Chapter 11: My French connection

I like to think I’m a decent man. I don’t leer at women, not even when I’m absolutely sure they’re not watching. I don’t turn around to check out ‘cabooses’, I don’t call women ‘darling’ unless I know them very well indeed and by and large you can trust me with your daughter. Unless she’s REALLY insistent and/or has grown legs and breast that make Marilyn Monroe look like a coat hanger. But even then I try really, really hard to ignore that.

But being in a country where women were nothing more than black shadows, mostly faceless and entirely formless creatures, didn’t half make me horny ... It may also have been the temperature, or the fact I was separated from my own girls. Still, it was very inconvenient. Likewise, I couldn’t stop thinking of beer, whereas back home I could go for weeks without having any alcohol. But now I found myself thinking of cold glasses of Heineken, straight from a chilled barrel and poured into a frosted glass. And I’d never drink Heineken back home, where I could literally get crates of the stuff delivered to my house.

Internet offered very little solace, because obviously it was censored. The technology used is American, by the way. Incessant flag waving and talking about freedom is one thing, but making a buck drawing up endless lists of websites that various governments may find objectionable is quite another. What, you don’t like people searching for information about abortion, Falung Gong, the Armenian genocide or information on how to set up a labour union? That’s our Gold package! Let me put you through to one of our consultants! You may hear The Star Spangled Banner while you’re being transferred, but just ignore that. Particularly that last line.

In practice this means that whenever you visit a page that is even marginally suspicious, you are redirected to a static page with a stern warning in Arabic and English, stating that you are trying to access content that is deemed to be in contradiction with Saudi and Islamic values. They do mention an appeals process, but somehow I didn’t think that the subreddit GirlsFinishingTheJob could pass for an employment site. Obviously a man with my IT skills could circumvent these restrictions in just a few minutes, but I was actually rather glad of these warnings. I wasn’t here to sleep in and jack off in an empty villa, after all. But what was I doing here, anyway? I still had quite a few files to go through and right now there was only an unsubstantiated suspicion against prince Omar. And he and I weren’t the best of friends at the moment.

I decided to collect my car. I was currently driving around in the white Land Rover, but I figured it could follow me home by itself. I found a text message with a link to Google Maps in my phone’s message history and twelve minutes later I was standing beside K-T. A fan somewhere inside the car activated as soon as I said: ‘Hello.’ Kids from the neighbourhood had spotted me and were curious to learn why a white man had parked his sports car there for a few days. I felt it best not to tell them too much.

“Follow me. White Land Rover,” I muttered, hoping it would hear me.

The door mechanism clicked by way of acknowledgement. A hologram of a Saudi man appeared behind the wheel. He smiled and waved at the nearest kid as K-T calmly drove from the parking spot and waited. I got back into Asim’s car and led the way across town.

Five minutes into the drive, K-T called me.

“Hi, K-T,” I said, as I slowed down for a traffic light. Kate’s voice, even though it was simulated, lit up half my brain as soon as it spoke back.

“Good morning. My current range is 21 miles. I have several messages for you. Shall I drive to a quiet location to play them back to you?”

“Can’t you play them now?”

“Relaying these messages via an unsecured line is not recommended.”

“We’ll be be home in a few minutes. How have you been?”

“I have been charging, but I am below ten percent.”

“We’ll get you juiced up, don’t worry.”

The navigation system in the Land Rover was more than up to the task of getting me home and K-T stuck to me as if she was hitched to the tow bar, so we got there quickly. I left the Land Rover outside but used a remote to open one of the garage doors. Then I gestured the car to go inside. The smiling Saudi raised his thumb to me as K-T silently slid into the building. I closed the door behind her and went inside, where it was nice and cool.

“Okay, let’s see about charging you,” I said, after I had changed out of my suit and into a simple combination of blue jeans and a blue cotton button down shirt.

“I have detected a wall socket, but it is insufficient for day to day charging. It provides 3.6 kilowatt at most. Charging to full will take a minimum of sixteen hours, but more likely around twenty-one.”

“Best I can do for now. Where’s that mains cable?”

I found it where I’d left it: in the false floor of what could technically be described as a trunk, but which was much better suited to transporting individual bonbons. I plugged it in, went to the fuse panel to see if there was any smoke and sat down in the car, which was surprisingly cool. But then it would be, as it used the sun’s heat to charge and maintain the battery.

