Florence of Arabia

by Christopher Buckley

  Not desiring to prolong the duke's distress, the Indubitable's commanding officer, Admiral Sir Knatchbull Cavendish-Hump, ordered the commencement of the nineteen-gun salute. The gunner's male mistakenly loaded a live round, which landed in the Dismalya Quarter, ever after nicknamed "Dismal Street."

  The episode provoked a full-fledged nervous breakdown in the duke, who was taken below and not seen on deck until the ship reached Aden. A condolence fund was established for the family of the bereaved, and for the building of a vocational school, which still bears the plaque commemorating "the historic bond and comity between Great Britain and the Royal Emirate of Matar."

  The old-timers on Randolph Churchill Street, along Amo's harbor front, sipping mint tea and smoking their noon pipes of qoosh, the mildly narcotic herb mixed with tobacco, remarked that this explosion had reminded them of that day back in 1936 when the future king visited.

  No one was killed this time. God be praised. A miracle, it was said. The explosive was in an SUV parked at the intersection of Charlwell and Marlborough streets. It disintegrated into ten thousand pieces, but the blast acted as a propellant for a nearby car. Witnesses watched the vehicle loft hundreds of yards into the air and then make a graceful parabolic descent through the roof of St. Margaret-in-the-Marsh Anglican Church. Had Deacon Whitcomb been less ginger, the event might well have ended in tragedy.

  Naturally, the incident caused intense speculation in the cafes of Amo-Amas. those hatcheries of Matari gossip. Had the blast been directed precisely at St. Margaret's? And if so, was this the opening salvo in a jihad? And if so, why the Anglicans? Could it be a reaction against the recent ordination of the transgendered bishop of Leeds? True enough, the event had not gone down well among the more conservative element in the far reaches of the Anglican communion. Taking no chances, Whitehall announced that it was dispatching a team of forensic experts to "assist" the Matari authorities in their investigation. Al Matar called the episode a "wake-up call." while acknowledging that it was unclear who exactly was supposed to wake up.

  Meanwhile, Maliq, now preaching daily from the pulpit of his new madrassa, where students memorized the Holy Koran while learning how to service race cars, denounced the bombing as the work of "foreign blasphemers who have been allowed to defile Matar's holy soil." This was a clear shot at the palace. The emir was not pleased.

  "There's never been anything holy about Matar's soil." Laila said to Florence. "But it is getting rather messy. I don't suppose you know anything about this?"

  "Of course not." It had the advantage of being true. "Only asking. You sound offended."

  "Why would I know something about a bomb blast in downtown Amo?"

  "Darling. I'm simply saying that things were rather more quiet in Matar until you and your entourage arrived. We used to be the Switzerland of the Gulf. It's starting to look more like Baghdad. Gazzy's in a slink. He's on his way back from Um-beseir, which always puts him in a foul mood. I overheard his man Fetish talking about a four o'clock appointment Gazzy has today with Valmar, the French ambassador."

  "Oh?" Florence said, trying not to sound too interested.

  "Maybe he has a question about what wine to serve with which mistress. Change of subject. Darling, they're starting to ask me rather pointed questions about your Mr. Thibodeaux. I do think it would make sense if he returned from this urgent family business that seems to be occupying his time. They want to ask him some questions."

  "About the shooting? Why would he know anything about that?"

  "Just mention it if you speak to him."

  Florence shrugged. "Sure."

  SHORTLY BEFORE: SIX O'CLOCK that afternoon, Florence's office door opened to reveal an unhappy-looking Fetish, accompanied by two men of the royal household whom Florence recognized as members of the royal bodyguard.

  Fetish dispensed with the usual bowing and scraping. He was in a bad mood for two reasons: die grouchiness of his emir, and having to depart Um-beseir. Fetish liked Um-beseir almost as much as the emir, for the reason that he was enjoying a little liaison on the side with the new talent from Paris, Annabelle. Dangerous, to be sure, but well worth it.

  Florence was wanted by the emir. "Right now."

