Florence of Arabia

by Christopher Buckley

  FLORENCE COWERED IN a corner, unable to move toward the object now sharing her still-darkened cell. The smell made her gag. For a long time she cowered. Then, slowly, tenuously, she extended the fingers of her right hand and touched the body. What she felt made her recoil. The face and head were mostly gone. Finally, she reached out again and this time touched an eye dangling from its socket. She became ill. She forced herself to continue her forensic examination. She fell for the hands and found that these, too, were mostly gone, shredded. She wept silently as she probed.

  The body was on its back. She thrust her hand between it and the cold concrete of the floor, feeling for the left shoulder blade. Some weeks before, she had felt there an inch-long ridge of thick scar tissue, the result, Bobby had murmured—his mind on other things—of a stab wound inflicted years before by "this Syrian fucker." The scar was right atop the shoulder blade. The knife, he said, had been deflected by the bone, and damn lucky for him.

  Her hand was impeded by the tattered shirt, thick and stiff with blood, as well as the deadweight of the corpse. She maneuvered her fingers inside. Here the skin was not shredded or burned. Rigor mortis and death had made it cold and waxen. Her fingertips moved up. slowly, nervously. She held her breath as she reached the shoulder blade and continued.

  There was no scar.

  “WILL YOU STOP following me?" Charles Duckett said. "I've told you what I can."

  "All you've told me." George said, still following the briskly moving deputy assistant secretary of state for Near Eastern Affairs (DASNEA). "is what I already knew from watching CNN."

  "I'm not in a position to discuss it further."

  "Charles, this is not a State Department press briefing, nor am I some reporter."

  "I said I have nothing further for you on this."

  "May I ask why my security clearance was suddenly downgraded? What's going on here?"

  "I'm not in a position to discuss that, either. Now, if you'll let me proceed, I'm already three minutes late for a Procurement Committee meeting."

  "Horrors, Charles! The world might stop spinning on its axis. But I'm not going until 1 get an answer: Are we doing anything about the capture, imprisonment and, quite possibly, torture of one of our own?"

  Duckett was appalled at the prospect of being followed into the most boring meeting on the planet by an agitated, insubordinate subordinate. He peered at George over his glasses with the custard pugnacity of a life bureaucrat and said, as magisterially as he could. "You're out of line." In Duckett's pallid, formatted world, there could be no greater crime than being out of line.

  "But don't you care?”

  "Yes, I care. I care for process. I care for going through channels. I care for incremental, mutual steps that promote synergy over the long run and provide a platform for harmonious relations and partnering between—"

  It was at this point that the spring inside George that had been coiling for sixteen years went sproiiinnng. He began choking Charles Duckett with the neck chain of his State Department ID badge.

  "Are vou out of your eugghh—"

  Once Duckett's face had achieved a sufficiently livid shade of crimson, George leaned in to it and said, "If you don't tell me, I'm going to kill you. And I'll make it look like the work of terrorists."

  "Urgggh..."

  "You'll never put a cell phone to your ear again without wondering if it's going to blow your brains in."

  George released the garrote around Duckett's neck. Duckett's complexion returned to its normal semolina hue.

  "What the hell has gotten into you, Phish?"

  "Not quite sure myself. Now—where is she, and what is this pathetic spineless bureaucracy doing about it?"

  'They've ... de-decided to adopt a hands-off posture." Duckett collapsed like a deflated balloon at having divulged this sacred piece of intelligence.

  George stared. Duckett seemed to be trying to back through the wall. George reached toward him. Duckett cringed. George straightened Duckett's tie and collar.

  "Better hurry. You're—omigod—three minutes late."

  Duckett edged nervously away, dinging to the wall like a mountain climber negotiating a narrow ledge.

  'Ten minutes later, three men from Security surrounded George's desk. They took him to the office of the assistant deputy to the deputy assistant for Internal Security Affairs and Inter-Human Resources. Duckett was already there, face flushed. He flinched when George entered.

  "Did you attack Mr. Duckett?" the ADDAISAHIR said.

  George looked at Duckett "Oh. Charles, is that what you told them?"

  "It damn well is! It's the truth!"

