“Yes,” he replied. “That was exciting. Now I have a story to tell my children back home. Accountants like me don’t have many exciting stories.”
Swanson just smiled. A normal accountant would have been pissing his pants.
The small door opened and a man with a tanned, sweaty face stuck his head in. Obviously American. “End of the line, folks. Everybody out. Right now, and follow me to the minivan.” The six passengers hurried toward the hatch. Outside, fire crews had doused the wrecked engine with foam and a mechanic was opening panels to review the damage.
The minivan had the same color scheme as the plane and magnetic signs stuck to the sides identified it as another vehicle of the Boykin Group. When everyone was aboard, the man who had met the plane slid into the front passenger seat. He had an old-style crew-cut with flecks of gray, was of middle age but still muscular, and wore wrinkled khaki trousers and a red-and-white plaid shirt with short sleeves. He adjusted his big body so that he could partially face the passengers. As the minivan moved toward the terminal, he dealt business cards to everyone and spoke with a pleasant voice that reflected Oklahoma roots.
“I’m Homer Boykin, the head honcho of the Boykin Group, which is made up of me and my driver here, Jamal Muheisen. You might call us fixers. We arrange things. Any of y’all need anything while you are in Khobz, just give us a call.”
Swanson pegged him as an old-time oil roughneck who had worked his way off the platforms and into an office job.
“You’re the third flight today that has been hit by random fire from the rooftops,” Boykin continued. “Only one person has been slightly wounded, but bet your asses that the landing patterns are going to change so we can circle in from the water. The powers that be don’t like air traffic other than helicopters flying over the rigs. Well, fuck them. We don’t like being slow targets.” The voice was steady and matter-of-fact, as if he was reciting dry data.
The nervous Belgian spoke. He had lost all interest in telling everyone about his important job. “What is happening? The Saudis announced just this morning that everything was calm throughout the kingdom. Are we in danger?”
The beefy American laughed and punched the shoulder of the driver, Jamal, who glanced at him with a touch of humor in his own eyes. “The Big Lie, boys. Things are still pretty quiet because of all of the security protecting the oil fields, but little ole Khobz is no bed of roses. I will personally escort y’all through customs, which is tougher than usual but still not a problem if you have the right papers and some
Kyle asked, “So since the king is dead, who’s really in charge?”
“The government is still in control, very truly so, but no successor has been chosen. Without the king to keep them in line, the Religious Police are getting pretty harsh and that’s building resentment among the locals. Some gangs are running around claiming to be enforcing their
“So the extreme clerics are grabbing power,” Swanson observed. “That’s a pretty familiar song.”
“Looks that way. They ain’t the Taliban yet, but some of the fanatics want to see how far they can push. That squeezes the government, which has been allied with the guys in the mosques from the very start of modern Saudi Arabia.”
“Are we talking about civil war?” asked Henry Tsang.
“Not quite to that point, buddy. Not even with the assassination of the king. The princes are still in charge, so they will pick a successor pretty quickly, but the trouble is growing. Take right here in Khobz. A teenaged girl was murdered a few days ago at the biggest mall in town by the religious cops for talking with a boy on a cell phone. She pulled a knife and carved up one of them so badly that the bastard died, good for her, and she hit a second one with pepper spray. Normally, the Saudis would blame the girl for causing the trouble, but the
“Are we safe?” The Belgian was almost frantic.
Homer Boykin waved a big hand and smiled. “Oh, yeah. Y’all just be careful and keep yourselves informed through your company security teams and international news channels; don’t expect any straight answers from the government. Information has never been available on almost anything in Saudi Arabia; they block Internet sites and they don’t like reporters. The truth is getting hard to come by, but you boys are oil dudes. They aren’t about to start killing off the guys who bring in the gold.”
“They shot at us!” The Belgian protested.
Boykin just chuckled, and the minivan coasted to an easy stop. He led them into the customs area. The large room was patrolled by uniformed soldiers with machine guns, and all new arrivals stood in line to be thoroughly searched and have their papers carefully examined.
Kyle went through the process with disinterest, having anticipated the heightened arrival security procedures. His first task had just been to get into Saudi Arabia, which he was doing. Somehow, between Sybelle and the Lizard in Washington and some spec ops magic, weapons and assistance were to be provided.
He used the time in line to watch what was happening in the terminal beyond the customs area, where a crowd of civilians milled about. Worried men were talking with airline representatives and women tended crying children. Couples were embracing as if they would never see each other again, and the tension was almost electric.
Their group finally cleared customs and the Belgian engineer and the Chinese accountant drifted away to find their companies. Kyle went to the airport’s small restaurant, bought a sandwich and a soda, then moved to a table near a big window to continue his surveillance. Women, kids, and a few men were loading onto small charter planes that were lined up in a row, awaiting their turns at the two departure gates. Baggage carts were stacked to overflowing. Lot of folks getting out of Dodge, not many coming in, and nobody seemed to be enjoying their day. He bit into a soggy egg salad croissant with lettuce and tomato sliding out of the middle and sipped the warm Coke.
Boykin, the big American with the crew-cut hair approached his table with a Pepsi in his hand and sat down uninvited. “Welcome to a brewing shitstorm, brother.” Boykin fished an ice cube from his glass and used it to write
25
THE BOYKIN GROUP WAS headquartered in a nondescript building in an industrial district cluttered with small warehouses, stacks of steel shipping containers, and pyramids of pipe and other oil line gear. The company sign was painted on a weathered wooden door behind a little screened entranceway that kept out the flies. Jamal, a short and muscular man who moved with smooth efficiency, went into the screen enclosure, unlocked the wooden door and pulled it outward. Behind it stood a strong steel door with two heavy locks that threw bolts into the surrounding steel frame.
The office was nothing much. A floor of bland greenish linoleum with some of the tiles torn, and plaster walls covered with many coats of cheap white paint. Two second-hand desks faced each other. Thick shades covered the windows on each wall to keep out the sun, but if he chose to look outside, Boykin had an almost 360-degree view of the surrounding area. Bulletin boards were peppered with pinpoint holes, some hanging notes and a few old clipboards hanging on nails, their jaws chomping wads of paper. Overhead fluorescent lights hummed and flickered.
