Florence of Arabia

by Christopher Buckley

  "Well, Miss Intrigue," he said, "you've made me very popular. Everyone wants a meeting with me suddenly. The French ambassador, the Wasabi ambassador. Your American ambassador. Even the Russian ambassador. What can he want. I wonder? I should just invite them all at once. It's been a long time since we've held a grand diplomatic audience. I don't know whether to thank you or have you deported. I could just have you escorted to the Wasabi border and tossed across. I'm sure King Tallulah would be delighted to have you as his guest"

  "I regret having caused I lis Majesty" such consternation." "Oh, pish. Now, what's this about the French buying my mullahs? Is this true?"

  "Yes."

  "And how do you know this arresting fact?"

  "I'm in the news-gathering business."

  "Are you with the CIA? I want an honest answer now."

  "Not that I am aware, my lord."

  The emir stared. "What do you mean, not that you're aware? What kind of answer is that?"

  "A vague, honest answer. There was a man. but he's vanished. So now it would seem that I'm an employee of TV Matar. Which is to say, I work for you."

  "Stop throwing sand in my eyes. This man, who is he?"

  "I was never sure. He represented himself as being with the United States government. He was possessed of great resources, certainly. Enough to make all this possible. The initial funding, the gift of Your Majesty's helicopter..."

  "I want an answer!"

  "Darling." Laila said, "calm yourself. You'll give yourself a rash. Florence is trying to explain. Though I must admit I'm confused, too, at this point. But TV Matar is fully independent. You own it, darling. Morever, you're doing very, very well by it. You're now the largest broadcaster in the Arab world."

  "Yes yes yes, but was this funded by American intelligence?"

  "Darling," Laila said, "if it had been, do you really think it would have worked this well?"

  "Good point," Florence murmured.

  "I don't know that it's turned out 'well,'" the emir said. "And don't try to deceive me with your honey tongues. I want to know—right now, this instant—was this an American operation?"

  "Yes," Florence said. "I regret deceiving you. But I do not regret what we've done."

  The emir looked from Florence to his wife. "Did you know about this?"

  "No," Florence interjected. "I deceived Laila, too. I deceived you both."

  The emir sat back in his divan seat and tapped his purplish lips with a fingertip. "Then I have no choice. There will have to be an arrest. And a trial, and then... Look at the position you've put me in. I hardly have a choice."

  "Darling." Laila said, "let's think this through before we do anything hasty. Florence has admitted to working for some esoteric division of the U.S. government. But TV Matar is entirely controlled by us. And it's made Matar. and you, a voice on the world stage. We're a long way from fig oil and the Churchill tax.

  "And now Florence and her curious mice seem to have exposed a French plot to replace you on the throne with your odious little brother. So she's made you independently rich and important, and is trying to keep you on that throne. And you want to arrest her. You do what you think is right, but if you insist on this idiotic course of action, all you'll be saying to the whole world is "Gosh, wasn't I a booby! This American woman managed to pull the wool completely over my eyes!' So much for the New Saladin. But it's up to you, darling."

  The emir rubbed his forehead.

  Laila glanced over at Florence. "'Are you still a U.S. agent?" she asked. Florence imagined she was giving a press briefing at the State Department. I have nothing for you on that at this lime. "Florence?"

  "No. No, I don't think I am at this point."

  Laila turned to the emir. "There. So why the fuss?"

  The emir regarded the two women standing in front of him warily. "If I find," he said, "that you two were in collusion, there will be consequences. Severe consequences."

  "Shouldn't we give some thought to what you're going to tell Monsieur Valmar?"

  In due course, the French ambassador was announced. Laila and Florence withdrew through a separate door before he was ushered in.

  "You might have given me some warning that you were about to admit to being an American spy," Laila said crossly.

  "Not a spy, Laila. I was never that."

  "Whatever. The situation seems stabilized for the time being. But an revoir. Switzerland of the Gulf."

  "Yes." Florence said. "It's starting to feel more like the Middle Last."

  FLORENCE RETURNED TO TV MATAR. Her cell phone rang. She picked up, frowned; recognizing the voice. "What do you want?" she said.