  "Where do I begin?" George said with the weary attitude of a reasonable man having to explain something distasteful that he would, on the whole, rather not go into. "Charles—Mr. Duckett—made a pass at me in the corridor."

  "What?!" Duckett roared.

  "And though my sexual preference is well known and a matter of record within the department, he is, in addition to being my boss, simply not my type. Not to mention that he's married and has three children. I told him all this while he was trying to grope me, in the most awkward way, and 1 went about my business. And now here we are. Charles, 1 must saw I am disappointed in you."

  "But—this is preposterous!"

  "I don't want to file a sexual harassment suit. I really do not. I'm perfectly willing to let it go as a momentary lapse. But really, if you're going to indulge in this sort of lurid cover-up, I'm ready to swear out a complaint right here and right now. Do you have the relevant forms. Ms. Poepsel?"

  The ADDAISAIHR looked at George, then at the blubbering Duckett "Mr. Duckett," she said, "how do you wish to proceed? Do you want to make a complaint against Mr. Phish?"

  Duckett, seeing headlines and his career passing before his eves, let out a wan moan. "No. No ..."

  "Mr. Phish, do you wish to file a complaint against Mr. Duckett?"

  "Let bygones be bygones, I say. But no more Mr. Grabby Groin, Charles-shake on it?"

  “Gosh that felt good” George said to Renard. "Poor beast hasn't had a day like that since CIA blew up his cultural exhibit in Quito. But there we have it. Official hands-off posture. She's on her own." "No, she's not."

  "We're not exactly a Delta Force hostage rescue team, are we?" "Fuck it." Rick said. "If we're going to go down for the money, we might as well spend it."

  "Why not?" George brightened. "Why lucking not" "To Damascus." "To Damascus."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Highness!" Maliq said into the telephone with perhaps a bit too much fraternal royal bonhomie. His breath reeked from the brandy that he now found a necessary fortification for calling Prince Bawad bin-Rumallah al-Hamooj. foreign minister of the kingdom of Wasabia. beloved nephew to King Tallulah and, in all those capacities. Maliq's de facto boss. "May Allah shine upon tin countenance and make all that thou viewest pleasing unto the eye!"

  Bawad reciprocated with a greeting so perfunctory. Maliq might as well have been a gas-station attendant. Since Bawad's promotion from ambassador to the United States to foreign minister, he had become even more grandiose. Too, he was painfully aware that the recent tectonic shift of power in the region had begun with the flight of his flightiest wife, the late Nazrah, back in Washington. D.C. That this Matari usurper, Maliq, had not already beheaded the hateful American woman Florence—along with her sluttish lesbian lover the sheika Laila—was intolerable. Bawad knew instantly from Maliq's fawning, lickspittle tone of voice what he wanted. And great merciful Allah, the Matari jackass was still prattling on.

  "Is it true. Royal One, this glorious news that reaches my ear by the west wind?" Maliq was saying, Fetish having briefed him on the fact that Bawad's fourth wife, the ill-fated N'azrah's successor, had just borne him a male child, his forty-second or -third. "A male child, dear prince? My heart leaps like a gazelle uncaged, like a—"

  “Eh?" Bawad interrupted. "Yes. So they tell me."

  "But this is truly joyous news!"
Maliq soldiered on. "And a male child! Allah be praised! May it grow to be as wise and as—heh. heh—prodigious as his worthy father!" Maliq waited. Silence.

  "Did ... the gift arrive?" Maliq said finally, swallowing what remained of his pride. He had sent a solid-gold baby crib, ordered from Wenphrcw & Wenphrew. the London jeweler that maintained a special division for the making of solid-gold objects for bored oil potentates.

  "Eh? What?"

  '"The crib?"

  "I don't— Yes. perhaps. I will make inquiries." "No, no, do not trouble thy august self."

  "Well. Allah be with you. His Majesty, my dear uncle, bids me attend him. Thank you for calling."

  "Uh, Highness, a word, if thou would grace me further. The American woman. Flor-ents—"

  "Yes, His Majesty, mv uncle, wonders why the matter has not already been dealt with."

  "It is delicate, my prince."

