roads and cookie-cutter, Western-style homes, cars in the driveways and TV satellite dishes bolted on the rooftops, a complete opposite of the nearby communities of square mud huts interspersed with a few grand homes of the local residents. The people of the desert lived out beyond the wire.
“Mostly only guys are still living here,” Boykin explained. “Khobz is not pleasant for Western women, and absolutely no place to try to raise a kid because the
Many of the houses seemed empty and forlorn with no lights on, although darkness was beginning to fall. Kyle mentioned the exodus at the airport and Boykin said that unofficial withdrawal had been going on for several days. “Anybody with a brain and a choice is leaving,” Homer said.
The supermarket in the mall was still open, but the bowling alley was closed, as were the public swimming pools and the clubhouses, as if the little community was holding its breath.
“We need to pick up anything from our house, Homer?” Jamal asked, pausing at the driveway of a two-bedroom home that was identical to its neighbors in every way.
“No. We’re good. Let’s get on out to the military pad before the light gives out.”
Kyle shook his head. “Let’s not. Judging by what we just saw, they won’t let us anywhere near the place and we don’t want to seem to be overly curious. I can go out tonight for a look.”
Homer said, “Okay, if that’s what you want. You up for some pizza?” he asked. “Got a place down by the beach run by a Chinese family. They operate 24/7 because the oil business never shuts down. Make more money selling thick crust slices than they would sweating out on the rigs. We’ll pick some up and go back to the shop.” He took out his cell phone and hit a speed dial number for Dragon Pizza. “Hope you ain’t a vegetarian.”
They returned to the safe house with two large pizzas stacked with meat and redolent with onions and peppers, went through the steel door and down to the basement. Boykin grabbed a slice as he booted up his computer, typed in his password and checked the e-mails. Nothing.
Jamal was telling a joke about camels when his cell phone rang with a Stones tune. He looked at the caller ID, raised his eyebrows and answered, “The Boykin Group.” He listened, closed the connection without responding and tossed the phone on a counter.
“The convoy is leaving the mosque,” he said, stuffing one more bite of pizza into his mouth and opening the armory cage. The first salvo of explosions could be heard dully stomping around the foreign compound.
Jamal and Homer actually watched Kyle Swanson change before their eyes, as if some motion picture special effect stunt was turning an ordinary man into an icy machine. A steadiness settled over him like a cloak and his eyes sparkled, the mind racing. He was instantly amped and ready, went into the armory cage for an MP5 submachine gun and a couple of spare magazines. He also picked up a set of bolt-cutters and a combat knife. Jamal handed him a headset radio.
“I’m going to use the noise and distraction as cover to check out the missiles.” Swanson was up the stairs and gone.
Homer finished the pizza while helping Jamal load up the van.
26
RIYADH
A FEW HOURS AFTER dark on the day the king was murdered, small processions of expensive automobiles began to arrive at a restaurant on the outskirts of Riyadh. As usual, the chairs around small tables on the sidewalk out front were occupied by men drinking sludgy gahwa Arabian coffee from tiny cups and sharing the pipes of hookahs filled with rosewater. The men were the outer cordon of guards for the meeting that was about to take place on the second floor of the plain-looking building.
Personal representatives for six of the most powerful men in the kingdom of Saudi Arabia arrived separately, with their own bodyguards, and moved through the tables, beneath an archway and through a double-door that opened into a bland dining area lit only by strings of naked 100-watt bulbs that dangled from loose cords. Other guards, these openly carrying weapons, were in the corners. The restaurant owner welcomed the men in turn, and passed them through the downstairs area to a staircase that ascended to the second floor. Their retinues and personal bodyguards were left downstairs. Only six men were allowed up.
The principals did not attend because even with the safeguards that were in place, it was the kind of tense evening when long knives might flash. The half-dozen men who went up the dusty stairs represented the royal family, religion, the military, major nonpetroleum business interests, the tribes, and oil.
There was an immense difference between this room and the rest of the building. It was brightly lit, neat and clean. In one corner was a fully stocked bar that included exclusive brands of alcoholic beverages. A large round table occupied the middle of the room, with six chairs spaced evenly around it, the places marked by sealed bottles of water. A feast of food was spread in the middle: plates of fresh pita bread, bowls of spices, falafel, rice, hot peppers, and mutton and other meats that had been vertically roasted on spits.
The group was gathering for the most urgent of reasons, to decide who would be their next king, but Arab tradition required a certain informality that showed friendship, respect, and honor. Only when the men had helped themselves to the food and drink and exchanged small talk about their families could they get down to business. No one was technically in charge.
The talk did not get around to the business of the night for almost an hour, until Prince Aziz, a minor member of the royal family, tore off a final bit of pita, rolled it around a chunk of rice and lamb, dipped it into a spicy mixture and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, licked his fingers, and gave a loud burp. His demonstrated appreciation of the fine meal marked the end of the first phase of the meeting and a termination of the uneasy politeness. The belch was a starting signal to launch the serious discussion.
“The line of direct succession has been severed,” said one voice and everyone looked at Aziz, who was representing the sprawling royal family. “The king had appointed his eldest son to be the heir, but the simultaneous death of the crown prince has left the position open. We must choose a new leader and announce him as soon as possible.”
“Agreed. The question is, ‘How?’” said a colonel who was the military envoy to the meeting tonight. He was not in uniform. “The successor must come from among the king’s sons or grandsons. I cannot see either of His Majesty’s full brothers ascending.”
The construction magnate from an influential family, chosen as the spokesman for the nonpetroleum businesses, agreed. “Both of the brothers are too far along in years to assume day-to-day responsibility during this crisis. His Majesty had three sons in direct lineage. With the crown prince also dead, only two of the true sons remain as candidates. The sons by other wives do not qualify.”
“The eldest is a corrupt playboy and is unacceptable to the tribes,” snorted the sheikh who was a Bedouin chief from the south. “The youngest has not proven himself as a man, for he is a father of daughters-no sons at all. He is also unacceptable to us.”
The conversation lapsed into silence for a few moments. Not only royal succession, but competing commercial pressures were in play at the table. Fortunes were on the line.
The executive from the rich oil industry coughed to get attention. “Let us not forget that there is a rebellion going on outside these doors, my friends.” He cast a stony glance across at the imam who was the religious faction’s man at the table. “Our king was murdered by zealots who are out of control.”
The imam retorted, “The rebellion was caused by a corrupt government that strayed from the will of Allah and the words of the Prophet, praise be unto him. The Grand Mufti is not involved in any way in this matter.”
The eyes of the oil man swept around the table. “You are wrong. The overall population is not in rebellion. They are still sitting it out, huddling in their homes, just like our exalted Grand Mufti. His silence has allowed that vile dog Ebara and his
Prince Aziz steepled his fingers before speaking. “Our religion and our politics are threads in the same fabric.