  It was while she was sitting in the back of the sedan, the glum Fetish in the front passenger seat, that Florence's secure cell phone rang. She answered, and on the other end, she heard the welcome if problematic voice of Bobby.

  "Why. Dad," she said, "how are you? I'm sitting here with Sharif Fetish.

  We're on our way to see the emir. In the palace. Isn't it exciting? How's Mom? Is she feeling better?"

  "The car bomb," Bobby said. "It was the Frogs."

  "Really? Isn't that wonderful. Is she being nice to the nurses?"

  "I'm on my way back there."

  "No, no. I don't think it's a good idea to move her right now." "I'll be in touch."

  "Bo—" she caught herself. "Bye." She said to Fetish. "My mother. She's in the hospital. She's doing better." Fetish accepted this tiding without emotion. Florence added under her breath, "Thought you'd want to know."

  LAILA WAS IN the emir's office when Florence arrived. The air in the room had the distinct aroma of a recent argument.

  "Leave us," the emir said to Fetish and various attendants.

  "Florence," Laila said, "the emir has just—"

  "I will conduct this audience, thank you. just because you two are broadcasting over my airwaves does not mean that I will be pre-empted in my own tent." "Darling, no one is trying to 'pre-empt' you."

  "Never mind, 'darling.' Now, Florence, certain allegations are being made. I shall pay you the courtesy of repeating them to you directly." "Yes, my lord."

  "And never mind 'my lord.' Don't think you two fool me with these flatteries. You may spin your spiderwebs, but I am no insect. Now. I'm going to ask you straightforwardly. Are you making love with my wife?"

  "Gaz." Laila said, "really, this is too mortifying."

  "Let her answer."

  In the car on the way. Florence had rehearsed answers to "Are you with the CIA?" This question she had not anticipated "Well, no. Since you ask." "There's talk. Talk about the two of you." "Talk from who? Who has told you this nonsense?" Laila said. "It is enough that it is being said."

  "A fine standard!" I.aila said.

  "Never mind standards. A rumor is circulating that my wile—the sheika—is having a thing with another woman! It's demeaning. An affront to the manhood."

  "Darling. I shouldn't think your manhood is in any question whatsoever, given the workout it's been getting."

  "Woman, you vex me!"

  Florence said, "May I show Your Majesty a news article that appeared yesterday in Al Matar? It concerns this mutter—matter—of your dignity." She produced a folder from her briefcase and presented it to him. I le took it grumpily and read. The headline said:

  EMIR IS GUIDING FORCE BEHIND TV MATAR

  According to those in the know in Amo-Amas. it is the emir Gazzir Bin Haz himself, and not the sheika Laila, who has guided TV Matar from its inception.

  "It is from his vision that the programs stem," says this person. "Gazzir brilliantly understands the power of the medium, and is using it to transform the Arab world and to bring it into harmony with modernity, while preserving what is fundamental in our rich religion and culture. To be sure, this will earn him enemies, but worthy ones, and no leader can be called great who does not have great enemies. In this sense, Gazzir can be called 'the New Nasser' or, what with the current crusades being mounted against Islam by the United States and England, 'the New Saladin.'"

  The story had been written by Rick, translated into Arabic by George, and placed in Al Matar by Bobby. "Hmm," the emir said.

  "Keep reading." Florence said. "There's a paragraph about Laila."

  Though Sheika Laila is the nominal head of TV Matar, she gives full credit to her husband for conceiving and implementing the revolutionary broadcasts.

  "The emir." she said in a te
lephone interview, "is a visionary. For him there is no present, only the nature. As head of state, he is immersed in the thousand and one details of governing his country. It's true that I had some minor experience in broadcasting, so it was only natural that he would ask me to help him. But from beginning to end, TV Matar is the emir's achievement."

  "You said this?" the emir asked. "It's there in black and white."

  'What are you two she-devils up to? I demand to know."

  "Helping you become the New Saladin." said Laila. "But if you'd rather just go down in history as another rich Gulf emir, say the word. It's up to you."

  The emir looked at Florence. "Is this true?"

  "If greatness is being thrust upon you. sire, why fight it?"