“Play back messages.”

“Message one: Peter Fox.”

He appeared on screen, in a portrait format. This had clearly been recorded in his office, on his phone.

“Yo, it’s me. Listen, I had the media department keep an eye out for any news about some expired rozzers in the desert. Nothing so far, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Arab crime journalism isn’t exactly exhaustive. Caroline might be of more use, but I don’t want to tell her about this without your say so. Oh, and everything is fine back home. I had a chat with your driver, Ali. So uhm ... Yeah. I don’t want to be more specific, ‘cus I’m not entirely sure where this message will end up. They gave you one hell of a car, as I understand it. Uhm ... Look ... I can come over for a few days, should you need me. Just saying. Cheers.”

“Message ends.”

“Delete message. Comprehensive delete.”

“Message fully deleted. Two more messages remaining.”

“Play back.”

“Message reads: ‘Files have been updated and sent to vehicle.’”

“Which files?”

“Several dossiers regarding the Royal Family. The message was sent by headquarters.”

“Wherever that is ... Any more?”

“One message remaining, audio only. Setting up secured playback.”

The doors locked and a modern song, something with the word ‘featuring’ in the title and with lots of bass, began to play through the speakers in the doors. A tiny speaker embedded in my headrest played back the voice of Miles Bamford, very quietly into my left ear. I had to concentrate to understand him.

“Oi oi! What’s this about leaving my car out in the sticks? Bloody hell man, rent something for her! And charge your bloody watch while you’re at it. Look, I hear you’ve attended some sort of party at the palace. Our ambassador told us you were helping out the wait staff, for some reason. We’ll expect a full report. I suppose you know how to get it to us, but if not just dictate it to K-T. And we have some more intel on ... what’s his face ... The cousin. Of the cousin you’re with right now. K-T has the updated files. But for God’s sake, take care of her, man. She’s no use to you if she’s on standby with an empty battery. Right ... Miles out.”

“Message ends. Would you like to send a reply?”

“Not right now. Dammit, where am I going to find a place for you?”

“I am unable to parse that statement.”

“Never mind. Show me the updated files, please.”

I spent half an hour in the car, reading confidential files from a display on the dashboard. That’s not nearly as comfortable as it sounds, especially for a man who needs reading glasses as it is. I then had to compose a report about last night, which was also very inconvenient because even though the text to speech interface worked damned near flawlessly (remember Dragon Dictate circa 1993? We’ve come a LONG way, my friend), I really had no idea what to report or even what most of the people I’d met were called. It would have been easier to type this, but I hadn’t yet set up my laptop with the required security software. I was supposed to have done that days ago, but for practical purposes I felt my secured phone was good enough for day to day browsing and I hadn’t really had much time to go shopping.

“Right. I’m going to get lunch,” I said, as I got out. “It should be safe to keep you here for a day or so. I’ll see about getting you a lock-up or something.”

“Goodbye, Reginald. I will lock myself.”

“That’s not ... Yeah. Okay. You do that.”

I ironed some stuff from my suitcases, more for something to do than because I needed extra shirts. What the hell was I doing here, anyway? Asim was only a means to an end, a way into the orbit of prince Omar. And what had I done, the first time we met? I had allowed him to insult me, and talked back to him. And the thing is: I really had no idea what I could have done differently. Try to suck up? To what end, to become his golf buddy or something? Drag him off to a quiet corner and threaten to cut off his balls unless he told me everything he knew about terrorism? Good luck doing that in a royal palace crawling with guards. Just stand there and be insulted? Given the things I could have said, that was practically what I did!

Besides, there were other leads. One attacker had been a Saudi. Muhammad Fakhoury, the suicide bomber who had detonated himself in the ticket hall, had come to London almost straight from Riyadh. If not for Rajesh Areef, who risked and lost his life by pulling him into the ticket office and closing the door, that man could have caused many more deaths. He was another lead, although a British butler wasn’t exactly well-placed to investigate him in an Arabic speaking country. Still, MI6 felt it was worth asking me to try and get my hands on Prince Omar’s laptop, or plant bugs in his house. Or houses. So how do you do that, if you’re standing in a kitchen somewhere in Riyadh? Perhaps I should go home, to my family. What was I trying to prove, anyway?

