“Tourists!” Haki spat.
“Now, where was I. Ah, yes. I am going to tell you secrets about this bad place. You must promise not to tell anyone that it was I, Haki, who has told you these things. First of all, the legal system here prescribes capital punishment like beheading—you know the cuttings off of the heads—and what they call corporal punishings like even the cuttings off of hands and feet for crimes as bad as murder and rape of an important girl, and even for such much more minor things like robbery. You know there are many poor ones here who sometimes have to become robbers to live. The amputations are also for drug smuggling, adultery in women, and for the kind of thing between men that the Qur’an forbids. The rich ones don’t seem to get such bad punishments. Unfairness is everywhere.
“But, even for us poor ones, the courts can be less severe. They have punishments, such as canings and floggings, for less serious crimes—what they call against public morality like that woman we saw back there and such as drunkenness. The mutaween can even come into a man’s home and arrest him for drunkenness. I’d like to see the day that they went into a prince’s palace and arrested him.”
He spat.
“But,” he went on, “there are good things in the system like we have in my country. Murder, accidental killing and hurting someone’s body can be handled by punishment from the victim’s family. Like us, retribution may be sought in kind or through blood money. It is like our country where the blood money necessary for just a woman’s accidental death, or that of a Christian male, a person of the Book, but not a true believer is half as much as that for a Muslim male. All others, like the polytheists—Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, and Shi’ites—are valued at 1/16th of a person. What I hate here, is that guest worker noncitizens—even Muslims—are not worth as much as a mere woman. The main reason for this is that—according to the Sharia—men are rightly expected to be providers for their families and therefore are expected to earn more money in their lifetimes. The blood money from a man would be expected to sustain his family, for at least a short time and maybe for life. Honor killings—to protect the honor of the family—are, of course not punished as severely as actual murder. Everyone knows that this is only right.”
“How about slavery?” Sheep Dog spoke up for the second and last time.
“That is an anomaly of this unfair place. No other country that I know about has slavery. Oh, they abolished it officially in the sixties, I think it was, but it still goes on. Just ask any Filipina or innocent Turkish girl. They’ll tell you about being raped, and starved, and beaten, and forced to work, and worst, not getting paid. Of course, they won’t dare say anything until they get out of this accursed country. They don’t even count as persons in the legal system. Those girls are about the only people worse off than me here. And I forgot to mention a thing that could be very important for a foreigner such as yourself. Work visas were introduced for external workers in 2004, and a lot of us get flogged for little paper-work mistakes. Even such a one as you could get a flogging if your visa isn’t just perfect. Be careful about that very important piece of paper, my friend. I can’t even remember a lot of laws that carry such harsh punishments. You’re fortunate to be leaving. It would be wonderful to be a Westerner such as yourself. America is heaven, you know. I have a sister in New York, two brothers in Los Angeles, and an uncle who makes Cadillacs in Detroit. They are rich and important. Nobody cares what mosque they go to. I am going there someday when I can get enough money to pay all of the fees. America. It’s the real heaven, if you want my opinion.”
Haki had to take a breath and to turn all of his attention to driving the final leg of the trip. He got into a line of cabs pulling up to the International terminal of the airport.
“I need the Domestic terminal,” Sheep Dog said.
“No worries,” Haki said, “that’s what they say in Australia. You can take the Travelator connection to the Domestic terminal. This is the quickest way. I like to stop here; so, my friends can get a SkyCab to take their luggage over to their plane. That way, their bags don’t get x-rayed or held up while those thieves in security go through them. That’s good, no?”
“That’s good, yes.”
Sheep Dog thanked Haki and gave him a 500 riyal tip which caused the Pakistani to break into an apparently permanent grin and a flurry of kow-tows. Haki toted his bags to the SkyCab porter and gave him explicit and copious instructions about how such a one as this European should be treated. That cost Sheep Dog another 500, but the peace of mind was worth it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sheep Dog went into a rest room to check his disguise. He was confident that he would pass as the Tunisian Arab, Taoufik Ben Brik, whose picture appeared on one of the passports and visas the Ta’if G-2 had prepared for him. The documents appeared to be in perfect order. He got on the Travelator and got to the Domestic Terminal with time to spare.
