by I A Thompson
After they sat down in a slightly quieter area of the camp, Reza explained to her how to best enjoy Arabian coffee by first eating a bite of a date and then taking a sip of coffee.
Regina followed the instructions. The coffee tasted strange and not at all what she had expected. While light in color, almost yellow, it was strangely bitter yet flavorful. Now she understood why coffee was combined with dates in this country. The rich, sweet flavor of the date helped balance the bitterness of the coffee.
She looked at Reza who had been studying her face with a hint of a smile. “This is very unexpected,” she said. “Your coffee tastes as if it had some mulling spices in it, like cloves. There is something else, but I can’t quite isolate the flavor.”
Reza nodded approvingly and clapped his hands. “Very good. There are indeed cloves in our coffee. Along with cardamom and a pinch of saffron. Every country in this part of the world does coffee in a similar yet unique fashion. What you have here is how it’s done in Saudi Arabia. Turkish coffee is its better-known cousin, even though coffee cultivation and trade really began in the Arabian Peninsula. When the Ottoman empire invaded Syria in the 16th century, coffee literally spilled over into Turkey and from there to the rest of the world.”
For a few minutes, they enjoyed their coffee and dates, then Regina cut to the chase. “So, explain to me why the Middle East is such a hot mess.”
“You don’t mince words, do you?” Reza raised his left eyebrow.
Regina smiled at him. “No, I typically don’t have time for it. After you do what I do for as long as I have, you lose your willingness to be politically correct because you tend to just want to punch the bad guys in the face.”
“That is a sentiment I have to combat on a regular basis as well,” Reza nodded in agreement. “However, having been on the receiving end of such punches, I can assure you they do nothing to improve lines of communication. Which brings me to what’s wrong with this region. For one, there is way too much violence. How many Middle Eastern leaders can you name who were elected in fair and transparent elections?” he paused, looking at Regina.
She thought for a minute and then shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sure there are some, but off the top of my head I can’t think of a name.”
“Long story short, the vast majority have come to power via revolutions, coups, civil wars or some other type of societal breakdown. I don’t want to bore you with a history lesson, but we do have to step back in time for a minute to set up some context. From the Egyptian and Assyrian to the Persian, Ottoman, Greek and Roman Empires, Africa and the Middle East could pretty much be summed up as a plethora of tribes living their traditional lifestyles under ever-changing distant rulers. And although adventurous crusaders make for entertaining movies, it really wasn’t until European imperial and colonial powers became interested in securing land, natural resources, and access to Asia, that things became complicated.”
“Because they started drawing artificial borders?” Regina asked.
“That certainly was a factor,” Reza confirmed. “Although others had done the same before, borders became a lot more granular and the old tribes that were used to just roaming the lands got boxed in. But much more impactful was the arbitrary imposition of the nation-state concept that went with it, and to make matters even worse, the British, French, Dutch, and so on, would go and install their allies as heads of state in those newly formed nation-states. And there you have it, a toxic combination of different tribes with their own ethnic, cultural and linguistic identities forced to live together under figurehead leaders who mostly cared about their own survival; a powder keg just waiting to blow.”
“And they all armed themselves to the teeth, courtesy of their colonial partners in crime,” Regina concluded.
“Pretty much,” Reza nodded. “The militias and the corresponding suppression of the people kept the autocratic leaders in power as long as they wanted, or until somebody more powerful kicked them out. And then the cycle repeated itself, just with a different face and name. But please keep in mind, that the picture I painted is broad strokes. Throughout history, there were a handful of leaders who really had the best interest of their people at heart. Atatürk, the founder of the modern, secular republic of Turkey, for example.”
“Yes, it’s a shame to see where the current president of Turkey is taking the country.” Regina shook her head. “It’s like he wants to take the country back to pre-Atatürk days.”
“He’s definitely showing the classic signs of an autocrat,” Reza replied. “From suppression of the press and free speech to jailing his opposition and building out his weapons arsenal, he’s doing it all. He’s a regular customer of our biggest local arms dealer here in Riyadh, Omar Salib. A particularly repulsive individual who’s got his hands in just about every shady weapons’ deal you can think of.”
45
Regina curled up in a chair by the window in Zach’s room, looking out over the city’s sparkling lights as Riyadh slowly woke up and the sky began to change color; sunrise was maybe fifteen minutes away. She had swept both of their rooms for listening devices but had found nothing. Nonetheless, she set up a tiny device that would leave potential eavesdroppers hearing nothing but an endless version of the blood-curdling screeching sound the U.S. Emergency Alert System started all their transmissions with.
“So peaceful at this time of the day,” she said with a sigh as she turned to Zach who handed her a bottle of water. “Man, you should have been there yesterday. That desert was something else. And the people… you really had to see it to believe it. I’m telling you, there is something brewing in this neck of the woods.”
She gave Zach the abbreviated version of her conversation with Reza the previous night. They had talked well into the early morning hours about despotic clans ruling with iron fists, governments riddled with abuse of power suffocating any kind of freedom, the danger of empowering religious fanatics, and leaders systemically suppressing critical thinking and eliminating quality education for both women and men.
