The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  The new king of Saudi Arabia took another quiet drag on his Cabana, sipped at the alcohol, and leaned back in his chair.

  The truth was, Prince Abdullah had first thought of killing his brother at a very young age. Indeed, one of his earliest memories was of sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at an open cut on his knee. He and his brother had been wrestling on the hard, wooden floor, and, being older and larger (his brother had always been more physically powerful), Prince Saud had flipped him over his shoulder and Abdullah had landed on the knee, splitting it open nearly down to the bone. He had grabbed his leg and caught his breath, clenching his teeth, the blood oozing through his fingers as his eyes grew wide in pain. But he hadn’t cried. Not a tear. Not a whimper. He would have died before he would have let his brother see him cry.

  Ten minutes later, sitting on the edge of his bed, he had applied a thick bandage, wrapping the white cotton tightly around his bloody leg. As he doctored his wound, the thoughts had first come into his head.

  “He is stronger than you are,” the voice seemed to say.

  The young prince was crying angry tears now that he was secluded in his room.

  “He is stronger than you are,” the thought came again. “He will always be stronger. You must not fight him anymore. Every time you fight by his rules, you end up on the floor.”

  The prince shook his head and wiped a quick hand across his eyes.

  “He is the oldest, born of the first wife, in every way preferred. Have you seen how your father looks at him! Have you seen the look in your father’s eye?”

  Abdullah hung his head, taking in a deep sob.

  “You might as well get used to it. This is the way it is and the way it will always be. This anger you are feeling, it will never go away. He is the oldest. He is chosen. He will get everything!”

  The young prince finished wrapping the bandage and tightened the knot with a quick, angry pull.

  The thoughts continued in a low voice, a cold buzz in his head. As he listened, Abdullah felt a sudden surge of emotion in his chest, a hard, growing knot that seemed to pump up his heart. It was cold and unpleasant, but . . . tempting, somehow. Like a moth drawn to fire, he knew it could hurt him, but he wasn’t afraid.

  He could have shaken it off. He could have stood up and walked away. He could have fallen to his knees and prayed for the voice to depart. But he didn’t. He wanted it. And he listened carefully.

  “He will be the next king . . . ” the voice was hissing now. “He will be the next king. Unless . . . unless . . . There might be a way. . . . If you are strong enough. If you are brave enough. If you do what I say . . . ”

  And that was how it had started, such a long time ago. He had been just a child, but he was old enough and smart enough to know. These thoughts didn’t come from Allah. They came from somewhere else.

  As the years went by the thoughts came more frequently and with even more force. And the thoughts—no, they weren’t just thoughts now, it was a voice, full and clear—seemed to know how he felt. The voice seemed to understand him, his doubts and his fears. It seemed to understand his frustration far better than anyone else.

  The day before Abdullah’s sixteenth birthday, the day he was to become a man, the voice came again. “I too was a second son,” it spoke in a dry hiss. “Like you, I wasn’t chosen. I was rejected by my father just as you have been rejected by the king. I was rejected by a father who also had wild plans, just as you have been rejected by the king. I know what it is like to live under a father who is bent on destroying everything. A fool of a father who was blind to the price we would pay, blind to the pain he would cause us—blind or too cruel to care.

  “So, yes, I understand you. I too have been pushed away, forced in the shadows at the back of the room, forced to listen while others proclaimed their great love for Him. I too have been forced to watch as the oldest son absorbed all the attention and power, as if it were his right just because of when he was born. I too have been forced to watch in silence, forced to be still, as the chosen Son grew in power and majesty and might. I know the pain of being rejected, of not being the Chosen One.”

  The young Abdullah sat on the top of a fortified wall that surrounded his father’s mountain palace, looking down on the dry and barren desert below. The sand stretched for miles, and the sun was unbearable. A hot breeze blew up from the desert, and the mountain smelled of dry pine. Abdullah stared. His dark skin was dry and he was used to the heat, but he had to squint at the hot sun, and he frowned as he thought.

  “He will be the next king.” The voice always came back to this point. “He will leave you with nothing. You will never be anything.”

  Though he was smarter than his brother, more capable, and far more willing to work, more willing to do what it took to protect the kingdom from its enemies, both at home and abroad, none of that mattered, for he would never be king. That thought was the most vicious cut, the deepest wound

  he could feel. “You will not be king,” the voice hissed again. “Unless . . . unless . . . there still might be a way. . . . If you are strong enough. If you are brave enough. If you do what I say . . . ”

  Thirty years in the making.

  And the voice owned him now.

  But none of that mattered, for now he was the king.

  * * *

  King Abdullah al-Rahman sucked the last puff of smoke from the tight, brown cigar, glanced at his watch, and smashed the glowing orange ash on his desk. The executive committee would be gathered. It was time to get back to work.

  He walked down three flights of stairs, deep into the underground bowels of the palace, to the secure briefing room. There his three younger brothers were waiting, along with four of their closest advisors: the commanding general of their military forces, the communications czar, the foreign minister, and, most important of all, the head of State Security and Palace Police.

