“WHERE ARE YOU? WHY I WALK?” he screamed.
I was standing directly in front of the Crown Victoria with the door open, waiting for him to get in. “The car is here, sir. Uh, you called for me to come pick you up?”
“WHERE ARE YOU? WHY I WALK? WHY!!? WHY YOU MAKE ME WALK MYSELF!!?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m right here, sir. Uh, did you want to walk?”
“LA [no]! LA! LA! I SAY, WHY I WALK? WHY YOU MAKE ME WALK MYSELF? MISS, WHY? WHY? WHY? YOU WITH ME, ME ALWAYS WITH PRINCESS. WHY YOU MAKE ME WALK MYSELF?”
I looked around for somebody to interpret for me, but the rest of the entourage near us was busy studying the cracks in the sidewalk. They all knew what he was like and didn’t want to get involved. The princess was up ahead in a shop and didn’t hear any of this; he never would have gone nuts like this in front of her. Around her, he was especially sweet, deferential and affable, but at all other times he acted like a rabid dog.
I figured out that he was pissed off that he had to walk twenty steps to get into his car. Princess Zaahira’s car was always first in the convoy, followed by her chase car with her security so that she could make a quick getaway if necessary, as the security’s protocol demanded. His car was pulled up just behind hers. The hairdresser wished to be treated like a royal. He wanted Princess Zaahira’s cars moved so that he could get into his car where he had positioned himself—at the head of the car line. It wasn’t going to happen. There was a pecking order, and he was nowhere near the top.
Eventually he got into the car sulking and lit a cigarette. I started to open a window.
“LA! LA! NO WINDOW! NO WINDOW! DRIVE!” And I drove him the three blocks back to the hotel, choking on his fumes.
6
The Spirit of Partnership
Princess Zaahira’s husband was a high-ranking prince in the family and a successful businessman. His reach easily extended to Beverly Hills and its hotels. Saudi royals own or are part owners of many of the premiere hotels in Los Angeles and all over the rest of the world. It was clear to me from the beginning that the family’s trip was made with Washington’s blessings. The security personnel were in daily contact with the U.S. State Department to coordinate the family’s movements, so the atmosphere around the group was always highly charged and sometimes volatile, as if the security were protecting touring national treasures.
It’s common knowledge that Washington has a long-standing relationship with the Saudi royal family; we’ve all seen the pictures of smooching heads of state, and the United States has been a major player in the financial growth of the country. It was American hunch and sloggers, wildcatters scouting for petroleum, who discovered oil in Saudi Arabia in 1936 and made the Kingdom rich, along with lining the pockets of American oilmen and automobile makers who wanted to put the railway out of business. Twenty percent of the world’s known oil reserves are beneath the Saudi sand, oil comprises 90 percent of its export revenue, and it is the world’s largest exporter. Before oil, Saudi Arabia’s greatest export was dates.
Full-on production wasn’t underway until after World War II, and it was the U.S.-owned Arabian Standard Oil Company that found oil, brought it out of the ground, refined it, and sent it across the ocean. It later became ARAMCO, a conglomerate of several American companies. In the 1970s the Saudi government reached an agreement with ARAMCO granting the Saudis 67 percent ownership; by the 1980s, Saudi Arabia finally claimed full ownership. The Saudi royal family, the major beneficiary of the petroleum boom, now makes billions of dollars a year on oil.
Petroleum oil has been used for thousands of years, but its first most prevalent use was medicinal. It was applied as a liniment, and it must have stunk something awful. I lived briefly in West Texas, and know firsthand that the air surrounding an oil or gas well is rife with the stench of sulfur and chemicals, filling the sky with such a strong smell of rotten eggs that it used to make me gag. Later it was used as a fuel instead of coal and whale oil to light lamps, furnaces, and then still later, locomotives.
But it was the onslaught of the automobile, which Americans made ubiquitous, that has made oil so valuable. The internal combustion engine needs fuel to drive it and oil seemed relatively cheap and plentiful.