  " 'Delicate'? How is it 'delicate.' Emir Maliq? She is an American spy. a provocateur, an insurrectionist, an infidel, immoral, a seducer, a sworn enemy of Islam. A sworn enemy of myself, personally, who tried to humiliate me and, by extension, the entire House of Hamooj, may Allah keep it safe and always wise, This is' is the 'delicate' matter to which you refer?"

  "Uh ..." Maliq was keenly aware that Bawad had the advantage over him of a Cambridge education, to say nothing of a lifetime's experience of telling silky lies in gilt parlors. "Nonetheless ..."

  "Why is she still alive?"

  "Worthy One. she is a figure of world concern—" "What matters it?"

  "No sense in making enemies of the entire civi—"

  "The Americans have made it plain that they are embarrassed by her existence. The ambassador here in Kaffa has said this to ourselves personally." "Ah? Oh? Well..."

  "Look, Maliq, you're either going to rule Matar or not. His Majesty is counting on you. Thy name comes up in the council meetings with increasing frequency."

  "Ah? Well, marvelous, marvelous ..." "I wouldn't put it quite that way."

  "Uh? Ah. Why don't I send you the woman Flor-ents and the sheika? Then you can deal with them to your heart's content! Give them a good—"

  "The crimes these two women committed," Bawad said heavily, "were done on your land. It was Matar's holy soil that was defiled—"

  "Well, holy-ish;. Hardly as sacred as yours. We bask in thy reflected glory..."

  "No, Maliq, it is Matar that must be cleansed."

  "It seems to me. Worthiness, that it was Wasabia these two were out to defile. I mean. Matar was already corrupt And who better to mete out justice than your dear uncle? You should hear the things they've both been saying under interrogation about you and the king. I blush to repeal them, frightful. Disgraceful."

  "Hear me, Maliq," Bawad said in a tone of voice indicating the conversation was about to be ended. "His Majesty the King desires that this mutter-matter—be concluded. Promptly, further, that thou thyself, personally, dispose of it. In a manner public, for all to see. So that the minds she has corrupted, in your country and in ours, will see how just and terrible is Allah's punishment. You do aspire to be an instrument of His Majesty and the One God? Don't you. Maliq?"

  'Whatever."

  "Eh?"

  "Of course, yes. Yes, yes, yes." Maliq murmured.

  "Good. I wouldn't want to think we made a mistake elevating you to such prominence."

  The line went dead. Maliq hurled the phone at the gold and lapis mosaic on the far wall, where it splintered into little plastic and electronic pieces. Fetish heard the crash and entered, pre-emptively bowing and scraping. "Did thy conversation with Prince Bawad displease my lord?"

  Fetish's master did not respond. He was drinking directly from the bottle of brandy. Not a hopeful sign in a Muslim spiritual leader, or indeed, of any denomination.

  Fetish left Maliq to telephone Delame-Noir and make his report. But Delame-Noir, having been in the room with Prince Bawad throughout the call from Maliq, did not need to be briefed by his spy.

  "He has the spine of a Red Sea jellyfish," Bawad said with disgust.

  Delame-Noir smiled and opened his palms, denoting bemused frustration.

  "It was a mistake putting him in," Bawad said.

  "Respectfully, I disagree."

  "Of course you do—he was your choice."

  "Would you and the king really be happier with a strong, independent thinker on the throne of Matar? Puppets are better made from wood than steel." Delame-Noir's hands moved as if manipulating a marionette. "Much easier. Be content, my prince. Matar is your country now."

  "Not forgetting your naval bases and your discount on crude."

  "Our naval bases protect your new oil terminals. Historic synergy. Not since the days of Wadi Ben Salaam in the—"

  “Yes, yes, but what about the women? Why doesn't the idiot execute them and get it done with?"

  Delame-Noir shook his head. "With all respect to your eminent self and to the king. I think it would be a complete calamity to put these women on a platform and publicly cut off their heads. If you want to create martyrs, there is no better way."

  "We know a thing or two about martyrs in Wasabia," Bawad said, he reflected. "Our embassy in Washington reports some pressure there for information about the Florence woman."

  "Two of her former collaborators are making a media campaign. But it's nothing—as long as Matar's position remains 'We don't know where this woman is. so stop bothering us.""