  "That's not a very friendly hello." Uncle Sam said. "I've been trying frantically to get you."

  "Really? How odd. I called you several limes and got a nonworking number. I had the distinct feeling that I'd been thrown overboard." "These phones. They drive me cuckoo." "Oh, please. What do you want? I'm very busy." "We need to talk, Florence." "Talk."

  "In person. I'm sending the plane. Again. I can have it there in two hours. This isn't a request, young lady."

  "I don't work for you anymore." She heard a sigh. "I'll send you a formal letter of resignation, if you prefer. I told them all about you."

  "Told who about me?"

  "The emir. Laila. It felt wonderful."

  "Oh, goodness, Florence. Why would you do such a thing?"

  "I got tired of lying. Sorry."

  "You've got clientitis. Look, it happens. Practically every ambassador we send overseas, they end up lobbying for the country instead of the U.S. Fortunately, there's a cure."

  "Oh? What?"

  "You get on a plane and come home. And by the second day, you wake up and it all seems like a dream."

  "I'll come home when I'm finished here."

  "You are finished there. What do I have to do—send in Delta Force to get you? Don't think I won't. Florence, don't make me come down there." "Goodbye, Sam. Thank you for everything." "Is it the sheika?" "What do you mean?"

  "These rumors—arc they true? Are you, how to put it, having a thing with the sheika?"

  "This is absurd."

  "We're picking up a lot of chatter about this, Florence. It's very dangerous for you. You know how Arabs can be. The whole manhood thing." "Unlike us, say?"

  "You know perfectly well what I'm saving. We have to get you out of there. I mean now."

  "Rely not on women. Trust not to their hearts. Whose joys and whose sorrows Are hung to their parts."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "It's a verse from The Arabian Nights. Look, I made a promise to stay, to see this through."

  "Promise? Promise to whom?" "To my lesbian girlfriend. Laila." "Florence—" "Goodbye, Sam."

  Florence fell a sense of weightlessness after ending the call. She stared at the cell phone, the one Bobby had given her, her link to her now former employers, still warm from Uncle Sam's spluttering. It rang again. She was about to press TALK, but then paused. She knew that cell phones were a popular means of assassination in the Middle East. The Israelis had pioneered it. A few grams of C4 plastic explosive packed into the earpiece.

  Would they do that... to her? Florence put the phone down and backed away from it while it continued to chirrup.

  "Ah!" She started.

  "Sorry, Florence." She had backed into her assistant. "Are you all right?" 'Yes. fine."

  "We can't find Fatima."

  FATIMA SHAM, THE ANNOUNCER, hadn't shown up for work. They'd called her apartment, her cell phone, her boyfriend, her mother. She'd disappeared.

  Florence called Laila.

  "I'll call Colonel Boutros," Laila said. "When was she last seen?" "Last night, when she left the studio."

  "All right, I'll get on it. Meanwhile, Gazzy's pumped up like the Michelin Man. He gave the French ambassador what-for over funding the moolahs. Valmar looked very pale leaving. Gazzy hasn't fell this empowered since he exiled his mother. I hope we're not creating a Franke
nstein."

  While the authorities searched for Fatima. Florence tried to concentrate on directing TV Matar's coverage of events. There was a lot to cover.

  Maliq had reentered the fray. He had called for his followers to assemble at the racetrack for "prayer." The emir had denied him a permit for the assembly. The mullahs were now denouncing him for "selling out Islam to the infidels." Gazzv had responded by throwing a few of them in jail and impounding their Mercedeses. He issued a statement pointing out that by law, public assembly in Matar must be granted by the emir. It went back to the third emir (1627-41), who scholars now think suffered from agoraphobia, a rare condition in deserts, but nonetheless.

  The French were suavely denying, with dismissive waxes of the hand, fun-neling money secretly to Matar's moolahs. They were also denying the very existence of an Onzieme Bureau. Meanwhile, the Onzieme's agents were busy planting stories throughout the Arab media suggesting that the Bin I laz family was now a wholly owned subsidiary of the United States government.

