Florence of Arabia

by Christopher Buckley

  "Salaam, Maliq" Florence said.

  The mukfellah leaped from his seat and roared at her to show respect to the imam. But Maliq silenced him with a raised hand.

  "Salaam. Flor-ents." He smiled and pointed to her manacles. "So, bracelets? The latest in fashion?"

  "Yes, they're all the rage. But fashions change quickly, especially in Paris."

  "Enough of the little talk. These men here are very important And they are very angry with you. Yes, I would say, very angry. They want to deal with you directly. Shall I give you to them?"

  "You'd belter do what you're told, or your masters will be unhappy."

  "I rule in Matar. Be certain of that, madame. Your CIA lover. Mr. Theebo. Tibu—"

  "Thibodeaux. Surely your French is up to that." "We have him. You don't believe me?"

  "Have you ever told me the truth?"

  "Then perhaps you would like to see the body. It's very unpleasant, lie died in a most undignified way. Do you know how? Blew himself up with a hand grenade. Such a pity. We would have treated him with justice. Perhaps even given him back to your government, as a goodwill gesture. We are not the third world here, you know."

  Though Maliq spoke confidently, Florence couldn't bring herself to believe him. Bobby was a grenade thrower, not a hugger. Still, her stomach knotted.

  Maliq said gaily, as if this butterfly thought had spontaneously perched on his forehead. "Maybe you'd like to have the body in your cell? How cozy it would be for you." Switching to Arabic, Maliq said to the mukfellah, "When she's taken back to her cell, have the American's body put in with her. Then have the door welded shut. Seal them in. Let them rot together."

  The man nodded, and for the first time during the interview, his face lightened into something like a smile. So he had a soft spot after all.

  "No translation required, eh, Flor-ents? Come, come, what a look! You're a student of our history. In the days of my ancestor Jamir al-Kef, emir some hundred years ago, you recall what was the custom with women who had been very naughty? They were tied up, and a small hole was made in the stomach and the intestine pulled out a fool or two, then left in the desert for the dogs. You see what progress we have made in the new Matar! How liberal we have become!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Just after two AM. the door to Renard's office, where he and George were furiously brainstorming, opened and admitted two unsmiling, burly men who looked remarkably like the sort the U.S. government dispatches when it desires to make an emphatic point. Once these two had secured the room with their scowls, they were joined by a third man whom Rick and George immediately recognized as their long-lost relative Uncle Sam.

  "Hello, boys." Uncle Sam motioned to his men to wait outside. "No sense beating around the proverbial bush. We intercepted a call to this office from Bobby Thibodeaux last night."

  "Oh, for the days when gentlemen didn't listen in on each other's telephone calls." George said.

  Uncle Sam poured the dregs of the coffeepot into a cup, dusted it with powdered creamer, sipped it and winced. "Lord save us! You might have bought a decent coffeemaker with some of that two million dollars. Let me say what I have to say before this reaches my bloodstream and kills me.

  "for starters, what Bobby Thibodeaux told you is simply, totally, completely cuckoo. He seems to be under the delusion that I dispatched a CIA assassination team to kill him and Florence. I don't know where he got that one. Well, actually. I do."

  George and Renard listened in sullen silence.

  "Why am I getting the distinct feeling that you don't believe me? Pardon me—but is this the United States of America, land of presumed innocence? All right, hear me out, fellows. I tried several times—several times, as you are well aware—to pull those two out of there. As you further know. Florence refused to leave without the sheika. Now, I don't know what was going on between those two, but never mind. My sole interest was in getting her out before a disaster of this—this—this mind-boggling proportion happened. And here we are.

  "As I recall, the mission was to try to empower Arab women and bring about some kind of stability in the Middle Fast. There were those who said. 'Are you out of your mind?' Others said, 'We've tried everything else, why not give it a shot? What harm can it do?' Ha! And how did it all turn out? With a coup d'etat—and how appropriate to use the French term for it—against the only stable country in the region. Not only did it not work, but it brought about the further enslavement of two point five million Arab women, along with the empowerment of a psychopathic race-car driver, to say nothing of a whopping increase in Wasabi oil prices that may well determine the outcome of the next U.S. presidential election. And did I mention France getting naval bases in the Gulf? Damn fine job. boys. Have a cigar. Your government is proud of you.

