“And you, Raul. Now you have neglected to kill me, what will you tell them?”
“Jacques. You are going. Now. I’m going to tell them I got here to obey their orders, and you were gone. Do you want a lift to the airport or somewhere?”
“No,” replied Colonel Gamoudi. “The King will arrange my transportation. I’ll just round up General Rashood, who’s in the billiards room, and we’ll be on our way. And thank you, Raul. I mean that. Because I just cost you a lot of money, in a way.”
The French Secret Service man smiled, and told him, “Earlier today, I made a decision, based on a few lines written by the distinguished English novelist, E. M. Forster.”
And with that, Raul headed toward the door. But when he reached it, he turned back and embraced his former boss, with genuine concern. “Good-bye, Jacques,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, be careful and…and God go with you.”
“Well,” said Jacques wryly, “before you go, you might tell me the lines which caused you to spare me.”
Raul Foy looked quizzical, as if nervous to utter the sentence that would confirm his loyalties. But then he said carefully, “Very well.” And he recited, to the best of his memory, Forster’s words:
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They prayed at sunset, out on the edge of the desert, southwest of Riyadh. King Nasir of Saudi Arabia and all of his most trusted council members turned east toward Mecca and prostrated themselves before God in accordance with the strict teachings of the Koran.
Tonight would see the ancient ritual of the
Tonight the King would dine with his advisers, six of them gathered in a circle around the great circular feast, eating with their bare right hands, selecting pieces of lamb and rolling them expertly into rice balls with the dexterity of a group of cardsharps.
These nights, in the opening days of the new King’s reign, the prayers were particularly poignant, because Nasir demanded that Islam and its teachings pervade every aspect of Bedouin life.
The tall, bearded ruler of the kingdom, on his knees in the center of the vast brightly patterned Persian rug spread out on the sand, epitomized the strength that lay in the fellowship of faith. In all of their conferences since he had assumed power, King Nasir had made it abundantly clear that he was dedicated to a return to the ancient ways, and not merely in the creed of personal faith and piety.
King Nasir wanted to restore Muslim life back to the correct code of ethics, the one passed down through the wisdom of the Koran. He wanted a culture, a system of laws, an understanding of the function of the State — Islamic guidelines for life in all of its dimensions.
And there was not a man on the great carpet in the desert who did not believe that the King would achieve his aims. Nasir was a strong leader, unbending in his beliefs. He still refused to sleep in an ornate, lavishly decorated bedroom, preferring his plain, white, almost bare room, which was more like a cell.
And he preferred to dine in the desert, sitting outside his tent, ensuring that everyone had enough to eat, including all of the fifteen servants who attended him. On this night, he had characteristically invited four perfect strangers, mere passersby, to join the gathering.
And now the robed figures were preparing to sit up long into the night indulging in that most ancient of Arab rituals — sipping coffee freshly roasted on an open fire while dinner was consumed and served from a long-beaked, blue enameled pot with pale cardamom seeds.
It was an unchanging scene, out here beneath a rising desert moon: modern men upholding their Bedouin past as if time had stood still down the centuries. Except that at twenty-two minutes before 11 P.M. the King’s cell phone rang loudly from somewhere in the folds of his robes. His expression changed from content, to startled, and then to irritated. It was as if someone had offered him a cup of instant coffee.
But he answered the call. Because it must be critically important. No one could remember anyone having the temerity to interrupt Nasir al-Saud during the ceremony of the
The gathering was hushed as he spoke.
“Why, hello, Jacques. Are you safe?”
And then there was silence while Colonel Gamoudi explained there was about to be a second attempt on his life, how the French Secret Service man had arrived in his bedroom with the warning.
They all heard the King ask, “And that saved you? Those wonderful lines from
“I will have you collected from the house and taken to the airport where a private Boeing will take you anywhere you wish to go. I want you to keep it for as long as it takes, until you are safe.” He then asked quietly, “Does this mean that General Rashood will leave as well?”
And it was clear from the sad expression on Nasir’s face that the Hamas leader was also going to fly out of Saudi Arabia. “You both go as my brothers, and my comrades in arms,” he said. “Your names will not be forgotten here, and you have my support and my help until the end of my days. Jacques, go in peace, and may Allah go with you.”
Thirty minutes later, an amazing clatter split the night air of the Diplomatic Quarter as a Royal Saudi Navy helicopter, an Aerospatiale SA 365 Dauphin 2, came in low over the houses and put down with a tremendous racket on the wide lawn outside Colonel Gamoudi’s bedroom.
Gamoudi almost had a heart attack at the sight of the French-built Dauphin, assuming briefly that it was Gaston Savary’s hit squad coming to finish him off. But when he looked closer, he could see the insignia of the Saudi Navy and the crown painted near the stern that signified it was for the use of the King.
The loadmaster who came to the front door was immediately admitted, as if the guards had been forewarned of his arrival. Both Gamoudi and Ravi Rashood traveled light, each with just one duffel bag, a machine pistol, four magazines of fifty rounds, and their combat knives. Suits, shirts, and uniforms were left behind for another time.
The Dauphin took off instantly, the moment they were aboard, and eight minutes later it put down at the head of the runway at King Khalid Airport, right next to a fully fueled Boeing 737, its engines running.
They thanked the helicopter flight crew and bolted up the stairway into the big private jet. The doors were slammed and, with immense dignity, the second officer came through to inquire, “Where to, sir?” as if the Boeing were a taxi.
General Rashood’s mind raced. He considered Damascus was not a good option — not on a direct flight from Riyadh. Jordan was not far enough; neither was Baghdad. Tel Aviv was too dangerous. And so was Cairo.
“Beirut,” he said. “Beirut International Airport.”
“No problem,” replied the co-pilot.
Three minutes later they were hurtling down the runway, climbing above the sea of light that is modern-day Riyadh. The only difference being, since they arrived, there had been a change in management.
