by David Poyer
“I only want to ask some questions.”
“Wonderful, but please don’t anger him. I’ve spent months building a relationship. I wouldn’t care to have all that work lost.”
“Relax, Harry. I’ll try not to commit any incredible gaucheries. But he can’t live in a rose garden. There are realities out there, and if he won’t face them, we have to force him to.”
Shaw, frowning, had almost computed his reply when a murmur of voices neared.
The minister and the doctor turned out to be short, chubby, middle-aged men with King Fahd-style goatees. They both were wearing blue suits and she could see immediately that sometime tonight she was going to call one of them by the other’s name. The poet was wearing a red tie, the defense minister, blue. She hoped she could remember that.
“Come, let’s eat,” said Ismail, smiling.
The table was set for five but there was food for three times that number. Stuffed pigeons, turkey, beef and lamb pies, salad, broiled mutton, lamb with rice, dates, and innumerable dishes of sweet pastries and cakes, the courses kept coming, borne in relays by silent servers, supervised by the butler. She watched the others for any little points of usage, but save for using the fork in the continental manner, and the fact that all the utensils were gold, there was no difference from any other diplomatic dinner. However, there was almost no talking. The poet neglected the silverware; he wolfed his food, getting his fingers and tie greasy as he dipped into dish after dish. Now that she was closer to him, she could see that he was older than she’d thought, his little goat’s beard streaked with gray.
When the prince leaned back and said “Bismillah,” it seemed to be a signal. She placed her fork carefully on the last dish, feeling stuffed. Then she jumped as Shaw, beside her, belched loudly. “Bismillah,” he said.
“Bismillah,” Blair said. She wasn’t about to belch, though she remembered now that was good form; but she managed a small burp.
The defense minister excused himself for eating so little; it was, he said sadly, his ulcer. The poet looked startled to find the others were done. His eyes followed the dishes as they were whisked away.
A servant, a veiled woman, brought towels, soap, and water. Blair followed the lead of the Arabs and washed. After, not before the meal, but after watching Ibn Ubaiyidh she understood why. As the woman poured cologne over her hands, Blair tried to catch her eyes. But there seemed to be a veil over them, too.
“It’s growing dark,” said the prince at last. “We faithful will excuse ourselves now for a moment, if you don’t mind. If you’ll go inside, we’ll join you for coffee.”
As they rose, she saw the servants spreading prayer rugs on the flagstones.
The butler showed them to divans around a low table, so deeply lacquered she could see her face not reflected but preserved deep within it, like a Sleeping Beauty entombed in amber. The others came in perhaps ten minutes later. The chat stayed light till the same woman brought in the coffee tray. Blair wondered whether this was one of his wives, but decided not to ask. “Coffee and oil, Arabia’s two great gifts to the world,” rumbled Ibn Ubaiyidh, startling her; it was the first sentence he’d spoken.
“I didn’t know coffee was Arabic.”
“Of course it is. Quawha; it reached your language through the Italian. Very interesting history. We found that chewing the bean helped us stay awake during long hours in the mosque.”
“The doctor is a learned man,” said Ismail. Blair couldn’t tell what he meant by that—sarcasm, respect, or just his smooth politeness. She tried to cover all the possibilities by saying, “His Highness tells me you’re Arabia’s most famous poet. Unfortunately, I’ve read none of your work—”
“Oh, hardly the most famous.” Ibn Ubaiyidh wobbled his jowls, laughing silently. “But as you’ve been so kind as to ask, I was playing with one during dinner. I’ve never worked in English, so you must not laugh.”
“I won’t.”
The old man looked directly at her, and chanted: “With alabaster throat and rising breasts, her hair shines more gold than gold; like the rays of sun are her hair. Her hands are the cups of river lotus. With narrow waist she, whose thighs dispute each other’s beauty, steals my heart when she walks into the house of my Prince. All men turn their heads to watch this unveiled houri, and I, old past the season of love, burn with desire like a boy of twelve.”
