RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
“THE BRITISH!” PRINCE GENERAL Mamoud Ali al-Fahd, the commander of the Saudi Royal Guard Regiment, had been raging since the first reports of the terrorist attack on the castle in Scotland. “They refused to believe that something like this could happen! They pledged their honor!”
The general’s job was to protect the king, which he did with a beefed-up elite force of three light infantry battalions and an armored battalion. Putting a similar shield around Prince Abdullah should have been someone else’s problem, and was impossible to accomplish from Riyadh, because the prince was the Saudi ambassador to the United States and spent most of his time in Washington. But His Majesty had declared that Abdullah was too important to be left with just ordinary diplomatic protection and al-Fahd had been personally instructed that in addition to his regular duties, the general also would coordinate the prince’s security and see that no harm befell him. Geography alone forced al-Fahd to delegate others to carry out that royal edict, and that weakness had been its defeat. The general could not be everywhere at once and if the others failed, it would still be Prince General Mamoud al-Fahd who would be blamed.
Vice Sergeant Mas’ud Mohammed al-Kazaz, the soldier who had been his valet for seven years, quietly placed a polished silver tray with hot tea and small cakes on a table beside his general. “Please have something to eat, sir. You must keep up your strength, for the good of the kingdom,” the valet said.
“I am not hungry.” The general waved at the tray. “Take it away.”
“Not until you eat, sir.” The valet stubbornly left the tray. He was one of the few men who could talk back to the general, although he did so with a polite and reverent tone. “Please sit down so I can pull off your boots.”
Al-Fahd propped one boot on the sergeant’s broad behind and raised the other leg between the knees of his aide. The vice-sergeant grasped the heel and gave it a hearty pull. He flipped it to the side, the general changed feet, and the second boot was pulled off. The general gave into the moment and had a drink of tea and bit into a sweet cake. Delicious. Another bite and another sip before the anger returned.
Al-Fahd got back up and paced the private suite of rooms that comprised the living space at his private headquarters. He had just returned from another tour of his forces in the field, heightening their alert status due to the incident in Scotland and the rash of confidential reports about civil unrest that were coming in from around the country. The general felt that the narrow line of light that held back the darkness of chaos was cracking, and smacked a fist into a palm in frustration.
“They assured me that our ambassador would be supremely well-protected and that nothing could possibly happen to him because so many security people were involved at an isolated location.” Al-Fahd rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “Did they think this was some Lawrence of Arabia film and a British hero would ride in on a white camel to set things straight? We were allowed to have only three…three…of our own security men with him. Outrageous. The Brits were arrogant and insolent and wrong!”
Vice Sergeant al-Kazaz was used to hearing his general grumble while they were alone, when the man could express the intense thoughts he would never utter to a staff officer or outsider. “Yes, sir, they were. But may I remind my general that the ambassador survived, and that our king is safe and the guard lines are strong. That is your primary duty, and you have performed it well.” The valet unbuckled the brass round hasp of the pistol belt and laid the holstered weapon on a table, then helped the tired man remove his sweat-stained tunic and also laid it aside to be cleaned.
The prince gave him a tired smile. Al-Kazaz was always there, a comfortable shadow and as much of a friend as any common soldier could ever be to a prince of the House of Saud. The hard-working son of a small business owner from an allied tribe had compiled a good military record and after a thorough background check, won appointment to the Royal Guard. Intelligent, quick, quiet and competent, he was an ideal aide, hardly ever noticed but always around, usually carrying whatever was needed before the general had to ask.
“Yes. Prince Abdullah was saved by the hand of the Prophet and his wounds were not serious. He is now in a private clinic, and the British have promised even more that he is safe.” Al-Fahd paused. “How can this be believed? I have scheduled a plane to take him back to Washington as soon as possible.”
“They cannot be believed, sir. The plane is the correct response,” answered his valet, agreeing with anything his general said in order to push him along. “Your trousers, please, sir, and then into the shower. You look like a camel herder. Smell like one, too.”