Quitters need to have lunch, too. And so I drove to a mall and filled a small basket with enough delicatessen for at least ten different sandwiches. I was surprised when my phone buzzed, in my shirt pocket. It was a text message.

‘Anglais, you have time today?’

No prizes for guessing who that was. I wrote back.

‘Yes, I do.’

The answer came a minute later. I’d just picked up some extra food, in case she was staying for dinner.

‘You can pick me up around 3:15?’

‘Sure. Where?’

‘Quartier Diplomatique. You have Google maps?’

‘Yes.’

‘I send link around 3:15. No eat!’

If only I could muster that much self control, young lady. If only I could.

I finished my shopping, went back to the house and occupied myself by reading intelligence dossiers on people I had trouble telling apart until it was three p.m. Then I took K-T off the charger, noting she now had a range of 35 miles. That was more than enough. I took her to a carwash near the mall, where she was given the works for twenty dollars (I’m doing the sums for you, because obviously I paid in SAR) by three fellows from what may very well have been Indonesia. They only had one power washer and some flannels, but they worked a minor miracle with them. I tipped a ridiculous amount due to white guilt and received a text message the second I got back into the car. It was from Anaïs.

“Destination?” asked K-T.

“Hang on ... I’m working it out on Google Maps,” I said, fidgeting with my phone. The fourth call to prayer began. Behind me, the car wash staff walked single file to the nearest mosque. Cars began pulling into the parking lot.

“You can read the coordinates to me,” said K-T.

“Not without my glasses I can’t. They’re back home. And this bloody racket doesn’t help, either.”

“Can you forward the message?”

“Good idea. Lemme just ... I haven’t done that before ... There you go.”

“Coordinates received. ETA three minutes. Full auto engaged. Thank you for having me cleaned, by the way.”

The car pulled out of the mall parking lot and seamlessly merged into traffic, while I typed a message to Anaïs telling her I was on my way. I was brief to the point of rudeness because I couldn’t see they keyboard so well without my reading glasses, but I figured a Frenchman wouldn’t notice.

“You’re welcome, Ka ... WAIT A MINUTE! Are we having a chat?!”

“So it would seem.”

“Could you not do that? You’re a very nice car, in that you’re useless, far too small and much too conspicuous for a secret agent, but I’m not nearly lonely enough to start talking to inanimate objects.”

“Understood. Just one thing: it would help if you could keep your watch charged.”

“I know, it’s empty. Couldn’t find the USB plug.”

“It doesn’t have one. The watch charges when it is on your wrist and you have your hands on my steering wheel. Fifteen minutes recharges it to seventy percent.”

“Oh. Very convenient ... Another gadget that is a pain to charge. Well, it’s back home now.”

“Please wear it, so I can contact you discreetly.”

“I will.”

“I appreciate that. I’m here to help you. I’m sorry my range was insufficient for the first trip we took.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I wouldn’t have ... HEY! You’re doing it AGAIN!”

“Yes. I find that your heart rate goes down by around twenty percent whenever we talk. Your respiratory rate also decreases, and your pupils dilate. These are indications that our communication is beneficial, in spite of your aggressive and dismissive statements.”

“That’s because my lizard brain think’s you’re my SISTER!”

“I am processing that statement. Please hold.”

Then, ten seconds later, she had worked it out and replied as if there hadn’t been any pause.

“Is that a bad thing? Evidently you refer to your sister as ‘sweetheart’.”

“Yes. But she doesn’t do naught to sixty in four seconds.”

“Three seconds.”

“Just shut up and drive.”

“Is this the right place?”

We were in the diplomatic district, which is one of the nicer areas of Riyadh. One of the good things you can say about the Middle East is that they appreciate the value of footpaths. Just like the Dutch have an amazing bike lane network, Middle Eastern countries take their sidewalks seriously. More so than in countries where pedestrians are looked upon with suspicion and have to make do with slabs of concrete, or the few crumbling inches of asphalt between the white line and the grass. But in this area they were extra special super nice, with lots of trees, benches and even the odd cupola to offer shelter from the sun. I think they had some sort of scenic walking trail going on here. Might be nice to do on a cool evening.

