Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  “Yes. You know of it?”

  “Of course. While most of the UAE’s population may live near the water, deep in their hearts they are still a desert people.”

  He looked at me skeptically.

  “Do you mind if I ask how long you’ve been here?”

  “Three days, but I suck up new cultures like a sponge.”

  “Apparently.”

  We walked back through the storage level and up the stairs into the kitchen, where everyone we passed watched us closely, probably wondering who in the hell was keeping company with their beloved benefactor.

  “Should we just head out into the party from here?” I asked.

  “They will be expecting me to come back through the checkpoint, so you go out here and then come up and meet me on the second level.”

  Farid headed up the stairs while I walked across the kitchen and followed a waiter with a tray until I was back out in the party. I made my way through the crowd and up to the second floor, where I waited for Farid at the security checkpoint. The stone faced guard was still there, and, when we made eye contact, I smiled and nodded, but it did nothing to elicit a friendly response. At last, Farid appeared, but he was talking over his shoulder to another party guest who was also walking out of the private area. The man came around from behind Farid and into view, and I suddenly felt pangs of discomfort that one might expect when giving birth to a porcupine.

  “Oh, hello, Tag, I’d like to introduce you to a colleague. This is…”

  “Sheikh Emir,” I said.

  Farid looked confused.

  “Oh, you two know each other?” he asked.

  “Sort of—we happened to be on the same flight recently and also like to shop at the Dolce and Gabbana store at the Mall of the Emirates.”

  “You!” Sheikh Emir yelled angrily, his face reddening as he pointed his finger directly between my eyes as though he wished it were the barrel of a loaded pistol.

  Suddenly he was moving towards me, waving his arms and calling for security, so I grabbed Farid and headed for the stairs, as we needed to blend into the crowd and get as much space between us and Emir as possible if we hoped to stand any chance of getting out of the palace. Moving briskly, we darted in and out, dodging people, plates, and cocktails at every step. We reached the stairs and took them two at a time, then slowed up upon reaching the bottom. Two men running in a crowded room stuck out like sore thumbs but two politely mingling guests could blend in quite easily. Halfway to the front door, I spied Olivia and made a beeline. Only a few steps away, she noticed me and smiled, though her expression changed to concern when she saw the look on my face.

  “Everything OK?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I found my friend. This is Farid.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  “Very nice to meet you,” he said, kissing her hand.

  Farid, the consummate ladies man, immediately zoned in on Olivia, drawn like a moth to a flame that was her beautiful blond locks. Having not thought about Olivia’s hair color, I now had real worry about getting him to leave her side let alone the building. Suddenly there was shouting from over by the stairs, and I saw Emir and three security men all gazing in our direction.

  “Shit! I’m really sorry, but I have to leave early.”

  “Too bad. I had a very special after dinner treat for you.”

  “Rain check?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good, I’ll give you a call when I get back to the Bay Area. Assuming I make it back alive, that is,” I said.

  I kissed her goodbye, then Farid and I continued on towards the front door.

  “That woman is beautiful. Who is she?” Farid asked, as we walked.

  “A friend.”

  “The kind of friend you have sex with?”

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, which means you are indeed a lucky man.”

  “Yes, but tonight I have you instead.”

  “Then you are doubly lucky.”

  “Or, as I see it, half as lucky.”

  Just before we exited, we both looked back inside and saw the Sheikh and his entourage of security men heading in our direction.

  “Oh shit, we made it out just in time,” I said.

  “Yeah, so where’s your car?” Farid asked.

  “I don’t have one. I got a ride with Olivia. What about you?”

  “I have my Bentley here.”

  “No can do. They most certainly have a tracking chip hidden on it somewhere, so we’re going to need to borrow a car. Any thoughts?”

  “Yes, I’m sure we can find one down in the royal garage.”

  “Royal garage, eh? That seems like an overly pompous description for a place they park cars.”

  “Normally I’d agree, but you’ll soon see what I mean.”

  I followed Farid farther along the roundabout, and we headed down a ramp and into a large well-lit subterranean space that seemed to stretch on for miles, and it kind of reminded me of the government warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. The immediate area was filled with all manner of luxury vehicles—everything from Bentleys and Rolls Royces to Ferraris and Porsches, but Farid inexplicably led me over to a shiny gold plated Rolls Royce golf cart. I imagine it was just one of those rare items that every oil sheikh needed to complete his collection, regardless of his proximity to a golf course or the actual desire to play golf.

  “OK, I get it now. This is indeed a royal fucking garage, but how far do you think we can get in that Goddamn golf cart?”

  “Far enough, get in,” he said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, it will be a lot faster than walking.”

  I took a seat, and we headed off deeper into the space and passed expensive car after expensive car until coming upon a lone valet standing at a little kiosk with a wall full of various car keys.

  “Are you going to distract him while I find us a car?” I asked.

  “No, I have a better idea. Wait here.”

  Farid casually walked up to the valet and spoke quietly for a moment before calling me over.

  “What kind of car do we need?” Farid asked me.