  The underground command center had cinderblock walls and a bare cement floor. It was crowded with banks of phones and computers along three sides and a series of large maps along the back wall. Several command consoles sat in the middle of the room, each with a square metal desk and a row of three or four phones. A ten-foot plasma screen illuminated the front of the room. But the screen was a deep blue; all it showed was the time, the seconds and minutes ticking by on a digital clock in the center. There were no windows in the command center and only one exit, a heavy stee1 door along the east wall. Though the room had been designed to accommodate the king’s entire security staff, there was no one in it now besides the king’s three brothers and his top advisors, all of them waiting around a dark conference table. They stood when the king entered and remained standing until he had walked to the head of the table and sat down. His three younger brothers sat at the far end of the table. The advisors sat on each side. To the king’s immediate right was General Abaza, head of the State Security and Palace Police.

  Out of all the men in the room, General Abaza was the king’s most trusted counselor, the only man he could truly depend on, the only man whom he didn’t suspect he might find standing at the foot of his bed one night, a grim look on his face, a long knife in his hand.

  Abaza was a large man, brawny if not particularly bright, and with the instincts of a badger huddled in the back of its cave. Leave him alone, and he was okay. Crowd him, and he would fight to the death. General Abaza and Abdullah had known each other since they had been in primary school and by the time they had reached adolescence they were best friends. The general had proven extremely loyal over the years. Of course, he owed everything he was or ever would be to Prince Abdullah, but both men understood that, so the relationship worked.

  King Abdullah al-Rahman smiled as he thought of how he had recently tested the general. It was simple, yet brilliant, and he was proud of the plan that had been carried out just three nights before.

  A group of hooded men broke into General Abaza’s home. Brandishing rifles and swords, they rounded up the general, his wife
, and his four children and herded them into the basement, all the time screaming obscenities and flashing their guns. The children howled in terror. His wife nearly fainted in fear. After gathering the family in a back room, the men pulled back their hoods to reveal painted faces in black and red camouflage. They looked like raging devils, their eyes circled in dark rings, drops of blood dripping from their painted lips. The men stood over the terrified family, all the time screaming and shoving, giving Abaza no time to think, no time to analyze, no time to wonder who they were or what was going on.

  The leader moved forward and grabbed the youngest child. Looking into the general’s eyes, he lifted his sword. “Prince Abdullah al-Rahman has killed our king!” he screamed. “He poisoned him. We know that. And he killed the crown prince as well. Now we are going to kill him. And we are going to move tonight. Are you with us, or against us? You’ve got five seconds to decide!”

  Abaza stared, his eyes wide in terror, his mouth dry as sand.

  “Who will you die for!” the terrorist screamed. “Are you loyal to Abdullah, or are you on our side? Pledge you will help us kill Abdullah, or you and your family are dead!”

  Abaza stared, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a bubble in a sea. Then he bowed his head, took two steps forward, and dropped to his knees. “I cannot betray Abdullah,” he muttered. “If you are going to kill my family, I only ask that you kill me first.”

  The leader raised his sword over the general’s head. Abaza’s wife screamed. The children cowered in the corner and covered their heads. But the swordsman only grunted, then laughed and fell to his knees. He moved to the general and took him in his arms. The general looked up, staring into the man’s eyes.

  The man rubbed his face, removing part of the paint, and threw back a tight wig. It was Abdullah, the new king. His eyes danced with delight.

  “So you are with me, General Abaza?” he laughed to his friend.

  The general stared in disbelief while nodding his head.

  “Good. That is good. You have won my respect, General Abaza. You have won my trust, too. I will never forget you and what you have shown me tonight.”

  And King Abdullah al-Rahman had meant what he said. Abaza was now his most trusted advisor, the only man in the room he knew he could trust with his life.

  He glanced at the general, giving him a knowing look, then turned back to the others. Standing, he lifted a finger and held it menacingly in the air. “Brothers,” he said, “my father has passed. The kingdom is secured. We have saved our people, our family, and most importantly the Holy Cities of God from an unspeakable catastrophe, a disaster that would have set us back four hundred years.”

  The king’s men grunted in false agreement. It was a cynical rationalization, and each of them knew it. They weren’t in this for religion, their nation, or their god. They were in it for the power—the power and the money. It was as simple as that. They wanted to control their people. They wanted to control the hundred trillion dollars’ worth of oil that sat under their sand. They wanted to control the significant events in the world. They craved to have other nations adore them, or, if they didn’t adore them, then to fear them, it mattered not which.

  Power was their opium. And they were as addicted as any group of men in the world.

  So though they grunted in agreement, their eyes remained dull and dim. The king could lie to them if he wanted, but it didn’t change anything. They knew what they had done, and they knew why they had done it.

  Abdullah stared at his conspirators, then jabbed his finger at the air. “There is a tide, a stinking tide, that rises in our world. We have seen it in Iraq. We’ve seen it in Egypt and Lebanon. It’s starting to belch up in Libya, Pakistan, and Iran. And we’ve got to staunch it before it goes any further.”

  “Yes,” the youngest prince answered. “We must stop it now.”

  The other men remained quiet, though they nodded their heads.