Regina had learned about the sprawling spiderweb of Saudi royal relations with its thousands of princes and princesses. Reza told her about the two faces of the crown prince, widely heralded as an advocate for social change and economic opening. All the while he was cracking down hard on what he called ‘dissidents’, which included anyone from students to journalists who dared to shine a light on his ruthless leadership style. “And wouldn’t you know it,” she said. “That little weasel we’re here to investigate, Omar Salib, he married one of those princesses not too long ago. Apparently, she’s the daughter of one of the King’s half-sisters. Not really in the inner circle of the big power players, but the King seems to like her and therefore she, and by proxy, her hubby are enjoying the benefits of the good graces she’s in. And just in case you think that’s standard fare here, consider this; three of the King’s own daughters by wife number four or five are actually locked up under permanent house arrest for thinking too liberally.”
“Great!” Zach rolled his eyes while he took a sip of his coke. “First sleaze-ball Birmingham and now this cat. What is it with these guys who already seem to have hit the jackpot feeling the need to live on the wrong side of the law?”
“Aren’t you meeting with Kamal today?” Regina asked. “I’m sure he can shed some more light on this character. Reza seemed to think Salib was just a money grabber who gets in bed with anyone who will put a dollar in his pockets.”
“But then again, what does a Social Studies teacher know about weapons’ dealers?” Zach asked.
Regina didn’t take the bait. Instead, she reflected on the part of the conversation that kept her up all night, trolling every corner of the web, including all shades of the dark web.
“I know many Americans think that we in the Middle East are anti-democracy, don’t tolerate multiculturalism and are stuck in uncivilized behavior patterns,” Reza had said. “And not just America, but much of the Western world. What most people don�
�t know is that there is a growing underground movement that wants to oust the autocratic and fundamentalist elements all over the region. It’s youngsters who want the same lifestyle as their peers in Europe and America and people who remember the freedom they had in their countries before the onset of the latest infestation of religious fanatics. And the numbers are growing daily, from the West Coast of Africa to Pakistan.”
‘The People’s Alliance’ or ‘TPA’, he had explained, was born from a shared despair at the situation so many people found themselves in, fueled by a desire to change their destiny and led by grassroots activists of all ages, creeds and colors. Now in its seventh year, the alliance had millions of followers, recruited through old fashioned word of mouth networking and strictly off the digital grid to protect themselves from the prying eyes of the regimes they opposed.
She had fed CP every keyword she could think of and queried every data source she could get her fingers on, in the hopes of finding some useful information, but the only thing she got back was a remarkably unspectacular bio of Reza.
He was born in 1978 in Isfahan, Iran, the beautiful old city also known as the ‘Jewel of the Middle East’. His father was a medical doctor, his mother a lawyer. He had a younger sister and the entire family moved to Riyadh in the aftermath of the Iranian Revolution which swept Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini into power and led to increasingly harsh conditions for liberal thinkers, such as his parents. The family lived a comfortable upper-middle-class lifestyle in Saudi Arabia and there was no indication that they were anything but model citizens in their adopted country. Other than school, medical and work records, along with a few pictures, she found nothing about any of the family members.
“I’m telling you; you should have been there!” Regina gestured with her water bottle. “There is something about this guy. The way he spoke. What he talked about. The people who hung on every word he said. I researched him all night. Even my grandmother has more of a digital footprint than he and his family. This family’s background is witness security program level clean. Not to mention this ‘TPA’ he was telling me about, which is basically a digital ghost. Either this guy is the biggest storyteller I’ve ever met, or there is more to this. And if there is really an old school, off the grid revolutionary movement building across Africa and the Middle East, we damn sure should pay attention.”
Zach appraised her for a moment. “I haven’t seen you this fired up about something, since…” he paused for a second. “Never actually, now that I think about it. So, why don’t you let me have it? The reasons why you’re so jazzed up about this?”
“It’s a numbers thing that I’ve been doing pretty much all my life to help me put things in perspective. And when I ran these numbers, all my alarm bells went off. Reza was talking about millions of followers in Africa and the Middle East. Deduct the historic connections and we can safely assume when he says Africa, he really means North Africa. Take the two regions and you have a population of about four hundred million people. So, let’s say in their seventh year, they’ve garnered seven million followers. Tack on another million and you’re at 2% of the population. In 1928, the Nazis got 2.6% of the votes. The Cuban revolution kicked off with 69 fighters. The Russian revolution started with basically a large dining table of intellectuals. They all found a charismatic leader and they all capitalized on severe woes of their country’s citizens, and North Africa and the Middle East are poster children for woes. There you have it. Numbers don’t lie. If I’m right, then we have all the makings of a potentially massive tide building right in front of us.”