  “An SUV would be nice in case we have to go across any open desert, and it would be even better if it had some balls.”

  “I’ve got just what you’re looking for,” the valet said, his accent likely Indonesian.

  “So, I take it he’s part of your railroad,” I said.

  “Yes indeed.”

  “Nice.”

  “Very, and, contrary to that old saying that it’s good to have friends in high places, I often find it more useful to have friends in low places.”

  “At this particular moment I would have to agree.”

  A second later, a great beastly roar came from the other end of the garage, followed by the appearance of an ominous black Lamborghini Cheetah. It was, in my humble opinion, the most exciting and exotic of all off-road cars and familiar to only the most stalwart of gearheads. Originally designed for military use in 1970, the Cheetah was later given the Countach’s badass twelve cylinder engine and sold to civilians. Unlike its sleek brethren, it had plenty of ground clearance and carried boxy looks similar to the modern Humvee, which made sense as it was its progenitor. Lamborghini even went so far as to have Pirelli design specialized tires called Scorpions that could endure intense desert heat and high off-road speeds. I had never had the opportunity to drive one, and standing before it now was currently enough excitement to give me a semi, and I had to reach down and make some extra room in my pants for Tag Junior. The valet pulled up in front of us, rolled down the window, and smiled.

  “Will this suit your needs?” he asked.

  “Does a Dubai oil sheikh wipe his ass with fourteen karat gold toilet paper?” I responded.

  He laughed at my response as he stepped down out of the car, because the answer was yes, as they did indeed have fourteen karat gold toilet paper in this part of the world. I climbed
up and slid into the drivers seat and smiled giddily.

  “It even has a full tank of gas and a brand new top of the line GPS,” he said, as he patted the front fender.

  “Sweet mother of internal combustion. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

  This was for me a life dream come true and one of those rare moments where fate actually threw me a bone. I looked around the car and did my best not to ejaculate, as this was an Italian supercar, and I was a man. To that end I took some deep breaths to try and relax, but the Cheetah unfortunately smelled as though it had just come from the showroom, and the fine factory fresh scent of leather traveled deep into my olfactory receptors and awakened my deeply buried inner manchild and tickled my willy. Farid, meanwhile, climbed up into the passenger seat and immediately noticed the peculiar look of wanting on my face.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, except for the fact that I’m trying not cum in my pants.”

  “I take it you like the car?”

  “Perhaps a little too much.”

  Farid smiled then turned to his friend.

  “I believe this car was a good choice. Now, are you sure you won’t get into any trouble?” he asked.

  “The family hasn’t used this car in years. They don’t even remember that it exists.”

  “Thanks again and don’t worry. Everything is set for you and your brother to leave next month.”

  “I will never forget what you’ve done for us, Farid,” he said, choking up on his words and wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

  “Jesus, Farid, you’re mother-fucking Teresa around here.”

  “I do what I can.”

  “You’re obviously doing a lot more than that.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s everything. Most people are selfish, self-centered assholes who would have taken the Bentley and the house and been perfectly satisfied.”

  “Eh, you’ve just grown cynical, my friend.”

  “Or realistic.”

  “Maybe they’re one and the same, but I certainly hope not.”

  I turned my attention back to the vehicle to get acquainted with the controls. It could be a little tricky driving a new car and even trickier when it was Italian. I gave the engine a small rev then put the monster in gear. The Cheetah’s clutch was a little heavy, so I let it out slowly, resisting the urge to pop it and spin the tires, and we headed up the ramp and out towards the turnabout of the Royal Palace.

  “It’s smooth sailing from here on out!” I said, with a smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Smokey and the Bandit

  SMOOTH SAILING TURNED out to be a less than accurate description of the situation that we discovered upon emerging from the garage. Sailing directly into a the path of a typhoon might have been more accurate, considering we were approaching no less than seven security vehicles waiting at the other end of the open courtyard. Seven is usually considered a lucky number, but, in this case, it represented a big steaming pile of dog shit blocking our path to freedom. So much for a nice quiet exfiltration from the palace.

  “Jesus! What the fuck did you do to piss off Sheikh Emir?” Farid asked.

  “Not much, other than use him to demonstrate a jujitsu hold after he got drunk and unruly and attacked Olivia on the plane ride over here. In reality, it really wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Wasn’t a big deal? You put your hands on a fucking royal for fuck’s sake! We’re dead men,” he said, looking grave.

  “Only if they catch us.”

  “The odds are looking particularly favorable for them at the moment.”

  “Never tell me the odds!” I yelled, quoting the immortal Han Solo, one of my three favorite childhood heroes—the other two of course being Indiana Jones and James Bond.

  I stopped the Cheetah and looked across at the line of cars to see, standing at the front, a lone figure smiling smugly with his hands on his hips. It was Emir, and for once he actually looked happy. I realized that I preferred him angry, so it was time to wipe the smile off his face and get the fuck out of Dubai. I looked at Farid, and he looked back at me nervously—beads of sweat forming on his furrowed brow.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “Hyperdrive.”

  “What?”

  “Hyperdrive. You know, we make the jump to light speed.”