  Princess Hamzin. looking hollow-eyed, had moved with her burly male entourage from Paris to London, where she was widely photographed at Harrods and other deluxe emporia. American Express was reaping a windfall from the shopping spree. The Wasabis were still furiously demanding an apology from TV Matar for its "odious mischief-making."

  In other news coming out of the Middle Last: Palestinian schools were now offering online correspondence courses in suicide bombing; in Israel. American archaeologists had discovered a first-century scroll underneath the Old City that purported to be a certificate of marriage between a Nazarene carpenter named Yeshua and a former prostitute named Mariah, from the town of Magdala. This caused a great sensation for months, until carbon-dating and an investigation traced the document to the publicity department of a New York City publishing house.

  THREE DAYS AFTER Fatima's disappearance, a package was delivered to the front desk of TV Matar. After it was determined not to contain a bomb, the package turned out to contain a videotape. It showed Fatima buried in sand up to her neck, being stoned to death with small rocks. The tape was twenty minutes long. Everyone who watched it wept.

  Florence brought the tape to Laila. She could not bring herself to view it again, so she left the room while I.aila viewed it.

  She waited outside on the terrace, looking out over the Gulf in the moonlight, her skin misted by salty droplets from the fountain that spouted out the royal crest. Laila emerged, pale and shaken. Neither woman spoke. The two of them stood by the balustrade overlooking the gardens, listening to the waves lap the shore and the onshore breeze rustle the fronds of the date palms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It's a miserable business." said the emir. "I'm not saying it isn't, but we have no proof."

  "Proof." Florence said angrily. "Who else could it have been?"

  "What are you Irving to do? Start a war? It's horrid and regretful, and I will get to the bottom of this matter. But you will, under no circumstances, broadcast this videotape. That would only play into the hands of whoever did this."

  "Emir." Florence said, "this woman was a citizen of your country. She lived under your protection. Are your people now fair game, to be hunted like gazelle at the pleasure of poaching Wasabi raiders?"

  "Of course not. And I'm not sure 1 like your tone, madame."

  "Forgive me. I forgot that I was addressing the New Saladin."

  "Your situation here is complicated enough without adding insolence, Laila, perhaps it would be best if you showed our guest out."

  "Gazzir." Laila said, "you can't just let this pass. It may have been an act of retaliation, but it was also a test of your resolve."

  "What would you have me do?"

  "At least show the world what they did to this woman." "But we don't know who did it."

  "Then just show it," Florence said, "and let the world draw its own conclusion."

  "It is a war you want. Madame CIA." the emir said. "I'm not going to give you one. You came here to make mayhem, and now you have it. You don't have the stomach for it? You should have stayed home. You're lucky it wasn't you on that tape."

  "What a thing to say, Gazzir," Laila said.

  "No." Florence said. "He's right. It should have been me."

  "I'm not going to start a jihad just to satisfy your cravings for martyrdom. Now, I have a very full schedule. You may both retire."

  Laila walked with Florence to the car. She whispered in Florence's ear, out of hearing of her bodyguard, "Coffee tomorrow, ten o'clock."

  Florence’s new Government "bodyguard" did not follow her into the control-room bathroom. The next morning at nine o'clock, Florence look the abaaya that she kept in a drawer in her office. She went into the bathroom and up the escape hatch, out onto the roof, down a fire escape and walked the three blocks to the single-car garage that housed what Bobby called the "safe car." Theoretically.

  She held her breath, starling the ignition. The car didn't explode. Twenty minutes later, she was at the mall outside Starbucks, where, under the ficus, a familiar figure in white awaited, holding two grande non-fat lattes.

  "It's impossible to drink through this damned mouth mesh." Laila said.

  "Use your straw."

  "Yesterday after we left him, he took a telephone call from— Oh God, now I'm the spy. You're not still working for them, are you, Florence? You have to tell me." "No. It's just us now."

  "All right. He got a call from King Tallulah. I listened in on the whole thing."

  "How?"

  "I had the system fixed so that I can. I'm not an idle snoop, but when you have a young son to look out for, as they say, knowledge is power." "What did the emir and the king discuss?"

