by N Lee Wood
Somerton had relaxed once he was on familiar ground. A born lecturer, a bureaucratic spy.
“His Excellency has spent most of his life outside Khuruchabja, and although he may be a little out of touch with his own country and the subtleties of twenty-first century global politics, he fully comprehends the supremacy of the United States as the military overlord of the planet. He knows any military jihad whipped up to fight the West will end up like the last few attempts. While he knows the United States can be pushed pretty far, annoy the sleeping giant too much and even if he escaped being killed or publicly humiliated, he would be beaten militarily, his country ruined.”
Somerton was warming to his little speech. “But despite his fondness for electronic toys and his yuppie accent, His Excellency is still a Muslim. His ambitions are still similar to the Mufti’s. He would also like to shake off the boot on his neck and unite Islam, but not in fighting any jihad, which he knows is impossible and ultimately self-destructive.” Somerton smiled. “He wants to create the modem, twenty-first century version of the jihad, an economic jihad to unite Islam and join the First World as an equal among equals. First-rate education, decent medical care, a fair legal system. A peaceful First World nation. But Islamic. And with himself as the undisputed leader of the Islamic revolution at its head.”
“He wants to be the Muslim Martin Luther?” I asked.
“More of a born-again Ataturk, I’d think,” Somerton replied.
“It’s been tried before. Iran’s ‘Economic Revolution’?”
“That was Iran. Too many people, too little money. And far too much bad blood under the bridge by then.”
“You don’t believe he can do it.” I made it a statement.
Somerton shrugged. “With help, maybe. Despite some rather nasty flaws, His Excellency genuinely means well. His problem at the moment is wanting someone else’s cake and eating it, too. He’s young, he’s flexible, in time he’ll understand that the benefits of a truly democratic society outweigh the fun of being a dictator.”
I wouldn’t have put any money down on it. Too many other well-meaning dictators have invented their own forms of “democracy,” some of them even honestly progressive and beneficial, only to screw it all up when it came down to the last inning. Somerton knew the history here as well as I did. The Janus nature of saviors and tyrants, the alternating recognition and disapproval from the rich Western powers who often helped them in and out of power with the frequency of a woman trying on shoes.
Ibn Saud had ridden the Wahabi wind of fanaticism and the promise of purified Islam to power, then crushed all of his rebellious Wahabis into obedience, breaking the thorns they’d become in his side. The austere Saud legacy declined into an orgy of looting and bribery and exploitative tyranny lasting generations.
One bellicose Egyptian after another proclaimed himself the latest incarnation of the divine Mahdi and fought the British, the French, the Turks, each other. All they attained was a wealth of popular uprisings, rebellions, massacres, dead martyrs, burnt farmland and a glut of purple Victorian epic poetry. Nasser secularized his country, then alienated the West and lost the Sinai. He played the Americans and the Russians off each other like divorced parents while squandering vast sums of money on the disastrous Aswan High Dam as his own pharaonic pyramid, drowning an immense wealth of archaeological wonders and ruining acres of arable land with salt and pollutants.
Habib Bourguiba’s moderate campaign for Tunisian self-rule landed him under house arrest, but once he’d been proclaimed his country’s “Supreme Guide,” he didn’t hesitate to waste Tunisian tax money on building himself dozens of state palaces where he too could hold court in grand style like any other indolent desert prince.
The British secretly helped to overthrow the despot Mozaffar al-Din, replacing him with the popular Pahlavis. When they in turn became too tyrannical, the West changed its mind and helped bring yet another leader to power they believed they could control. The Ayatollah swept away the shell of the Pahlavi Shah’s modem reformations in the storm of his Iranian revolution, to the horrified disbelief of the West, and ultimately the exhaustion of his people.
Frightened by a democratically elected party of Islamic fundamentalists, Algeria reacted with a military coup, plunging their country into decades of murder and terrorism, assassinating doctors, intellectuals, journalists, unveiled women, and anyone driving the wrong color car along with any Westerners stupid enough to remain, the bloodshed spilling out from time to time onto European soil.
