“You’re slipping, Wall,” he general said, raising his eyes from his computer screen. “We care about our sloppy friends across the river losing one of their people, why?”
“We don’t, sir. It’s the American and how the Australians are treating him,” the major said.
“Continue.”
“The American is a photographer. Connected with the Arabs high up, with Sheikh Ibrahim, in fact.”
The general steepled his hands.
“And I thought I was Sheikh Ibrahim’s only American friend.”
“That’s not all, general. He was traveling with the Australians’ top operative on Borneo. The American got rescued; no sign of the Australian.”
“That is interesting, Wall. So, he’s deep cover for someone, probably not us. Ask my wife if she knows anything, not that she’s likely to share any CIA secrets, even with her husband. Hmm.”
“One other thing, general. The Australians have assigned Jimmy Beam to watch over him.”
General Markus Brant frowned deeply, and Major Sturgeon joined him.
“Beam, that son of a bitch.”
“Run the American through the ringer,” the general said, referring to NSA’s humongous name database. “Let me know what it spits out.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Wall, this mysterious American photographer. Name?”
“Sebastian Arnett.”
“I’d like to meet Mr. Arnett. Make it happen.”
Chapter 13
Warning
Sheikh Ibrahim bin Abdullah bin Rashad Al Ain treated me royally.
In Borneo, I’d lived under field conditions, rough but with air conditioning. In Australia, I’d lived in modestly comfortable circumstances, my freedom limited by my injuries and, of course, by not knowing where I was. My lodgings in the sheikh’s homeland of Dubai eclipsed any dream I’d ever had of luxury. I had a six-bedroom, eight-bath villa all done up in marble and gold fixtures in an oasis surrounded by stone walls. I had a Palestinian go-fer named Hasan, an Indian cook, and a Dubaian chauffeur with three cars to choose from, a Mercedes S-Class Maybach being the VW Beetle of the lot. An assortment of gardeners kept the oasis lush and immaculate in the arid desert.
It was all too much, in fact. I set myself up in the smallest guest suite and lived on large carryout meals that I ordered for lunch and finished for dinner.
I put in twelve-hour days in front of a 27-inch computer screen, reviewing the thousands of orchid photos I’d shot, comparing, overlaying, hunting for the best shot of each flower. I walked off nervous energy early in the morning and late at night. I knew no one, wanted to see no one and wanted no one to see me.
I rationalized that the harder I worked, the sooner I would finish and head home to the States. But to be honest, I just didn’t want to show my face.
Two weeks into my stay, my self-imposed confinement got to me. Maybe, I thought, I was in a velvet prison, as Jimmy Beam had suggested. On my twice-daily walks, the chauffeur followed me in a black Ranger Rover with tinted glass; when I stopped, he stopped; when I sped up, he kept pace.
This day, I decided to test the limits of my leash. I packed my few surviving belongings, ordered the Range Rover and had the driver take me to the airport. I bought a one-way ticket to Washington, D.C., and took my seat in the first-class cabin. Soon an Arab gentleman in a three-piece, pin-striped suit sat down beside me.
“Are you one of his lawyers?” I asked.
“Bodyguard,” he said in unaccented English.
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
“You got a name?”
“Omar.”
I introduced myself, just being polite.
“You’re just going to let me fly off like this?” I said.
“Yes.” He smiled.
“What will you do when we reach the U.S.?”
“I will return home to Abu Dhabi.”
“What about me?”
“Someone else will take my place.”
I thought about that.
“Can you get a refund on my ticket?” I asked.
“Yes. The sheikh owns this airline.”
Omar of few words ordered my chauffeur to return me to the villa. So, I wasn’t a captive per se, but perhaps a little paranoid.
A day later, Hasan, whose only duties were to order carryout and wash up the dishes after meals, knocked on the open door of my bedroom-study. I was concentrating on side by side photos of a Coelogyne rhabdobulbon—a white orchid that grows in long clusters, making it hard to keep multiple blooms in focus when shot close up.
“Too early for lunch, Hasan, but I’m thinking pizza,” I called, not looking up from the computer. “Come back in an hour.”
I leaned into the monitor. Was I looking at the same photo twice, or was I missing a subtle difference somewhere?
“Excuse me, sir. You have a visitor.”
“Come back later. I’m… busy.”
“Mr. Arnett, sir. It’s Sheikh Ibrahim.”
I swiveled in my chair.
“The sheikh? Here?”
“In the living room, sir.”
I gave the monitor another look.
“Okay. I’ll be right out.”
I padded barefoot after Hasan to a house-sized room I’d visited exactly once. A wall of glass looked out over a rock and sand garden with dozens of species of cacti, half of them sporting colorful blooms.
Sheikh Ibrahim and I had never met. He was a busy tycoon, and our social circles did not intersect. We carried on a friendly email correspondence when he needed something. I had spoken with him on the phone perhaps half a dozen times. Our business relationship didn’t require face to face dealings.
He shook my hand, then hugged me, holding my elbows. I guessed that was like the air kiss of the Arab world. But I had not expected that level of friendliness.