In 1945, Franklin Delano Roosevelt made the historic “oil for security” deal that cemented the United States and Saudi Arabia’s future together and shaped the course of events in the Middle East for decades to come. FDR gave King Aziz Al Saud his first plane, a DC-10, which he had outfitted with a special swivel seat so that Aziz could always face Mecca when flying. Saudi Arabian Airlines, the largest airline in the Middle East, was the creation and a subsidiary of TWA, which also staffed and trained its crew for the airline’s first years. The Ford Foundation spent over a decade helping the Saudis develop a bureaucratic system to run their new country, and Americans established the farming techniques and built irrigation systems that developed agriculture in a country that is mostly desert. The list just goes on and on. Relations are still so good that in 2011 Washington made a deal to sell the Saudis $60 billion worth of arms that includes F-15 fighter jets and Apache helicopters. It is the largest arms deal ever made, with tens of billions more in the works for the future.
I soon felt the long reach of the Saudi arm, even on the left coast. On the first night (or rather early morning), after we’d finally delivered the family to the hotel, I was on my way home to get some sleep when Fausto ordered me to haul ass down Wilshire Boulevard to deal with the Beverly Hills Police Department. It was an emergency. As I was driving along Wilshire, with no idea of what lay ahead, I heard sirens and saw flashing lights. Wilshire was cordoned off at Comstock Avenue a half-mile in both directions. Fausto had told me I was needed there because of a problem with the two rented cargo trucks that had transported the family’s luggage from the airport to the hotels, but I didn’t see them anywhere, only a stretch of blazing bubbles. There were several Beverly Hills Police SUVS, several more black and white Los Angeles squad cars, a sturdy-looking bomb squad that was armoring up, and a cacophony of helicopters circling overhead.
I was driving one of the family’s loaded brand-new Lincoln Navigators instead of the hairdresser’s Crown Vic, and before leaving the hotel, I had taken a business card from the head of security suspecting that it might come in handy sometime on the job. It was an imposing laminated card with several official-looking seals, longer and thinner than an ordinary business card and oblong shaped with beveled corners. “Dignitary & Executive Protection Services” was written in raised letters on one side. It looked more like a membership card to a private club than a business card. I had tucked it into my bra for safekeeping and occasionally felt its edges bite into my underarm flesh as I maneuvered the SUV’s steering wheel.
As I slowly drove west on Wilshire toward the lights, the cops blocking the street shouted at me, “Turn around! Drive away! Turn around!” Sitting high up in the Navigator, I felt a sudden surge of invulnerability, as if I were being lifted above it all, and even though my heart was pounding, I ignored the shouts and drove up as close as I could to the flashing lights. Police were charging about in all different directions, and the atmosphere was frenzied. Then I saw the two abandoned cargo trucks in the distance, parked on the corner of a side street in front of a high-rise apartment building on Wilshire, bordered by a wide parameter of police cars. I realized that Fausto had sent me to convince the cops that the trucks were not improvised explosive devices. He probably chose me because he suspected that I could handle the Beverly Hills police force better than anybody else in the detail, but it didn’t seem promising.
The sergeant on duty was a forty-year-old All American–looking surfer type, which is typical for Beverly Hills, with sun-streaked blond hair slightly graying at the temples. The Beverly Hills Police Department must have special divisional requirements because they all seem to be tall and blond and buff; the occasional deviation is usually only even better-looking, more exotic looking, or more buff. This sounds
like an exaggeration, but I don’t think it is. I’m sure there are some women in the department, but I’ve never seen any, not one, and I’ve lived in Los Angeles for more than a decade. This guy was particularly beefcakey, and it was clear he loved his job and his uniform. It was a balmy dawn, and he had a short-sleeve shirt on. He made a point of flexing his muscles every few moments to show off his action. The sergeant looked good, and he knew he looked good.
