by Holly Rayner
FOUR
The plane landed on time, just over sixteen hours after taking off. As the wheels struck the ground, Amity’s heart began to race again. She laced her fingers through her seatbelt, blinking around her. An older gentleman across the aisle still slept on, his chin grazing his chest. He wore a turban. Would the men in Al-Mabbar wear turbans, she wondered. Would she stick out, with her pale skin and her long, brown hair? Would she be so distinctly Midwestern—with that edge of California culture?
She couldn’t think about it now.
She nudged Flora, who grumbled as she awoke. She scratched at her eyes, at her neck. “Are we almost there?” she said hazily.
“Look,” Amity breathed, pointing out the window.
Sure enough, there outside the window was the capital of Al-Mabbar; a gorgeous city surrounded by desert, with skyscrapers that rushed into the sky from the sand.
“Is it a mirage?” Flora asked, her voice still sticky with sleep.
“It’s our temporary home,” Amity laughed. She unbuckled her seatbelt and waited impatiently for the plane to taxi, her brain buzzing. Around her, the world was coming to life. She was back on land.
“Hello, and good morning,” the captain began from the front. His voice held none of the exhaustion of Flora and Amity’s. “We’ve reached Al-Mabbar City. The local time is six-thirty, and as you can see, the sun has begun to rise over the desert. It’s not hot, right now—a local temperature of just 75 degrees Fahrenheit. But the high today will be 90 degrees, so prepare yourselves. I know I will be.”
The captain continued speaking, but then the stewards opened the doors, and Amity erupted from her seat, reaching overhead for her luggage. She felt the jetlag ringing through her, despite having slept for a few hours earlier. Because she traveled so infrequently, she didn’t expect to handle the time change well. Mentally, she prepared to take a nap later, wherever she’d stay that evening. She’d asked Emery, Charlie’s secretary, about their accommodations—and she’d simply been told that “the client will take care of it.” Whatever that meant.
The two women exited the airplane into a chaotic and brightly lit airport terminal. The floor-to-ceiling windows on either side gave a stunning view of the desert and of the distant sea, which was a glimmer of turquoise on the horizon. The sun was burning oranges and yellows into the city’s buildings.
“It’s way more beautiful than L.A.,” Flora said then, incredulous. “I was expecting a few shacks in the desert.”
Amity rolled her eyes but gave an appreciative laugh. “All right, monkey. Let’s get our luggage and head out of here.”
“Do you know where we’re going?”
Amity didn’t answer. She frowned and followed the signs toward the baggage claim, where she saw her bright red suitcases circling. She swept her arm through the straps and tugged them both to the ground, breathing heavily. She watched as Flora did the same, with expert finesse, drawing the small bag over her thin shoulders. She smiled brightly, clearly overcoming any sense of jet lag.
Amity turned her head toward the exit, where a long line of taxi drivers were waving large signs—each with large letters spelling out American and Middle-Eastern last names. All at once, Amity’s eyes landed upon a shorter driver, wearing a dark suit and a chauffeur cap, holding a crooked sign with the word “WINTERS.”
Relieved, she exhaled, and began to move forward. Scuttling on her heels, she led Flora toward the exit, waving at the man with her free hand. The man’s eyes met with hers, but his expression didn’t change. Slowly, Amity’s smile faltered—she wasn’t yet accustomed to the business culture of Al-Mabbar. Give it time, she thought.
“Hello,” she said demurely. She gestured to the sign. “I’m Amity Winters. This is my colleague, Flora.”
The man drew out his arms and took their suitcases. He balked, nearly falling backwards with the weight of them, before righting himself like nothing had happened. Black and graying hairs whizzed out from beneath his hat.
“Shall we go?” he asked in a thick accent. Before allowing her to answer, he spun around and marched toward the door, leaving Flora and Amity to exchange panicked glances.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Amity murmured, shrugging.
They walked behind the man, who bobbed left and right with the weight of the bags. The great glass doors opened for them, blasting their faces with desert heat. The morning sun was even brighter than in Los Angeles. It blasted against the dark limousine, waiting at the entrance.
“This will be our ride,” the man called out. He tipped the trunk open and flung the bags inside, before rushing to the back door and opening it for them both. “Go—go—” he said, waving his hand toward the dark interior, which exhaled too-cold air conditioning.
