by David Lender
Prince Ibrahim was already seated at a table with two Arab men a few years his senior when Sasha and Nafta entered for lunch. They kissed their benefactor in turn.
“Abdul and Waleed,” Ibrahim said, “you have met Sasha and Nafta?” The two men barely acknowledged them.
“I question the validity of a government that isn’t truly committed to Islam,” Waleed said.
“If the Saudi regime can’t uphold shari’a, how can it act as steward of the Muslim world’s holiest sites?” Abdul added.
“I understand what you’re saying,” Ibrahim said, “but you must also understand the extent of the influence I can have on our government policies.”
Oh my goodness, Ibrahim, listen to yourself! This was really getting to be too much. First he’s going to the ministry every day—in part due to her urgings—and the next thing he’s carrying on about how much he can influence Saudi government policies. Trying to impress these toads with his importance. She wondered if she didn’t prefer him stoned on cocaine. At least he made less of a fool of himself that way. She felt that curious emotion again, now like dread, then as an ache.
Maybe it’s time to get out. She mentally tallied the twenty-four monthly envelopes of $75,000 in cash she received—1.8 million dollars, U.S., as she had stipulated—and the roughly 2.6 million dollars in jewels she’d accumulated. Maybe, maybe not. Her restlessness of the past few days now seemed as if it had gone on longer than that. A few months? Ibrahim had become opaque, distant, perhaps because he’d become so absorbed in his father’s work. But more than the distance from him, she’d come to realize she didn’t love him, couldn’t imagine ever wondering if she did. So what was to keep her from moving on?
One thing was clear. Sasha didn’t like these strange young men tagging around Ibrahim here. They preached to him, seemed to be all over him. And she too had been accosted by political as well as religious zealots. She remembered with particular discomfort the questions of an elitist young Englishman with whom they had shared a table at a dinner earlier that season—probing into Ibrahim’s perspective on the bombings of the American military bases in Saudi Arabia—and the conspiratorial conversations he had exchanged with a scruffy American on the yacht Christina, on which they had dined last week.
“They must return to the ways of shari’a themselves if they are to be respected and to lead their people,” Waleed continued.
“They’ve become too close to the Americans.”
“I’m not in a position to deal with that just yet,” Ibrahim said, “but we can use the Americans to our advantage. Don’t underestimate the value of that.”
Use the Americans! Who did he think he was fooling? He actually seemed as if he believed the nonsense he was spouting. Sasha was seized by a desire to return to her room, pack a few things, and disappear. Forget about the politics. That isn’t the half of it. She looked at Ibrahim. Your need to make a name for yourself is getting the better of you. Then she saw Yassar in him. The thought calmed her. She stroked Ibrahim’s head, and he turned, startled, then kissed her hand peremptorily and leaned further into his conversation.
There it was again, that sensation, which she now realized was so indistinct because she was fighting it. Ibrahim was engrossed in his conversation. She felt the distance from him again, then gave in to her emotion. It was an ache. Then overwhelming sorrow, like mourning. She knew what it told her, what she needed. She wanted to be loved. She stood up and walked from the table, knowing she wouldn’t find it here.
At 3:00 a.m. the Beautiful People were just switching from their drugs of choice to their drinks. Sasha sat on the afterdeck of the Staid Matron, drinking Dom Pérignon with Nigel Benthurst, their host. Only half listening to him, she was merely conscious he spoke in the affected, stuttering manner she’d frequently identified with those who attend the best English schools, and exuded an attitude reminiscent of the glory days of the House of Lords. Even Sasha found his impassioned superiority difficult to counteract, at least in conversation.
“I gather your Ibrahim is enjoying his new friends, Abdul and Waleed. Are you?” Nigel said in his clipped speech.
Eton? The little creep was beginning to annoy her. She glanced back into the cabin of the yacht where most of the party was going on, but couldn’t see Ibrahim.
