For jihadists with the right connections, it was like dipping into a bottomless pool of money. I intended to make sure my brothers got their share. I began spending long days at local mosques in Riyadh, teaching from the Koran and the hadith as the Muslim Brotherhood had taught me. Only now, I placed an emphasis on money.
“The Koran teaches that the righteous Muslim will ‘make ready your strength to the utmost of your power, including steeds of war, to strike terror into [the hearts of] the enemies of Allah, and your enemies,’” I said, quoting from Sura Al Anfal, also called The Spoils of War, Booty. “In former days, horses represented wealth. Today, we count wealth differently. And the Koran teaches that the true Muslim will contribute his wealth to advance true Islam. Remember that it says, ‘Whatever ye shall spend in the cause of Allah, shall be repaid unto you, and ye shall not be treated unjustly.’”
At a mosque in Riyadh, I met a young man named Aamer whose father was connected to the Saudi royals. He came to the mosque and sat with me during the day as I spoke from the Koran to small groups of men. I spoke with force and conviction—with the same uncompromising fire as a cultist. Aamer was a year or two younger than I. He became infatuated with my zealotry. I became infatuated with him when I learned he went to school with Sa’ad Fahim, the son of a sheikh who was a cousin of the royal Saudi family.
Immediately I began plotting how I could use Aamer to get to Sheikh Fahim, who was supposed to be a stout Sunni Muslim. Aamer often visited his villa, which was really a palace, he said, perched on the edge of Riyadh.
In Saudi, there were and are two kinds of royalty: the pro-American, westernized kind who want to travel and enjoy life, and the Wahhabi Muslims who are radical to the bone. The second breed was angry and resentful over the decline of Islam, over the crumbling of the male-dominated culture. Then, as now, they believed fervently that America was destroying Islam, and they were happy to pour their wealth into bringing our great faith back to its full glory, donating their millions for jihad.
Aamer and I became close friends, as close as two men can become when one of them has an ulterior motive. One day, we were shopping in a gold souk, really a gleaming mall where in shop after shop, thousands of chains and bracelets lay in endless rows, shimmering like the treasures of ancient Egypt.
“Aamer,” I said. “You know I am going back to London soon to meet with the Muslim Brotherhood. I was wondering if you could talk to Sheikh Fahim for me.”
I was quite familiar with the etiquette. The sheikhs were extremely generous, but the secret was that you did not ask them outright for money. You told them about your cause, about the pressing needs, and let them suggest how they might help. If a sheikh was to become your benefactor, you must both pretend it was his idea. It was like a waltz, a minuet, and each side knew it. But always, we danced the steps.
Three days after our trip to the souk, Aamer and I rolled in his Coup de Ville, which had been a birthday gift from Sheikh Fahim, down a black strip of freshly paved highway to the sheikh’s villa. It was April. A late afternoon sun lit the desert, and the rolling dunes beyond the rim of civilized Saudi glowed rose and copper.
Aamer blasted the air conditioner and gossiped about the Fahims.
“Noorah, the sheikh’s youngest daughter, is seeing someone outside the palace,” he said, smiling behind giant blue aviator shades. “He is Lebanese, like you. The family knows about it, but pretends they don’t.”
I frowned, wondering about the power of a Saudi royal who would allow his daughter to indulge in a relationship outside the kingdom circle. “Why does he allow this?” I asked.
Aamer laughed. “Because he treasures his reputation as a good Muslim father and does not want to ruin it with a scandal. Also, he has a weakness for his daughters. They play him like a harp.”
Noorah wasn’t the only problem child, Aamer went on. Jaled, the sheikh’s oldest son, was seeing an English woman. “Sa’ad told me she dumped him and ripped his heart out, but he keeps going back to England trying to see her. Apparently, he cannot get sex like that anywhere else.”
Now we both laughed.
Before long, I saw the villa rising in the distance. It covered an entire city block and was surrounded by a high white wall. Greenery peeked over the walls, hinting at the lush oasis concealed inside. Soon we arrived at the gates, which swung open automatically. He waved easily at the guards, and we barely slowed down.
