by J C Ryan
Iskandar took the elevator down, but Mutaib hung back, so Rex did as well.
“I understand your concern for my men,” Mutaib said. “But surely you understand I must show them the consequences for allowing a stranger to reach me unhindered. If you had been an assassin, I would now be dead.”
Damn straight your royal scumbag. If I didn’t need you alive for a while longer, you sure would.
Instead of speaking his mind, Rex nodded his assent without answering. It didn’t matter to him if Mutaib docked their pay, had them flogged, or killed them. They weren’t going to survive his mission anyway. If Mutaib executed them, it would save him the trouble.
Not much later, the prince and Rex were enjoying a sumptuous meal in a private room in an exclusive restaurant where only the ultra-wealthy were served. Rex hadn’t even recognized it as a restaurant until they got inside. From the street, it appeared to be a large private residence. Inside, Rex spotted a prominent American actress wearing a shayla with her unusually modest western clothing, women in silk abayas paired with niqabs, and many self-satisfied men.
Few of them even noticed Digger, who was making himself as inconspicuous as possible. The doorman had raised his eyebrows, but said nothing when Mutaib sailed through, mentioning that the man behind him was his guest. Digger had crept under the table in their private dining room.
Rex surreptitiously fed him tidbits under the table while listening in apparent fascination to Mutaib’s monologue. The man liked his own voice. Rex’s mention of an infamous arms dealer’s name had lead to the prince reminiscing about several others from the recent past, all from the Middle East.
Rex periodically murmured his admiration as Mutaib claimed close association with one or another of them, no matter how unlikely the claim.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE PRINCE HAD apparently been impressed by Rex with his implication that he knew the notorious arms dealer. After detailing his close friendship and business dealings with several others, he began boasting about himself and how shrewd a businessman he was.
Rex played along and encouraged him to keep on blowing his own trumpet. It was obvious the prince enjoyed it to talk about himself, probably the result of his short-man syndrome, aka the Napoleon complex.
As Mutaib droned on about his wealth, his three wives and thirteen children, his beautiful home, and the business dealings that he claimed afforded him those luxuries, Rex mused on the insecurity that made some men who lacked the average physical stature of their neighbors behave like bantam roosters. Mutaib’s behavior smacked of it.
His expressive eyes and soft hands might have attracted some women to him, but that would have been the exception not the rule. As his discourse moved to the subject of his ‘pleasure wives’ as he called them, Rex couldn’t help but believe his wealth was the real attraction, not his eyes or hands or any of his other physical features. Assuming any of them had been drawn to him rather than purchased on the black market, like Rehka.
Rex sharpened his attention when he heard the term. Mutaib must have noticed it, and he began to expound on the beauty and exotic sexual talents of those he’d taken into his harem. Others, he explained, were his display pieces in Western countries, where beautiful women were an essential accessory, like expensive jewelry.
Rex kept his expression neutral. Distasteful as it was to hear the crudeness of his host’s conversation, this was going much, much better than he could have hoped. His original plan, such as it was, called for him to be invited into Mutaib’s home, where he could study the layout, and then to get into the women’s quarters and extract Rehka.
Rex was still waiting for an opportunity which would get him the invitation to the residence when Mutaib offered it. He didn’t blurt out an invitation to enjoy one of his slave girls. He hinted at it, then hid the hint in braggadocio and subject changes.
The meal was one of the longest Rex had ever endured. When the muted sounds of the city’s muezzins calling the faithful to salat al-maghrib, the prescribed prayer just after sunset, penetrated the restaurant’s walls, he was relieved to see Mutaib rise.
“You must join me at my home for supper,” the prince said. “I can promise you a most entertaining evening.”
That was what Rex had been hoping for. “Thank you, Mutaib. I’ll be honored to join you for supper. I hope you will excuse me for a few hours so that I can see to my companion,” Rex pointed to Digger, “and of course I’ll want to dress for dinner. May I be excused?”
