Florence of Arabia

by Christopher Buckley

  "Oh dear," Fatima said. "And I thought we were doing such a jolly good job."

  "I thought so, too. I should tell you something else. Reporting this story won't make you any friends in Wasabia. And the situation here could change. We've stirred up the adder bed. I'll understand if you'd rather not go on the air with this. I could do it myself, but that would give the other side ammunition to use against us."

  Fatima looked at the script. "We can't just let them stone her to death. I'd better hit the phones, see what I can dig up." At the door, she stopped and said, "Whatever happens, good for you, Florence."

  FLORENCE CALLED GEORGE and Rick into her office and shut the door, then raised Bobby on the phone and put him on the speaker.

  "Bobby, I want you to get George and Rick out of the country right away."

  "Why?" After a pause, he said. "I thought you told Uncle Sam you weren't... What's goin' on, Florence?"

  "Bobby, please, just for ten minutes, pretend that you work for me? I want them both out of here tonight. Can you arrange for that water-taxi service of yours?"

  "Aw. hell, girl, 1 can't just order up a nuclear submarine like it's Chinese takeout."

  "Submarine?" George said, paling. "Stop right there. I don't do submarines. I'm claustrophobic."

  "It's a big submarine, George," Florence said.

  "It would have to be as big as the Queen Mary 2 and Stav on top of the water."

  "George," Florence said sternly, "twelve hours from now, the most beautiful sight in the world to you might just be the conning tower of a U.S. fucking submarine. Bobby?"

  "What?"

  "Get them out of here. Sub. camel, hot-air balloon. I don't care. This is a high-priority exfiltration. All right? Can I count on you? Hello. Bobby?"

  "I'm here, goddammit." After a few moments, his voice came back over the speaker. "You boys there?"

  "We're here," Rick said, speaking for the stricken-looking George, who had clearly begun running the horror movie in his mind, starring himself, descending the ladder deeper, deeper...

  "Okay, listen up. You know the Cafe Winston, on the Esplanade by the open-air fish restaurant? It's three-fifteen now. Be there in one hour. No later, understand? Do not go to your apartments. Do not take anything from the office with you. Just walk out the front door. Leave separately, ten minutes apart. Each of you carry a newspaper or magazine under your arm. It'll make you look casual. Walk, don't run. Don't look over your shoulder. If you see someone followin' you, it's probably one of my people. Everything will be fine. When you get to the cafe, order a coffee and sit tight. Pay for the coffee when it's put down. Leave a normal tip. You'll see two white Mercedes Amo taxis pull up, a few minutes apart. Each will have a strip of yellow tape on the radio antenna. George, you take the first cab. Renard, the second. Take your newspaper with you. Have you got that? You want me to repeat it?"

  "No, we've got it," Rick said.

  "George, you there?" Bobby said.

  "What?"

  "It's gonna be all right. You're gonna be all right. Do you have some Valium or somethin' on you? Never mind, I'll have some in the cab. You'll be all right. Hey, there's lots of, uh, people like you on subs."

  "Claustrophobes?"

  "No, you know, uh— Never mind, you'll be fine." "Bobby?" Florence said. "What?" be snapped. "Thank vou." Bobby clicked off.

  "I le's not really thrilled with me at the moment." "For God's sakes. what's going on?" George said.

  "You're both going on R and R. You've both done a spectacular job. I'm proud of you." She felt herself choking up but managed to swallow it. "Firenze." George said, "what is going on?"

  "It's about to get messy. I'd rather not have to worry about you two."

  "Hey hold on, I can handle it." Rick said. "You're talking to the man who put on a golf tournament in North Korea with O.J. Simpson."

  "Rick, we're beyond spin. Look, we're about to lose the backing of whoever the hell it was who sent us over here. That makes our situation here, as they say at the old State Department, nonviable. This is when you evacuate non-essential personnel."

  " 'Non-essential'?" Rick said. "Is that what I am?"

  "You're the most brilliant—and twisted—mind in the business. And you're leaving in fifty-five minutes."