The royal family in Kuwait repaid the West’s liberation of their country by renewed martial law, nepotism, assassination and repression, locked in a bitter struggle with their own citizens who are themselves still having trouble figuring out how to run a country properly after they’d kicked out or murdered their wage-slave work force of Yemenese and Palestinians. It had only taken one egomaniac to annihilate the Ba’ath party’s considerable achievements along with the whole of Iraq. Only one madman was needed to destroy the Behjars, replaced in turn by a series of repressive Islamic fundamentalists.
Under the veneer, far too many dictators had revealed themselves to be irretrievably ruthless, bloody and violent. True progressive leaders were very thin on the ground in the Middle East and young Larry didn’t seem to be any glowing promise of change to me.
“As far as the United States is concerned,” I said, “they would obviously have to openly favor democratic change in Khuruchabja, but we both know they would secretly do everything possible to crush it here. Khuruchabja isn’t much of a threat to First World control, but they’re useful in keeping every country around them dependent on America’s military goodwill. Not to mention that Khuruchabjans help fill a large, cheap labor pool for their rich neighbors who don’t care to dirty their hands,” I added dryly. “The kind who aren’t likely to welcome their janitors and maids as members joining their private country clubs.”
Somerton conceded the point with a smirk. “That, however, is in Khuruchabja’s favor. They aren’t the lazy, conceited citizens of oil sheikhdoms who have to import their labor just to keep their lights on and the water running. The average Khuruchabjan knows how to get things done, he knows how to work. His Excellency hopes to create his very own Khuruchabjani wirtshaftswünder, and entice his neighbors into joining his country club.”
I wondered how much of it was really His Excellency’s idea, and how much had been outside influences pushing in from the sides. Somehow, I had doubts Sheikh Larry had come up with these sophisticated opinions all on his very own.
“That good ol’ Protestant work ethic isn’t going to do Khuruchabja much good without an economic base to start from,” I said. “It won’t be easy, even if he can unite his own people behind the idea. Also, like I said, there’s always the Americans.”
“In 1945, Japan and Germany were both beaten, their land occupied and their military might completely crushed into submission,” Somerton shot back promptly. This was obviously a debate he’d engaged in before. “But in less than half a century, they became economic giants, both of them First World countries. How? Because they had to give up offensive military arms completely. They received huge amounts of money to rebuild their countries once they were disarmed and powerless, and spent very little money on their military thereafter.”
He grinned, enjoying himself in spite of his situation. “They rolled over with their bellies exposed, and no civilized nation in the world would dream of hurting them. It was easy for the Americans to befriend people they could feel superior to. Americans want to be liked and appreciated, and their former enemies were happy to tell them how wonderful they were.”
He put his finger next to his nose. “Everything was copacetic,” he said ironically. “Then all of a sudden, surprise. Somehow their docile little friends had reached up from where they lay on their backs and grabbed the very conqueror who’d put them there by the economic cojones.”
So he did speak Spanish, after all. I eyed him criticall
y. “Come off it, Somerton. We created our own problems.”
“Didn’t dissuade anyone from taking advantage of them, did it?”
We were definitely on opposite sides of the political fence, but I found his arguments intriguing. “So that’s your game plan for Khuruchabja? Winning friends through surrender and submission? Somehow, I don’t think that’ll go down too well here.”
“That’s only one part of the equation,” Somerton replied. He was looking smugly pleased with himself. Halton still had his hand clamped around the man’s knee, but Somerton seemed to have forgotten him. “Japan and Germany had no choice in their disarmament and occupation, but it isn’t necessary to become completely helpless.