Zach lifted his right eyebrow. “Not to burst your bubble, but you’ve got a lot of hypotheses going on there at the same time. What if he really means all of Africa with its 1.2 billion people? Changes the math a little bit, doesn’t it? And even if we’re just talking about North Africa, we’re still talking about dozens of countries between the two regions. Not exactly the same as the Nazis taking over Germany. With that said, it can’t hurt to take a closer look at this guy. If your math and analysis are even halfway right, there is a good chance he also knows more about Salib. I’m also interested in Kamal’s take on the whole thing. How about we have a chat with the guy, reassess where we’re at and then write a report together?”
Regina raised her right thumb. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll meet Reza for coffee later. I’ll bring him here afterwards.”
46
If Barnes & Nobel and Best Buy had a love child, it would have been the Jarir Bookstore on Northern Ring Road, where Regina’s Uber driver dropped her off. At least that’s what it looked like to her when she looked through the windows. It was crowded like a Walmart on Black Friday with women and children everywhere and a few men sprinkled in between who looked like they’d rather be elsewhere.
Regina smiled under her Niqab. Some things were the same no matter where you were in the world. She made her way to the Starbucks next to the bookstore and spotted Reza in the family section of the store, reading the board advertising the various concoctions of the day. Regina removed her face cover and walked up to him.
“Hi, Reza. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long?” she said when she reached him.
He turned towards her and smiled. “Regina, good to see you. I wasn’t sure if you’d come. What can I get you?
“A venti latte, please.” She smiled back. “Do you get stood up a lot?”
“It happens. You mentioned your boyfriend yesterday. I wasn’t sure if he’d be comfortable with you meeting me for coffee. I’d certainly have some questions if I was in his shoes.” He ordered their beverages and led her to a corner table.
Regina seized the opportunity. “Well, since you mentioned Zach, he does indeed have some questions and would like to meet you. If that’s okay with you?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. You said he’s a journalist? I’m not interested in becoming someone’s story.”
His apprehension from the previous night was back. Shit. She laughed, attempting to diffuse the situation. “No, no, he doesn’t want to write a story about you. He’s here to research a guy you talked about last night, Omar Salib. When I told Zach, he thought you might have insights and background information that he’d otherwise not be able to come by. That’s all. But if you don’t want to, that’s fine too. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Reza appeared to relax slightly. “Sorry, you must think I’m a narcissist for making an innocent question all about myself. But you must understand, what my friends and I are doing could easily be perceived as provoking anti-Saudi government sentiments, which can get you in trouble in a hurry. I’d just rather not be in the spotlight.”
“If it’s that dangerous, how do you know who you can and can’t trust?” Regina asked, genuinely curious. “And why did you trust me?”
“Who says I trust you?” Now he grinned, slightly mockingly. When he saw her reaction, he chuckled. “I’m kidding! Yasmin said Samir vouched for you. Samir is a dear friend and a strong supporter of our cause. If he says you’re okay, I take his word for it.”
Regina considered for a second to dig deeper regarding Reza’s relationship with Samir, then decided against it. Too much of a risk of Reza turning the tables and asking her questions she couldn’t answer easily. She hadn’t found any indication that Samir was CIA when she researched him the previous night, but in case he was, she needed to tread lightly so she wouldn’t risk burning him by accident.
As they were in such a public place, not exactly the best setting for sensitive topics, they finished their coffee over small talk.
“I take it, it wouldn’t be a good idea if you gave me a ride back to the hotel?” Regina asked when they were getting ready to leave.
“Technically, no. Practically, I have a solution for that.” Reza’s eyes glittered mischievously. “Go ahead, call an Uber.”
Regina pulled out her phone and requested a ride while Reza pulled out his phone and started typing. Within seconds, Regina got a confirmation that a car
would be there in less than five minutes; when she saw the driver’s name, she couldn’t help laughing.
“Clever! You’re moonlighting as an Uber driver? That solves the problem of driving around non-related females.” She suppressed her laughter because she didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to the two of them.
“I know, right? When I don’t teach, it gives me a chance to make extra money when and where I want. The market is still red-hot. Even since women got their right to drive. It will take a while until society changes, and a lot of people realized it’s cheaper than having a family driver on standby. Plus, it keeps the Muttawa off my back and the backs of my friends.”
“And you’re going to actually make me pay you?” Regina asked.
“Of course. Everything has to be above board. Otherwise, we both could get in trouble. But worry not, I’ll pay you back.”
“Oh, I’m not worried at all. I think it’s an ingenious approach to what could otherwise be quite a problem. Now, shall we go, before you get dinged for not picking up your customer on time?”
Reza’s car was a late model Honda Accord, metallic silver and perfectly inconspicuous. A reliable means of transportation that nobody would remember seeing. Regina had to admit, the Saudi youth she’d met so far were every bit as crafty in getting around restrictions as their American peers. She got in the backseat of the Honda, as expected of a woman hailing a rideshare service.
The drive was short, less than fifteen minutes. Reza parked the car and marked himself as unavailable to pick up another client.
He looked up at the towering hotel. “You guys picked a nice place. I’ve been here once for lunch on my mother’s birthday. I always wondered what the rooms look like in a fancy hotel like this; looks like today is my lucky day.”