“I’ve been coming here since I was a little boy,” Aamer explained.
Inside the gates was another world. The road itself was concrete, carefully inlaid with some kind of colored stones, pressed flush so that the Caddie didn’t encounter a single bump. To the left and right, manicured lawns spread out like bright green carpets. I saw huge stands of palm trees—date, queen, and silver—as well as exotic trees I had never seen before, bearing clusters of crimson fruit. All around us flowers bloomed as though we were in the tropics. Here and there workers tended the gardens, and I wondered how they kept all this alive beneath the broiling Saudi sun.
The mosaic road opened up to reveal the largest private residence I had ever seen, a breathtaking blend of European and Middle Eastern architecture as wide as a soccer field and built story upon story. Aamer pulled through a roundabout with a huge stone fountain at its center and parked just past a pair of enormous double doors that were carved with a mural of flowers and palms.
A story flashed through my mind: the goose and the golden egg.
I tucked a small box under my arm, a gift for the sheikh, and as we exited the car, I took note of video cameras mounted above the doors and at the corners of two cupolas on the second story. (I had also noticed a series of them secreted tastefully in the landscaping on the way in.) Beside the main doors was a smaller door. Two men stepped through it onto the covered portico and began chatting with Aamer—more guards. As they did this, I noticed a black stretch limousine with gold ornaments creeping toward us on the circular drive. It seemed to have come from somewhere behind the house, and it pulled to a silent stop directly in front of the double doors which, at that moment, opened.
5
My breath caught in my chest. The young woman in the black abayyah did not walk out of the doors. She flowed, like whispering surf caressing a beach. Although the clothes of Muslim women are designed to conceal their bodies, the cloth and cut of this woman’s clothes revealed every curve. The abbayah covered only her head; her face was concealed by an expensive half niqab, a mask of shimmering copper fabric that revealed only her eyes.
The woman was not looking in our direction when she first came out of the villa. But when she did, her eyes blazed. Large, deep-set, and shaped like almonds, they were the color of dark chocolate and rimmed with thick black lashes that reminded me of the wings of birds.
The eyes lit up. “Aamer!” she said, her voice low and golden like a sunset. As she turned and moved toward us, I thought she walked like a royal—but a royal who carried tantalizing secrets.
I started to sweat.
Aamer turned from the guards and smiled a brotherly smile. “Fatima, how are you?”
“I am better than fine! Still living in London and spending Father’s money.” Then her eyes danced over me playfully. “And who have you brought with you today?”
“This is an old friend of mine. Kamal Saleem,” Aamer said. “Kamal, this is Fatima Bint Sheikh Fahim.”
A horn sounded from the limousine. Without removing her eyes from me, Fatima waved an impatient, perfectly manicured hand in the direction of the car. “My chauffeur,” she said in a bemused tone that said good help was hard to find. “He has been driving me since I was a little girl, and he thinks he can tell me what to do.”
Looking into Fatima’s chocolate eyes, I knew instantly that no one could tell her what to do. My blood raced. Her fragrance seemed to displace the air. Not a sweet scent like jasmine or gardenia, but something earthy and hypnotic. I glanced up at the surveillance cameras, then back at this exquisite woman. A battle r
aged inside me: I desperately wanted to telegraph my attraction. But a guest of a Sunni sheikh does not make eyes at his daughter. With cameras watching and guards likely monitoring the feeds, I knew if I did not turn my eyes away, I would be shown the way out. Worse, I would lose the sheikh’s money.
I’d rather have her, I thought, and allowed a meaningful smile to briefly curve my lips. Her eyes sparkled back over the niqab.
“Ya-ela, ya-ela, Kamal!” Aamer said, nodding toward the small door. “I do not want to keep the sheikh waiting.”
In a willful act of self-preservation, I forced my gaze to the ground. “It was an honor to meet you, Fatima,” I said, and hurried inside.
