by Doug Walker
CHAPTER THREE
Orson was somewhat troubled to leave Delilah, not because of her condition, but simply the fact of leaving. The Saudis had mountains of money, so half a million meant little to them. However they were concerned about eventually running out of oil and of the North Dakota shale oil supply that at the moment seemed endless. The lives of mortal men were not endless and some of them, getting along in years, were determined to find a resolution in their lifetime.
The money had already been deposited in Orson and Delilah’s joint bank account. It was not needed. Delilah was to give half of it away to a local charity of her choice. Perhaps a sanctuary for crippled gulls, or to protect the shoreline, or homes for feral beachcombers, or maybe break it up among causes, whatever. This sum would take care of taxes. The remainder would be used to start a trust fund for the yet unborn.
A jumble of thoughts tumbled through Orson’s brain as he stared from the window on the limousine ride to JFK. Once airborne, with a mild scotch and water in hand, he focused on what lay ahead. A map of the Middle East formed in his mind’s eye. Were all parties accounted for? There must be around a dozen if non-bordering states were participating. The glass empty, he drifted off to sleep.
He had the ability to fall asleep quickly and remain in that condition until either disturbed, or his mental clock told him it was time to blink awake. This was a virtue much admired by the men and women who participated in the dicey game of global chicken.
At the Riyadh airport he was met by a well-polished limo accompanied by a pair of security cars. The sun was a demon, blazing hot and blinding. He expected to be whisked off to the royal palace. Instead the progress was more turtle like. His only item of luggage, a carry-on bag, was carefully searched. Pocket contents, light jacket and shoes run through an X-ray. His body subjected to a full scan. Much like entering security for a flight rather than the usual exit. No stone left unturned where the King’s safety was at risk.
When at last he reached the palace, he was escorted to his room, where his luggage had arrived before him, and asked if he would enjoy a refreshing drink and a snack. He agreed and soon a manservant brought a plate of pitted dates and a pitcher of lemonade into his room. The time was mid-morning. He was told lunch would be served in his room, in fact two luxuriously appointed rooms, one for sleeping, one for sitting, and he would dine with the King at seven.
He had good sleep on the plane, so he read material about the region he had brought. Lunch was served promptly at noon local time: a salad and what would pass for a lobster roll in Maine. Also ice tea, unsweetened, but there was a container of sugar. He declined dessert. After lunch he napped for just over an hour, then read and watched CNN.
The dinner hour arrived and went south. He was sorry he had refused dessert. Just after nine o’clock, a servant pushed a food cart into the room along with a bottle of chilled white wine, strictly forbidden in Muslim countries. A grim looking man in Arab dress accompanied the wait person.
Neither spoke for a moment, then the messenger announced, “The King has been attacked and wounded.”
“Seriously?” Orson questioned.
“He lives, but hospitalized. You are not to leave the palace. Arrangements are being made here and His Majesty should be transported into a hospital situation by late tomorrow.” The man motioned toward the wine. “We assume you use alcohol. So drink with impunity.”
Orson replied, “Thanks, I’ll do just that,” as the messenger turned and strode out of the room.
Orson nodded to himself, turning the situation over in his mind. If the King were dead it would mean big trouble. There was more than one prince, and always intrigue flourished as in any royal court or position of political power. But the King lived and was likely closely guarded. Who could be trusted?
The waiter removed the top of a silver server and revealed what appeared to be a porterhouse steak weighing the better part of a pound and properly oozing a little blood. There were also home fries and what appeared to be fried kale.
“I can bring you another bottle of wine, Sir.” He said with a slight bow.
“Please do. Also any news of the King.”
He placed a finger on his lips. “No gossip, Sir.”
“You speak English well.”
“Two years in London, at the embassy. I’ll return with the wine and later a sweet.”
“What’s the sweet?”
“Apple pie with a choice of ice cream.”
Orson passed the remainder of the evening reading, watching CNN and sipping wine. The following day there was a full English breakfast, odd for Saudi Arabia, strong coffee by the pot, a hot shower, more coffee and a lamb shank for lunch. Laying off the wine, he thought the King might arrive and a possible meeting. Sure enough, long after dinner, he was summoned to the royal bedroom.