  The emir stroked his goatee. "I had a telephone call from Kamar ak-Zaman this morning. He's secretary of the Arab League."

  "Oh?" Laila said.

  "They want me lo address the conference. In Bahrain. Next week."

  "Thais marvelous, darling! They've never asked you before."

  "Sire." Florence said, "this is truly wonderful news. And yet I fear that your absence from the country at such a time might prove ... irresistible to certain elements."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, sire, that your brother Maliq might seize the opportunity of your absence to move against you."

  The emir stared at Florence for a second and then laughed. "Maliq? Depose me? Please."

  "Consider." Florence said. "Your brother goes from being a race-car driver to a raving ayatollah in less lime that it takes to accelerate from zero to sixty miles an hour. Suddenly, all your moolahs are preaching that you are corrupt—I'm not saying they're right, mind you. Then the French ambassador tells you that your wife and I are having a lesbian affair."

  The emir recoiled. "How did you know that?"

  "Simple deduction. Your Majesty. You met with him and summoned me and confronted us with this canard. Which it is. Meanwhile, the Wasabis have put their military on alert and are flying fighter jets along the border. A car bomb goes off in downtown Amo. And now you're being lured—invited—out of the country. Call me paranoid, but it has all the elements of a coup in the offing. By the way. you might ask M. Valmar, the next time he comes in to relay rumors about your wife and me, whether any of his staff at the embassy here are explosives experts."

  "What are you saying? The French set off the bomb?"

  "Your brother and the French do get along very well."

  The emir turned lo his wife.

  "It's all rather more interesting than presiding over the Switzerland of the Gulf, if you ask me," Laila said. "Florence may well be right. You don't have logo address the conference. You can be the New Saladin right here at home and go on getting richer off the advertising revenue. Saladin never had numbers like these. And there's this: Do you realize how long it has been since an Arab country put something on the table other than self-pity, denial, finger-pointing and suicide bombers? For the first time in centuries, an Arab country is generating income not from oil but from an idea. In this case, that women might just have something to contribute to civilization other than their vaginas. Don't you see what's happening? You could be the Arab leader to lake the Middle Bast out of the Middle Ages! And you greet this opportunity that has landed in your lap like a plump fig by wringing your hands and accusing us of being a pair of Sapphos?"

  "Clap, clap." said the emir. "What a pretty speech." He turned back to Florence. "You think King Tallulah is involved in this so-called plot against me? He is flying his fighter jets along mv border. Back and forth, day and night. The desert roars with the sound of his engines. All because of your television station."

  "1 don't know, sire. But historically Wasabia has yearned for a coastline."

  "Would the Americans permit such a thing?"

  "I can't speak for the US. government. It's true that there are more American and British warships off your coast than there are fish But after the way things have been going, it's possible that they might not be so anxious to intervene militarilv."

  The emir considered. "Why then would the French ambassador come in and tell me that the Americans want to overthrow me?"

  "I must say" Laila said, "M. Valmar had all sorts of things on his mind today, didn't he? He told you that?"

  "He told me that Florence is a CIA spy who was sent here to undermine my regime."

  "By making you rich and the New Saladin—the moral leader of the Arab world? That's some undermining."

  "Are you a spy, Florence?" the emir asked.

  "Don't you think you've accused Florence of enough for one day?" Laila interjected.

  "No," Florence said. "I'm not a spy."

  The emir didn't look especially convinced, though at this point, his head was spinning. "But why would Valmar have told me that he was concerned about the possibility of conflict between Matar and Wasabia?" he said.

  "Who knows, darling? Maybe he wants you to buy some French fighter jets. Did that subject happen to come up?"

  "He mentioned ... something."

  "So."

  "Whatever the case, from now on, I don't want the two of you going about in public together. It would only cause talk." "Ridiculous," Laila said.

  "I'm the emir. I have to think about the dignity of Matar. Now you both may leave us. We have a headache."

  "DIGNITY OF MATAR,'" Laila said to Florence outside the office. "The three most preposterous words in the English language. I'm sorry, darling. Looks like we won't be having any more mad, passionate sex. But if the dignity of Matar is at stake, what can one do? Honestly."