  “I’m serious now. No more Star Wars bullshit. I really want to know what the fuck we are going to do.”

  “As I said, hyperdrive.”

  I gunned the car, and the engine literally roared as we accelerated with all four wheels putting the horsepower to the ground and pushing the beast well past fifty miles per hour in mere seconds. We were only a short distance away from the wall of cars when Emir’s smile was replaced by a look of panic. At the last moment, I cut the wheel hard left and bumped up onto the lawn, where the Cheetah’s tires churned up a rooster tail of grass and dirt until we cleared the roadblock and swerved back onto the driveway. I hazarded a quick glance in the rearview mirror and watched as the security people all scrambled into their cars and began setting off after our charging Cheetah. Oddly, the entire spectacle brought on a thought that made me smile.

  “What’s so funny?” Farid asked.

  “Did you ever see the movie Smokey and the Bandit?”

  “Yeah, back during my time at Stanford. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I just realized that we’re living our own modern reimagining, and I’m the Bandit, you’re Frog, and Sheikh Emir is of course, Sheriff Buford T. Justice.”

  “Why do I have to be Frog? Why can’t I be Cledus?” he asked.

  “Because you’re my passenger, and that means you’re the Sally Field to my Burt Reynolds.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, as he smiled and started singing.

  “We’ve got a long way to go, and a short time to get there.”

  At that point I joined in.

  “And we gonna do what they say can’t be done,” we both sang together, completing the chorus of Jerry Reed’s classic East Bound and Down.

  We tore out through the main gate, and two sharp left turns later, I was hitting the gas and moving through the gears, all the while savoring every moment behind the wheel of the Italian beast. We hit the open road heading southwest, and I looked in the rearview mirror to discover the first in a line of what was obviously the seven vehicles we just avoided. I hit the accelerator and pushed the Cheetah well up over a hundred miles per hour, but our pursuers were still gaining on us, and soon they were right on our back bumper.

  “They’re right behind us. What are we going to do?” Farid asked nervously.

  “We do what we were meant to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Go off-road, so make sure you’re buckled in, farm boy, as it’s about to get interesting.”

  The goal now was to utilize the Cheetah’s strong points, which meant finding some serious off-road terrain. I turned the wheel hard to the left, and the tires squealed as we crossed over the highway and hit the berm on the other side and literally went airborne as we flew out into the desert. The Cheetah was built for this kind of driving, so its suspension absorbed the impact as though it were nothing more than the gentle caress of a midnight lover. The surrounding land here was basically miles upon miles of open dirt roads and desert, which meant the Cheetah would roll through it like a hot knife through butter. Our pursuers, however, were in luxury sedans, likely Mercedes judging by the headlights, which meant it would only be a matter of time before we left them far behind—or so I hoped.

  The detour off the road took out the first car, whose lights temporarily disappeared as its front end embedded into the soft sand berm. The remaining drivers were smarter and avoided the same fate by taking the berm slowly and at an angle. It was now six to one, so our odds were already improving. Up ahead came a fork in the road with three tines, and I took the middle route while the cars behind me fanned out left and right probably hoping to
flank us. This was going to be tricky, but I had thankfully mastered escape and evasion driving as part of my training in both special operations and the Agency. Of course, it also didn’t hurt that I had spent a good portion of my young adult life off-roading, and had driven everything from two cylinder race bikes to quads and dune buggies, so, while the people of the Emirates may have been from the desert, in my mind, they were now playing on my turf.

  The roads were coming back together up ahead, and I could see cars closing in on me from both sides, as they were obviously hoping to form a roadblock and trap us in the middle. I gunned the accelerator to make them think I was trying to get ahead, and they followed suit, coming up fast on their parallel courses. Just before the roads came together, I hit the brakes, and the two lead cars on each side raced forward and slammed into each other before bouncing apart and careening off into the deep sand on the sides of the road. It was a silly trick, but it worked, and now we had two more down and only four more to go.

  I gunned the Cheetah, and we continued on until I saw that the road split into two directions with one going to the left and the other going slightly right and over a small hill. Perfect. I veered to the right and headed up the rise with the hope that our superior traction would allow us to gain some distance and possibly lose some, if not all, of the less capable cars. Of course, I was also praying to God that it didn’t lead to a steep drop off on the other side that would potentially put all of us in a ditch. We crested the hill and thankfully came down the other side onto a nice smooth section of road, and the detour slowed our pursuers and forced them to amble over the crest well behind.

  “Farid, can you look at the GPS and tell me what kind of terrain we have up ahead?”

  “Yeah, as long as you can deal with a little puke. I get car sick if I try to read in a moving car.”

  “OK, then make it fast, as I’m a sympathetic puker, and then we’ll both be riding around puking in a car full of puke, and that is no way to pick up chicks.”

  Farid did his best to study the small screen as the car pitched sideways and bumped along on the road.

  “If we take a left at the next fork, the road gets pretty curvy and skirts a riverbed, which is probably dry at this time of year,” he said, happy to turn his attention away from the little screen and back to the road.