  “The stink of democracies seems to lift everywhere. It is evil. It is vile. And it is not God’s will. It is not the will of Allah for these people to govern themselves. That is why he provided royal families. That is why he provided Holy Law. That is why he provided religious leaders and gave them power. We are the protectors of Mecca, guardians of the most sacred Shrine. It is our responsibility, it is our duty, it is our right and our power to stop the flow of democracies in this part of the world. That is the will of Allah. And we will see his will done!”

  The men fell silent. None of them dared to speak. The youngest prince stared at his brother, then lifted his chin. “Our father . . . ” he started saying.

  It was a deadly mistake. The king exploded, leaning across the table, his eyes growing pale, almost yellow with hate. “My father,” he screamed, “was an evil, foolish man! He was going to decapitate our kingdom. He was going to give it to them!” Abdullah stabbed his finger once more, motioning to some unseen beings. “He was going to take my birthright and give it away. But Allah will curse him. I have seen a vision of his special hell. He is there. He is burning. And you will not speak his name. You will not mention our father. I will not hear his name again!”

  The young prince fell back, pressing against the back of his chair. The king’s eyes burned through him, practically searing him with their heat. Abdullah’s hatred was almost a buzz, a deadly sense of blackness that seemed to suspend in the air. He glanced at his brother, then dropped his eyes to the floor.

  Abdullah remained suspended, leaning on the table, his knuckles clenched and white from the weight of his hands. He stared at his brother, then slowly stepped back to his chair. He moved his eyes around the table, taking in each of the men. “My father was a traitor. My older brother was too. They were traitors and fools. And we will never speak of them again!”

  The room remained silent until General Abaza answered simply. “Yes, my Sayid,” he spoke for the men. All of them nodded. It was a fine plan to them.

  Abdullah was silent a long moment. He stood at the table, leaning toward his men. “The battle against democracies has grown bitter, my friends. Bitter as acid. And we are losing, you must know.

  “And yes, I know, we were going to move against Israel. That has been our hope all along. But this thing . . . this idea . . . this cancer of freedom they call democracy is a looming crisis that we cannot ignore. And if we don’t strike at the root, then we are only fooling ourselves. We can run around chasing sprouts of democracies until we die of old age, dashing from one nation to another, trying to kill each new bud. We can run around, fighting battles in half a dozen nations throughout the Middle East, from Jakarta to the West Bank and everything in between. But while we run around on the surface, the problem is taking root under our feet. After watching the problem, I am sure of one thing: We can’t kill all the sprouts until we kill the mother tree. And we have to kill the mother before she sprouts any more.”

  The room fell into silence until the youngest prince spoke again. “But my Blessed Brother, if we are able to cut off their oil . . . ”

  The king raised his hand, suddenly distracted. Blessed Brother. Where had that come from? He’d never been called that before. It was a new name. A good name. He liked that a lot.

  The younger prince paused, then dared to go on. “My brother . . . if we cut off all oil shipments through the Persian Gulf, we would hit the Americans where it would hurt them the most. As you have said, our oil is the fuel that drives their economic machine. Without it, they are helpless. They would be brought to their knees. They would crumble like a tower built out of sticks on wet mud. We are sitting on the fuel the entire world needs to survive. If we cut off that power, we can show them where the real power lies.”

  Abdullah nodded, but his eyes remained firm. “There is no time, brother. Things are changing too fast. The race is on, and we are losing, so we have to be quick. We have to be more bold, more ambitious, more willing to take dangerous risks.

  “So yes, we could cut off their oil, and we will do that, no doubt. But
there is another way, another plan, that is even more beautiful. So listen to me, brothers, come and listen to my plan.”

  The seven men all leaned forward. They were listening, yes.

  King Abdullah turned toward his foreign minister. “What do you want more than anything in the world?” he asked. “More than life itself, what is the one thing that you want in this world?”

  The minister didn’t hesitate. They had discussed this before. “I wish to see the world cleansed of the pig-Jewish state,” he replied.

  “Yes. That is right. That is our mission from Allah. And there is only one way to do that. Can you tell me what it is?”

  Again, the answer came quickly. The minister knew the king’s thinking, and he regurgitated it nearly word for word. “We must destroy her evil mother, the betrayer of Muslim nations, the mother of all whores, our greatest enemy, the U.S.”

  King Abdullah nodded. Though his lips turned into a tight smile, his eyes remained dull and black. “Yes. And I hope you can see that, brothers, for it is so clear to me. We can never eradicate Israel as long as the U.S. exists. The Americans will stand by the pig-dogs, even at the sacrifice of their lives. Evil binds together, and they are bound with strong cords. And worse, we cannot eliminate the rotting stench of democracies until we eliminate the U.S. Can you see it? Can you? Do you believe it is true?”

  A heavy silence fell over the room. The youngest prince moved nervously in his seat and diverted his eyes. The general cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on his friend. He didn’t doubt for one moment that what the king said was true, he just didn’t understand what they could possibly do.

  “But how, my dear brother?” the young prince finally said. “You are talking about the most powerful nation in the world! The most powerful nation that has ever existed since the first man walked this earth. And you think we can destroy them. It is not possible!”

  “Yes, it is, brothers. And not only is it possible, it is possible now.”