Time slowed as he ambled up to the SUV, assessed me and examined the car, circling it once and making note of the paper plates—police parlance for no license plates because the brand-new Navigator was from a high-end rental agency. He decided that I was worth some of his attention, probably because I had rolled up in a $65,000 car tricked out with all the bells and whistles. As he approached the driver’s side window, he flexed his action a little more, smiled sweetly at me, introduced himself as if we were at a country club dance, and then waited patiently for me to speak. I was still pumped up from getting through the police barricades so it took me a moment to compose myself, and frankly I was a little discombobulated by this excruciatingly handsome cop. For a moment, I thought maybe I was on an episode of Punk’d and Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out at any minute. Finally, I said that I worked for a family staying in several Beverly Hills hotels. I don’t think I said “a Saudi family” but said something inane like “an oil family” to indicate vast wealth. I whipped out the fancy card (I noticed that he noticed that it came from my bra) and said that the family’s security had sent me to speak with the police regarding the cordoned-off cargo trucks. Each time I reiterated the word family, I said it slowly and with great gravitas. I explained that the trucks had been used for the family’s stupendous amount of luggage and were to be returned to the rental house when they opened. The sergeant said that a tenant in one of the corner apartment buildings had watched, from their balcony, as the Latino drivers had parked the trucks and then taken off. They were frightened and had called the police department, which responded in full force.
I had the truck keys on me and offered to open each vehicle for inspection. He watched me closely as I hopped out of the SUV and I could feel his eyes checking out my suit, my tits, and my ass. I pretended not to notice. I was way past making any assumptions about my femininity or physical attributes diffusing a police conflict in La-La Land.
During a recent snowstorm back east, a cheery Boston cop had helped me parallel-park my friend’s Ford Trooper in a commercial loading zone, around and between 9-foot snowbanks, and then made sure I wasn’t ticketed even though I was parked thoroughly illegally—all because I smiled at him. But my first week in Los Angeles, I was pulled over by a young mirrored-sunglass-wearing superstud motorcycle cop on Santa Monica Boulevard for failing to wear a seat belt. He flirted shamelessly with me the whole time but still slapped me with a $200 ticket even after I showed him that the rental car’s seat belt was broken. “Shouldn’t be driving it, then, ma’am,” he said as he roared off on his motorcycle.
The sergeant helped me roll up the cargo trucks’ back gates. “See,” I said. “They’re totally empty. It’s all a crazy misunderstanding. The family came in today, and they just have so much luggage, we have to rent trucks. Can you believe that? But they are totally safe, really. We just couldn’t return them until Monday. See? Totally safe.” Luckily, they were empty. I had been holding my breath, half-expecting the guys who had loaded the luggage to be sleeping inside after their long night’s work.
The sergeant was as cool as a cucumber throughout all this. He nodded several times and then stepped away as he spoke into the radio attached to his shoulder. He calmly accepted my assurances that the trucks would be moved first thing the next morning, but I figured there would be a huge fine at the very least, if not a citation of some kind. I didn’t know what ordinance had been broken, but there had to be one. In Beverly Hills you hardly see anything that doesn’t look like it absolutely belongs in Beverly Hills: there are no rundown ghetto cars cruising the streets, no homeless people (if you don’t count the impeccably dressed Baptist minister–looking guy in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie who always begs for money on the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Bedford in front of the Church of the Good Shepherd), no after-hours club-hoppers loitering outside restaurants or bars and whatnot. They have it wrapped up tight. There had to be a “Does Not Belong in Beverly Hills” statute.
A moment later, he smiled again at me, even more sweetly than the first time, and then offered me his card. He asked that I keep in touch with him and graciously offered to assist me in any way he could, “anytime, with anything the family needs. Just give me a holler. I’d be happy to help.” He said that he was familiar with such families and wanted to make sure their stay in Beverly Hills was as pleasant as possible. The sergeant introduced me to some of his buddies, and they offered their help as well, and then I went home for the night with what sounded like a promise of assistance from the entire Beverly Hills Police Department. That was nice.