  "The Pan-Arab summit in Bahrain. Tallulah said how much he was looking forward to seeing him there, ever so excited about it. What a great honor for Matar. Et cetera. I wanted to scream."

  "Did they discuss Fatima?"

  "It was dealt with in the way they have. 'Such an unfortunate business.' 'Yes, indeed unfortunate.' You see, the score had been evened. So there was no point in pressing it. No honor to be gained. Let the feasting commence. I had a vision of them under a tent together, chins glistening with sheep fat and buttered rice. It was awful. Firenze. I loved him once. Even with his harem. But after listening yesterday ... no. I cannot give my love to such a man."

  They sat in silence. Florence said, "They're trying to get him out of the country. The Pan-Arab meeting. That's when it will happen. That's when they'll make their move."

  "Yes."

  "Would he listen to you?"

  "At this point? He might think it's a cabal you and I cooked up lo cheat him of assuming the mantle of the New Saladin." "So, Laila, how shall we proceed?" "I need to get my son out before anything else." "Do you want help?"

  "Best not. But I'll need a day or two. My sister is in England. I've kept bank accounts. Against a rainy day. It doesn't rain much in the desert, but when it does, the floods can kill."

  "Forty-eight hours, then."

  "Firenze. I know you said you'd see it through with me. That was all very gallant of you, but... What I'm trying to say, darling, and not being very articulate with, is that it might be better if you left Matar now."

  "Not yet, I have to do this first. Then I'll leave with vou. Anyway"— Florence smiled—"I can't watch it all on a television screen at the Frankfurt airport. I've gotten loo used to being in the control room."

  "Oh dear," Laila said. "What will become of us?"

  "That's what Nazrah said that night in the Fairfax Hospital."

  They stood and walked toward the elevators.

  "I'd kiss you goodbye," Laila said, "but we mustn't scandalize all the nice bargain hunters at the mall."

  Three days later TV Matar's viewers were surprised by the new face that greeted them from the six o'clock anchor desk. It was that of an attractive woman in her late thirties, with dark hair. She might have passed for an Arab, but her name was Italian-sounding.


  "The person who regularly gives the news on this program." Florence began, "is Falima Sham. Fatima disappeared following a broadcast in which she reported that the Wasabi royal family had sentenced one of its own princesses to be stoned to death for the crime of petitioning the king to stop the persecution of women.

  "An extensive search by the authorities was undertaken to find Ms. Sham. The investigation produced no result.

  "Then, four days ago, a videotape was anonymously delivered to TV Matar. You are about to see that videotape. Be warned: It depicts Ms. Sham being killed. If you have no stomach or desire to witness a young woman being slowly stoned to death, then you should not watch this. If there are children present, you should send them from the room.

  "It is being shown on my initiative, and mine only, for one reason: to honor a brave woman who dared to speak out against a terrible injustice, and who for that was herself savagely murdered. The term 'martyr' has been debased and corrupted. You are about to witness an actual martyrdom."

  Florence had instructed the staff to switch off the telephones and to bar all the doors to the control room. She also specified that the power source be switched to the emergency generators, so the broadcast would continue if the outside power was shut oil".

  The tape ran for its full twenty minutes. Though they had seen it before, the staff again wept. Florence had to struggle to keep her own composure. She had dispensed with makeup so her eyes would not become a caricature of muddy mascara.

  It took a few moments after the tape ended before she was able to continue. "It is not known precisely who did this deed. However, this method of execution is regularly employed in Wasabia.

  "Fatima Sham was twenty-six years old. She is survived by her family, by her friends, by her colleagues and by millions of sisters throughout the Arab world. Etemen dan mouwt 'ha yekoon aindee manaa"

  In minutes there was a pounding on the steel doors to the control room. The staff's blood was up. They armed themselves with lire extinguishers, axes, steel pipes, electrical tubing. Watching them, Florence felt mixed sensations of pride and futility.

  "No," she commanded, "put those down." She unclipped her microphone, checked herself in the mirror and walked to the door. She gestured to a technician who had positioned himself to bash the invaders with a wastebasket. He opened the door. A half-dozen men burst in with drawn weapons.