And then it struck her. There wasn’t going to be any rescuer, no knight in shining armor. There was no one to wait for and never had been. The only person who could save her was herself. The thought was like a bolt of lightning, galvanizing her into action.
She sprang to her feet in the center of the dark cell, her teeth clenched, her fingernails digging into her palms. The pain in her palms felt good, shocking her mind to clarity. I’m going to get out of this, she vowed, her eyes gleaming defiantly in the darkness. No matter what it takes. Now we’ll see what a woman can do. And she would use a woman’s only real weapon, her wits, she thought craftily. And patience. Somewhere along the line, her chance would come.
She raced to the cell door and pounded on it, screaming for Abdul Sa’ad. When the eunuch finally opened the door she kept screaming and gesturing until he brought his Master to her. As soon as she saw the prince, she dropped to her knees, bowed to the ground and kissed his shoes, again and again. She swore that she would be his slave forever and begged him to allow her to become a Moslem. When she said that, he raised her up and embraced her with an odd look on his face, as though he knew she was acting, but that he didn’t care. Taking her hand, he led her to the luxurious apartment in the women’s quarters which would henceforth be her home.
Prince Abdul Sa’ad’s “country house,” as he called it, was built around a central atrium green with flowers and date palms, where the women were allowed for two hours every afternoon. The garden was exquisite. A crystal clear stream fed a waterfall which tumbled over rocks into a lovely pond surrounded by trees and grassy banks bordered by beautiful wildflowers. Goldfish darted like flecks of sunlight in the cool water. It was as if a tiny piece of Hawaii had been somehow dropped into the middle of the desert.
The house itself, or at least the harim, or women’s quarters was extraordinary, an incredible mixture of opulence and bad taste. The walls and floors and ceilings were covered with intricate mosaic arabesques. Some of the designs were exquisite, while others were outlandish. Semi-precious stones were inlaid in every room. There were rooms filled with expensive TVs and stereos that rarely worked. Many of the furnishings were made of pure gold. Even her own bathroom had gold accessories including a solid gold toilet bowl. It was an incomprehensible place, where money was truly no object. Once she asked Abdul Sa’ad how much money he had and he had replied with an eloquent shrug: “If we all did nothing but spent it lavishly every single minute, we could never spend it all.”
Abdul Sa’ad had three other concubines living there. There was Fatma, a beautiful sloe-eyed Arab girl from a poor family in Jidda, a sprawling port on the Red Sea. The other westerner was Inga, a stolid Swedish girl with blue eyes and long blond hair, whom Abdul Sa’ad had purchased from a brothel in Beirut. Her mind had long since been dulled by drugs and now she spent her days chewing khat leaves with the bland expression of a cow chewing its cud. Then there was Yasmin, a lithe, sensuous Negress, bought to add a touch of spice to Abdul Sa’ad’s harim. She was a Somali and had been purchased from her father, a refugee in the lower Shabelle region near Mogadishu. Her purchase had saved the family from starvation, she told Kelly tearfully. In addition, she learned that Abdul Sa’ad had four wives and eleven children, whom he kept in an apartment in the Royal Palace in Riyadh.
At first she thought it might be bearable. Her room was comfortable, the walls covered with colorful tapestries and the lamps and accessories were made of solid gold. The floors were covered with exquisite oriental rugs. The fat eunuch brought her a catalogue from Harrod’s in London and told her she could order anything she wished. The other concubines were kind and friendly. Abdul Sa’ad even gave her a diamond necklace which looked like something featured in Tiffany’s window. But that first night convinced her that she wasn’t going to make it.
Fatma brought her a lacy white pinafore, white stockings and a big white bow for her hair and told her to wear them. When she put them on she looked like a ten-year-old. Then Abdul Sa’ad sent for her. When she entered his apartment, he was sprawled naked on a mound of gold satin cushions, smoking a water pipe. His body was covered with a dense mat of black hair. He looked like an overfed chimpanzee. In the corner a tethered falcon shifted its position on its perch and stared at her with its cold savage eyes as if she was just another kind of prey. Then the craziness began.