“Sorry. Off base. Bad form,” Nigel said. “I’ll start again. I’d like to talk to you, Sasha. Rather feel it’s in, in, your best, uhm, interest.”
“How?” Sasha glanced back into the cabin. Her eyes met those of a midthirtiesish guest seated ten feet away, luxuriating in his cigar. The scruffy American. The man Nigel had talked politics to all night on the Christina a week earlier.
“I rather think Ibrahim’s getting in on the wrong side of things,” Nigel said. “It’s a little uhm, uhm, scary, actually. These fellows Abdul and Waleed are extremists. Linked to terrorists. They’re trying to recruit Ibrahim.”
Sasha played with her string of pearls, as if to dismiss everything Nigel had just said. Leave me in peace. She was full up with this kind of talk. Bloody politics. And what were these men up to with Ibrahim? What was Nigel up to? She looked at the scruffy American again. Was he in this in some way, too? “Are you talking to me?” she asked Nigel.
“Well, actually, yes.”
“And?”
“I said I think those fellows are extremists.”
“What do you want, Nigel?”
“Well, actually, uhm, your help. Our people want your Ibrahim to resist, or at least, to, to render them harmless. We’re looking after him.”
“You mean you’re watching Ibrahim?” What’s going on here?
“No, them.”
Sasha leaned forward to address him eye to eye. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I, uhm, checked you out. You’re smart. And you know better. Sense of values and all that. You’ve seen how the average Saudi lives. Double standard. Royalty. Poverty. Right next to each other. The country’s getting ready to slide into the bog. Oil, social unrest, more oil, ninety-five percent of the population making less per year than the interest on ten minutes of oil revenues. The royal family’s still rather above it all and doing quite well, thank you very much. Particularly well on the commission it charges for anything coming into the country. Military hardware. Industrial equipment. Agricultural supplies. You name it.”
“The family’s committed to doing better for the country. They’re building a future,” Sasha said. She thought of Yassar, knowing how enraged he’d be to hear Nigel’s words.
“Wake up. There’s trouble brewing in their jolly old kingdom. You’d know that if you were paying attention.”
Sasha looked for Ibrahim, but couldn’t see him. She wanted to escape. The only problem was, what Nigel said made sense. And as quickly as she thought this, she realized someone had rehearsed him. This wasn’t some random conversation on some rich Englishman’s yacht in the midst of a party. In fact it was oddly reminiscent of what the scruffy American had said on the Christina.
“Are you having me followed?” Sasha asked.
“Not unless you want us to.”
“Of course not. What do you want from me?”
“Let us watch. You watch. Tell us what’s going on, come see me, us. That’s all.”
She thought about telling him to go to hell, but instead said, “All right, you’ve got my attention. Now who are you?”
He looked at her for a long moment, seemingly measuring her. “A concerned friend.”
“I see. Some fellow who hangs out on yachts and warns off girls from their boyfriend’s new cronies.” He didn’t respond. “Do social work on the side?” She decided to ease off, see if she could find out more before her attitude put him off. But she was angry. Angry at Nigel for staying after her. Angry at Ibrahim. Angry at the scruffy American sitting a few yards off in his disheveled khakis, rumpled cotton shirt, smoking his stupid cigar. Angry at everybody tonight.
“Ibrahim’s new friends are going to get him in tro
uble. He’ll wish he never got interested in anything but sex, drugs and rock and roll. That little vacation to California a year or so ago may have done him more harm than good.”
She felt a flash of—fear. How the hell did Nigel know about the Betty Ford Clinic? Who was this Nigel? And he and his people, whoever they were, were watching Ibrahim. And her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only what I said earlier. We’ve been watching him. And, uhm, very closely since he picked up those two stray dogs. Help us. Help yourself.”
She needed to think, regroup, so she got up and strode off toward the cabin to look for Ibrahim. The scruffy American smoking the cigar nodded to her and smiled. She strode past him, pearls flying, shoulders erect, all on instinct, because her mind was elsewhere, churning with what she wanted to talk to Ibrahim about once she got him cornered.
