“Sorry I’m late, but I wanted to catch the fireworks this morning. Damn impressive those Hornets your navy uses. Scream like the bloody hounds of hell, they do.” Bigelow noted how slowly Mercer walked around the Mercedes and how gingerly he eased himself into the leather passenger seat. “Looks like you and Khalid Khuddari have the same tailor.” Mercer’s right arm was in a cloth sling to lessen the tension on his more severely torn shoulder tendons.
“It’s amazing the sympathy you get with one of these. Hell, even the Air France flight attendants were civil.”
“Should have come down on BOAC.” Bigelow still used the old name for British Airways. “But I’m sure the flap at Heathrow has mucked them up for a few days.”
“So everything went as planned?” Mercer asked. Between the time spent waiting in airports and on planes and the hours he’d lost traveling thirteen time zones east, a full day had passed since he and Captain Hauser had prevented the destruction of the
“Like clockwork,” Bigelow replied with a grand smile. The Mercedes purred along at about a hundred miles an hour on the ribbon of asphalt bisecting the white desert sand. “I’ll let Minister Khuddari fill you in on the details.”
“I understand from my conversation with his secretary that he was severely injured in London during an attack at the British Museum and later at Heathrow.”
“Siri has a soft spot for him. She made his wounds sound worse than they are. He caught a bunch of shrapnel fragments, nothing even remotely life threatening, and he gave himself a nasty spinal dislocation jumping from an airplane.” Bigelow then added fondly, “The pansy fell ten feet and pinched off a nerve for a couple of hours. I’ve known men who’ve leaped from five thousand feet without a parachute and walked away with nothing more than a mild limp. I knew he should have gone to Sandhurst rather than Cambridge and the London School of Economics. Lad’s too soft by far.”
“Known him long?” Mercer smiled at Bigelow’s gruff affection.
“Since his father brought him in from the desert when he was a boy. Men like him are the future of the Gulf. They can function in the Western world yet still retain their traditions and their faith, giving each the proper due and maintaining true balance. The fundamentalism so popular now isn’t the answer. Whether it’s belief in Allah or in modern civilization, the Arabs have to learn not to rush headlong in either direction. Unfortunately, they are so passionate about everything they do that they lose sight of life’s subtle compromises.”
Mercer chuckled. “I just gave that same speech about environmentalists.”
“It applies to everyone,” Bigelow replied.
Once in the city, Bigelow parked them in a garage under a modern glass and steel office tower, the space he took having his name on a plaque affixed to the poured concrete wall. “You can leave your bag. In fact, the car is yours while you’re here in Abu Dhabi. I hope you enjoy it more than I do. I much prefer my old Rover to these Kraut leather-lined bordellos.”
While the building could not have been more than a few years old, Bigelow led Mercer into an area that had the feel of an old Victorian edifice, plaster walls, dark woodwork, and ceilings at least twelve feet high. The effect was disorienting but very welcome in the otherwise sterile city. The doors to Khalid al-Khuddari’s office were solid pieces of mahogany, each four feet wide by nine feet tall. Mercer knew they had to be antiques because trees that size were just not found anymore.
The outer office was large, richly decorated, and inviting, the colors hued to those of the outlying desert and the azure of the Gulf to the north. The desk at its far end was as large as a pool table but spotlessly organized, even the cables running from the computer were tightly wrapped to reduce their ugly functionalism. Mercer assumed that the woman coming from behind the desk was Khalid Khuddari’s secretary, Siri Patal. He wasn’t ready for her exquisitely delicate beauty. He’d expected a heavy, matronly woman like the ones he knew from the Indian restaurants around Washington. Siri Patal could have been a model; her fluid movement and her reed-thin body were exceptional. Thinking a purely chauvinistic thought, Mercer hoped that Khuddari had the sense to have an affair with this woman. He would have, in Khuddari’s position.
“Hello, Colonel,” Siri said respectfully to Bigelow, who ignored her professional demeanor and gave her cheek a tickle with his mustache.
“Hello, darling. How’s my girl?”