“Prince, or now King,” Orson enthused when he was ushered into the room and saw Saudi propped up in bed apparently in the best of health.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Orson. My God what a sash, and decked out in a pirate’s eye patch.” He laughed heartily and said, “You’ve changed. Come and embrace your old friend.”
“I have changed, King. I’m married, my wife is pregnant with twins. My appearance is somewhat less than anonymous.” He pulled up a chair next to the hospital bed. “Tell me about your injuries.”
The King shrugged and waved it off. “Nothing too serious. My right leg’s a bit torn up, but not broken. I’ll be walking in a few days according to my doctors. I flew one in from Germany for a second opinion. Palace politics, you know.”
Orson smiled. “I can guess. Uneasy rests the head and so forth. Who did this to you?”
King gave him a knowing look. “An American.”
It took a moment or two to process that, and then Orson replied, “An American?”
King nodded in the affirmative. “A Jewish man from Binghamton, New York. Very active in a synagogue there.”
“Hard to believe. He had a gun?”
“A gun and a hand grenade.”
“How could that be,” Orson said almost to himself, thinking of the tight security in this strict Muslim nation.
“It happened,” King replied.
“What will become of him?”
“He’ll be tried, privately of course, found guilty and executed. Very likely beheaded.”
“I need to talk with him. There’s no chance he’ll be executed before I can see him, is there?”
“No. I’ve seen to that. We can discuss my Arab Coalition later. First I’d like to find out who helped this man, Saul Rubin, and why. You’re just the man for the job.”
“Well, I can talk to him. Any chance of a deal?”
The King nodded, seemingly in the affirmative. “There’s always the chance for a deal.” The bedridden man indicated a cupboard across the room. “There’s a bottle of vodka in there and glasses. Pour us each a drink. Then hide the bottle again. A nurse might come in.”
Orson did as he was told. When they were settled with their drinks he suggested that the miscreant, this Saul Rubin, might be in mortal danger.
“I’ve seen to that,” the King said. “At least the best I can. Double guards watch his cell. The guards watch one another and both are responsible for our man Rubin. Have breakfast tomorrow, and then I’ll send a pair of men to accompany you to his cell. What a place. Everyone’s watching everyone. Not like the old days in Istanbul and Cairo, hey, Orson.”
“And New York,” Orson added with a grin. Both men downed their drinks and Orson poured more with great stealth. They were like children cheating on their parents.
The two sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying their drinks and enjoying their friendship. Orson finally spoke. “You think this bombing is a direct result of your Arab Coalition?”
“I dislike leaping to conclusions. We do have several branches of government equivalent to yours – Secret Service, FBI, CIA and so forth. They’re looking into it. Rubin’s arrival, where he lodged, who he spok
e with. But I’ve forbidden anyone to speak to him or even enter his cell. Whoever his allies might be they are certainly in this country, probably in this town, and would welcome his sudden demise.”
“I agree, King.”
The Saudi King winced at being called simply King, but Orson had always called him Prince and now he was King. So why fight it? They were two old buddies together, each trusting the other. “I’ll not suggest what questions to ask. That’s always been your game and not mine. You may offer him a deal, but that has to be subject to my veto. A deal might be not to behead him. We could simply kill him with a bullet through the head or let him commit suicide with his choice of method. Write a last letter, or so forth. There are quite a few options.”
“Orson smiled and took the glasses back to the vodka bottle, calling over his shoulder, “Anything to please the prisoner.”
The King enjoyed the joke. “We are hospitality plus.”
Orson resumed his seat, was pensive for a moment, then said, “At some point I might want to bring in our CIA or foreign service. But nothing will be done without your prior approval.”
“I’d simply like to get to the bottom of it.” Many years ago the King had mastered English and the U.S. vernacular. Now he seemed tired, a combination of strong drink and the recent excitement.
Orson downed his drink, removed both glasses to their hiding spot and announced, “I’ll be going. I’ll report my findings.” Drifting off, Saudi barely acknowledged his leaving. The security men were waiting just outside the door to escort him to his room. Despite the time difference, he would call Delilah and then turn in. How different it was to have someone to call, someone he loved, someone who loved him. He had lived as a solitary fox for so long. The new life style pleased him.