“Of course, of course. I will send a car for you. Where are you staying?”
It wasn’t ideal. Rex would have preferred having his SUV handy. But he couldn’t quickly think of a way to decline the offer without insulting his host. “The Sheraton,” he replied.
They said their goodbyes, and Rex went outside to get his bearings. He was ten or more blocks from his rental vehicle by then, but the sun had gone down and the walk would be pleasant. Digger needed the exercise anyway, along with a good treat for behaving so well in the restaurant. On top of the human food Rex had already given him. Today, he had his backpack in the car, and Digger’s kong was available. He stopped between the restaurant and his destination to buy some dried lamb for it.
After reaching his SUV he took out Digger’s kong, stuffed it with the dried lamb and walked across the road to an open lot where he unleashed the dog and gave a him a chance to go for a quick run and toilet before handing him the kong. Half an hour later he was at the Sheraton and went to his room to prepare for his evening with the illustrious prince.
Under his impeccably-tailored suit, he wore what he privately thought of as his ninja clothing. Tight black pants with zippered pockets that lay snug against his skin when not in use, but folded outward like cargo pockets when he needed them. A tight, long-sleeved black knitted shirt went under a thin white shirt to cover the black one under his white dress shirt.
His dress shoes weren’t the best option, but he could hardly carry in a second pair that would have been more suitable for a combat operation. His near-black hair didn’t need a cover, but he put some dark greasepaint into a plastic zip bag and tucked it in flat in his suit jacket’s inner pocket. There was no way to conceal a weapon, not even a knife.
Fortunately, he’d never felt a weapon was indispensable when it came to hand to hand combat. If he had need of a gun later, he’d obtain one from Mutaib’s guards after disabling him.
He surveyed himself from all directions in the mirror. Nothing bulged. Regretfully, if he got the opportunity for the stealth operation tonight, his pricey suit might have to be left behind.
Before the hour for his appointment approached, he packed his duffle bag and took a back stair down to his vehicle. It might not be necessary, but a quick getaway option dictated that he be ready, and there were items concealed in the duffle bag he didn’t want to lose if he didn’t come back to the hotel tonight.
At the appointed hour, his room phone rang, and the operator gave him the message that his car was waiting. He let it wait just a few minutes longer. He didn’t want to appear too eager. When he thought the right balance of arrogance and good manners had been achieved by the delay, he led Digger out of the room.
A pleasant drive to what Rex might have called a villa, had it been located on the Mediterranean instead of the Persian Gulf, gave him a chance to reassert the persona he’d projected to Mutaib. On the way, he murmured in English to Digger. When the time came to enter the house, he left Digger in the courtyard and gave him the hand signal to wait, then scout. He trusted Digger to figure out the rest, and to be where he was needed if he was needed in a hurry.
Both were wearing some of the comms equipment that had survived the explosion in Afghanistan or replacements for the missing pieces. Digger’s special harness with the night vision camera that could be attached, his earbuds, and the battery pack to run both concealed on his collar and the leads threaded through his thick hair had all survived. The laptop that allowed whoever was handling Digger to
‘see’ what the camera saw had not, but Rex had replaced it. However, he had no plausible reason to bring his laptop to a social engagement, so he’d be ‘blind’ to what Digger was doing.
Digger’s earbuds were Rex’s only communication option. Naturally, he had his own earbuds and a throat mic concealed in his collar, so he could direct the dog. The earbuds would be of little use when he couldn’t see what was making whatever noise he was hearing, but they would allow him to know if the dog ran into trouble of any kind and Digger would respond if Rex needed him.
He might even be smart enough to make a sound, so I’ll know he’s coming.
It was precisely ten p.m. when a robed manservant announced ‘Ruan’s’ arrival. Mutaib, lounging among dozens of pillows of embroidered silk, welcomed him. There were no other guests. Mutaib gestured for Rex to seat himself and clapped his hands to summon a discreetly-waiting woman with a bowl of rose-scented water and a towel. The woman knelt beside Rex and without making eye contact bathed his hands and then dried them. Rex submitted to the ritual as graciously as if he’d been born to it.