Amity followed his wave into the chilly limo and tapped the seat beside her, watching as Flora folded herself easily beside her. The driver slammed the door, making the vehicle quiver back and forth, before he entered the driver’s seat and revved the engine, quickly lurching from the airport terminal and speeding out onto a highway.
The highway was an exposed nerve beneath a hot, wide-open sky. When Amity peered up ahead, she saw those classic mirages miles before her—the pools of water that appeared when too much sun and brightness buckled against the black tar. Around them, orange dunes swept up and down, demonstrating a classic image of Middle-Eastern desert.
“This is really beautiful,” Amity said, addressing the limo driver. Surely, he knew where he was taking them? She needed answers. “I can’t wait to see where we’re staying.”
But the driver only cleared his throat, not offering a single word.
To Amity’s right, Flora let out a dramatic sigh, and Amity spun to face her, her PR brain attempting to take over. “Flora. You have the calendar and notebook on you, don’t you?” She figured they could begin to plan their strategy, or at least set up a schedule.
But Flora just shrugged her shoulders. “I know you don’t even know who this client is. Can’t we wait until we get to the hotel—or whatever?” The words were blasé, bored. Amity couldn’t really blame her. So much was up in the air.
All at once, the limo veered off the highway. The smooth, tar road suddenly petered out into a gravel track that wound through the desert, through the mighty dunes. Amity pressed close to the window, catching views of the city between the dunes. It seemed as if they were moving further and further away from civilization. Fear began to fizzle through her.
The limo skirted right, then left, each time without slowing down properly. Flora nearly flew on top of Amity at one point, before Amity forced her to buckle herself in. “Be careful!” she hissed.
“Whatever, Mom,” Flora said, rolling her eyes.
Amity couldn’t care. She flipped her long hair, and reminded herself that once she got through this assignment, she could move to New York and find another intern.
The limo skirted still further from the city, suddenly coming to an abrupt halt between two massive, gleaming sand dunes. Around them, the dust ruffled through the air. Amity blinked wildly, searching around her. “Are we there?” she inquired.
The driver suddenly appeared before her, opening her door and gesturing outward, toward the desert. Amity frowned.
“Go,” the man said, his voice stern. “Go up there.”
In the distance, Amity could just make out a table that had been set down in the shade between two dunes. Around it she could make out the shapes of three large men, each of them cast in shadow.
“Is this really it?” Amity whispered.
“Go along,” the driver said again, his accent thick. “They’re waiting for you.”
Amity turned toward Flora. “I’ll bring my intern with me.”
But the limo driver raised a single finger into the air and shook it left, then right. “Just you, Miss Winters. She waits here.”
Flora flung her head back against the leather cushion and closed her eyes, clearly relieved.
A
mity gave her intern another brief glance before stepping out onto the sand, feeling her shoes sink a full inch into the ground. She tugged at her blazer and swiped at her makeup. She’d expected to have time to prepare her appearance before this initial meeting. This was a little much.
She gave the driver a brave smile before proceeding toward the table, taking discreet peeks around her. It was clear that they’d driven far from any kind of civilization—and that people didn’t often drive down this road. The temperature had elevated astronomically, taking them to near 90 already. She felt sweat forming in her armpits, trickling down her back; she felt her hands grow damp.
As she neared the men, she realized, at once, that the three men at the table were not created equally. The men on either side were large, with broad, football player shoulders. They wore vests stocked with weapons, and dark sunglasses that hid their eyes.
Between them, a man sat in an immaculate suit. He was sat with his ankle atop his knee, and he jiggled his leg lightly as he waited. His hands were folded over his stomach, and his mouth was a thin line beneath his sunglasses. He wore no vest, no hat. And yet, beside his two massive bodyguards, he was much more intimidating. Amity could not place why.
Amity proceeded to offer the three of them a bright smile as she approached. When she grew close enough, she raised a hand and waved to them, wiggling her fingers with an overt, American-style greeting. “Hi,” she said. She flipped her long, brown hair and righted her posture.
Finally, the man in the center rose to his feet. He beckoned toward the empty seat before him. When she stood before him, he brought his hand, dagger-like, toward her.
She shook it, flashing those bright white teeth once more. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Amity Winters,” she said confidently.
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Winters. I hope your flight wasn’t too unpleasant?”
“Not at all,” Amity said, still wearing that smile. “And please, call me Amity.”