  "Meanwhile, your erstwhile colleague Mr. Thibodeaux, who, by the way. I never wanted to be part of this mission—but never mind, what say do I have in the mutter?—has baked it into his fevered brain that I'm out to get him. I understand it's hot in Matar, and that heat can do strange things to a man, but goodness gracious, to treat this level of paranoia, you're better off with tranquilizers and a dart gun!"

  George said. "Not to interrupt your splendidly indignant rant, but why don't you just tell us what happened? Or skip that part and tell us where Florence is. And whether she's even alive."

  "I was getting to that, George. She's alive. This much we know. I am doing everything in my power—that is. what power I have left after this catastrophe— to get her out of there. But it's going to require one heck of a diplomatic balancing act, let me tell you. .And if you two go barging in like a couple of bull elephants on steroids, acting on input from a delusional ex-spook—"

  "Ex?"

  "Completely ex. CIA fired him. And not for calling in that cruise missile strike on the Indonesian ambassador in Dar. Would you like to know why he was given the boot? For screwing the wife of the U.S. ambassador to Jordan."

  "She was a notorious nympho." George said. "The woman was insatiable. She'd have sex with the elevator operator if the ride was more than three floors."

  "Nevertheless, the ambassador didn't much appreciate it. And he was the president's chief fund-raiser."

  "Enough!" Rick interjected. "Who cares who was screwing who!" "Whom," George said.

  "Whatever. What are you doing to get Florence out of there?"

  "Look, fellows, the less you know about that, the better."

  "Oh, no," George said. "No, no, no, no, no, What do we look like, two mushrooms that you're going to pile manure on and keep in the dark?"

  "George. I'm saying this for your own protection."

  "You sound like you're putting on a condom." said Renard. "Never mind all that hooey. I want to hear, right now, right here, how you're going to get her out. or I promise you'll find yourself in such a public relations shit-storm that you'll be picking it out of your eyes for years."

  "All right." Uncle Sam sighed as though about to divulge the formula for Coca-Cola. "We're working on it through the French."

  "The French?" Rick and George said simultaneously. Rick added. "The French?"

  "Believe it or not. they're almost as appalled by this new regime as we are." "But they helped install it."

  "The last thing Paris wants is to have its client chopping off the head of a feminist American hero. That's not going to help them sell Airbuses or Brie in the U.S.A. But you've got to let me handle it. Are we on the same sheet of paper here'.'"

  "I still don't understand." George said. "Bobby told us you'd arranged for the water taxi, and suddenly, the CIA shows up shooting. The embassy cables from Amo confirmed there was a shoot-out and a chase and a capture. So— what happened?"

  "I just can't go into that."

  "Oh, do."

  Uncle Sam gave another heavy sigh. "My call to Bobby and Florence was intercepted. We found that out after die fact." "Intercepted by?"

  "The French. They're the ones who sent the hit team, not me, for heaven's
sake."

  "The French sent the CIA to kill two Americans'.'' This makes no sense."

  "The man Bobby was referring to is Anbar Tal. He works for the Matar Air Force. And yes, he also works for CIA. Bobby himself recruited him. It also happens that he works for the Onzieme Bureau. That's the part Bobby didn't know. He's a double agent. Triple, technically."

  "So you're trying to get the French to help free Florence, and they're the ones who sent this multitasking thug to kill her? It still makes no sense."

  "It's the Middle East. Rick." Uncle Sam shrugged. "I don't really understand it myself."

  George said. "We're not going to sit on our hands while you sip aperitifs with the head of the Onzieme Bureau. And frankly, I think you're more full of shit than a Strasbourg goose."

  Uncle Sam said quietly, coolly. "You don’t really have much choice in the matter, do you now. George?"

  "Is Untcle threatening?"

  "Uncle may not have as much grease as he did before his niece and nephews fucked things up seven ways from Sunday, but he is not without resources." Untie Sam stood. "You fellows are in receipt of two million dollars each. In your personal bank accounts. Can you produce 1099 forms for those funds? I guess not. Did you happen to note the origin of the wire transfers?"