“His Excellency has a great respect for the power of democracy, the American ideal of equality for all under the law. He has more faith in the Bill of Rights and the Constitution than the average American.” Somerton raised a regretful eyebrow. “As long as it stays in America. He recognizes that it’s this same society which rose to become the world’s leading military power, and would like to adopt some of the same advantages for his own country but without the disadvantages for himself personally.
“Unfortunately, he suffers from a serious birth defect; he was born without the average American’s sense of virtuous cynicism. He believes he can easily manipulate the U.S. Government into paving his road to a disarmed democracy with gold whilst giving up none of his own power.”
I shook my head slowly. “Americans are no strangers to the arts of deception. He should remember the financial disaster Eastern Europe had after they ‘declared’ democracy. The West jumped up and down, cheering and waving flags. Half the Berlin Wall is now on American mantelpieces. We were all ecstatic—until they presented us with the bill. They had the idea that if they declared themselves a capitalist society, that meant we’d give them capital. Except by then we didn’t have a lot left ourselves.”
I picked up the pack of Gitanes and shook out another cigarette. After a moment’s thought, I silently offered one to Somerton. He declined with a bemused shake of his head.
“It took the Germans years to recover after they swallowed East Germany,” I said, cupping my hand around the tip of the cigarette as I lit it. “And Japan finally bottomed out of its own gluttonous economy; you can’t export all those Sony Walkmans and Toyotas and holosets to the States if there’s no one left with jobs to buy them because all the work has gone overseas. If your boy is looking for a role model, that one sure ain’t it.”
Somerton shrugged. “There’s another country in the Middle East that once had problems similar to Khuruchabja’s,” he said. “A tiny country with no national resources, no oil, a harsh environment, surrounded by hostile countries eager to absorb it into their own borders, the outside world alternatively generous with aid or reluctant to help, depending on the caprice of political winds. They created a First World country nonetheless, whilst still remaining strong militarily.”
“Israel.” It was obvious.
“Exactly.”
“Israel’s come a long way since Rabin shook hands with Arafat, Somerton, but I still don’t think holding up the Jewish state as a model is going to please too many Muslims. Besides which, Israel had some assets Khuruchabja is lacking; a seaport, for one. Nuclear fusion weapons for another. You recall what happened the last time Khuruchabja got hold of infrafusion weapons?”
I did.
“Besides that,” I continued, “Israel also has long-standing traditional support from the States. She has a large European and American immigrant population, along with about half the brains the Soviets ever produced, highly educated people, all of whom were dedicated to building a Jewish homeland. Khuruchabja doesn’t. More than half of the population here are illiterate farmers and shepherds. Far too many of the other half, the educated, the intellectuals, the professionals, packed their bags and got the hell out a long time ago.
“So just how are you going to convince these people that laying down their beloved guns will bring prosperity and rewards from the West, which they despise to begin with, not to mention all the factions within their own government fighting for control with all the usual fascist police tactics?”
I was thinking about Ibrahim’s little lecture, roots in the sand, flowers in the desert.
“No one said it would be easy,” Somerton agreed. “We have to unite an illiterate common people under one banner they can understand, at the same time giving those expatriate doctors and lawyers and Indian chiefs a reason to come back to the land of their birth. A properly managed economy can be a formidable weapon. Teach those in power a new way to control the pursestrings and it might actually allow them enough breathing room to refrain from assassinating one another.”
“And with the Archangel Gabriel by his right hand, and the light of your secret society to guide him, our boy Larry has a good shot at that, is that the idea?”
Somerton steepled his fingers on the table. “Our fourteenth-century citizens would rally behind a miracle, whereas our twenty-first-century citizens would be impressed by the display of high-tech AI science. The entire population is tired of fighting, tired of poverty, tired of being bullied by the West on one hand and sneered at by their rich Muslim cousins on the other.”
“And the religious ban against AI’s? Trapped souls, all that?”
He shrugged one shoulder and raised a sardonic eyebrow. “If the Archangel Gabriel himself gives Islamic AI technology the kiss of legitimacy, who’s going to complain?”
