I stood and stared. It was macabre, terrible. Most of all because it’d been done purposely. But I stood and stared. There was evil here violent as murder, mad as rape. Its intensity was as tangible as heat from a car crash.
Whoever had done this was sitting in a bar nearby quietly drinking wine and chatting with a friend. Or nearby doing worse. How could someone do this? If caught, their answers are always awful—because it was important to them or, shiver-time, unimportant. Oh God, at least let the creeps have been angry or getting even. We understand that. Anything else is the dark side of the moon.
Big Top pulled on the leash and sniffed crazily at something beneath the car. Jerking him back, I bent down to look. A deer’s head sat near the right front wheel. A hand-size hole was in the skull, but otherwise it was intact and beautiful. If the car had driven away, the head would’ve been crushed. The dead eyes caught light even down there and reflected two small candle flames. Unflickering.
I must have walked around ten minutes trying to find either a policeman or patrol car. When I did and had brought the cops back, they were less interested in the Volvo than in what I was doing there. I ended up calling them assholes. They understood and I was brought to the station house.
My American passport thrust in their faces left them singularly unimpressed. I said I was allowed one phone call. They said this wasn’t America and if I didn’t behave myself they were going to hit me on the head. “Heet you on dee hate,” as Officer Wilheim put it.
Finally they did allow me to call, but the problem was I had only two Viennese telephone numbers in my wallet—Morton Palm, and the Saruvian Embassy. Morton had had enough of me for one day, so I called the embassy at two in the morning.
Forty-five minutes later Ambassador “Off the Record” Lawrence Awwad appeared, looking ready to kill anyone in his path. He was a giant man, handsome: the kind of figure who makes people sit up straight when he enters a room.
Everyone but me got to go into another room and confer. When they returned, each spearing me with a dirty look, I was out of there in fifteen minutes.
“I asked you to stay in Vienna, Mr. Radcliffe, but I don’t like trouble with the police.”
“I appreciate your help, Ambassador, but don’t scold me. I told you what happened.”
We were stopped at a traffic light in his armor-plated Range Rover. He glared over and shook a finger at me. “Prince Hassan said you were a pain in the ass and I should punch you in the nose if you caused any trouble. I am just warning you.”
“That’s twice tonight someone wanted to hit me there.”
The car telephone next to him purred and he grumbled something in Arabic which, by the exasperated tone, seemed to be “What now?”
I looked out the window while he talked. Big Top circled and circled on the backseat, sniffing and grunting in between, trying to find a comfy spot to drop on. I didn’t have the heart to tell him we’d be home soon and he’d have to get up again.
Awwad hung up and accelerated around a taxi, a motorcycle. “Are you packed?”
“More or less.”
“How long will it take for you to get ready?”
“Half an hour. No more. What’s happening?”
“You’re going to Saru.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. The Prince’s plane just landed at the airport. It’s waiting for you. You and the dog, that is. He was very specific about your bringing the dog along.”
“Okay, let’s go. What a night this has been. What a night, huh, Big?” I looked over my shoulder to confirm this with the bull terrier but he was fast asleep.
“Do you like Randy Travis?”
“Excuse me?”
Awwad slipped a cassette into the car stereo and sure enough, out came the syrupy country and western singer’s voice.
“Randy Travis is very popular in Saru. George Jones too.”
I didn’t ask why. The more mysteries waiting in Saru the better.
THE SCENE AT VIENNA airport was a stark reminder of what had just happened in the country I was about to visit. The terminal, though blazing with light, was almost empty at that early hour. Except for soldiers and policemen, who were everywhere, which was ironic because there were so few civilians around to cause trouble.
When Awwad pulled up to the front doors, two men dressed in dark green battle gear and carrying machine pistols came over. Once again I was left out of a conference in German, but while they spoke to the Ambassador, the men kept looking my way with unanimous “Watch your step, Buddy” expressions.