He checked in with Saudi Air and confirmed his flight on the civilian 66 seat EMJ 2 engine jet to Jeddah’s King Abdulaziz International Airport.
With that out of the way, Sheep Dog realized that he was hungry. He found a food shop in one of the lavishly appointed concourse food courts. He scanned the al la carte selections and ordered a mixed plate with tastes of fresh lamb, shawarma, falafel, and ful medames, which is an ancient Egyptian dish with origins that reach back to the time of the pharaohs. This simple dish of slow-simmered ground brown Egyptian fava beans is seasoned with olive oil, lemon juice, garlic and spices. Khobz [Arabic unleavened bread] which is eaten with almost all Saudi meals, came with the plate.
“Would you like tea, sir?” the server asked.
“Please.”
She gave him a steaming, strong black brew with a mixed herbal flavoring Sheep Dog could not identify and did not much like.
His flight to Jeddah was flawless; the 500 miles passed in an hour and a half which he spent sleeping. He took the Travelator to the International Terminal and found a rest room. He locked a toilet booth and with the use of a small mirror and some make-up and wig magic, he went in as Taoufik Ben Brik from Bizerte, Tunisia and came out as Pedro Martine-Rodriguez from Bruges, Belgium. With ninety minutes before his flight was scheduled to leave, he went to a small café across from the security area behind the American Airlines ticket counters and found himself an obscure booth.
Fifteen minutes later, two young American menobviously American men, who looked like they had just graduated from BYUwheeled his two bags on a cart to the end of the line waiting to go through security. Sheep Dog watched for a few minutes, and, seeing no one that caused him concern, sauntered casually up to the men.
“Buenas noches,” he said, emphasizing the lisping s’s of Castilian Spanish.
“Are you in the sheep business, sir?”
“I am. Any problem with my bags?”
“Nope. See the diplomatic tags? Your stuff has diplomatic immunity, and so do you. Here’s an identification tag. You need to wear it around your neck until you clear customs in the U.S. You need this picture ID card for you wallet.”
Sheep Dog took the ID cards and thanked the men.
“Finally, here’s your tickets. You’re straight through to New York on United. It’s the red eye; but the flights are usually not full; so, you can stretch out and get some sleep. My boss gave me this Ambien for you if you want. I love the stuff for those long transoceanic flights.”
Sheep Dog accepted the pill gladly. He had built up a considerable sleep debt, and the flight should help get him back to full function. He followed the two short haired young men to the separate flight crew and diplomatic security line. They talked briefly to the security agents, and Pedro Martine- Rodriguez and his bags whisked through without a glitch. He sat calmly in the waiting area until his flight was called then boarded promptly when the first zone for seating was called. He staked out a window seat on a three seat row towards the middle of the plane and took his pill.
The take-off and cruising was scarcely noted by Sheep Dog, and he
slept a full eight hours before his bladder forced him to move. He returned and slept another two hours before awakening for the day. The woman seated in the row in front of him yawned and stretched. She got up and moved around a little, then stopped at his row.
“Would you mind some company? I just can’t read another word, and I’m getting a little stir crazy.”
“Sure,” Sheep Dog said, “glad to have someone to talk to. Tell me about yourself?”
She found that truly refreshing. She reckoned that it was the first time in her adult life that a man had actually wanted to hear about her.
“I don’t want to offend; but I’m from Texas; and I can’t tell you how glad I am to get out of Hatred’s Kingdom. I just read the book, by the way; are you familiar with it?”
“Can’t say that I am.”
“I’m done with it. You can have my copy.”
She handed him the book, Hatred’s Kingdom, How Saudi Arabia Supports the New Global Terrorism, by former Ambassador to the United Nations, Dore Gold.
“Thanks, I’ll read it. But, go ahead, tell me your story.”
Once she got started, an emotional out pouring took place.