6
The entrance hall was large enough to hold an entire American house. Across the cavernous ceiling marched an intricate tile mosaic, a smaller-scale mirror of the pattern on the floor. On one wall, hand-painted wallpaper in thin stripes of gold, cream, blue, and crimson. On the other, a backlit glass case at least ten meters wide displaying swords and sabers from around the world. A round red couch, embroidered in gold and large enough to seat twenty people, dominated the center of the hall. Around the room stands of black bamboo rose from pots the size of small cars.
My pulse quickened. I had met many sheikhs, but their homes were not ornate. They were the pillars of old tribes, and they decorated in the Bedouin tradition. They were wealthy, but not Howard Hughes wealthy. Not like this.
As we wound through equally ornate passageways toward the sheikh’s private business suite, a single word rang in my mind like a cash register bell: billionaire.
The sheikh’s suite was a blend of Middle Eastern and European decor. On one wall of the huge main room, bookshelves climbed to the twenty-foot ceiling and featured sliding ladders of polished mahogany for reaching the highest shelves. A massive desk, also mahogany, commanded another end of the space, and intricate Bedouin carpets softened the tile floors. In one area was a large seating group with English leather sofas. And outside the suite, through a wall of glass-paned doors, I could see a sprawling, lushly landscaped courtyard dotted with bubbling fountains, conversation areas, and, in the shade of feathery palms, cages filled with birds. It reminded me of jannah.
“Have a seat,” Aamer said, indicating the leather sofas. Leaving my gift for the sheikh on a small table by the entrance, I walked over and sat down. Aamer remained standing near the double doors.
Moments later, Sheikh Fahim entered and I stood again. “Yah ibny,” he said warmly, embracing Aamer, who bent and kissed the sheikh’s hand.
The sheikh wore the most expensive dish-dash I had ever seen. I marveled at the sheen of the fabric and the gossamer-thin abbayah he wore as a second layer, black and laced with thin golden thread. His facial features reminded me of the pictures I had seen of the royal family: light skin, bushy eyebrows, a sharply trimmed goatee, and a thin moustache. Even from across the room, I caught the scent of his cologne. It was a unique, spicy smell, probably custom-made for him in Paris.
The sheikh rested his hand on Aamer’s shoulder, and the two began strolling slowly in my direction. “How are your father and mother?” the sheikh asked.
“They are fine. My father is adding to his business a new masonry contract with the Americans. He sends his thanks again for your help.”
The pair drew near the sofas, the sheikh behaving as though I were invisible, and spoke cryptically about something they clearly did not want me to understand. The sheikh then sat down directly across from me, and Aamer took the neighboring seat. Finally, Sheikh Fahim regarded me regally and gestured for me to sit down.
I sat lightly, humbly, and with my knees together, intentionally making myself smaller, according to protocols I had learned working for Edward Redding. I waited to be invited to speak.
“Who is this you have brought?” the sheikh said to Aamer.
“This is my friend, Kamal, the one I told you about, the one I met in the mosque. He is a good Muslim and a warrior for Allah. Kamal travels all over the world, wherever he is led to fulfill the calling of Islam.”
The sheikh nodded thoughtfully, letting a tiny smile of interest steal onto his face. He then lifted his right hand and pointed at me. “Kamal, do you know who I am?”
“Yes, Sheikh Fahim, Aamer has told me who you are and that you have a heart to advance the cause of Islam,” I said. “If you had not graciously opened your doors to me, I would not be here today.”
Aamer broke in, proudly: “Kamal has a gift for you.”
Sheikh Fahim raised an eyebrow, pleased. It always amazed me that no matter how many possessions these people accumulated, no matter how remote the possibility that I would give them something they did not already have, they were as happy as schoolchildren to receive a gift.
“May I go and get it for you?” I said.
When the sheikh tipped his chin forward, I stood up and walked backwards, away from him. One has no permission to give his back to a member of the royal family. I backed all the way to the door to retrieve the box I’d brought, then requested permission to return. The sheikh waved me forward. I crossed to the seating area and kneeled at his feet, cradling the box on my two flat palms like an offering.
He received the gift with both hands. If the royals don’t care for you, they will set your gift aside and look at it later. But Sheikh Fahim opened the gift box, extracting a polished wooden case with a glass lid.