He handed her a large doll and told her to play with it and talk in baby talk. Uneasily, she prattled and played with the doll, occasionally stealing a glance over at him. He told her to bend over, her short skirt hitching up, and stared at her lacy panties. The only sound was the gurgling of the water pipe. Her eyes grew round with horror as she began to realize the reality of the fantasy she was acting out for him. In a strangled voice, he called her over. She couldn’t help noticing his erection, standing out red and taut.
He told her that she had been a naughty child and that she would have to be spanked. He ordered her to bring him the hairbrush on his dressing table, then took her across his knees, her long legs stretched out across the cushions. He paddled her furiously, her bottom burning like fire until she couldn’t stand it any more. She whimpered and pleaded for him to stop, but he seemed possessed. Suddenly, he ripped the pinafore off her and ordered her to pull off her panties.
But instead of mounting her, he gave her a large solid gold phallus, realistically carved down to the smallest detail.
That was her initiation into what it meant to be Abdul Sa’ad’s concubine, she reflected, grimly fingering the edge of the letter-opener.
Night after night he sent for her, each night more bizarre than the last. It was like mating with a demon and she breathed great sighs of relief whenever she learned that he would be away in Riyadh or Bahrain on business.
Lately, that had been happening more often. In fact, she would be with him tonight for the first time in days. Often his phone would ring at odd times, and yesterday the courtyard filled with armed men making a great racket, who just as suddenly disappeared. Something was up and when she asked Nasir the eunuch what was happening, he clutched his bald head in his hands and exclaimed that the Master was in a terrible mood. Then he reminded himself that politics were not a woman’s concern and shooed her away.
She checked the handbag one more time, although she had gone over its contents a dozen times. In it she had a skirt and blouse, the letter-opener and the keys to one of the Mercedes, which she had filched from Abdul Sa’ad’s pocket. He had made a fuss about it when he missed the keys and her heart pounded at the thought that he might suspect her. In the end, one of the servants found a spare set of keys. Kelly distracted him with kisses and he just shrugged and forgot about it.
Under the guise of her education, she had asked Fatma, her unofficial teacher, to show her a map, and had planned an escape route. Kelly figured that she could head east on the road towards the oil fields, near the coast around Dhahran. Where there were oil fields, there were bound to be American workers and she hoped they would help her to get away. All she had to do was murder Abdul Sa’ad so he couldn’t stop her, sneak past the guard to the courtyard and steal the car. In her mind, it was easy. Just a few minutes and she would be free.
But the idea of actually sticking the blade into him while he slept, even after all he had done to her, sickened her. She had to do it, she told herself. She had to. Otherwise she would never be free. She remembered the words of an old Janis Joplin song. Something about how “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” Well, she had nothing left to lose all right, she thought, and grimly closed her handbag clasp.
Fatma came in to take her to the Master’s quarters. She followed the concubine down the hall to Abdul Sa’ad’s apartment, her belly-dancing costume swishing and tinkling like coins as she walked. Her palms began to sweat. She wondered how she would ever get through this night. You’ve nothing left to lose, she told herself. All she had to do was let him do whatever filthy things he wanted one last time. Just till he finally fell asleep. Th
en it would be all over, one way or another.
Abdul Sa’ad was still wearing his robe when they entered, bowing to him. With a flick of his finger, he dismissed Fatma and started the stereo. The room exploded with the sound of hard rock and Kelly mechanically began to dance, grinding her pelvis in erotic rhythms. Abdul Sa’ad lit a cigarette and slumped back on the cushion. There were circles under his eyes. She had never seen him so distracted.
She rolled her belly and bumped her hips faster and faster, the tassels on her costume bobbing wildly. She began to strip slowly and sensuously in time to the music. Abdul Sa’ad nervously tapped his leg in rhythm with the beat. Sweat glistened on his forehead, but his eyes were heavy-lidded as if drugged. She removed her bra and bent forward so he could watch her breasts swaying above his face. A pearl of sweat dripped from the curve of her breast down on to his face, but he seemed not to notice. His eyes were closed. He was either asleep or in a trance.