  "Third Bank of Bangor."

  "Very good. And Third Bank of Bangor, as any wet-behind-the-ears FBI rookie investigator will tell you, is a shell for Banc Mercantil de Grand Comore—in Moroni, that would be the capital city of the Comoro Islands, not to be confused with the angel Moroni. And who owns the Banc Mercantil? Sheik Adman Ifkir, Third cousin, on the Yemeni mother's side of... guesses, anyone?"

  "Osama bin Laden." George sighed. "What?" Rick said.

  "Gold star for George." Uncle Sam applauded noiselessly. "So it would appear that you two are in receipt of funds from a bank controlled In Al Qaeda. Won't that be fun explaining at your arraignment for treason? But I'm sure there are lots of lawyers here in town who would be happy to represent you for, say, six hundred dollars an hour. Let's see, two million dollars divided by six hundred—that might see you through the first year of legal bills. But heavens, what am I thinking? The government will have confiscated the money. Dear, dear, dear."

  "You're a real prick, aren't you, Sam?" Rick said.

  "You should see the people I report to." Uncle Sam said as he went through the door. "Definitely, a new coffee-maker."

  BACK IN HER CELL, Florence had passed the fretful hours waiting for the sound of the door being unlocked and the remains of her lover to be tossed in. followed by the sound of the door being welded shut. Immuration. she'd had time to reflect, was the punishment meted out in Rome to vestal virgins whose chastity had been compromised. Though she could not remember whether they had been entombed alive with the corpses of their paramours.

  But as the hours passed, nothing happened. She began to hope that it had all been some kind of bluff to keep her off balance—either that or just for kicks. At some point in the afternoon, her hands had started trembling uncontrollably.

  As she was thus reflecting, the lights in Florence's cell went out, plunging her into complete darkness. A few minutes passed, during which she could hear her own breathing distinctly. She struggled against the temptation to cry out for a guard. An electrical failure? Prelude to a rescue? She was pondering this last possibility when she heard the lock mechanism on the door. She felt the outward suck of air as the door opened, and in the next instant, she was knocked backward by the force of a human body, inert and rank with the after-smell of explosive, being hurled into the cell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Greatness, YOU honor me with this audience. Emir, you have lost weight! You look marvelous!"

  Maliq was in no mood for Delame-Noir's triple-cream pleasantries. "The burdens of office. One yearns for the simpler life of the racetrack."

  "Yes, of course, but you must eat, Great One. You will waste away to nothing. Was it not your great-great-great-great-uncle on your maternal side, the illustrious sharif Ehem al-Gheik, who received in annual tribute from his subjects in the Wazi Bikkini his weight in Tarfa pearls?"

  "Yes, yes, yes. So, you wanted to see me?"

  "I will send you my own chef, he was for many years al Taillevent. His Boudin de Homard Breton au Fenouil is not to believe. It is not blasphemy to say it is to taste paradise itself."

  "I cannot have a French chef. Dominique."

  "But why not?"

  "I'm the imam. How would it look? I mean, really." "I have known many well-fed imams in my time."

  "I'm meeting with the mullahs in fifteen minutes. It never ends. What— you wanted to see me?"

  "I regret, yes. I suspect my imam knows the reason."

  "1 told you. Dominique, it's out of my hands. It's a religious matter now."

  "Yes. and you are the imam." "It's also a security mailer." "And you are the emir."

  "It's also a tribal mutter—matter—isn't it?" Maliq said petulantly. " Tribal'? In what way?"

  "One of the men she killed in the escape was a Hazi Agem." "Yes. So?"

  "You're the historian." Maliq said.

  "I how to your superior knowledge. Educate me on this tribal matter."" "For a hundred years, there has been a blood feud between my line, the Beni Harish. and the Hazi Agem. So you see?" "Frankly, I do not."

  "I'm in a delicate position. Most delicate."

  Delame-Noir's hooded eyes blinked like a falcon's. His lips pouted with malevolence. I le was a sophisticated man, and he was tired of playing with this gelatin-brained idiot whom he had, in a moment of weakness (and perhaps, he admitted, pride), decided to install.