  "Why can't we all leave?" George said.

  Florence looked at her two boys. "I'm coming, too. I'll meet you on the beach, but l have to take care of some things."

  They left. On the way out, she heard George telling Rick. "I'm not going on a submarine. There's not enough Valium in the world."

  When they were gone, Florence burst into tears, but, efficient girl that she was. she briskly got it over with and plunged back to work.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Good evening. I'm Falima Sham for TV Matar, and this is the six o'clock report. Princess Hamzin, second wife of King Tallulah of Wasabia, has been sentenced to death by stoning. Her crime: petitioning her husband and his ministers for basic women's rights. 1 spoke this afternoon by telephone with Prince Jerbil al Jakar, minister of Wasabi external affairs."

  A still photograph of the minister appeared on-screen, accompanied by a recording of the telephone conversation.

  "This is a monstrous lie! There is no truth at all to it. It is lies. All lies! Who has told you this terrible lie? Some villain."

  "Will you make the princess available for an interview with us?"

  "The royal household does not give interviews. No, this is a gross provocation. This is an attempt to interfere in our sovereign affairs. This will not succeed. No. no."

  "Can you produce proof that the princess is alive?"

  "Of course she is alive! Everyone is alive! Everyone is happy. Good night to you, madame."

  There followed the sound of a phone being slammed down.

  "That was Prince Jerbil al Jakar, minister of Wasabi external affairs," Fatima continued. "The Wasabi practice when stoning women to death is to match the size of the stones to the severity of the offense. In cases of adultery, small stones are used to prolong the execution. It is not known what size stones might be used on a royal wife for the crime of petitioning to improve the situation of women. I spoke with Grand Mufti Adman Ilkir, one of Wasabia's leading religious authorities."

  The tape rolled. "Grand Mufti Ifkir. thank you for speaking with TV Matar." "Yes, I am here. God be praised."

  "This sounds like a very serious offense Princess Hamzin has committed." "Oh, most serious, most serious. There can be no punishment severe enough."

  "What about stoning? That's pretty severe."

  "Only if you use very small stones."

  "Why not just cut off her head?"

  "No, no, no. That is too quick. Too quick."

  "So what size stones would you recommend?"

  "The smallest, like this. These are the best. Like the ones we throw at Satan in Mecca during the hajj."

  "Those are small. Wouldn't it take a very long time to kill a woman with stones that small?"

  "Yes. That is the point. It's a mercy. It gives her time to repent of her crime."

  "Thank you for taking the time to speak with us."

  "You are welcome."

  Florence said through the intercom into Fatima's earpiece. "That'll get their attention. Good interviews."

  "Florence" said a control-room assistant. "The sheika Laila. Line two." "Christ, Florence," Laila said, "what are you doing?" "What 1 came here to do."

  "Does that include destabilizing the entire region? Giving Wasabia an excuse to invade us? And you, you'll be long gone, won't you? Last seen climbing aboard an American helicopter." She hung up before Florence could answer.

  FLORENCE STAYED AT her post in the control room through the night and into the next morning, monitoring developments. There's no better place, really, to monitor developments. All the world came to her on dozens of screens. On the one in front of her was a grim-looking man identified in the Chyron as PRINCE BAWAD, WASABI FOREIGN MINISTER. Florence watched the h
usband of the late princess Nazrah, whose midnight dash to freedom had set off this chain of events. He looked distinctly unamused as he made his way past a scrum of bawling reporters outside the United Nations. "There is not one word of truth in this libel." He scowled, before disappearing into a limousine, surrounded by nervous security men.

  On another monitor, Florence watched a crowd of women outside the Wasabi embassy in Washington, holding signs saying WASABI PICS and RELEASE PRINCESS HAMZIN.

  Well Nazrah, Florence thought, look what a great fuss you've created.

  Another monitor showed a press briefing in progress at the State Department in Washington.

  "I have nothing for you on this at this point in time," the spokesman said, more lugubriously than usual, to a forest of raised hands in front of him.

  "Has the secretary spoken with the Wasabis about this?"