Was it time? she thought wildly. The letter-opener was still in her bag. If he opened his eyes now he would order them to kill her. But she felt she couldn’t stand it another second. It made her skin crawl to be near him.
She picked up the bag and opened it. The letter-opener gleamed in the light. She crouched over him, her hand clenched around the opener poised over his throat.
A single stab and she was free, she thought. But it was so horrible to stick it into him. He was beginning to come out of it. She had to do it now, she steeled herself.
She had started to raise the opener when there was a commotion in the hallway outside. Quickly she slid the opener under a silk cushion and stepped away to resume her dance.
Suddenly a half-dozen Arabs in military uniform barged in and began jabbering excitedly in Arabic. Kelly stopped dancing in confusion. As the men glanced at her, she covered her naked breasts in embarrassment. One of them, an evil-looking man with a cataract in one eye, stared at her and a cruel smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Kelly covered her face and scuttled into a corner. She sat beside the cushion under which the opener was hidden.
Then the fat Arab who had examined her teeth came in, followed by a westerner with a Latin moustache, wearing a white suit.
“Our friend called. The intruder has been identified,” Nuruddin said in English, so that the westerner could understand.
“How fortunate for you,” Abdul Sa’ad said. The Arabs glanced uneasily at each other.
“He is an American agent,” Nuruddin said.
“Brilliant! I never could have guessed,” Abdul Sa’ad replied, looking skyward to Allah for assistance.
“He’s not in Bahrain any more. He seems to have disappeared,” the westerner added.
“Perhaps he’s hiding,” Nuruddin said. He gave a Ma’alesh shrug, as if to say “So what?”
“He hasn’t been hiding, you idiot!” Abdul Sa’ad shrieked, slapping Nuruddin across the face. The Bahraini staggered back, clutching his face. Abdul Sa’ad grabbed him and pulled him close.
“Don’t you understand? He could destroy us all. I want every airport watched. Every harbor and hotel. Most important, every foreign embassy, especially every American embassy. Not just in Arabia, but throughout the Middle East,” Abdul Sa’ad said.
He let go of Nuruddin, plucked a sugared fig from a gold bowl and ate it thoughtfully. Nuruddin stood stiffly, red fingermarks imprinted on his face. Abdul Sa’ad came over to Nuruddin and embraced him. He kissed Nuruddin’s bruise and stepped back.
“I know you think me harsh; but you are merely soldiers and businessmen. I must be a king,” he said softly to no one in particular. He picked up his prayer beads and fingered them thoughtfully.
“I have a feeling about this man. A bad feeling. We shall have to stop him before he stops us,” he said.
“My life is yours, your Highness,” Nuruddin said, and bowed. He wore the bruise on his face like a medal.
“What else do we know about him?” Abdul Sa’ad asked.
“They call him ‘the Scorpion,’” Nuruddin said.
At this the one-eyed Arab gasped. Abdul Sa’ad made a mental note to question him later, then turned to Nuruddin.
“Allah watches us. Even this very moment. You have the chance to redeem yourself. This Scorpion must be destroyed.”
Nuruddin kissed the tip of Abdul Sa’ad’s nose as a sign of respect. “He won’t get away this time,” he said.
“He had better not. Moscow does not like mistakes,” the westerner said.
“Neither do I,” Abdul Sa’ad said.
Moscow
THE JUNE MORNING was bright and clear. It was already growing warm. A gauzy veil of gas fumes shimmered over Moscow, giving the city the steamy illusion of a tropical capital. The trees in the little park in Sverdlov Square were in full leaf, a bright splash of green providing a sylvan background to the outline of the Sobakin Tower as seen from the Kremlin. Apparachiki taking an early lunch hour and babushkas with swaddled infants strolled among the trees, snacking on ice cream and greasy pyshki doughnuts served hot from the fryer by pavement vendors, oblivious to the thick tension in the Arsenal building in the Kremlin, where the Politburo was beginning its regular Thursday morning meeting.