Everything ended up working out fine because I was working for people with a lot of money and influence. I felt supremely well connected. This was new for me, and I have to admit I found it exhilarating. I thought about how easy it had been at LAX when we picked up the group—essentially shutting down the airport to do so—and I also soon noticed that we were never hassled by the police anywhere in Los Angeles, even when racing in a convoy at 50 miles an hour through a residential district, blowing through stop signs and sometimes even red lights. We were impervious.
I couldn’t help but wonder if every cop in Los Angeles County was in the Saudi royal family’s pocket. After a few days on the job, it was apparent that none of us was ever going to be ticketed by the parking police no matter where or how we parked. The parking enforcement heads must have been told to stand down as well, which is quite a feat in Beverly Hills since they will ticket you for just looking at them the wrong way. The BH Police Department site lists six core values that they hold dear. The last is: “Spirit of Partnership: In partnership with our community and other City Departments, we are dedicated to creating a caring environment which enhances the quality of life for everyone.” I’d say that was true.
Even so, I considered my late-night police détente quite a coup and wasn’t surprised when the next day Fausto asked me to be in charge of the drivers and act as liaison between security and the chauffeuring staff. I accepted, even though there was no increase in my pay, because I was grateful that he had included me in the detail and I thought that he needed my help. My exact new job description was never made clear to me, but I spent most of the day in a command post in one of the hotels, getting a primer on the workings of the detail. “Getting a primer” is a stretch really. Mostly I ran errands for the security personnel on duty and watched them do their job as they worked the phones or computers. Occasionally they would ask me to go find a particular driver whom they couldn’t access by cell phone, or they’d quiz me on the Beverly Hills shops and restaurants whenever someone in the family or entourage asked for something obscure. Still, this meant that I had easy entrée to the upper floors of the hotel for the rest of the seven weeks. Everyone assumed that I was more important than I was.
One of the security personnel named Al, a wiry fireball, regaled me for several hours with his previous Saudi security detail stories. “You know the ranking of importance in the household, right?” he asked without waiting for my answer. “For the Saudi man, first most valuable is the horse; the horse is numero uno. Then comes the camel, then the sheep, then the goat, then way far down in the household comes the woman.” He paused for emphasis and sipped on a can of soda that he held in his hand. “She’s at the bottom, sometimes even after the chickens and the dogs.” He laughed so hard when he told me this that he spat soda out of his nose.
Less than twenty-four hours later, I was relieved of my supervisory duties. Fausto called me on my cell phone in the early morning, roaring, furious. He said he had received reports from t
he other drivers that I had treated them in an arrogant and condescending manner, and he accused me of “not being humble.” He ordered me to stick to driving and instructed me to stop talking down to the other drivers. I was dumbfounded. Where was I when all that happened? I couldn’t figure it out. I hadn’t changed from one day to the next, or had I? Had I started to lord it over people in less than twenty-four hours? Was it like a virus? Had I contracted a virulent “lording-over” virus without even knowing it? It didn’t sound like me. How had I missed that? I’m usually pretty aware of how I’m behaving, even if it’s badly. Actors are all about behavior—theirs and others’.
Then I realized what the real problem was: I’m a woman. The other drivers, mostly Latino or Eastern European and relatively new to the States, were accustomed to the social mores of their own countries and were pissed off that a woman was telling them what to do or was even in a position to possibly do so. I knew this because for the one day that I was promoted, they had sneered at me when I walked by them. At the time, this perplexed me because the day before, most of them were friendly or had even tried to flirt with me. The truth is that I did little to antagonize or insult them; they were simply affronted that a woman had been placed in a position superior to them. To make matters worse, they started gossiping about me, making up stories that portrayed me in an unsavory light. Sami pulled me aside and told me that they said I was sleeping with so-and-so, and also so-and-so, and even so-and-so. Apparently, in the space of only a few days, I had managed to sleep with almost everyone I had ever met on the job and at the hotel. I was really getting around.
Driving the Saudis Page 6