They were all looking at her. She felt her cheeks heat, whether in a blush or annoyance, she wasn’t really sure. For a moment she trembled on the verge of rage. She took a deep breath, controlling her voice. “It’s … very beautiful.”
“Mashkuwr; but it would sound better in Arabic, I assure you. Did you know that God speaks Arabic, Ms. Titus?”
“Perhaps that’s why I don’t understand Him very well.”
The Arabs all stared at her, Nawwab narrowing his gaze suspiciously. Shaw broke a tense moment by slurping his coffee. She followed suit. It was strong, bitter, and she decided the quarter cup she’d been served was quite enough. She shook it—that was the signal that you were done—and set it down.
“Now,” she said, “About this matter of basing our ships—”
Shaw choked. The defense minister looked pained. The prince, though, simply said, “We’ve been through this matter at length with Mr. Shaw. Several times, in fact, with him and with his respected predecessor.”
“I understand that. But matters have changed since then—”
The sad-eyed minister murmured to the veiled woman. She nodded and left, returning a moment later with something milky in a tall glass. “Shukran,” he said loudly, and began gulping it.
“We don’t think they’ve changed,” said Ismail, as if that ended the discussion. After a moment, he added, “Our policy, that of the Gulf Coordinating Council and the Saudi Government, is that our navies will cooperate with yours in pursuit of common objectives in the Gulf and Arabian Sea. Mr. Nawwab assures me this policy is being carried out. The surveillance data from the AWACs aircraft that you so kindly sold us, after two full years of pleading with Congress, is being shared with your ships. And we are happy to provide fueling facilities. It seems to me that we have reached a satisfactory balance of responsibilities.”
“Senator Talmadge helped consummate that sale,” murmured Shaw, almost too low to hear.
“We appreciated his assistance. But bases—that’s out of the question. I hate to put things so bluntly, but I know Americans are impatient.” He smiled at her. “You don’t care for our coffee? I have tea coming, or we could serve you a lemon Pepsi.”
“I’d like some more,” said Shaw. His foot prodded her under the table.
She ignored it, and the offer of beverages. “It’s not a satisfactory state of affairs.”
“The Holy Qur’an says, ‘Fight in the way of Allah against those who attack you; but begin not hostilities. Allah loveth not aggressors,’” rumbled the poet.
Ismail said, “What I believe the doctor means, Ms. Titus, is that we Saudis are a peace-loving people. Once the differences between our brothers are settled, we want to see the Gulf become a sea of peace. We have no intention of allowing it to become another arena of superpower rivalry. The British have left. We have no desire to see America, or any other external power, established in their place.”
“What about Iran?”
“Pardon me, but Iran borders the Gulf. We don’t see eye to eye with the current regime in that unhappy country, but they belong here in a way that America, however regrettably, does not.”
Blair watched his hands flutter, then flatten themselves softly on the lacquered darkness. The effort of restraining herself was giving her a headache. She squeezed a last reserve of reasonableness into her voice. “We’re not talking about a permanent base, Prince! Listen. Here is the situation. It is extremely expensive for us to maintain such a large naval force so far from home without facilities for repair, overhaul, and liberty. Every six months, we have to rotate ships nine thousand miles back to the Uni
ted States. The senator is asking, Can we reduce this expenditure? Could we work out a way to base a squadron from, say, Jubail or Dhahran?”
Nawwab murmured something. Ismail said, with a hint of annoyance, “Say it to her. I’m not your translator.”
“You have Bahrain,” said the minister.
“We have part-time use of one pier. That’s not enough. Frankly, if we can’t reduce the cost of our deployments, or scale back the number of ships we send, we may have to end our escort and patrol program.”
The prince shrugged. “I would personally regret that very much. We have evolved such a close partnership, such good relations. We’ve bought most of our ships from you; your Navy has trained ours. Nevertheless, if we were forced to look elsewhere, we would, of course, do so. Perhaps some other maritime power might be willing to undertake a guarantee.”