Prince General al-Fahd had to laugh. “You dare order me around like I’m a private. I should have you whipped!” He went to a safe imbedded in the thick concrete wall, turned the dial, and opened it. The general removed a thin chain from around his neck that contained not only his military dog tags but also a small key, and placed it in the safe. From his wallet, he withdrew a small red plastic card embossed with black numbers and also put it inside, atop a small book lanced with the red stripe of Top Secret material, then closed and locked the little door. When those two items were not on his person, they were always in the safe. Allah forbid them falling into the wrong hands.
He stripped off his remaining clothes and went into the bathroom and entered the enclosure where the valet already had a steaming shower running. The flood of cool water washed away worry as well as dirt. When he stepped out, al-Kazaz handed him a warm, huge blue towel.
“I have your family on the telephone, sir,” he said.
The general sat on his bunk and had a brief conversation with his wife and both of their children. All was well at home, Allah be thanked. “A fresh uniform, if you please, vice-sergeant.”
“Sir, this would be a good time for you to get a few hours of sleep. You must rest if the country is to survive this crisis. A fatigued man makes mental mistakes,” insisted the mild, polite voice. He handed over a set of pressed pajamas.
“There is no time to sleep, Mas’ud,” the general replied, although the soft bed seemed to tug at him. He yawned. “There is just so much to do.”
“I will awaken you if there is a real emergency. The appropriate forces are dealing with this rebellion of dogs in the slums, sir, and it will all be over soon. We protect the king and I must not let your attention be diverted from that holy cause. I’ll fetch the chief of staff in four hours to brief you.”
“All of these developments…so awfully bad.” The general stretched out.
“There is nothing more you can do about it for the time being, sir. I am sure that Prince Abdullah is now probably the most protected man on earth. I will finish my chores here and then take a chair right beside your door.”
Prince General al-Fahd felt his muscles agree to what his mind was fighting, and he relaxed. “Very well, vice-sergeant. You’re the boss.”
“Rest then, soldier. It is lights out for you.” He had dimmed the two big fixtures and only a soft 75-watt bulb of a lamp beside the bed remained on, not enough to tempt him to read more reports. The valet turned off the final switch and the room went pitch dark.
Soldier? The tension was broken by the small impertinence. The general turned on his left side and stretched and began to doze immediately although sounds still came to him. There was the low buzz of the central air-conditioning, and Mas’ud was busying himself gathering the dirty laundry, the boots, the pistol and the belt, and the tea tray. The full uniform would be cleaned, brass bright and leather polished, by the time the prince general awoke. He listened to the familiar sliding of oiled metal and clicks of his 9 mm Heckler & Koch pistol. Just Mas’ud unloading the magazine and clearing the chamber to be sure the weapon was safe before taking it away for cleaning.
His soldier’s mind registered something odd. The procedure, which he had heard thousands of times, didn’t sound right. Something was out of sequence. He snapped awake in the darkness and managed to partially turn onto his back but was out of time, and could neither see, fight, nor shout.
Mas’ud had wrapped the dirty uniform around the pistol, aimed the muzzle close to the face, and was already pulling the trigger. The head of Prince General al-Fahd was punched open by the big bullets. Blood, brains, and bone fragments from the commander of the Royal Guard Regiment spewed onto the cot and slapped onto the wall in a fan-shaped pattern. The folded clothes had silenced the gunshots.
The valet snapped the table lamp on again and carefully checked his own uniform and body for blood spots. There were none. He threw the clothes onto the dead man and reloaded. The turncoat assassin hurried over to the safe and unlocked it. He had watched the general do it so many times that he had long ago memorized the combination and even practiced opening the little vault when he was alone in the room. Grabbing the key, the red card, and a small booklet, Mas’ud stuck them in his pocket, turned out the light and left, locking the door behind him. Leaving the building, he passed along the order to the chief of staff that the general did not wish to be disturbed until 0600 the next morning.
The vice sergeant slid behind the wheel of the shining black staff Mercedes and drove away unmolested, heading for a nearby mosque to deliver the key and the red card to his imam, and then onto the fashionable home of the prince general to murder the general’s family. Only one more task would remain after that: He would turn the weapon on himself and become a martyr, trading his life for the good of the jihad and a promised payment of money to his impoverished family. He had received a love note by e-mail.