“It is beautiful!” the sheikh enthused, for a moment abandoning his royal bearing.
Opening the lid, he lifted out an exquisitely detailed gold-bladed dagger, for which I had paid three thousand U.S. dollars in a souk in Oman. Fine tan leather wrapped its grip, and a metal craftsman had etched a sura into both sides of the blade.
“How did you know?” the sheikh said. “How did you know I would like something like this?”
Because you are a wealthy, cloistered man who likes to play-act at jihad, I thought.
“A true warrior requires such a thing,” I said.
Gently, he replaced the dagger in its black velvet nest and returned his eyes to me, now with genuine interest. “So, tell me about yourself,” he said.
I did not go back to the couch. I sat right there at his feet and told him about my life, my recruitment by the Muslim Brotherhood, my involvement with the PLO. It turned out that Shiekh Fahim knew my cousin, an imam who would go on to become the highest mufti, or Sharia scholar, in Lebanon. I had learned to drop his name whenever I could; it always opened doors for me.
I quoted the sura, as I always did to remind the rich that Allah commands jihad and that Muslims without guns could fight with their gold. “The Shia are taking over Lebanon with the help of the Syrians,” I went on. “The infidel Americans are helping the Maronite Christians and Phalangists. We have a lot of warriors, but we cannot fight on an empty stomach.”
Aamer looked on, seeming proud that he had impressed his uncle and benefactor with his devout friend. Sheikh Fahim seemed riveted. I went to close the sale: “We cannot move forward unless we are blessed by Allah and his chosen people. We are already thankful that you took your valuable time to allow us to sit in your presence today. If you find it in your heart, we would be most grateful to also receive your blessing.”
Sheikh Fahim turned to gaze out into the garden, and I watched his face as he considered my story. When he returned his eyes to me, it was as though someone had turned a dial: warm to shrewd.
“Many people ask for our blessing,” he said. “If I help you, how do I know this money is not going to the wrong place?”
“Our brothers in leadership will confirm to you that they have received it.”
His eyes tightened further. “I do not want to receive any phone calls. I do not want any traceable connection.”
“Then I will give you information you can use to verify that the money went to the proper account.”
The sheikh paused for a long beat, and I worried that my pitch to the richest man I had ever approached had failed.
Then he spoke again: “Today, you will have seventy thousand dollars. It will be deposited as soon as I verify who you are.”
My heart raced. In 1978, seventy thousand dollars was as a quarter million today. Not only was the money huge, but this was a coup of another sort. For months, I had been fishing the bank accounts of Bedouin sheikhs, but now I had hooked a whale.
Aamer and I parted ways with the sheikh and went out the way we came. At the security station near the front doors, a guard stopped me and held out an envelope. It was made of expensive-looking cream-colored stock, and I took it from him, slightly confused. Had the sheikh changed his mind about the bank deposit, the verification, and issued a check right away?
Lifting the flap, I shook out a single sheet of paper and saw that it bore only two lines of handwriting: a London telephone number and, in a flourish of black ink, a signature: Fatima.
7
Only to appear to be a man in control, I waited a week before I picked up the phone. But the truth was, I counted the hours like a man in prison. My pulse galloped as I dialed Fatima’s London number. She answered the call herself, and her low, tawny voice reached into my chest across two continents and three seas.
Still, I played it cool. “I keep an apartment in the Emirates and I just returned. I received your note. Very lovely. I am just getting back with you.”
Fatima spoke playfully but did not waste time. “I know why you wanted to meet with my father.”
Did she really know I had visited her home in the cause of jihad? Perhaps she had tortured Aamer until he told her.
On the phone, I brushed past her intimation. “It was a great honor to meet him and also to meet you.”
“You know, as a proper Saudi girl, I am not supposed to talk with strange men—especially men like you.” Across the distance, I could hear the smile in her voice, see the sparkle in her dark eyes. “But I like you very much. And I like what you do.”
The Blood of Lambs: A Former Terrorist's Memoir of Death and Redemption Page 20