  "Not to my— As I said, I have nothing for you on this."

  "What is the princess's current status?"

  "You're free to ask their foreign ministry."

  A French reporter asked, "What can you inform us about the relationship between the U.S. government and TV Matar, which has broadcast this provocative story?"

  ‘I’m not aware of any connection."

  "But the funding, it comes from the CIA, no?"

  "1 wouldn't have any comment on that."

  Florence found herself thinking about George and Rick. She imagined them all on the rubber boat, on their way out to the waiting submarine, guarded by Navv SEALs with black faces. George would be complaining. She smiled, thinking of Bobby telling him about all the hunky sailors he'd meet.

  She decided to check in. She dialed Uncle Sam on the secure cell. It rang several times, and a recorded voice told her she had reached a nonworking number. They were destroying the connective tissue. She was alone now.

  Toward four in the morning, she got exhausted and needed to rest for at least an hour or so. There was an escape hatch in the ceiling of the bathroom off the control room. Bobby's people had installed it. She opened it and climbed up onto the roof of TV Matar, which had a view of the city and the Gulf. She lay down and looked up at the night sky over Matar. She knew that on any given night in the Middle East, many people were sleeping on their roofs—to escape the heat, or the secret police. In a part of the world where they come for you in the middle of the night, it is a sensible sleeping arrangement. The only problem is that sometimes, along with the stars falling, come bullets raining down. Arabs love to fire joy shots into the air to celebrate life's victories: a wedding, the birth of a son, the news that a new martyr has ascended to heaven.

  Florence drifted in and out of restless sleep until dawn, then climbed back down to the control room to the news that the Wasabis had produced evidence that the Princess Hamzin was alive and well.

  Triumphant evidence. The princess was not only alive and well but slumping for jewelry, in Paris, no less. French television was showing footage of her. taken through the front window of Hermes. The images showed Princess Hamzin handing over an American Express card for a $150,000 diamond bracelet. The news announcer came on with a smirk and said, "Evidently, the princess prefers to wear stones."

  Florence scanned the other monitors. They were all showing the same footage. It was followed by Prince Bawad, a picture of smugness.

  "The world can plainly sec," he said, stroking his goatee, "what an oppressed life our royal princesses lead."

  For the next hour. Florence watchcd a succession of talking heads on dozens of television shows. One. an anthropology professor at the University of Chicago, said that the U.S. had no business trying to impose feminist values abroad, for the reason that many, perhaps even the majority of Arab or Indian or African women, "don't want to be liberated." "How would we feel," he asked thoughtfully, "if one of those countries tried to impose its values on us?"

  Florence was pondering whether the majority of, say, Arab women were content with the status quo when her cell phone rang. It was Laila.

  "I shouldn't have said what I said."

  "You don't have any apologies to make to me," Florence said. "I take it you've seen the images? From Paris?"

  "Yes." "Well?"

  "There are two possible explanations." Florence said. "The first is that the information was wrong. The second is that we saved her life."

  "I must say, it wasn't quite my idea of Arab suffrage, forking over an American Express card for a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar bracelet at Hermes."

  "You saw the expression on her face. She looked doped." "Is that what you're going to say on television?"

  "I don't know." Florence wished Renard, master of spin and counterspin, were here. "I've been outmaneuvered."

  "Would you care to know where the New Saladin stands? I think he's about to institute lapidation in Matar—for TV Matar executives. Will we be issuing an apology?"

  "To those bastards? Over my dead body."

  "I wouldn't say that in the Middle Fast, if I were you. Better issue something. I'll try and fend off the New Saladin, but you'd better get cracking."

  Florence stared at the bank of glowing TV screens in front of her and summoned Fatima.

  "Fatima," she said, "the day will come when you practice legitimate journalism. But that day will not be this day."

  "GOOD AFTERNOON FROM the TV Matar newsroom in Amo-Amas, I'm Fatima Sham.