“This is the location indicated.”

I saw nothing but walls. Endless brown walls, with lights at regular intervals. No gates, no doors, no side streets. I texted Anaïs again.

‘I’m here, but I must be in the wrong place.’

‘You stay,’ came the answer. Then I saw two hands waving at me from behind a wall! A sturdy plastic bag sailed through the air and landed on the pavement. A few seconds later a head covered in a black hijab appeared, followed by the rest of her as she scaled the wall. I got out of the car at once, because that wall was at least 2,5 metres high! I guess we were at the back of the royal palace.

“Need help?” I said, preemptively cupping my hands to support her sneakers.

“I jump! Get in!” she said, as she straddled the wall and started to swing her other leg over it. And then she did jump, almost effortlessly. Apart from the headscarf she was wearing grey baggy gym pants, sneakers and a teal T-shirt with some glitter.

“Zees your car?” she asked, as she picked up her bag.

“Yes.”

I wanted to open the door for her, but she dismissed me as if she’d just come from a bank heist.

“Allez! Vite!”

“Well, that was something,” I said, once she was in the car and we were a few hundred meters away from the pickup point. “How are you going to get back inside?”

“By standing on your shoulduhr, Anglais. On the other side, there is a ... conteneur?”

“Container. Or a dustbin, probably. Any particular reason you didn’t just use the main gate?”

“Yes. I’m notteh allowud outside. I am not married, so I have no beesnees leaving ze palace. But I am not needed for uh while and the parque is large, so I escape.”

“Right. Well ... Lovely to see you. What are your plans?”

“What are yours?”

“I’ve got nothing going on right now.”

“Maybe we can make deal? You drive me to the shops, I cook for you?”

“Cook for me? It’s your day off! We could just go out to eat.”

She gave a wry laugh.

“Non. C’est l’Arabie Saoudite. We can’t have dinner. We are not family. We can’t just sit in a restaurant when we are not married. The Mutawa, they will come and beat us.”

“Who?!”

“Mutawa. La police religieuse. They check.”

“You’re kidding.”

A policeman beating ME? That will be the day. I did a reverse Rodney King on the last two who had tried and I’ll do it again if I have to.

“Non. And I love to cook. Zis car, it is very nice. Your patron?”

“No, it’s mine, actually.”

“Vraiment?”

“Yes. Bought it in Doha before I came here. It’s tax-free.”

“C’est merveilleux!”

I was worried K-T would insert herself into the conversation, but she ... IT ... didn’t say a word and let me do the driving. The display showed perfectly ordinary information: speed, engine temperature, a GPS-map. And there were engine sounds all of a sudden! The calm rumble of a petrol engine that has warmed up nicely but isn’t even a tiny bit stretched came from somewhere under the dashboard. I was tempted to give it some welly, but that would make Anaïs think I was trying to impress her.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked, as we left the diplomatic district.

“I need to change clothes. Can I do at your place?”

“Sure. Prepare to be underwhelmed.”

“Ah! Palais,” said Anaïs, as the gate opened and we drove up to the house. She pointed at a small silver icon stuck to one of the pillars of the gate.

“Hardly. This is it.”

“Non, c’est un palais. Only houses where members of the Royal Family live have dees. So the police knows not to come in sans permission. Technically, zis is a palace.”

The garage door opened automatically, even though I hadn’t pushed any buttons. By now K-T had learned to emulate the signal, although I didn’t realise it at the time. I wasn’t paying too much attention, because I had a very cute French girl in tow, who had casually escaped from a royal palace. She seemed not at all impressed by Asim’s collection of sports cars, but she did step outside to feel the temperature of the pool.

“Very nice!”

“It’s the middle of the day. You’ll get terrible sunburn.”

“I have no time for to swim, Anglais. Can I see your kitchen?”

“Terrible,” she said, for the sixth time.

“Yes, I know. I only just got here.”

“These knives ... terrible. The steel ... Ecoute.”

Apparently there’s a way to slap a steel knife that tells you something about the quality. She shook her head non-stop for about three minutes, inspecting everything from the microwave oven to the utensil drawer.

“What would you like to eat?” she finally asked, leaning against the marble worktop. “Maybe a rosbiff? With a ... mint sauce?”