Tall and bulky like me, the sheikh wore glasses and a full white beard trimmed to a dull point. He was dressed in long white robes and wore a white linen ghutrah and black agal on his head—the headdress of the very wealthy and powerful in this part of the world.
I was dressed for field work—a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and wrinkled khaki cargo shorts. The sheikh didn’t mention my informality nor did he refer to my disfigured face.
He motioned me to a white sofa.
“Tell me, Sebastian, how is your work progressing?”
Middle Eastern finger food and fruit juices magically appeared, and I began a long report, concluding that I had lost none of my work due to my captivity and that I would wrap up in a few days.
“Wonderful, wonderful. I can hardly wait to see your selections.”
He beamed, then turned serious.
“And your health, it is well? Would you mind telling me about your captivity?”
His voice was soft and low, quieter than I expected in a large man.
I told him my story, sparing him many of the tortuous, and tortured, details.
“I believe you have omitted some things, but that is your prerogative,” he said. “Now tell me about the American CIA agent who died in your presence.”
How did he know about that? I wondered. Ah, of course, the Australians were happy to cooperate with his money.
“He died of a seizure. Just fell over. He was a very tense man,” I said at last.
“And Mr. Beam’s analysis of how he expired?”
So that’s where this was heading. I was impressed that he could look me in the eye and not be put off by my scarred face.
“Far-fetched. Jimmy Beam collects stories from primitive peoples, creation myths, belief systems, etc. He’s gone a bit native, I suspect.”
“And the autopsy?”
“Showed nothing. No wounds, no bruises, but no heart disease either. He dropped dead. I suspect there are dozens more likely reasons than that he got on the wrong side of a spider.”
“You know I have you watched,” the sheikh said.
It was a statement, not a question.
“Do you know why?”
“I’m sure you have your reasons. You know your country better than I,” I said.
He frowned.
“This man’s death, others know of it. You may not believe in the spider spirit, but others do.”
The number of otherwise serious people who were buying into this mysticism stuff amazed me.
“Do you believe it?” I asked.
“We are devout Muslims here in Abu Dhabi. We believe in Allah and his prophet, Mohammed. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“But do you believe in this spirit theory?”
“I do not disbelieve. And speaking as a man older than you, I know there are things that occur which I cannot explain.”
“Do you want to give me a ‘for instance’?”
“No, but I do want to ask you a favor.”
Here it comes, I thought. The wealthy always get full measure for their money.
“Certainly.”
“Sebastian, I ask not as an employer, but as someone who knows you and admires your photography. There are many more flowers I want you to capture for me.”
Not much of a favor, I thought.
“I would enjoy doing that. But I think you rate me too highly.”
“I doubt it, and that was not the favor.”
Too easy. I knew it. I looked into his kindly poker face. Here it comes.
“Will you be watchful for yourself?”
“That’s it?” I said.
He nodded.
“Yes. Sure. Certainly, although I don’t know what to watch for,” I said.
“Just be watchful. That will be enough.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
“Very well. Now may I ask another favor, since the first was not so taxing. This one may be more distasteful to you.”
All right, here it comes, I thought. He wants me to go back to Borneo. I figured I had about two more months of work there, but I didn’t want to return. I couldn’t say no when I had just told him I wanted to keep shooting photos for him.
This guy was slick. Of course, he was. He was a billionaire. You don’t keep that kind of money without knowing how to get the most out of people.
“Well, I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” I said, fearing it would be.
“Will you attend a reception at my home? It will involve dressing up.”
Now he looked me over.
“And, of course, you will have to talk with people.”
Wow. Out of the fire and into the frying pan. He wasn’t sending me back to Borneo, but I would have to appear in public—with this horrible tattoo on my face.
“Ahh.”
Could I refuse? I mean, really? Probably not. And I’d have to face other people sooner or later. Better that it happen thousands of miles from home with people I would likely never meet again.“Yes, sir. Of course,,” I said. “I’m honored you would invite me. I’ll certainly do my best. When is it?”
“Excellent,” he said. “A car will pick you up at 6:45 this evening, and a tailor will join you after I leave.”
“Whoa. That’s fast.”
“You might even enjoy it. You work too hard and you are alone too much. You should get out and meet people. I don’t want your work for me to become a prison.”
“I do get out,” I said.
“Eating dinner alone at 11 o’clock in the night among working-class people at the Upani Restaurant does not constitute getting out.”
“My father was working-class,” I said. “I like working-class people. I’m comfortable with them.”
“You underestimate yourself,” the sheikh said.
“You sound like my wife.”
“Then I’m sure she was an excellent judge of people and had your best interests at heart, just as I do, Sebastian.”
“Now you really sound like my wife.”
“I am very sorry for your loss, Sebastian.”
“Me, too,” I said.
The sheikh left me feeling sad and full of doubts. I missed Sarah; she always guided me through meetings with strangers. Could Jimmy Beam actually be right about this whole spider spirit thing? Did other people buy it? Did I have enemies I didn’t even know about?