She felt hesitant as she sat on the chair, which sank deeper into the sand as she gave it her full weight. She placed her hands in her lap, still waiting for this man to introduce himself. The two muscled bodyguards beside him hadn’t made a single motion to greet her. They reminded her of the Taylor brothers back at the agency. She attempted to project her professional, PR persona. “It’s wonderful to be here. I’m ready to get started, if you are.”
The man brought his fingers to his sunglasses, then, and swiped them up and over his forehead. All at once, the motion revealed that he was not just attractive, but the stuff of Hollywood; of music legends. Amity didn’t allow her shock to show. She cleared her throat.
“I do apologize,” he said suddenly. “I’ve dragged you out into the middle of the desert, and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Sheikh Aziz al Arin.”
Ah, so this was the Sheikh; the incredibly important man whose image was on the line. Amity’s professional brain began to buzz, and she breathed a small sigh of relief—it was far easier to deal with an attractive man in the “image rehabilitation” realm. People love good-looking people; they’re far more forgiving and open to their antics.
“Sheikh Aziz. It’s marvelous to finally know what I’m working with,” she replied, her voice in that confident, PR-rep mode.
“And it’s good to finally meet you,” he agreed. “Trust me, it’s been a hard road, as far as my image goes.”
“That’s right. My director couldn’t tell me so much prior to my arrival.” Her chat with Charlie felt like it was years ago, rather than just two days before. “Please, Aziz. Get me up to speed, if you don’t mind.”
The Sheikh glanced briefly at both of his bodyguards. He cleared his throat. “I suppose, to begin, you have to know that I’m one of the richest men in Al-Mabbar. I became a billionaire when I inherited my family’s oil business—Arin Petroleum. You probably know by now that Al-Mabbar is almost exclusively oil rich.”
Amity nodded, scribbling notes in her book. She wished, abstractly, that Flora were there to help her remember everything.
“My father was well-loved in Al-Mabbar, and by much of the world, in fact. Aside from his work in the oil industry, he was a famous philanthropist and has been credited as helping thousands and thousands of lesser-off people. He was a constant figure at the Al-Mabbar hospital, for example.
“As I’m sure you can imagine,” Aziz continued, “it’s been a struggle escaping my father’s shadow since he died. The people loved him, but they did not pass along that love to me. In fact, in my teenage years, I might have had a handle in creating this lackluster image of a—ahem—a kind of playboy, a party animal. A spoiled son of a billionaire, you know.”
“It can happen,” Amity said, nodding once more. Spoiled billionaire’s son who appeared to party constantly and live the life of a hedonist. It was nothing new to her. She’d seen so much worse. And yet—something about the man before her gave her pause. He seemed genuinely concerned; he seemed to care, deeply, about his countrymen and his father’s memory.
“I loved my father,” Aziz continued. “He truly cared for this country and for this world. But of course, as a teenager, I couldn’t quite see it that way. And that’s something I regret every single day.”
To the Sheikh’s left, one bodyguard shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with how heartfelt the conversation seemed to be. Amity wanted to grin, but she held back.
“Anyway. I’m hoping you will help my country to see me as myself—as the man I actually am—a person who is quite similar to my father and to my father’s father. I come from a long line of important men. And although I do like to do my fair share of partying—”
“Don’t tell me that,” Amity teased. She tapped her pen against the notebook, glancing around her once more. The air was nearly impenetrable with the heat of the sun.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you out here,” Aziz said. He snapped his fingers, then, and one of the bodyguards stood, reaching beneath the table and producing a pot of tea and several plates of Middle-Eastern breakfast foods—pita breads with feta cheeses and olives. He placed the plates in front of Aziz and Amity, and Amity rubbed her palms together. She was famished.
“I did think it a little…eccentric,” Amity said, accepting a fork. “But I didn’t want to say anything. Perhaps this is how you always operate.”
The Sheikh gave her a half smile, tilting his head slightly. “Well, Amity. Now that you’ve agreed to help me, I can tell you: the setting for this meeting is a metaphor.”
“I didn’t know you worked in metaphors here in the Middle East,” she said.
“The first and last time, I can assure you,” Aziz laughed. “You see, out here, under the sun, between the dunes—this is what every American pictures when they picture the Middle East. Am I incorrect in saying that?”
Amity considered this for a moment, remembering the image she’d had in her mind mere days before, when she’d first learned of this life-altering commitment. She nodded. “I suppose this is what we imagine, yes. We know so very little of your world. It’s rather sad, isn’t it?”