Her face contorted as she spoke the words.

“Yuck,” I said, amused by the way she was treating me as if I were really British.

“Bangers? And ze mash? With ze fried egg and ze HP sauce?”

“No, thanks.”

“Feeshandsheeps?”

“It’s thirty-nine degrees outside! Who the hell wants fish and chips? How about I make us both a nice salad Niçoise and then I can do a lovely gnocchi and broccoli dish with a light lemon and mustard cream sauce, and pine nuts. I’ve got everything I need for that. Sound good?”

Clearly not. Her eyes went wide. She pointed at my chest.

“You. An ENGLISHMAN. You want to cook. FOR ME. I don’t zink seau.”

“I can do something else if you like?”

“Non. You can drive. I cook for you.”

“I’d rather you made dessert, to be honest.”

“I make everything, Anglais. But first, we shop. I change my clothes.”

“Go upstairs, use any room you like that’s open.”

She was away for ten minutes, which seemed a bit odd considering she only had a plastic bag with her. I took the time to find my watch, which I then put on K-T’s steering wheel to charge. When I was done, Anaïs called me upstairs. I found her dressed in a shapeless black abaya, although she hadn’t yet covered her hair. She now wore slippers and had put on some make-up.

“Yes?”

“In here,” she said, stepping into one of the rooms. There she opened a closet.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be snooping around!”

“Look. Clothes, for you.”

“I am wearing clothes. Get out of there.”

“Non, Arabic clothes! Regarde ici.”

I had a look. Six or seven white thobes hung on a rod, with leather slippers on the floor underneath and a neat stack of red and white guthras on a shelf, with a few black igals dangling from a rack I would use to hang my ties off.

“So?”

“Wear this. You will look like a Saudi. We can walk together and they will think we are marié. Otherwise, you have to wait in the car. I can go alone, but I can’t wear this and talk to a white man in a suit.”

“I see. Look, I’ve never worn this before. I’m not even sure what they wear underneath.”

“Zis. White shirt, white cotton pants,” she said, pointing out two stacks I thought were towels. “You wear boxeurs?”

“Boxer shorts? Yes.”

“Good. I see you downstairs.”

I like playing dress-up as much as the next man, which is to say not a whole lot. I will put a tea cosy on my head if left alone in a room with one, obviously, but other than that I don’t really enjoy it. Sadly, it sort of comes with the territory of being an actor, although so far I had mostly been dressed in either a tuxedo with tails or a German military uniform while at work. Now I was dressing myself as a Saudi male, which took a lot more work than I thought. Especially the headwear. There’s a knack to it, unless you want to look like you just got out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen rather than your wardrobe. But the beard went very well with this ensemble and the slippers I found were nearly new and my size. The rest of it fit rather well, even though I’m not quite the same build as Asim. Maybe this was the wardrobe before he went on a diet, and he was keeping it in case he had a relapse? Anyway, it looked reasonably convincing from my chin to my toes. I could smell Asim’s signature cologne on the tassles that dangled from the thobe, but thankfully I smelled nothing but leather when I put on the slippers.

“I need some help with the towel,” I said, as I came downstairs. “I look like a dilophosaurus.”

“QUOI?! I don’t know either. Maybe YouTube?” said Anaïs. That was a great idea. I watched a few clips and learned one way to do it. There are, in fact, many ways to style the guthra. One is called the ‘cobra’. Think about that for a second and you can probably imagine how it looks. The ‘modest’ wrap also covers your shoulders, the ‘teacher’ keeps the flaps entirely behind you, the ‘VIP’ is used by government ministers and at formal events such as weddings and involves a bit of creative folding, and the ‘Abu Rashed’ requires you to balance one of the tips over your head. There’s more, but you get the idea. Abu Rashed was a famous lawyer, who defended some idiot who ran over three people at a street race, in case you’re wondering. ‘If the guthra don’t fit, you must acquit!’ That’s one of his. True story.

I went for the ‘teacher’, which seemed the easiest one. The cloth was folded into a triangle and then it took a bit of arranging, but the black igal helped. We also learned that a white cap helps to keep it all from sliding off, particularly for the balder gentleman such as myself. We found a stack of them upstairs. The entire arrangement is called a Shemagh, by the way. I think. Probably from the Jiddish word ‘shemazzle’, as in ‘the whole shemazzle is balanced on your head’.