  "A source close to the Wasabi royal family has confirmed to TV Matar that the princess Hamzin was in fact sentenced to death by stoning for the crime of disrespect. He further confirms that because of negative world reaction to this news, along with mounting international outrage, the royal household is attempting a cover-up. Last night, according to the source, the princess was drugged and put aboard a Royal Wasabi Air Force plane and flown lo Paris, where a staged shopping expedition was mounted to make it appear that she is thousands of miles away, buying expensive jewelry, and not facing a horrible death. We bring you this exclusive interview with the Kaffa palace insider.

  Because he fears for his life, we agreed not to show his face and to identify him only as 'Abdul.'

  "Can you tell us what happened?"

  "They were going to stone my lady to death. With little small stones. Oh, terrible. Then came the report on the television—praise God! The king Tallulah's minister became fearful and said, 'Oh, this will make a terrible, terrible impression on the royal image! We must wait and kill her when no one is paying attention.' So they came with big needles filled with drugs and stuck her, Like this." Abdul jabbed his arm. "And took her to a plane to Paris."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "I was there! I saw. With my own two eyes, praise God that I am allowed to keep them. There was a French person." "What French person?"

  "Oh, very French. An old French person with gray hair. He has been in the palace here many times. The royals listen to him all the time. They think everything French is good. He tells them what to do, and they do it. He tells them, 'Bring her to Paris, we will make it look like a shopping trip.'"

  "So you're saving the television images of the princess shopping, they were all fixed to make it look like she's in no danger?"

  "Yes, but she is in great danger! Still! When no one is paying attention, they will kill her. My poor lady!"

  "Abdul, thank you for telling us this. You are very courageous to come forward. One final question: You say the French have a lot of influence with the Wasabi royals?"

  "Yes. Many times I have listened to the princes and the king on the telephone, many times with the French saying, 'You must help us get back the coastline that the English villain Churchill took from us. We will give you oil and navy bases.' Many times I have heard these conversations. Many, many times."

  "Thank you. God keep you safe. When we return, we'll have a report from our correspondent in Paris."

  Florence sat back in her chair in the control room. Too bad Renard hadn't been here to watch it with her. She felt certain he would have been proud of he
r. She was particularly pleased with the French element.

  Laila rang. "Wow. How on earth did you find Abdul? What a coup." "He works in the cafeteria here," Florence said.

  "Aha." There was a pause. "Well, that will win us an Emmy for hard investigative news. I think I won't share that part with the New Saladin. Oh, it's coming back on. I don't want to miss a word. I'll call you at the commercial."

  "Welcome back to TV Matar News, I'm Fatima Sham. We now bring you this exclusive report from Rita Ferreira, our Paris bureau correspondent."

  "Yes, Fatima, I'm standing outside the gales of the Onzieme Bureau, a little-known branch of the French intelligence service. We tried to speak to officials here about a report that they have been tunneling money secretly to Matar's mullahs, in an attempt to start a coup in the tranquil Gulf nation and replace its benevolent and popular ruler, the emir Gazzir Bin Haz, with a fundamentalist Islamic dictatorship."

  The screen showed the reporter trying to thrust a microphone through the window of a dark sedan driving out the gate.

  "TV Matar, hello! Bonjour! Is it true that you are trying to start a revolution in Matar?"

  The car kept going. The screen showed two gendarmes approaching, waving the camera away. "Allez! Allez!"

  "We are with TV Matar, here to ask questions." "No. You must go. Go. Go now."

  "But we want to speak with someone from the Onzieme Bureau, to ask about their plans to destabilize our country." "You must ask to the foreign Bureau. Allez!"

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I think,'' Laila said over the phone, "that you'd better get over here to the palace. The French ambassador has requested an audience. The New Saladin's spine could use some stiffening. It's the only part of him that isn't normally stiff. I'll send a car."

  Florence was driven through the tranquil, baking streets of Amo-Amas to the palace. She walked on lapis-lazuli-flecked tiles past cool alabaster fountains and shaded terraces and mosaic corridors, past bodyguards in ceremonial dress, and into the emir's audience room, where the Lion of Matar awaited. The Lion was frowning.