  Florence was thinking about the concept of sexual abstinence. "Let me try something out on you," she said. "In case we want to take this to the next level."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The text message on Florence's secure BlackBerry said. "Blenheim Beach 2250 hours."

  Blenheim Beach was an hour's drive south of Amo-Amas. A travel magazine had once named it one of the ten most beautiful beaches in the world. It had not gone on to become one of the world's most popular beaches, owing to the fact that it was the spawning ground for the banded sea krail, one of the world's prettiest and most deadly snakes. Before being renamed for Winston Churchill's illustrious ancestor, the area had been known as Noosh al Zhikh-ir, or Eve's Lagoon. Local legend said it was the site of the Garden of Eden.

  Florence sat in her parked car looking out on the empty beach and the moonless night. She felt very exposed here. She'd taken pains to make sure she had not been followed. She was tired, her nerves jazzed from caffeine and adrenaline. The inside of her head felt like a ball of crumpled aluminum foil. She wanted to be home in Foggy Bottom, in a hot bubble bath, not on a stretch of sand wriggly with venomous snakes.

  At a quarter to eleven, she got out of the car and walked to the water's edge, keeping an eye out for slithering things. Presently, she heard the sound of an outboard motor. She signaled with her flashlight. The signal was returned. She could not make it out until it was almost ashore: a swift inflatable boat, three men with blackened faces holding automatic weapons. A figure with an unblackened face jumped olf the bow of the boat and approached. "Bit dramatic, isn't it?" she said.

  "All the flights were booked." Bobby said. He turned to the men in the boat. "Thank you. gentlemen. My compliments to the captain."

  'The boat backed into the surf, turned and buzzed off into the darkness.

  "Man, the size of these submarines today. Had a whole room to myself. In the old days, they'd have you sleepin' inside a torpedo tube. How you been. I've missed you."

  Something about him seemed different. It wasn't until they were inside the car with the interior light on that she realized just how different he was. His short blond hair was now black, long and tied at the back in a pony tail. He also had a mustache. He grinned at her. "Say hello to Willie G Underwood." The southern accent was gone, replaced with a western twang. "Reno. Nevada. Damn pleased to meet you. My card."

&n
bsp; JACKPOTS INTERNATIONAL GAMING CONSULTANTS

  "Our Dice Arc Always Hot."

  "And what fresh hell is this?" Florence said.

  "Slot-machine repairman! We don't call ourselves that. We prefer the term 'reward adjustment specialist.' We service the big machines, your Trump 7600 or the Bugsy 1200—the monster slots that pay half or a million bucks. The ones with whistles and sirens—Weeoouoo! We have a winnerrrrrrr' Why risk making some Dutch cigar salesman a millionaire, right? You with me?"

  "Why, indeed."

  "You mad at me or somethin'?" He lapsed back into his Alabama accent. "I've been getting a lot of questions about you. Even Laila. Someone lingered you."

  "Figured. That's why I'm here to fix slot machines. You got to blend in this business. It's all about blending." "Where are you staving?" "I'm booked into the Aladdin, on Infidel Land."

  "You'll certainly blend there."

  "I’ll really want to blend, maybe 1 should order up a couple Russian hookers. I'm startin' to like this assignment. You look beat. Flo."

  "'The reason I look 'beat' is that I've been getting visits in the middle of the night from police looking for you."

  "Sorry ‘bout that. But they're about to have bigger things to worry about than a little shootout in a garage."

  "What are you planning to do?"

  "Gonna refocus the energy around here. I see our friend Maliq has become quite the religious leader."

  "Yes, and he's been doing a lot of preaching lately. Whipping up the moolahs."

  "That happens when a man gets religion, puts aside his sinful past." Bobby mused. "Most of the founders of your major world religions were playboys of some kind before they found God. Then one day they hear this voice, and there's a flash of blindin' light, and the next thing you know, the hallelujah chorus is singin' and they've got a billion followers. When you think about it, Jesus was really the only one who founded a religion without first going through a young-'n'-crazy phase. He can't have had that much fun bein' a carpenter.