Chapter 14
Menace
Omar, the well-dressed bodyguard of few words, walked into the villa promptly at 6:45 p.m. He wore a tux that made my dark blue suit look shabby, despite the silk shirt and gold cufflinks the tailor had provided.
“I hope I’m not underdressed,” I said.
“The guest of honor may wear whatever he likes.”
“I’m the guest of honor? In that case, I’d like to put on some jeans.”
“That would make us late,” he said.
“There’s always a catch.”
Omar smiled, and off we went.
I hadn’t walked to the sheikh’s side of town, and if I had, I don’t think I’d have been allowed in. The mansions ran somewhere between “wow” and “ho-ly shit.” We passed one of the latter, which had cars lined up in the circular drive waiting to unload passengers, and swung into a cleverly disguised lane.
“I apologize for using the service entrance. The sheikh insists that you be safe,” my guardian said.
“I know. He told me this afternoon, although I’m not really sure why,” I said.
“Trust the sheikh.”
End of conversation.
I had never seen a service entrance with a black granite drive and white marble walls. How did they take the trash out? I wondered. Gift wrap it?
The sheikh’s residence suggested wealth on a scale I simply could not imagine. The underground garage we pulled into contained more old cars than most auto museums. But what really impressed me was the shine on the floor. It looked like clear ice.
An elevator took us to the third floor, where I recognized a Picasso hanging in the dimly lit hallway. At the center of the house, several stories below a chandelier with hundreds of lights, we walked down a flight of circular stairs. The sheikh arrived at the second-floor landing at the same time we did.
“Sebastian, thank you for coming,” he said, offering his hand.
“Sheikh Ibrahim, I’m pleased to see you again,” I said.
We descended to the party on the main floor.
I don’t know who I met. Names escape me, faces all look the same to me, and I was just going through the motions for my host, benefactor and employer. These were professional minglers, and not one stared openly at my tattoo.
Three of my photographs hung discreetly on the walls, hidden lights illuminating them. The black orchid was not among them. The sheikh caught me staring.
“Do you approve?” he asked.
“Did someone Photoshop them? I don’t remember them looking quite this good,” I said.
“No one touches your work. If it looks different, it could be the frame or the lighting, but the photographs are not altered in the slightest,” he said.
“Well, someone did a great job.”
“Thank you. The best are in my private apartment.”
We both knew he meant the black orchid.
“I will show them to you one day,” he said.
I had no idea when that might happen. I was wrapping up my work and planned to leave Abu Dhabi within days. The odds of my ever returning were about zero.
“Someone has just arrived who is very anxious to meet you,” the sheikh said.
“Someone who wants to meet me, not someone you want me to meet?” I said.
“They need not be mutually exclusive.”
The sheikh steered me toward an American general, three silver stars on his shoulders and his chest full of bright ribbons. Next to him stood an absolutely lovely older woman whose chest spoke volumes about the general’s tastes. I assumed she was his wife. I gave him one credit for the wife and took away one for the trinkets on his chest.
“General Brant, permit me to introduce one of your very talented countrymen and my f
riend, Sebastian Arnett,” the sheikh said. “Sebastian, General Markus Brant and his wife, Dr. Cecilia Brant.”
“Thank you, Eminence,” the general said. “Mr. Arnett, I’m very pleased to meet you and see that you are well.”
“Hi. How are you?” I said. “Mrs. Brant.”
I was quite the slick talker.
“I’ll leave you Americans and see to my other guests,” the sheikh said as he turned and walked off.
The general and his wife inclined their heads ever so slightly and said, “Eminence.”
“So, general, what’s up?” I asked.
“Must something be up, Mr. Arnett?”
“Well,” I said, surveying the crowd, “all these people are either wealthy government types or wealthy artsy-fartsy types. Not a single other American. Just the three of us. That screams ‘Something’s up’ to me.”
“Your recent experiences seem to have made you a little paranoid,” General Brant said.
“Oh, no, general. Not a little, a lot. So, what’s up?”
“Dear,” the gorgeous Mrs. Brant interrupted. “I think Mr. Arnett feels what he feels, and it’s just best to be candid.”
General Brant considered his wife’s admonition like every other chastened husband.
“We would like to talk with you, in private.”
“You and the missus, or some other we?”
As a rule, I hate small talk, but I sounded far crankier than I had a right to be. There was an anger bubbling inside, like lava building under a volcano. What was wrong with me?
“I was thinking of just me, but if you would prefer my wife to join us, that would be fine, too,” he said.
“Well, we’re here. Why not talk now? As I’ve said before, what’s up?”
Now Brant looked around the room. I noticed several guests glancing our way. They were curious, just like me.
“This is not exactly private,” he said.
Mrs. Brant intervened again.
“There’s no secret here, dear. Mr. Arnett, we’re simply concerned about you and want to make sure everything is all right.”
“Of course, it’s all right—except for this ugly scar, which no one in this room seems to notice. By the way, good job trying not to stare at it. You’re pretty good.”
The Mark of the Spider: A Black Orchid Chronicle Page 9