“Is this okay?” I asked, for about the tenth time. Anaïs was now dressed in black from head to toe, including a veil that covered most of her face. Only her eyes were visible, so the make-up she had applied really paid off. It was weird to see this shapeless Arab figure and know there was a very expressive Parisian woman underneath.

“Yes. But not your nose. You have a Western nose. You should wear glasses.”

“I have glasses, they’re in my suit. I’ll go get them. You know, next time we’ll do tarts and vicars. It’s a hell of a lot easier for me.”

“Quoi?! Tarte?”

“Not tarte. Tarts. And vicars. Oh never mind. You get in the car, I’ll be be right out. Just getting my glasses.”

“Which car?”

“Any car you like. No, wait ... White Land Rover. You said you were going shopping, right? I’ve only been to the mall three times today, I’m sure I can go a fourth time. It will be a personal record.”

Life in Saudi revolves around the mall. As I understand from Kelly, it also does for American teenagers. Well, this is probably worse: it is almost literally the only thing to do. Walks in the park are only tolerable after sunset and the museums frankly aren’t all that interesting.

You can find some sports facilities and pools, but they’re all segregated. Malls are air-conditioned and have silly things to do or see, such as ice skating (but not for women), gondola rides (no mixed couples) and aquariums (no women admitted without a male family member). Women can wander around in relative freedom, as the men that accompany them wait outside on benches. That is a very familiar thing to me, as I live with three women. And I don’t mind, really.

We went to the Gallery Mall, which has three levels. Hardly any of the shops cater to men and it will be a cold day in hell before I get anything from the likes of Banana Republic or American Eagle, but they do have a Debenhams and an M&S, which I like. The main feature of the Gallery Mall is a laguna with stuffed animals and some fountains. It’s extremely garish, but that’s what they like over there. On the third floor there’s a food court, with a kids’ amusement park that has over a dozen rides, from merry-go-rounds and bumper cars to an actual coaster. Pakistani and Filipino children were enjoying all the functioning rides, with the odd Saudi boy dressed like an adult standing out like a sore thumb. Saudi girls weren’t allowed, I think.

The children reminded me of Edwin, so I suggested that I park myself at the food court and just watched the kids (this sounds INCREDIBLY creepy now that I’m writing it down, but watching kids you are not responsible for is very relaxing if you’re a parent) as Anaïs did her shopping.

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Let’s meet back here in, say, an hour?”

“Okay. Or you can come find me when you are bored.”

“No, I can’t. You look exactly like any other woman here. Perhaps if you took off the veil? I think it’s okay.”

“Non. Maybe someone from the palace is here. They think I am somewhere inside, or in my room.”

“Well, in that case you’d better remember what I look like.”

“Or I call you,” she said. Which of course was the easiest solution. I’m a child of the seventies, really. I didn’t grow up with smartphones, so if I went anywhere new with my parents I had better learn the floor plan and memorise what they were wearing for the day, or it would be a long walk home for me.

“Very well. Remember that everything you buy, you have to drag over that wall. Have fun.”

“Bye, Anglais.”

I realised my mistake almost instantly, when I ordered coffee from one of the booths and people were highly surprised, if not actually offended, when someone who looked like a Saudi spoke to them in the Queen’s English. Heads turned, but my own head was obscured by glasses, facial hair and quite a bit of cloth so at least nobody saw me blushing. The staff was bilingual, as Riyadh is teeming with ‘whitenoses’ in much the same way British towns have sizeable Polish populations nowadays. But as the Poles haven’t come over for jobs with five figure salaries, theirs is scorn and disdain whereas the engineers and managers with white skin are seen more as expensive pets.

“Just give me some fucking coffee,” I muttered to a flabbergasted Pakistani, who hadn’t managed to decode my English yet as his ears were expecting Arabic.

“You want ... milk?” he finally asked, which I saw as a prelude to a never-ending barrage of questions about double shots, heads of foam, soy or cream, syrups and all the other ungodly nonsense the Americans have perpetrated on what was once a perfectly simple drinks order the world over. But noooo, the Yanks had to turn it into a fucking dessert, didn’t they?

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Carstairs of Arabia

Ron Dudderie

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