The Politburo meets in a medium-sized room which sits at the heart of the vast Soviet empire like a spider at the center of its web. The room has white marble walls and is bare of any decoration except for a portrait of Lenin, his profile gazing stonily in the direction of the onion-shaped dome of St. Basil’s Cathedral across Red Square. Around the long oak conference table, its surface polished like a mirror, twelve of the men who ruled half the planet uneasily waited for Fyedorenko to take his place at the head of the table. In front of each member was a blank note pad and pen, an ashtray, and according to his preference, a carafe of ice water or kvas, the pungent brown drink made from fermented rye bread that is the Coca-Cola of Russia. In one corner sat three stenographers ready to take down every word. After the meeting their notes would be compared and a definitive transcript would be distributed among the participants. In the opposite corner, two KGB operators readied a tape recorder. The doorway was blocked by two six-footers at rigid attention. They wore the green uniform of the Kremlin Guard, their leather holsters gleaming with polish.
The twelve glanced uncomfortably around the room avoiding each other’s eyes. With the Byzantine instinct for the jugular that had taken each of them to the very pinnacle of power, they collectively sensed that this was to be no ordinary meeting. From time to time one or another of them would furtively glance at the empty Penal Chair, at the far end of the table, hoping that wherever the axe fell, his head wouldn’t be under it. If the party secretary had planned to increase their uneasiness by making them wait, he had certainly achieved his end.
To help ease the tension, Korchnoi, the roly-poly minister of agriculture, who concealed a ruthless nature under the jovial exterior of a Russian Santa Claus, was telling the latest joke. Two apparachiki meet on the street and the first apparachik asks the second if he’s heard about the shop in Kalinin Prospekt that just got in a fabulous shipment of shoes. “Everyone is lining up,” he says. The second apparachik replies that he’s going to Minsk to buy shoes.
“But there are no shoes in Minsk,” the first apparachik objects.
“I know,” replies the second apparachik. “But that’s where the line from the Kalinin Prospekt ends.”
The ministers were still chuckling over the joke when Fyedorenko burst in and stalked over to his chair, Svetlov close at his heels. As he took his seat, Fyedorenko made an offhand apology about being late and gazed intently at the other members. Despite his famous poker-faced impassivity, they noted with astonishment that Fyedorenko was obviously keyed up. For a moment he studied them, impatiently drumming his fingers on the glossy table.
In fact, only once before had Fyedorenko been so nervous before a Politburo meeting. That was the time shortly after he had earned his place on the Politburo by betraying Gugalov, ostensibly because of his allege
d black-market activities with a ring of fartsovshchiki who ran prostitutes out of Komsomol Square, but in reality because Gugalov opposed the old man’s China policy.
He had first become alerted to a new development when the old man had hinted that he was going to do some weeding out at the next Politburo meeting and then left him dangling. It was essential that he learn who it was: Petrovsky or Ivanenko, because whoever wound up on the Penal Chair would leave the Kremlin on a one-way trip to the Black Wall in Lubyanka prison, along with anyone who supported him. It would have been so easy for the old man to let him know which way to jump, but he hadn’t and, walking into the meeting, Fyedorenko still didn’t know whom to denounce.
Soon after the meeting started, he decided it had to be Petrovsky, who kept licking his lips and nervously chain smoking those old-fashioned paprossy cigarettes, his shirt collar wilted with sweat, while Ivanenko sat there with the self-righteous smile of a club member whose dues are paid in full. The meeting dealt with the latest miserable agricultural forecasts until the old man nodded at Fyedorenko. He took a deep breath and was about to denounce Petrovsky when a horrible thought flashed across his mind, like a spark jumping across a gap. Petrovsky knew! That’s why he was so nervous! He knew what was going to happen and Ivanenko didn’t. That meant that Petrovsky’s information sources were better than Ivanenko’s. Before he exhaled his breath, Fyedorenko had revised his denunciation speech, shocking them all with his sudden vehement attack on Ivanenko. Fyedorenko never forgot the appraising glance the old man had thrown him at the end of the meeting, as the guards led Ivanenko from the Penal Chair. The old man had been a real sukin sin, all right, a son-of-a-bitch from start to finish, Fyedorenko mused.
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