chairman of Caraco.
The ebb and flow in the crowded room brought an elegantly coiffed elderly woman into the small circle of guests around Ibrahim. Diamonds sparkled on her fingers and ears. She looked in his direction, clearly intrigued.
One of the men who headed Caraco’s Washington office whispered the pertinent information in his ear: “Mrs. Carleton. Her husband is the Undersecretary of State for Arab Affairs. She’s an avid gardener. Famous for her roses.”
Ibrahim nodded briefly. Carleton’s wife? How ironic. He moved closer to the woman. “My dear Mrs. Carleton, what a pleasure to meet you.”
She smiled back, though less certainly. “Thank you, Mr …?”
“My apologies, Mrs. Carleton. Of course you do not know me.
Please forgive my impertinence, but your fame precedes you.” He bowed.
“My name is Prince Ibrahim al Saud.”, Her eyes widened slightly.
“Your Highness. The pleasure is all mine.” She still seemed uncertain. “But what fame are you referring to?”
“Why, to your garden, Mrs. Carleton,” Ibrahim replied. “I’m sure you know that your beautiful roses are the talk of all Washington. Such natural beauty carries a special significance for those of us reared in the barren desert.”
She blushed. “Oh, how kind of you to say so, Your Highness. But really, I’m just an amateur, you know …”
Ibrahim listened to her prattle on with only half an ear. It was all too easy, really. A quip, a personal greeting, a reference to some favored hobby or interest — they all enabled Ibrahim to more easily play the part of a gracious, but charmingly informal, Arab prince of royal blood. As a young boy watching his father wheeling and dealing with Texas oilmen on their first visits to Saudi Arabia, he had learned the lesson that these Americans, for all their oft- professed egalitarianism, were always delighted to attract the attention of royalty.
Ibrahim smiled at that thought, though his smile never warmed the soul within his lean frame. There were other Americans, uglier Americans, who mocked anyone in whose body the blood of the Prophet flowed. He remembered such men from his boyhood, too. For an instant, his smile faltered and his fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. Then he relaxed. This was not the time, or the place, to allow those memories free rein.
When the undersecretary’s wife had had her fill of his polite attention and moved on, he turned his gaze outward.
From across the room Ibrahim watched Richard Garrett smoothly working the crowd. Garrett was Caraco’s legal representative for its American division, an unassuming title for a very important role.
An amiable Yankee who had attended all the right schools and knew all the right people, the former Commerce Secretary was one of the capital’s most familiar and respected faces. He was also a personal friend of the President and a darling of the American media.
Before his stint at the Commerce Department, Garrett had headed an extremely successful law practice in Washington. His former clients ran the gamut from environmental groups to tobacco companies to financial organizations to foreign governments.
Each had found their interests advanced in return for sizable fees.
Three years ago, Ibrahim had been introduced to Garrett by a mutual friend from Harvard. It seemed to the friend they might speak the same language of prestige and power. Ibrahim paid Garrett well to advocate free trade, Arab-American cooperation, and any other cause that might advance Caraco’s business and political needs.
Ibrahim watched the elegantly attired, white-haired lawyer weave in and out of the crowd, smiling and pumping hands, laying the groundwork for future deals. He was good at what he did and was one of the few Americans the Saudi prince respected. Of course, respect was not trust, so the lobbyist would never know the true nature and depth of Caraco’s corporate operations.
Garrett worked his way back to Ibrahim and took another glass of champagne. He grinned. “Things are moving our way, Your Highness. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting expedited approval for the Kazakhstan pipeline contract.”
“Oh?” Ibrahim asked. “So your fabled charm bears fruit again, my friend?”
“Bushels of it,” Garrett confirmed. His grin grew wider.
“Helped along by generous infusions of Caraco cash, of course. You have many friends in this room, Your Highness.”
“Naturally.” Ibrahim smiled again to himself, more warmly this time, thinking with pleasure about all those who could not detect the venomous hatred that lay beneath his polished, Western mannerisms.
Education did have its uses.
He spotted a young, serious-looking presidential aide in a conservative gray suit making his way through the slowly milling crowd — coming straight toward him. Ah, he thought, at last.
The young man stopped at his side and cleared his throat importantly.
“Your Highness? The President asks if you would join him in the Library. If you’ll follow me?”
Ibrahim nodded. The social aspects of this evening were over.
Now it was time for business. He and Garrett followed the young presidential aide out of the Blue Room, into a short hallway, and then down a flight of stairs. Since both of them had met the President before, they knew where they were headed.
At their destination, the aide stepped aside to open the door and then closed it silently behind them.
The White House Library was less formal than the grand public rooms upstairs, but it was ideally suited for quiet, private meetings.
Elegantly proportioned wood chairs and bookcases lined the walls — many inlaid with representations of the American eagle, its wings open full in triumph. The books on its shelves represented the best of American literature, as well as collections of presidential papers. The Library was intended for the private use of the President and his family.
Being invited there was a mark of special favor.
The President himself stood waiting to greet Ibrahim as he entered flanked by the current Secretary of Commerce. A second man, this one somewhat heavyset and in his mid-fifties, stood off to one side.
Ibrahim shot a questioning glance at Garrett, who whispered, “That’s Dan Holcomb. With the CIA.”
The Saudi ran his eyes over the stranger with more interest.
He welcomed the chance to compare the reports he’d studied with the flesh-and-blood man. Holcomb was the Deputy Director of the CIA — and reputedly the real mover and shaker inside the American spy agency.
The current Director was rumored to be more interested in editing position papers than in actively pursuing operations. Left to his own devices, Holcomb had apparently jumped into the leadership vacuum with gusto. His presence at this meeting was a good indication that the administration valued its “special relationship” with Caraco and its founder.
Ibrahim also noted with some amusement the absence of several other men who would have been there just months before.
None of the President’s political fund-raisers were anywhere in sight.
Evidently America’s current chief executive and his advisers had learned to be more cautious — though they were clearly still just as interested in amassing campaign and legal defense funds.
He strode forward to shake hands with the President and the other men, then took the offered seat and cup of coffee. He sipped without pleasure. A weak, thin brew — as always.
After several minutes of polite and meaningless chitchat — shared memories of student days at Oxford and Harvard and the like — Ibrahim leaned forward. “I know that your time is limited, Mr. President, so I will try not to waste any of it.”
The President’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “I appreciate your concern, Your Highness. Don’t you worry about that, though. I’ve got an army of bright-eyed aides who keep me running on schedule.”
Ibrahim allowed the polite fiction to pass unchallenged. This American president had a long and well- deserved reputation for tardiness.
Choosing his words carefully, he continued. “Very well, then. I’m sure you know how much my companies and I support your administration — in all its endeavors, both domestic and international.”