I got my bags out of the back of the car and coaxed Big Top to the edge so I could lift him down. Once on the ground, he shook himself violently and yawned. Neither of us were used to these hours, but unlike him, adrenalin had me pumped high and wide awake. Waiting for Awwad to finish, I imagined a coming attraction for the movie about my life at that moment: “Adventure! Danger! Night Flight to Saru. They sent him into trouble and he was happy to go!” Next, a shot of an old propeller plane, engines already spluttering as I boarded, runway glistening black from mist. Liftoff into the night. Then a map superimposed over the screen, a finger pointing out the route the plane was flying—across a wedge of the East Bloc, south over Turkey, Iran … .
“We will walk to the plane. It’s faster. Come on, Radcliffe.” Without looking back, Awwad started through the sliding doors into the building. We followed.
Inside were even more policemen. I sang out, “What’s going on, Ambassador? Why the armed camp?”
“This airport was already attacked once and many died. Since the Sultan’s death, there have been threats to the entire government of Saru. People knew the Prince’s plane was coming tonight, so the Viennese took precautions.”
“That’s why I’m flying at three-thirty in the morning?”
“Not only you. Turn around and look at my car.”
Outside, the soldiers who’d met us were both on their backs under the Rover.
“Bombs?”
Still moving, Awwad gave the classic hands-up, “who knows?” shrug.
Outraged, I grabbed his arm and tried to turn him so he’d look at me. It was like trying to turn a small building. “You drove us around this whole time knowing there might be a bomb under your car?”
A hack of rough sounds burst from his throat. I realized it was a laugh. “You have a verz, man.” He pointed to Big Top. “Do you think he’d let anything happen to you? Why do you think they want him in Saru? Why do you think I kept him in the car when you were in the hotel?
“You’re an insect, Radcliffe. But sometimes God protects insects. Why would He give you a verz if you were not important?”
We’d reached the passport gate. Awwad breezed straight through, ignoring both stop signs and inspectors. In the narrowness of the passage, Big Top got in front of me and tangled in the other’s legs, tripping him so that he almost fell down.
A moment of pure rage lit his face. But on realizing what’d happened, he bent down and patted the dog. “I guess I should not call you an insect, eh? Your verz does not like that. I’m sorry. Excuse me.”
This apology was not to me, understand. The Saruvian ambassador was addressing a bull terrier who did appear to be staring indignantly up at him.
SOLDIERS AND POLICE, POLICE and soldiers. The whole time we moved toward the plane—through the building, then a bus ride across the tarmac to a brightly spotlit Lear jet circled by official vehicles—uniformed men with guns and hard, watchful expressions stood nearby. It made me feel significant and panicky. What was I getting into? What was about to happen?
The airplane door opened only after we got out of the bus and were saying goodbye.
A frisky breeze blew and died, blew and died. I listened to it whistle around different parts of the plane behind us. Why do small details matter, or catch the mind’s eye, when we are about to leave? Later, you remember them more vividly than anything: that whoosh of night wind, the lovely green of a baggage tag, the Oriental child
holding a donut in his hand … .
“Are you excited about going to Saru?” Awwad smiled at me for the first time while brushing his hair down with a hand.
“I don’t know. What’s it like there?”
The splurt of a voice from a walkie-talkie nearby. A man appeared at the door of the plane and waved at me to come in. I waited, wanting Awwad to answer my silly question.
“God provides the food, Man provides the cooks. There are good cooks in Saru, Radcliffe.”
AS A KID I knew a girl named Fairlight. I hadn’t thought of her or her name in years, but after I woke over the desert and looked out the window, that’s the first word that came to mind—fairlight.
Down below, endless miles of moon blue sand lay like an unmoving ocean in early morning light. But the dazzlers, beautiful and haunting far away above that flat distance, were the many fires of Saru’s oil refineries. They flickered and leapt, orange and yellow over the blue earth into the graying sky. Despite recognizing at a sleepy glance what they were, I stared and dreamed them into the flaming gates of a fantastic Arabian Nights city, where carpets flew and veiled women wore real rubies in their navels.
The pilot came back and said we’d be landing in twenty minutes. I put a hand on Big Top in the seat next to me and stroked a thick white flank. Opening his eyes, he grumbled appreciatively.