He meant the Soviet Union. She’d expected it sooner or later. She also knew it was a bluff. There was no way the Saudi ruling house would invite the Soviets in. So she said, “Let’s be reasonable, Your Highness. We are providing protection for trade. For Kuwaiti ships directly; for yours indirectly, but nonetheless effectively. We don’t want to maintain our forces where they aren’t welcome. But neither can we undertake to support allies who aren’t willing to cooperate in their defense.”
“Most of this trade is oil,” said Nawwab. “Let us look at it in economic terms. If it is interrupted, the price goes up. We can ship overland to the Red Sea and Mediterranean with the new pipelines. The West, Japan, and the southern emirates may suffer, but we won’t. Our total income might rise. Why don’t you ask the Japanese to pay some of your expenses? That would be more rational.”
Ismail said, “Let me also point out, Miss Titus, that your Congress, too, wants to have things both ways. They sold us AWACs, but they refused to sell us modern fighters.”
“That’s a side issue. And you know why the F-18 sale fell through. Because they might be used against Israel.”
“Exactly … though I would say, against the illegal state in Palestine. But we have offered guarantees against that, and still you refuse. If we had modern weaponry, we could protect our own trade, could we not? So who is being unreasonable?”
“We have no wish to be drawn into Middle Eastern wars. We worry that our military people may … that we may be drawn into war with Iran.”
“Nor do we want you to be. That would be a disaster for all concerned. Obviously, we trust that your people will behave with restraint.
“However, the temporary introduction of American sea-power is a useful buffer, I admit that. Let’s say this”—Ismail hesitated, looking, for some reason, at Ibn Ubaiyidh—“if the maintenance work truly cannot be done in Dhubai or Bahrain, I will undertake to persuade the government to offer you the use of the Saudi naval facility at Ar Ruways. However! There must be no liberty of American personnel beyond the gates of the yard.”
“I’m not familiar with that base. What type of ship—”
The prince fluttered his fingers in irritation. “You will have to discuss the details with the Minister.”
“I see,” she said. “Well … I will. Then there’s one other thing that Senator Talmadge asked me to raise with you.”
“I am at your disposal,” said the Saudi, but he no longer sounded quite so courteous as he had.
“That’s the matter of Robert Patterson.”
“Robert Patterson … I know no Pattersons. Do I?”
“He’s a constituent of the senator’s. Mr. Patterson was employed as a building inspector in the new hospital program. About a year ago, he noticed irregularities in the way anesthetic and oxygen lines were being installed. The valves were confusingly placed, so that the wrong gases might be administered.”
The ambassador said, “Blair, there are people down the line we can take this up with. Really, the prince is not—”
“Excuse me, Harrison, I’m not done. He reported this. He was immediately arrested, held without charges for three months, and suffered broken knees and back injuries while in custody. He was released and repatriated and is now pressing a suit for damages.”
Ismail said distantly, “I have told you already, I know no Robert Patterson. As Mr. Shaw has said, perhaps you should pursue your investigations regarding him elsewhere—say at the Ministry of Health.”
He rose abruptly and clapped his hands. The woman, who must have been waiting just outside, came in with a smoking censer. The dark sweetness of incense permeated the room. The others had risen with the prince. One by one, they wafted the cloying smoke into their beards, hair, and clothes.
That, apparently, was the signal for the end of the audience. Ismail escorted them to the door and followed them out to the car.
Outside, it had become dark. She shivered in the sudden, unexpected chill of the Arab night. There was no more mention of riding afternoons. He kissed her hand briefly, bowed himself away, then turned and disappeared. “That’s unlike him,” said Shaw, frowning, as they got in. “He usually waits till I’m out of the driveway. You upset him. You were invited here as a guest. I’d hoped you wouldn’t do that.”
“You think I was too blunt.”
“Damn it, Blair! Nobody talks to a member of the ruling family like that. Much less, a woman. You can’t jump in here and in one day force them to make a commitment they obviously don’t want to make. Most likely, given their domestic situation, they can’t make.”
“It was necessary. I had to find out how serious they were.”
“You mean my reports aren’t enough? Or is it just that Congress doesn’t bother to read anything State generates?”