Aziz waved his hand. “People imagine what they want to imagine, which is why so many of my countrymen imagine me as a hedonistic, playboy billionaire. It’s a romantic notion—that they should hate the son of the man they loved. Don’t you think so?”
“I think people like to create drama,” Amity murmured, placing her fork on the table. She still hadn’t eaten a single morsel. “I think that’s why PR is so important. To turn that drama on its head. To allow people to imagine something else.”
“Exactly, Amity,” Aziz said. “Westerners, they imagine this world with sandy dunes, hot sun and a dearth of culture. Once they arrive, however, they find so much more to Al-Mabbar than they could ever dream of. They find complex people; they find stunning vistas. They are allowed to grow from their preconceptions and really understand the world around them. And in the same way, I hope that you’ll come to t
hink of me differently,” he said, averting his eyes to the table. For a moment, he didn’t appear so confident. He seemed earnest, hopeful that he could become the kind of man he dreamed of being. “I hope you will come to think of me as more than my terrible reputation. I hope that you will see this and translate this to the rest of my people.”
Amity’s heart pitter-pattered in the silence that followed. She didn’t know what to say. Her other clients with awful images, who were often involved in hedonistic parties or terrible divorces or this or that, never really cared how she saw them. They generally treated her like garbage and expected her to pick up the pieces of their reputations, without remorse.
And yet: this first meeting with Aziz confused her, spun her on her head. Here was a billionaire who truly cared about his countrymen, about his deceased father’s image, about his future. And furthermore: he cared about what she, the PR rep, thought of him. She felt cold chills spike up her arms, despite the 90-degree heat, and she rubbed at them with absent fingers.
“I understand,” she finally spoke, her voice meek. “And I appreciate the metaphor.”
“I had a good feeling about you,” Aziz said warmly. He gestured toward the plates, then, trying to wade through the awkward waters he’d drawn for them. “Eat up, Amity. Trust me, it’s going to be a difficult couple of days, readjusting to the schedule here. I’ve flown from Los Angeles one too many times; the jetlag is not an easy one to crack.”
“As long as I can get a nap in later, I’ll be fine,” Amity said, opting once more for her professional voice. “Would it be possible for the limo to take my intern to the hotel while we eat? I’m sure she’s ready to sleep in a bed by now.”
“Of course,” Aziz said, gesturing to his right-hand bodyguard, who then rushed off to tell the driver to leave. “You can ride with me. We can eat here before heading into the city—if that suits you, of course.”
Amity agreed and watched as the limo containing Flora spun tires from the scene and rushed back towards the city, winding down that dune road. “I assume our accommodations are close to yours?”
“Your intern’s hotel is located directly across from my apartment block,” Aziz confirmed. “I’ve booked her the presidential suite. You won’t have to interact with each other unless you’re meeting on business.”
“That’s perfect,” Amity said. “And I’ll be staying at that hotel, as well?”
The Sheikh hesitated, his eyes searching the horizon. “Actually, I’ve arranged different accommodations for you. I’ll need to work with you incredibly closely, you understand. I want this to be a swift process, which means we’ll need to work together basically every day.”
“And what does that mean for my accommodations?” Amity asked hesitantly.
“You’ll be staying in my downtown mansion. Fear not, it’s big enough for two—several floors, not a studio like you might be used to in Los Angeles,” he offered. She could tell his voice was genuine, not attempting to brag.
“Anyway. You’ll have a suite of rooms all to yourself, with plenty of time to work. I’ll show you when we arrive.”
Amity looked down, her heart beating strangely in her chest. Why did it excite her to be staying in the same mansion as this man? It never normally excited her to speak to a client. Pure business. That was her mantra. Pure. Business.
The pair finished their breakfast, and Aziz stood up, adjusting his suit. He looked so suave, it nearly took Amity’s breath away.
She stood as well, donning her sunglasses. “I don’t know how you handle this heat all the time.”
“Not so different from L.A., now, is it? Maybe fewer tourists…” he said, winking before sliding his sunglasses over his eyes. He lifted his elbow to her and she accepted it, walking alongside him as they descended from the dune.
The bodyguards flanked them until they reached the second limo. Aziz cracked the door and allowed her to enter. She leaned her head against the rest, taking a deep inhale of the air conditioning.
“All right,” Aziz said, cracking her another smile. “Let’s get into the city. I want to show you what this place is really about.”