  "Alors. Maliq, you are the grand sharif of the Tribal Council. I don't mean to insult But why, mon vieux, do you waste my time telling me these nonsenses?"

  It had been a while since anyone had addressed Maliq as "buddy" or accused him of speaking rubbish. Alas, how quickly we become hostage to the kowtow. But tempted as he was to flick his aasa at the frenchman. Maliq refrained. He refrained for the simple reason that he was terrified of Delame-Noir.

  Delame-Noir had ordered more assassinations in his day than llamas and Kim Jong II combined. His legend was long and dark. It was he who had personally directed the sinking of the Whalepeace, the environmental vessel that had been protesting France's nuclear testing in Polynesia. Only Allah Himself knew what tentacles this eminence noir of a spymaster had throughout Matar.

  "Understood, mon vieux." Maliq said pointedly, "but if you don't want to waste my time or your time, why don't you go to Kaffa and explain it to Prince Bawad? he's the one who's demanding this woman's head. She apparently did something to annoy him back in Washington, something to do with one of his wives. You see my predicament?"

  "Look, Maliq. you don't want to be seen as a Wasabi puppet, do you?" "No more than I do as a French puppet."

  "Sire." Delame-Noir said, "how have I deserved this insult? I spend all my hours worrying for you, from the first cry of the muezzin in the morning to the call to evening prayers."

  "1 know that I am in your debt, Dominique, but it is not in my power to hand her over to you. Look around—my kingdom is bursting with Wasabis."

  Delame-Noir saw it was useless for the time being. He rose. "Very well, but let me implore you to keep this woman alive. You don't want an international martyr on your hands. It would be only a pretext for the Americans."

  "The Americans aren't going to do a thing." Maliq snorted. "There's an election coming up. If they moved against me, Tallulah would shut off their oil. Anyway, their ambassador just sent me—this morning—an invitation to the opening of an Elvis Presley cultural exhibit. So I don't think they're planning to parachute soldiers onto my head for some crackpot lesbian CIA stirrer-upper of camel shit."

  "Yes, but this crackpot lesbian stirrer-upper of camel shit is now a figure of international celebrity. Your Ministry of Informations can't just keep saying, 'Florence? We don't have no stinking Florence in our dungeon.' No one is belie
ving it. Are you watching the television?"

  "I have no time for television."

  "You should create lime, my dear emir, because they are saving some very harsh words about you." Delame-Noir threw up his hands. "I will speak to Bawad. But in the meantime, please, for your sake, keep this woman alive."

  "Oh. she's alive."

  "Maliq."

  "I said she's alive."

  "You didn't put her in some hole with animals or snakes?"

  "What do you take me for?"

  "Scorpions?"

  "Now you insult me."

  "Then accept my profound apologies, Holy One. I should have known that as imam of all Matar, you are guided first and last by the precepts of the Holy Koran, the truths revealed to the prophet Mohammed, blessings be upon his great name. In Allah the wise"—he paused—"the compassionate." Maliq flicked at the air with his aasa. "Whatever."

  Delame-Noir turned to leave. "Let me send to you my chef. As a token of fraternal love and respect."

  "I could not accept such generosity." Malic] said. "It would be impossible to repay. And an Arab who is not in a position to repay hospitality is a poor friend."

  Delame-Noir smiled. "A pity."

  As soon as he was gone. Maliq summoned Fetish. "If he sends any food, any wine, anything, have it tested for poison. And tell Sharif bin-Judar to keep him under watch. I want to know everything he does. I want to know when he has bowel movements."

  "But Great Imam, surely the Frenchman is our great ally?"

  "We have spoken. Fetish."

  "Truly. Majestic One. Thy words are like Tarfa pearls glistening in sweet water."

  "Eh? What's that? Were you listening to us just now?"

  "No, sire. May Allah strike me deaf and pluck the tongue from my mouth. I was only using a figure of speech—"

  "Get Prince Bawad on the phone. And have the masseuse make ready. My head is coming off with pain."

  "Immediately, sire."

  Fetish scurried off backward, scalp prickly with cold sweat. He reminded himself of the ancient Matari proverb: Dung beetles cannot crawl into shut mouths. An English traveler centuries before had stolen it and rendered it less elegantly as You never have to apologize for something you never said.