Prince Ibrahim and Sasha busied themselves dressing for the evening in their duplex suite at the Baron David, he upstairs in the bedroom, she downstairs in the living room. She enjoyed dressing downstairs, feeling the evening breeze through the screen doors, seeing the glittering curve of lights, feeling the grounding cool of the marble floor under her feet. She wished the view could pull her thoughts away from what was troubling her. She tried on another of the dresses scattered across the sofas, ready to call up to Ibrahim for his opinion.
She’d been trying to segue into a discussion of Abdul and Waleed and their politics all evening. So far she was frustrated by his ability to dodge her. Well, I’ll just have to blurt it out. “Ibrahim, this Abdul and Waleed. What is it they want from you?”
He looked down at her from the balcony and shrugged. “Nothing.” She looked at him, unsatisfied, and he saw it and turned away from her. She figured he must have felt her eyes on his back because he turned back and added, “We simply share similar views.”
She thought it was a limp response. You’re getting me all the more concerned by your nonchalance. “More like they’re forcing their views onto you.”
She saw him frown and turn away. It annoyed her, made her want to be more persistent. “Such as you may think,” he added, and walked away from the railing and out of view into the bedroom.
I’m not finished with you yet. Sasha selected another dress. “How about this one?” she asked, holding a flowered print.
He walked back to the railing. “Too English countryside.”
“You know, they really are taking positions that run contrary to anything I’ve ever heard you identify with.” There. Enough to provoke him? She wasn’t about to let him off that easily and she figured he expected it of her anyway.
“Hardly.”
You still refuse to engage. I’ll not be sloughed off. “Hardly? You family’s not fit to be the steward of Islam’s holiest sites? They won’t recognize the Saudi government as valid?”
“They never said that.”
“They stopped just short of it. What’s got into you? Why listen to them?”
Ibrahim sighed. “I’m going to be one of the leaders of Saudi Arabia one day,” he said. “Exposure to the ideas of our constituents is healthy. There’s nothing wrong with challenging the conventions of our own thinking.” He leaned down at her now, Sasha thinking she couldn’t imagine a more arrogant posture.
I hate it when you adopt that long-suffering paternalistic tone with me. She thought of mimicking his pose, showing him how ridiculous he looked, but realized he either wouldn’t understand or would become completely inflamed. “Nothing is wrong with a dialog. But I’m afraid they’re using you as a shill to co-opt others to their views. Making you into some kind of trophy so they can say ‘see, look who is with us’ to the people who follow them.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? What would your father say if he knew you were agreeing with a bunch of tripe challenging your own family’s convictions, their religion, their—”
“Who are you to talk about my religion?” he cut her off.
Good. That got your attention, finally. Before she’d wanted to grab him by his hair and force him to listen. But now she knew she had him. She’d drive it in a little more. “I dare say I know almost as much about it as you do. I’ve certainly spent more time on the teachings than you have over the last year and a half.”
“Oh, I forgot you were a Koranic scholar.” His sarcasm rolled off the balcony. “And you know as much as I about Saudi politics, and my family, I suppose?”
Well at least he’s engaged now, even if he’s being a bloody, ignorant boor. She lowered her eyes to show him she was contrite, that she wouldn’t challenge him completely. You’re really not that hard to figure out, Ibrahim. “I’m only asking you what’s going on,” she said.
“What’s going on is I am becoming ready for my role in the future of Saudi Arabia.”
Her own anger rose. “How can you say that if you’re agreeing with people who are questioning the very validity of your family’s rule? These people are poison. They’re threatening your family, your religious values, and you don’t even see it.”
“What on earth are you prattling on about, woman?”
Prattling! Woman! She felt her face beginning to flush. “Your need for recognition, to make a name for yourself, has gotten the better of you! These people are fundamentalist extremists, and you’re letting them drag you around like their trained monkey! You seem to forget you’re one of the royals!” She saw his face and regretted it. Uh oh, there he goes.