“Colonel, please,” she blushed and nodded to the corner of the antechamber.
Seated on one of the two leather sofas and leafing through an oil industry magazine, Jim Gibson looked up and smiled broadly. “Don’t you mind me, little lady, you just carry on.” His Stetson and cowboy boots looked appropriate once he spoke in his booming Texas voice. “Well, jerk my lizard! They told me you was comin’, Mercer, but I said naw, couldn’t be. Mercer is a miner, I said, and the only resource this country’s got other than oil is sand. Since the bottom fell out of the hourglass market, there’s no sense mining that.”
Mercer shook Gibson’s hand awkwardly with his left, his whole fist vanishing in the Texan’s big paw. “Thanks, Jim, for everything. I think the world would be a different place if you hadn’t put me in touch with Colonel Bigelow.”
“Hell, I haven’t talked to you since Nigeria, and the next thing I know, you’re calling me up about government plots and sabotage. When I heard about the flap at the Alaska Pipeline and knew you hadn’t gone round the bend, I did what any hero woulda done.” Gibson laughed. “Taking a lesson from the Duke, John Wayne, when the Indians are circling, begging your pardon ma’am, but when they’re circling, you call in the cavalry, right? I’m just glad I was able to help. And speaking of which, it’s time for this hero to get his reward.”
Mercer cocked an eyebrow at the brawny petroleum geologist.
“The Crown Prince wants to add to his stables, and knowing me to be a fine judge of horseflesh, he’s sending me on a buying spree through Europe and the States. Told me that if I happen to find a few fillies that catch my eye, not to be shy about buyin’ them for myself. The check he gave me has more zeros than a high school chess club.” Gibson tipped his hat. “Miss Siri, Colonel. Mercer, hate to cut this short, but I’ve got a plane to catch.”
No sooner had Gibson left than the door leading to Minister Khalid al-Khuddari’s chamber opened. The minister wore casual clothing, American-style jeans and an open-necked shirt. Supported by two canes, his movement into the reception area was slow but steady, his arms taking much of the strain as he crabbed forward. Mercer stole a quick glance at Siri Patal and was envious of the look she gave Khuddari. An image of Aggie Johnston flashed painfully in his mind. They hadn’t spoken since Alaska. They probably never would.
“Dr. Mercer, it is both a pleasure and a privilege to meet you,” Khuddari said, coming close. He looked at Mercer critically, and when he made some sort of personal judgment, smiled. “I’m willing to bet your injuries are a lot worse than they appear.”
“Only if I appear dead.” Mercer made no move to shake Khuddari’s hand because he could only use his left comfortably. He knew that touching an Arab with that hand, which they considered unclean, was a sign of disrespect.
“We’ve both suffered for this,” Khuddari said so quietly that only Mercer could hear. Mercer nodded a silent agreement, recognizing the seriousness of those words and the meaning behind them. Just as quickly as it appeared, Khuddari’s serious edge disappeared, and he was again the charming host. “Come into my office. We have a great deal to discuss, a great many war stories to swap. I think even Colonel Bigelow may be impressed by us. What do you think?”
Mercer laughed, “Unless you and I single-handedly defeated Rommel, I don’t think much would impress your Colonel.”
Khuddari was delighted by the accurate description of his friend and mentor, grinning at Bigelow’s scowl.
He led them into his office and took a seat behind his desk, propping his legs on an ottoman and leaning the canes against the wall like dueling sabers. Bigelow and Mercer sat opposite the desk. Because Mercer’s internal clock was so messed up by jet lag and exhaustion, he didn’t refuse Bigelow’s offer of whiskey from the gold-capped flask he pulled from the pocket of his khaki tunic.
“To begin with, my closest friends call me Khalid. I would like to count you among them. May I dispense with your formal title and call you Philip?”
“My friends call me Mercer. Actually, so do my enemies, but that doesn’t really matter.”
“Then let me say officially, Mercer, the people of the United Arab Emirates and everyone else living in the Gulf owe you a great deal. I’m afraid that without your involvement, what we saw as an internal problem would