“I’m Madeleine Danousky, and I do business analyses for a consortium of U.S. and European oil companies. The corporation wanted me to go to Saudi Arabia because they needed what I do. First off—when I applied for a visa—I was told that I could not travel alone in the Kingdom. It made me mad, but I already knew that. So, I went through all of the hoops to get a male companion to be with me all the time, to drive, and to be able to talk to the loonies that stop you everyplace. I had to get one of the Saudi oil guys we do business with to sponsor me to make sure I didn’t go around exposing myself or raping poor little innocent Saudi men…give me a break!
“I figured I could put up with it all, get in and get out. Was I in for an education! We landed in Riyadh and took an airport taxi into town to the Al Faisaliah Hotel. On the way into town, I read in the newspaper that they had just beheaded a guy for being a witch. This is the twenty-first century! A witch! I got out before my male companion, who is a nice guy but useless in business and about as much protection as my aunt Gertrude. This nasty little mutaween—that’s the religious police—creep walked up behind me and whacked my ankle with a little club. Big deal, my ankle was showing. It still hurts. He made a hard grab on my butt, and the hotel doorman yelled at me not to fight back or to protest, or they would arrest me. That set the stage. Later, when I got to the foreigner’s compound at the oil station, a couple of women there told me that one of the most common reasons for women to be in prison in that hell-hole of a country is because they were raped. That’s it. Because they were raped!
“Men can marry girls younger than one year of age. Under Sharia law, they can lawfully consummate the marriage with a nine year old. That’s to protect the girls. Supporters of a law to ban child brides were declared to be apostates under the Sharia. Some progressives got a bill prepared to raise the marriageable age to 17; it was sent back to parliament where it was declared unIslamic! More than a quarter of all marriages involve girls under the age of fifteen; that’s so the girl can be shaped into an obedient wife, bear more children, and be kept away from temptation. What crap! It’s every bit as much about the money; poor fathers sell their daughters; so, the dirty old rich men can have little girl virgins to deflower. The Arab men I talked to kept telling me about how peaceful the religion is, how protective it is of women and girls who, are considered so feeble minded that they can’t do business, drive a car, or handle their own sexuality. This nine year old business is just one of the ‘protections’. In the Kingdom, the accusation of rape requires four witnesses. How often do you think four witnesses see a rape.
The foreign working girls haven’t got a chance. If they get raped, the only thing they can hope for is to be able to get out of the country as fast as they can; and that is not all that easy. Make an accusation, and you are more likely to do prison time than the rapist. And that is as if those poor neglected men can’t get enough sex. Any man can have four wives and even one temporary wife for a year if he wants. It’s heaven for men, apparently. In the tribal areas a woman can be murdered just for leaving home without permission, let alone for speaking to an unapproved man. They don’t admit it, but they still practice female genital mutilation out there in the hinterlands. Most of the poor little girls die because of the filthy conditions and failure to control hemorrhage when the mutilations are done. Their mothers take them to the butchers and hold them down. You learn a lot if you listen to women. They suffer, and they pour out their hearts to a sympathetic listener.
“When I was not crying over the women and girls, I was being furious over the obstructions the men put up to interfere with my getting my job done. My MBA wasn’t enough. They had to have the approval of the kid who had to come with me. He didn’t know the oil business from apple butter. It was a terrible waste of time. In the end, the dumbkopfs just couldn’t bring themselves to conclude a deal with a woman.
“They are horrible bigots. I saw a bunch of Saudi National Guardsmen cut up a little group of Shi’ite pilgrims with their swords. It seems that the Saudis made it illegal to celebrate the main Shi’ite holy day, the one called Ashurah, which is a day of deep mourning for the death of one of their saints or something which occurs on the 10th of Muharram. That’s some month on their old inaccurate calendar. That’s the day when all those crazy people go around whipping themselves. Anyway, I saw. I mean—I saw myself—that they killed some of those poor fools. That was it for me. I called the consortium and got myself out of there as fast as transportation could make it happen.