He grasped the handrail. “I’ve never forgotten who I am! It’s you who seem to forget who you are, concubine! Now shut your mouth or consider the consequences! You can be shipped off to wherever you came from just as easily as my father brought you here in the first place!”
Sasha felt the words strike her as if he’d spat on her. Her mind tried to catch up with the whirl of emotions that stirred in her, sort through the thoughts that now came rushing, almost two years of them, reality pushing through the notion she had created—had she created it?—that she was part of this family, a member of the Saudi elite. Now she had it thrown at her that he could discard her like his used laundry. A man who didn’t even understand what the concept of laundry was, who didn’t know what happened to his clothing after he left it crumpled on the floor. Her brain caught up with her. She stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. Oh, Ibrahim. How can you? After I picked you up and straightened you out. “I don’t deserve to be spoken to that way,” she said. “I’ve done nothing to deserve your disrespect.”
He looked down at her, and she saw the anger flow from his face. He seemed to be reading her thoughts. He showed gentleness, then—was it possible?—shame? He descended the stairs and walked over to her in silence, picking up a dress. She tried it on, saw he didn’t like it, and removed it.
He put his hands on her shoulders, caressed her and kissed her neck. “Sometimes you’re not capable of understanding what you are asking me about,” he said softly. Then: “I like that one.” He pointed at a dress on the sofa. “But I think it would look better on you without this.” He unhooked her bra, removed it and turned her around to face him. “And you won’t need this,” he said, sliding her garter belt down to the floor. He held it while she stepped out of it. Then he helped her step into the dress, slid the straps onto her shoulders, turned her around, and zipped it up.
She guessed Ibrahim figured the argument had ended, he doing his princely best to appeal to her and she accepting that his words were just so much detritus from a momentary spat. Just like him. But he’d soiled their intimacy and there was now no way to deceive herself into putting it back. Time to get out. Then she thought of Yassar, and knew she couldn’t leave without making sure he was aware, probably before Ibrahim was consciously knowledgeable of it himself, that the son was choosing sides against his father. She remembered Nigel Benthurst’s words about Ibrahim’s new friends: they’re dangerous. Concern for Yassar now replaced the disgust she felt for the man standing in front of her. Yes, Yas
sar must learn of this. From her.
BOOK 3
CHAPTER 17
AUGUST, THIS YEAR. NEW YORK City. The stale remnants of the sandwich Daniel ate for dinner and the soggy fries he left untouched lent an aroma to his office akin to the conference room for the last week. Yassar’s demanding and sharp as hell. I need to be on point. The words he’d used to spur himself all week blended together as a mantra in his brain. That and twenty-five percent of the fees. He hunched over a draft presentation of six refining and marketing acquisition targets he and his team were preparing for his meeting with Prince Yassar in Vienna. His neck was crimped from being in the same position. Or is it from tension? He noted the time on his watch. 10:30. With relief he reflected on the fact that Lydia hadn’t intruded on his train of thought for hours.
His three colleagues perched on the edges of their seats across his desk from him, their own faces buried in the presentation. Walter Purcell—the Vice President—and Steven Pace—the Associate—both showed signs of the extended push to finish the project—ties and shirt collars open at the neck, tousled hair and rolled up sleeves. Daniel was still crisply starched although he knew his eyes must be betraying reddish signs of fatigue. And his movements were jerky with stress.
Eyes downcast, rigid and unsmiling, Daniel continued perusing his copy of the presentation. The two subordinates exchanged sideways glances as Daniel neared the last page. They’d been this close before over the last few days, only to be thrust back into another draft.
Daniel exhaled and sat back in his chair, cracking his neck from side to side. “I’d say we’re looking good, fellows. Nice job.” Purcell smiled and relaxed his shoulders. Pace shifted in his seat and stretched his arms over his head. “How long will it take you to turn these new comments?”
“One, maybe two hours.” Purcell said.
Daniel nodded. The two stood and left.