The plane dropped and dropped again. The dancing fires loomed nearer.
“Do you not remember me? I have been waiting this whole trip for you to remember!” The pilot stood directly above me grinning like a monkey on amphetamine. Why were so many people from Saru peculiar?
“I am Khaled! From the helicopter in Los Angeles. I saved you in the earthquake. You must remember!”
“Oh Christ, the helicopter! The guy who likes to fly into dangerous places, thank God. How are you?”
He loved that. His grin grew two inches. “Fine! Now we are flying together into Saru where things aren’t so great. We have to come in low because I don’t know if Cthulu’s bastards have missiles yet. If they do and we get hit, it’ll be worse than the earthquake!” He whistled loud and enthusiastically, the kind of down-spiraling whistle a kid makes when his toy airplane goes into a nose dive.
It was under these loony conditions that we landed in Bazz’af, the capital of the country. As the plane made its dipping, turning approach, I watched Big Top to see if my local verz was getting nervous. Usually when a plane touches ground, I give a happy sigh, but this time I was too busy trying to scan the horizon through the tiny porthole window.
Nothing happened.
The plane landed, taxied quickly to a far corner of the field, and shut down. On the way I saw a Lufthansa 737 parked near the terminal. I found that very reassuring—if the Germans were still landing their businessmen and tourists in Saru, things couldn’t be too bad.
Less reassuring was pilot Khaled coming out of the cockpit with a large handgun.
“So, they had no rockets, huh, Harry? Do you want to have a gun too? This one? Please, take it.”
I put up a hand—no thanks. “What happens next?”
“Next they are coming for you but we must be very, very careful. The airport has been under fire on and off since the Sultan was killed.”
“What is the situation here since then, Khaled? Who’s winning?”
He bent down and looked out my window. “It depends. They have control of one city, we have Bazz‘af. They have the mountains, we have the rest. But our leader is dead and theirs is still alive. It is impossible to say. I will tell you, we did not expect any of this to happen. They were much stronger than we thought. The reports said Cthulu would never try anything now because he did not have the men or the power. So now we say ‘fuck you’ to the reports. Everything is up to be grabbed.
“Here they come. Get ready.”
A Range Rover exactly like Ambassador Awwad’s in Vienna came into view across the airfield and moved toward us. I half-expected to see it get strafed by enemy gunfire but it made it over and stopped a few feet away.
“Put this on, Harry. It’s for the best.”
Turning from the window, I saw Khaled holding up a brown bullet-proof vest the way a clothing salesman holds a jacket you’re about to try on.
“That does not fill me with confidence. Is it that dangerous out there?”
“Put this on and it is not dangerous, my friend. Then they have to hit your head and that is a difficult shot.”
“Yeah, but that’s what happened to the Sultan, wasn’t it?” I said, slipping my arms into the vest.
“He was not a careful man. Dying was not important to him. Only living gave him interest.”
The doors of the Rover opened simultaneously. Prince Hassan climbed out one side, a big bruiser who was obviously his bodyguard the other. Both wore army uniforms. Bruiser toted an AK-47 attack rifle and had a couple of hand grenades hanging off his belt.
The copilot opened the airplane door and gave Hassan a hand in.
The Prince looked tired but sturdy and stable. God, how old was he, twenty-five? Twenty-eight? What a life he had ahead of him now. Soon he’d either be dead, or leader of an important Arab country. He’d go to war with his uncle, who he knew had murdered his father. It was mythic stuff. Coming in, I’d imagined the fires of Bazz’af ’s refineries to be the gates of a magical city. Thinking about Hassan’s fate, it struck me I wasn’t so far from the truth. “There lived once in far Saru three royal brothers … .”
“Prince, I’m terribly sorry.” He took my hand and shook it solemnly. “Your father saved my life. I didn’t know him well but I liked him … and he saved my life.”
Hassan looked at the floor, as if waiting for me to go on, but I could think of nothing else to say.
