be right happy to oblige," Lawrence said.
Bennett winced. The guy talks like a Hollywood cowpoke. Who'd guess he grew up in Seattle?
"General, I will be returning home to visit my family during the next two weeks. As you know, this class will be on leave for that period. Colonel Lawrence will supervise the preflight stage for the next two classes in my absence."
The Saudi turned to examine the youngsters. ''Tell me, have you identified any of these young men as outstanding leaders?"
"Yes, sir, we certainly have. Two in particular. Rajid Hamir and Ahnas Menaf. Both are bright, well-motivated young men with excellent attitudes. They're extremely anxious to learn but they show maturity and self-reliance among their classmates. 1 would say they're the natural leaders of this class."
General Maila flashed a smile. "I am most pleased to hear of it, Colonel Bennett. You probably do not know, but Rajid Hamir is a nephew of Safad Fatah. I've known the family most of my life. 1 agree, the boy has much potential." He saluted crisply and walked away.
Lawrence looked at Bennett. "Did you know the Hamir kid was related to Fatah? 1 sure didn't."
"No. But it doesn't surprise me. Safad wouldn't want to give the impression to anyone that his nephew carried extra favor with us. It wouldn't have mattered if we'd known, of course, but I'm glad for Fatah's sake. He must be proud enough to pop his vest."
The redhead finished his iced tea. ''That's Safad's normal condition, from what I've seen."
"I wouldn't let the gentleman hear you say as much."
Bennett pondered the two cadets, both near the top of the class academically, both with considerable potential, but each so different temperamentally. Rajid, at nineteen, was shy almost to the point of being introverted. Studious and serious, he went out of his way to help classmates with academics. That alone made him popular.
Ahnas Menaf was two years older, more confident in himself.
Unlike 99 percent of Arab men, he had no mustache, but with a demeanor approaching debonair, he was admired by the younger cadets for his image. Bennett knew from academic records that the lad had ability. Time would tell whether the image fit the man.
* * *
Bennett caught the courier flight to Riyadh that evening. He had made a dinner date with Claudia Meyers; he had allowed just enough time to be with her before his departure for Rome and on to the States.
When Bennett arrived at Claudia's door she was fully prepared to go. He admired that about her. Each time he had called upon her in the previous six months-twice at the embassy and once at her apartment-she had been prepared. No shuffling of schedules, no role-playing delays to make him wait and demonstrate his desire to meet her terms.
They took a taxi to a nearby restaurant but Bennett declined a full meal. "I'm reading up on jet lag. It says you're not supposed to have much protein when traveling. Which is kind of tough on a confirmed steak-and-potatoes man."
"Surely they'll feed you on the plane."
"Yeah, I think so. By the way, I had to get an earlier flight to make connections for a nonstop from New York to San Diego. 1 leave ninety minutes earlier than planned."
"Oh… 1 had hoped we'd have more time." Her voice said as much about her disappointment as her words.
Bennett was pleased to know their rare visits meant as much to her as they did to him. A brief, awkward silence fell upon them as they studiously scanned their menus. Each felt that the other wanted to say more. Bennett had just screwed up his courage when the waiter approached to take their order. Claudia rattled off a long string of Arabic with obvious ease and the waiter bowed, then left.
Claudia smiled across the table. "I ordered for both of us. 1 hope you don't mind."
"Not a bit. Thanks. This is still new to me, you know. 1 don't get out very often-"
"Neither do I." She glanced down, then returned her gaze to Bennett. "It's awfully difficult for a single woman to develop a social life outside her profession here. I knew that when I came, but the reality of life in a Muslim country still can be a cultural shock to a Western career woman."
Bennett wondered if she was as lonely as he, and decided she probably was. It was one more thing they had in common, aside from the growing physical attraction between them.
They discussed embassy gossip, regional politics, and Bennett's son. Claudia recalled a previous reference to Paul, and listened with interest as the aviator related his not entirely satisfactory story of the young man-a premature marriage and a child.
Claudia was relaxed enough to ask a personal question. "How are they going to get along like that? I mean, marriage is hard enough at any age, let alone in college. But with a child as well…"
"I've arranged a trust for them, only to be used in emergencies.
They don't even know about it. My attorney will notify them should the need arise. I guess it's best for Paul and his wife to have to make it on their own. If they do succeed, their marriage will be stronger for it." He paused, gathered his courage, and looked into her hazel eyes. "Claudia, have you ever considered marriage?"
She blinked, hesitated an instant, then felt relieved. Now we're getting somewhere. "I don't mind telling you I've had two proposals, John. I turned down both of them. The first was in college, the second a few years ago, from another foreign service officer. Neither would have worked. The first time, I was at UC Berkeley and got caught up in the excitement of the political activism, but we were too immature for marriage."
"I have a hard time imagining you as immature."
Claudia suppressed a smile. "Well, all right. He was too immature, caught up in radical politics. If he knew I'd defected to
the establishment he'd demand return of the Che Guevara poster he gave me.”
"And the second guy wanted you to join him on a hardship post in Sierra Leone, right?"
"Not quite. We were both in Washington at the time. But our careers were competitive. It just wouldn't have worked." She shot Bennett a sly glance. "How about you? Ever think of remarrying?"
"Not seriously. After Elizabeth was killed in the car wreck I had my hands full raising Paul. He was in high school at the time and a little wild. He needed all my attention."
"That's about what I'd expect of you." Her tone was both admiring and sympathetic. "But surely there were plenty of eligible ladies in La Jolla."
"Oh, sure. I was out of the Navy by then but I still knew lots of women. Cruise widows we call them, wives whose husbands are at sea. Actually it was a pretty tame arrangement. I'd help them with repairs around the house and they'd fix me dinner once in a while."
Their meal arrived and Bennett cautiously tasted his entree. It was a rather bland mixture of vegetables with small portions of meat which he seasoned to his own taste.
She said, "Go ahead, silly. It's safe. It's lamb stirred into a mixture of herbs and vegetables. I'd tell you the name but you'd never remember it. Just trust me that it's what a traveler needs."
Half joking, half serious, Bennett said, "I don't remember what the Koran says about mixing cuisine. Guess I'll have to read up on it during the flight home."
Claudia leaned her chin in one hand, regarding Bennett with increased interest. "I wouldn't have picked you as a student of religion. "
"Well, normally I'm not. But when I was asked to consider this job, I studied a synopsis of the Koran and have read most of it in translation. I'm just trying to see things from the Saudi viewpoint."
"What do you make of the writings of the Prophet?" Claudia was on firm ground-she had read the Koran in Arabic twice. All one hundred and fourteen suras.
"Most of it's pretty heavy going. For me, anyway. The organization makes no sense, if I understand it right. You know-the short, easily read suras last, which I think were written first. And the imbalance between the Meccan and Median revelations. No wonder it took Muhammad twenty-one years to get all of the text. He must have hardly known which parts came in what order."
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