After that, a parade of serving girls appeared. Some, Rex surmised from their undeveloped bodies, were as young as twelve or thirteen. Some were perhaps in their twenties. All were only partially clothed, their breasts bare of any cover but their long hair. They seemed unaffected by the gaze of their master and his guest. Rex was at first uncomfortable, and then, when the younger girls appeared, outraged. But his mission required he hide his attitude and act nonchalantly, as if this were his usual lifestyle.
Mutaib kept up a steady stream of commentary on the physical attributes of the girls. Rex assumed he’d sampled all of them, though his religion forbade fornication. It was sickening.
Halfway through the meal, Rex was startled to be handed a Bordeaux goblet. A girl of sixteen or so poured the ruby-colored wine into his glass while another who might have been her twin filled that of his host. Rex kept his mouth shut. If there’d been anything more than the decadent use of the serving girls that demonstrated Mutaib’s contempt for both the law and his religion, this would have been it.
He sipped sparingly from his glass.
Mutaib had already downed one glass and was gesturing impatiently for the girl to refill his glass.
As the night wore on, Mutaib became more and more jocular. He didn’t seem to be in danger of passing out from drunkenness, which made Rex understand he was a serious and experienced drinker. Being neither, though he could hold his liquor when required, Rex took opportunities to empty his glass in the large brass pot incongruously holding a Boston fern inches from his left elbow. He chose times when his move would be unnoticed by his host, particularly while the latter was engaged in conspicuous sexual harassment of his servers.
When not fondling the girls, Mutaib recounted his sexual exploits. The stories were vulgar, but so exaggerated that Rex could listen to them without being affected. Fiction had never interested him.
Around midnight, a girl came in with a glass tray holding two white lumps, a small silver tube, and a gold knife. Mutaib gestured for her to put it down on the table beside his reclining form and then picked up the knife. He expertly chopped the cocaine into a fine powder and then used the silver tube to snort a line of the coke.
He closed his eyes in apparent ecstasy for a moment. When he opened them, he waved the girl toward Rex. Momentarily caught in a dilemma, Rex wasn’t about to snort cocaine, nor could he graciously refuse. With a movement designed to look as if he was about to pick up the knife, he managed to upset the tray and lose the remaining powder and the second rock into the cushions. He made a horrified face and began to apologize, but Mutaib was laughing uncontrollably.
“No matter, my friend. There’s more where that came from. But you must be a novice, no? No more of the good stuff for you.”
He leered at Rex and leaned forward as if in confidence, though his voice was loud enough for the nearest serving girl to hear.
“No more cocaine, I mean. But for my new friend, nothing but the best of my women.”
Rex tensed. Was Mutaib going to expect him to perform right here? Was he going to offer him a child? For a moment Rex considered how he could decline without insulting his host. Maybe he could claim to have a disease he wouldn’t want to pass on. Humiliating, but not as bad as the alternative, which was killing his host prematurely.
However, to Rex’s relief, Mutaib called for a manservant. The man, even though dressed in traditional robes, had an appearance that appalled Rex. Bald, beardless, and overweight, the man was the very picture of soft. Soft hands, soft high voice, soft bare feet. What had been done to him, no doubt as a child, infuriated Rex even more. Once more he had to swallow his affront for the sake of the mission.
“Take him to Zoya,” Mutaib said. His speech was slurred so the name came out as Zhoya, but Rex knew it was probably an Ethiopian name, meaning dawn.
To Rex, Mutaib explained. “Zhoya is not a servant. I have already three legal wives and she’s not suitable for the fourth. It is misyar. She is yours for tonight.”