Blair said patiently, “Your reports are fine, Harry, and I read them all. But I have my orders from Bankey: independent investigation. All right? Anyway, we got something out of him. Ar Ruways.”
“Yes, that’s a real breakthrough, all right. That channel’s only twelve feet deep. We can’t get warships in there. It’s a patrol-boat base.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I told you you wouldn’t get anything out of Ismail. And—God damn it, why did you bring up that Patterson nonsense? We can’t meddle in their internal affairs. Now I’ll have to apologize for you.”
She didn’t want to say it, but he had laid himself out arranging the dinner. “I’m sorry, Harry.”
“You’re asking Ismail for something he just can’t do, Blair.” He glanced through the glass at the chauffeur. “You must know that. Congress has to know that. I know this isn’t your doing, but they act as if the Saudis don’t want to help us. It’s not that; they can’t.”
“Of course they can.”
“Never. They’re too unstable. The GCC regimes are medieval autocracies trying to keep the lid on all the problems of the twentieth century. Expatriate labor, minorities, internal factions—as long as there’s prosperity and relative peace, the emirs and kings can play them off against the others and stay in power. But a war, a defeat? There’d be a coup in days. Even a victory would be dangerous; it’d encourage the military to take over. Their only hope is American protection. Unfortunately, the Shi’a minority is so large that they can’t even ask for that overtly.” Shaw shook his head. “Ismail’s a worried man. I’m glad I’m not in his shoes.”
Blair thought about apologizing again, then thought, Forget it. Once was enough. “I find it hard to feel sorry for him,” she said. “For a palace like that, I could accept a little mental strain.”
“You may be right, may be right. Well … where do you go from here?”
“Back to Bahrain. I’ve arranged to look at some of our ships.”
“Arranged with whom? Stan Hart?”
“Yes.”
Shaw was silent then. He looked out at the passing night-lit highways, the wide lanes of new concrete, empty save for an occasional Caprice or Mercedes. Finally, he said, “This proposal, this initiative I guess, to invoke the War Powers Act … how serious is Talmadge about it?”
“He’s serious. Not com
mitted, but he’s considering it.”
“I think it would be a mistake. I’m not a fan of military intervention. But we’ve committed ourselves out here, Blair. It would look very bad to the Saudis if we backed out. They’d be okay till the war ended, probably, but then they’d have to reach some understanding with the winner. Be that Iraq or Iran, the result would be a tilt against the West, higher prices, undependable supplies. Not to mention our loss of face as a dependable ally. Just when we’ve recovered from our lousy performance with the Shah.”
“Slight correction, Harry: the administration has committed us. Not Congress. We’re not in business to keep the Saudis happy, whatever they, or State, may think. That fighter deal Ismail referred to—there are important interests in Congress opposed to letting them have long-range arms like that.”
“They’ll just buy them from France. Or Britain. There’s a British Aerospace team here now trying to sell them Tornados. That could be twenty, thirty billion dollars over the next ten years.…”
He went on, but she had stopped listening. It was true that American influence was limited. But decisions had to be made. Piecemeal commitment was a favorite tactic of the Executive. If the policy was wrong, this was the time to step in, before annoyance raids and reprisals degenerated into war. Only when the tone of his voice changed did she tune back in. “Anyway, I’ll get it patched up. What do you say to a late drink?”
She was suddenly tired. Of the prince, of the leering old poet, of Shaw’s polished urbanity. She was tired of men. “Thanks, but I’d rather just turn in.”
“As you wish,” said the ambassador, his voice cold now. Nor did another word pass between them for the rest of the trip.
12
U.S.S. Audacity
TWO hundred miles south of the Azores, a thousand west of Gibraltar, surrounded by a heaving waste of gray sea beneath gray sky, John Gordon, his shorts and bare chest wet with sweat and spray, dug his fingers into wood and grunted his trembling legs into the air again. Then he scissored them open and closed to Maudit’s bawl: “One, two, t’ree … two, two, t’ree … t’ree, two, t’ree.…”