I sat back, thinking about that. It was an admirable goal, but was it genuine? “What’s your assessment, Halton?” I asked. Somerton turned his head to watch Halton, like a kid nervously waiting for a report card.
“My assessment?” Halton looked up at me, his eyes lifeless. “Mr. Somerton speaks fluent English, and judging by his accent, was probably raised in a mid- to upper-middle-class neighborhood in the Birmingham area—I would estimate in West Bromwich. He had about two or three years of public school and has spent a large part of his working life in London. He’s lived in Canada for the past five to seven years, and by the flat tones of certain vowels, I believe in southern Manitoba, probably in or near Winnipeg. Mr. Somerton’s Markundi Arabic is fairly basic, at the level one would find in someone who had recently taken a crash course given to government or embassy personnel assigned to a foreign country. I would guess he understands some Spanish, at least the slang, or has enough of a background in Latin-based Romance languages to infer from.”
He mercifully shut up. Somerton stared pop-eyed at him, then guffawed, a sharp, strangled bark of laughter. I glared at Halton, knowing full well what he was saying. I’m a linguist, not Super Spy. Very funny.
“I’m impressed,” Somerton said. He looked back at me, seeming more relaxed, despite the vise-grip on his knee. “Well, Sulaiman ? May I have the flake?”
“Tell me one last thing, Somerton,” I said, dodging the question. “Something’s bothered the hell out of me, and maybe you can clear it up. Why me?”
He looked uncomfortable, glancing down toward his trapped knee, then at Halton. “What do you mean?”
“It’s pretty obvious that CDI didn’t happen to pick my name out of a hat. I’m here for a reason. So why a journalist, and why me?”
Somerton laced his fingers together and studied them, avoiding my eyes. The silence dragged out for a long moment before he spoke. “The official reason is that you’re an Arab-American with experience in this part of the world, Sulaiman,” he said slowly. “You’re a respected, seasoned journalist. You were here during the last war, and came up with incredible coverage which certainly deserved the awards you were given. People on both sides believe you, they have confidence in your reportage. That, and your fluency in Markundi, gives both you and Halton a reasonably trustworthy cover.”
He looked up, his expression determined. “The real reason is that you don’t do field work anymore. You burned out. You haven’t done any first-hand correspondence in o
ver ten years. You haven’t been in Khuruchabja since. You’re rusty, out of touch and out of shape. You don’t know the deep politics here anymore. You don’t have a good grasp on who’s what. You have a hot temper and an overly high opinion of yourself. Your cockiness is enough of an edge for CDI to influence what you might see, and how you choose to report it.”
I could feel my face burning, and it had nothing to do with the morning’s heat.
Somerton sighed. “Sorry, Sulaiman. If you didn’t have me hooked up to your organic lie detector”—he jerked a thumb at Halton—“I might have been able to be a little more… diplomatic. But you did ask.” His voice sounded honestly regretful. “So. Did I pass?” he asked quietly.
“With flying colors,” I said, keeping my voice low to keep it from shaking. “Give him the microflake, Halton.”
Halton released Somerton’s knee, extracted the microflake and handed it over. The relief on the man’s face was marked, and he placed the flake carefully in a holder in his wallet before he stood up. Rubbing his knee gingerly, he hesitated.
“I realize you’re still a journalist, Sulaiman. I don’t expect you to keep this conversation secret. But if you report what I’ve told you too soon, it would not only cause us a great deal of trouble, but innocent people could be hurt needlessly. I’m only asking you to keep this meeting private until you go back. Give us a little time to protect them, that’s all… Please.”
“I’ll think about it.” Just what I needed: more guilt from the blood of innocents on my hands.
“You could expose me to CDI,” he said tersely to both of us. “Blow my cover.” Halton looked at him, his expression unreadable.
“If you’re so worried about it, why don’t you have us shot?”
“We don’t work that way,” he said, then added dryly, “If we can help it.”