“Now, I am going to eat a ton of bacon and have pork roast dinners with wine every day for a month, drive my car across the U.S. all by myself, and prance around half naked if I want to. This is the best day of my life so far. I am out of Saudi Arabia.”
Sheep Dog had had his fill of the Muslim world as well, and enjoyed a sort of vicarious catharsis listening to the angry woman ventilate. The two seat mates went on to less agitating subjects, and having her talking to him helped to pass the time. He did not like to admit it, but it had been comforting to listen to a woman pour out her heart to him. He was having trouble remembering the last time that Rosie had held him in the spell of one of her impassioned soliloquies. He wondered if he had allowed the woman he had loved—and still did—to get all of her feelings out as he had for this stranger.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
August
During his first week back in the States, Hunter took a complete break from his life’s work as an assassin and became a totally absorbed businessman. He made a trip from Denver to the Rifle Post Office box to check on his banking status. He found that he had on record seven months of pay—including an add-on for hazardous duty—and nothing had been spent. He established a new account on-line with Commercial Federal in Denver and then went home to make some changes. When he was done, he had created accounts in the Altajir Bank in the Sigma Building, Hospital Road, in Grand Cayman—the Cayman Islands being the 5th largest banking system in the world—in the Port Vila Copra Development Bank in Vanuatu—the most secretive and protective bank in the world in the country which has more than 100 exempted banks registered, making it the leading offshore banking centre in the Eastern hemisphere—in two Hawaiian banks—American Savings Bank and Central Pacific Bank—both small and rather obscure Honolulu business institutions, and in the Bank of Guam on Montgomery Street in San Francisco—all without talking to another human being. Each of the foreign banks had very liberal taxation laws and the maximum off-shore banking secrecy.
He then sat at his computer and transferred his Post Box Navy funds, and a million dollars from his long-standing old account with the Commercial Federal Bank in Denver to Grand Cayman with electronic instructions to move the funds first on to Vanuatu, then to Hawaii, then to San Francisco. He used different names at each bank, and for the Bank of Guam in San Francisco, h
e had the account listed as belonging to The Heiden Enterprises Corporation. If one were to spend the time to plow through the extensively interwoven layers of holding companies, the final layer would reveal the only officer to be David Pepperdine, a man whose required photographic identification was strikingly similar to that of Hunter Caulfield. As he went through the machinations of obscuring the locations of his money, Hunter felt paranoid, but his time as Sheep Dog had altered his psyche. He determined to make himself as nearly invisible and obscure as he could.
Furthermore, he determined that his transmogrification into the character of the secretive Sheep Dog would occupy his mind to the point of making him useless—even a detriment—to his legitimate company. He decided to extricate himself from his past affairs of business altogether. He kept his personal credit cards with the Western Rockies Federal Credit Union in Rifle for convenience and never exceeded the $10,000 credit limit. Beyond that, he began the process of disappearing from the public and social record.
He had little to do with anyone he knew during his visit back in the states except for making an appointment with Conrad Devlin—who still had the title of COO of the Starbright Corporation—but who was now in complete charge of Hunter’s company for all intents and purposes. When he met Devlin in his old office in the Starbright Building in downtown Denver, he came right to the point.
“Conrad, I have taken stock of my situation since my family was murdered. I have not been able to get over it enough to carry on my responsibilities as the CEO of the corporation.”
“Time will let you heal, Hunter. Give it a chance. We can work around your absence for a little longer.”
“No, Conrad, I have made up my mind. My life is inalterably changed, and I just can’t bring myself to concentrate on the business. It isn’t fair to Starbright or to you. I know the company is doing well and can afford to cash me out. I want to take my stock options now and turn the chairmanship officially over to you. I am going to spend some quality time in retirement and do some writing. I have wanted to do that for some time, and I’m going to arrange to enter Oxford, if they’ll have me, and do research towards getting a PhD in molecular genetics. Sounds nuts, I know, but I need to do something completely different and to have full freedom to do it without the interference of business obligations.”
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