“My father liked you and believed you could build for him the dream he had all his life. He’s dead now, so the best I can do for him is to finish what he began. What I said to you in Vienna no longer holds true: We will build this dog museum for him, exactly the way he wanted it.” He looked from me to the pilot, then to his bodyguard. “And while you are doing that, I will kill Cthulu. I will do it personally.”
THE ROAD FROM BAZZ’AF airport to the capital is a black asphalt ruler, straight across the desert, covered with the damnedest-looking traffic I had seen in some time. After a few days there, I realized the primary mode of motorized transportation in Saru appeared to be bicycles and scooters. Which made sense because both are relatively cheap and easy to maintain. But the rigors to which they were put were unbelievable and downright imaginative. Three or four people on a little Italian scooter were a typical sight: Papa, Mama, and two children covering every possible inch of the vehicle as it crawled down the road. Or a French “velo” pulling a homemade trailer loaded with a few zillion pounds of cloth or dung or vegetables.
That first day the Royal Highway was a slow procession of these martyred two-wheelers wobbling along down the middle of the beautifully paved road, ignoring anything behind them. Add to this various ancient trucks and cars spewing exhaust smoke thick enough to melt the eyes, horses and donkeys pulling wagons … and you get some idea of the traffic flow.
It was long, empty miles of parched desert countryside, bedouin camps, and large goat herds wandering the sides of the highway before modern civilization began to show its face. Five or six miles out of town large billboards advertised in both Arabic and English such things as Saru Airlines, “Direct flights to Qatar and Jidda twice daily” and the Bazz’af Concord Hotel’s “Casino, Olympic swimming pool, festive conference rooms.”
Two images in particular remain in my mind. The first is of a small boy holding a camel on a rope standing in front of a poster for Siemens telecommunications. The picture was of a satellite in space beaming sherbet-green light down to a sexy red phone held by a sexy white Occidental hand. What did a satellite mean to this kid? Or a telephone? As we passed, the camel turned his head and gazed our way.
Image number two was of a Coca-Cola poster a few
miles farther on. It was a familiar one that I’d seen recently in California. Only here the middle of the picture was gone and in its place was a blackened ragged hole where a perky girl’s face should have been. Her hand, holding a frosty bottle of the world’s favorite drink, survived.
“What happened there?” I asked no one in particular.
“Mortar shell,” Hassan and his bodyguard said simultaneously.
“Why would someone shoot at an ad?”
“Because Coca-Cola isn’t a drink, Radcliffe, it’s America. Do you have any idea how many people in this part of the world hate your country?”
“I’ll tell you a secret, Prince. America isn’t gaga about the Mideast either. I’m tired of being told my country is shit. Because if we are such shit, how come the rest of the world keeps copying so much of what we do? How come kidnappers in Beirut wear Michael Jackson T-shirts? Or the Japanese use Cray computers to forecast their weather? Why did you go to college there if it’s so despicable?”
That put the kaibosh on chitchat for a while. Up in the front seat, Hassan wouldn’t turn around and look at me, but his chauffeur glared laser beams in the rearview mirror. I think he wanted to evaporate me, but every time we made eye contact, I gave him a big grin, and once I said, “Did you know that a third of all architects in Finland are women?”
What little I saw of Bazz’af that first day was unimpressive and disheartening. A new-looking city built on a series of hills, the architecture was generally characterless, get-it-up-fast cement blocks. The air smelled of cardamom, dust, and grilling meat. In the center of town, among crazed traffic and the sound of tape-recorded calls to prayer from the minarets, a large colorful souk gave one of the few hints of what life had been like there in the long ago. Nearby, ruins of a Greek amphitheater sat humiliatingly surrounded by signs for Marlboro cigarettes and Jimmy Jeans as well as stained, ugly apartment buildings with laundry hanging off the balconies. You felt sorry for the old outdoor theater rather than any kind of awe or delight for what beauty remained. Please read Harry Radcliffe’s article on this very subject in FMR magazine—“The Don Quixote Colosseum and Drive In.”
Outside the Dog Museum Page 13