  "Collaborators? They are—actively campaigning?"

  "If I thought they were going to be a problem. I assure you I would act."

  "Act?"

  "We have no secrets, you and I. My contacts within the U.S. government assure me that they, too, are watching the situation there. Very closely. And the last thing they want is a huge publicity about her. 'Florence of Arabia'? No, no. She is at this point an extremely inconvenient woman. I think, to be honest, the Americans would be very content if Maliq would simply give the order to toss her into his new oubliette."

  "Your contacts, they are CIA?"

  Delame-Noir smiled. "Mon prince, asking an old spy to reveal his sources is like asking a whore to tell hers. It's a matter of professional vanity."

  Bawad snorted. "The price of oil can go up as well as clown."

  "But I am telling you the substance of what I know. Which is this: The entire Florence operation was approved al the very highest levels of the United States government. Why? 'to embarrass your government. As punishment for your Israel position, for your independence, for your nobility. In any case, as with every other American foreign operation, it turned to absolute shit. But for us, for you, for France, it was a fantastic opportunity, which I must say you yourself brilliantly exploited. So we must not be too upset with the Americans. They have accomplished for us in a few months more than we were able to achieve in eighty years."

  "They're not happy about it. Our ambassador at the UN reports that they're preparing a motion against Greater Wasabia for the Security Council."

  "Which, I assure you, France will veto."

  "They're already saying this was all France's idea. You're getting the credit for it."

  "Have you heard one single statement from France, from one single minister, from any representative of the French government, taking credit for Wasabia's actions in Matar?" Delame-Noir said testily. "Not one word have we said."

  "What about that Jewish senator in New York? He gave a speech yesterday saying this was all France's doing. I le called Tallulah a 'Parisian tool'!"

  Delame-Noir made a disapproving clucking noise. "Disgraceful. But what can you expect? This was the same Jewish senator who made the big fuss when we released an old man of ninety-four years—ninety-four!—because he had something to do with some concentration camp in World War Two. It's the same every time."

  "I suppose it's too late to do anything about it," Bawad said, eyeing Delame-Noir carefully.

  "About the senator? Really. Your Highness ..." "No—Maliq."

  "A
h. I think that would not be a good idea at this point. Perhaps in time ... Look, Matar has gone through enormous turmoil. A few months ago, it resembled Las Vegas. Now it's ... a decent religious state. Not as much fun, to be honest, but okay, for now stability is of the essence. Later, if you are still unhappy with Maliq, I am always at your disposal." Delame-Noir smiled. "Your humble servant."

  "Humble. Hah. But Florence?"

  "She will not be a factor for too much longer. Of this I am confident. Anyway people quickly forget. And I don't think she will last very long the way it is. It's not the Crillon. eh. where they are holding her. I don't think she is getting mints on the pillow every night."

  Maliq had not ridden many camels in his life. On the whole, he rather preferred the Italian leather seat of a Maserati or a Ferrari. But now the occasion demanded it.

  Really he thought, the demands on an imam and emir were beyond onerous. But better to ride the damned thing than to have to suck on a piece of its dung. What utter barbarians the Wasabis were.

  One of the more unfortunate by-products of the new comity that existed between Matar and Wasabia was that Matar was now required to commemorate the anniversary of the Perfidy of Raliq ("The Unwise"). King Tallulah and his council—Allah's blessing upon them—had dictated that the emir of Matar observe the occasion by riding the Camel Royal down former Winston (now Abgullah) Avenue while receiving the plaudits and ululations of his subjects as the mukfelleen dispensed lumps of the sacramental ordure for them to place on their unhappy tongues. It would not make for the cheeriest day on the Matar calendar, but the point would be made that Matar was now part of Greater Wasabia. Maliq had tried to persuade KingTallulali and foreign Minister Prince Bawad that sucking on dromedary turds was not a ritual likely to enhance a sense of fraternity between the citizens of Matar and Wasabia. But Tallulah and Bawad were adamant: Tallulah because he had to placate his lunatic mukfelleen, Bawad because he was furious at Maliq's recalcitrance in the matter of chopping off the heads of the sheika Laila and the American busybody Florence.