This speech, Rex took to mean several things Mutaib hadn’t said outright. For one thing, misyar was a type of Sunni marriage contract that was sometimes used for the convenience of not committing fornication in a legal sense. Typically, it was temporary, for as little as one night. Most men who entered misyar marriages were already married. This type of ‘wife’ would be called a mistress in America and most other countries.
However, he had his doubts that Mutaib’s claim of misyar would stand up if it ever came to a court of law. Saudi marriage contracts were, by law and polite fiction, carried out by equal consent on the part of both parties. Maybe the Ethiopian woman he was being led to had entered a contract by choice, but more than likely she hadn’t.
Second, he assumed she had fallen out of favor, either because she hadn’t kept her beauty or was older. Mutaib would never have offered a woman he still considered valuable or had any sort of respect for, even a twisted sort, to another man.
Third, he assumed Mutaib was drunker or higher than he’d thought. He was being led into the sanctity of the prince’s harem. It wasn’t lost on him that entry into the harem in any circumstances other than by the prince’s explicit invitation would have cost him his head.
It all played into his plans except for one thing. Zoya wasn’t the woman he’d come to rescue.
***
THE MANSERVANT – REX didn’t think the term eunuch was in vogue anymore – led him to a room that had evidently been prepared for him. A large bed and a single reclining chair were the only furniture in the room, and the bed was made up in luxurious fabrics, which also draped and mellowed the walls. Low, indirect lighting bathed the room in pink and gold hues. The manservant told him to make himself comfortable and backed out, half-bowing, and closed the door.
Rex remained standing and moved to the side of the room, near the door. What he did next would depend on who came through it next. He was ready for anything from a naked kid to armed guards.
When the door opened, Rex caught only the woman’s profile before she passed him. His impression was of high cheekbones, a straight, well-formed nose and square chin, topped by a mass of black curls. Her form was slight under draped silk, and from her movements, Rex deduced she was still young. How young, he hadn’t had time to notice.
Only a few seconds passed before she turned, and her eyes widened when she saw him. He didn’t know why. Maybe she’d expected Mutaib, or if she’d been told she would be entertaining a guest tonight, maybe she was shocked he was still dressed.
Rex took only a couple of seconds to observe her lithe figure before his eyes flicked back to her face. She was clearly of East African origin, probably Ethiopian as he’d surmised from her name. It was impossible to tell her age. She could have been anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five. Not much older, he thought. She was lovely.
Her skin glowed in the amber light, and as she smiled tentatively, he noticed
big, doe-eyes and full lips. If she’d come to him willingly of her own volition, he would have considered himself a very lucky man. But she hadn’t, despite the smile.
Rex addressed her gently in Arabic. “You are Zoya?”
She cast her eyes downward and stammered her answer in broken Arabic. A sentence or two, which Rex could barely understand. She was asking him if she should undress.
“No. I want to talk to you.”
She looked up again, quickly. Rex thought he saw hurt and confusion in her eyes. This could be more difficult than he’d thought.
“Tell me how you came here,” he urged. More broken Arabic left him confused, so he switched to English and asked again. She shook her head.
Okay, she doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak Ethiopian – what is it, Amharic? Arabic it is then.
Speaking slowly and without raising his voice, he asked and gestured for her to do the same. “Please tell me again where you were born.”
She seemed to understand his Arabic better than she spoke the language. This time, she got it across that she was from Ethiopia, as he’d determined already. She explained that she’d been taken by ‘bad men’ when she was only eight years old, she showed with her fingers. She continued and explained with more gestures, single words and short phrases that she’d been sold to someone who brought her here, and at first, she’d been made to clean the harem and serve Mutaib’s wives. Some of them were kind to her, but they turned against her when she became a woman, as she put it.
Then Mutaib had noticed her and gave her a room of her own and started visiting her at night.
Rex questioned her further. “Why has he sent you to me?”
Tears formed in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “I do not please him anymore. He wants me to do…”
She opened her mouth to say more, but Rex held up his hand in the universal gesture for stop.
“Would you leave, if you could?” he asked.
