Chapter 15: In Which our Hero Comes out of the Closet

Right. How to get to deck four, and more specifically into Omar’s private quarters? Doors wouldn’t be a problem: only the guest rooms had those card readers. Deck four was for family only. No, my problem was with the guards. One had already denied me access once. But there was that lift near the pantry, so that’s where I was now headed. I passed the Sayada lounge, where two guards eyed me as if I was going to take out my dick then and there and burst into the room, turned a corner and found a standard door marked ‘pantry’. It wasn’t locked, so I generated some random bullshit to dazzle whoever was on the other side, and walked in as if I’d worked there all my life.

“OH MY GOODNESS! These people! I need a break, I really do. Oh, hello...”

“ANGLAIS! Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?!”

“Anaïs?!”

She took a tea towel and began to slap me with it. In the face, I might add! Given that we were in a well-equipped kitchen where four people could easily work without getting in each other’s way, I counted myself lucky. It could have been a knife.

“Enfoiré! Vous m’ignorez (SLAP) tout le temps (SLAP) et maintenant vous (SLAP) vous présentez ici! (SLAP)”

“STOP DOING THAT!” I said, as I was backed into a corner.

“Connard! What you are here for, Anglais? More cake? HUH?”

It was rather hot in here, as two ovens were currently in use. She seemed to be preparing fresh batches of savoury snacks, but I also saw a tray of tiny petit fours resting in a cooling rack. She wore a chef’s outfit, including a white cap. On a hook behind the door I saw a full-size black abaya, which she presumably needed whenever she wanted to leave this room.

“No, I’m not ... I’m...” I said, having been caught off-guard. Why was this tiny French girl so angry with me?

She was giving me both barrels in a mixture of machine-gun French and mangled English, with a few choice Arabic phrases mixed in. I wasn’t getting slapped any more, but she still had me backed against a large, aluminium refrigerator door. She was literally stomping her feet in anger, but because I was and therefore seemed genuinely nonplussed, it eventually wore off.

“So why are you here, Anglais?” she demanded, stepping back to give me some space.

“Look, I ... Is there anybody else here?”

“Non. Only serving girls, when I call them to collect more food. Why are you dressed like Mr. Roarke?”

“Who?!”

“From Fantasy Island! You know, ‘ze plane, ze plane’.”

“That’s Tattoo.”

“I mean his boss. WHY ARE WE TALKING ABOUT ZIS? Why are you here?! Réponds-moi!”

What was my next move here? Feed her another lie? As far as she knew, I was a failed actor trying to make some money by working for a Saudi prince. Which is almost entirely true, even if I am not yet officially a failed actor. But why would I be skulking around on a ship, hoping for access to a deck I wasn’t supposed to be? I figured I’d go for broke here, so I pulled a wistful face and said:

“I am in so much trouble, Anaïs...”

Her voice dripped with sarcasm:

“Vraiment?” she said, folding her arms in front of her.

“I’ve been looking around in prince Omar’s private quarters when I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Pourquoi?”

“Because ... Well, he’s a bit of a bastard, isn’t he? Whenever he meets with my prince ... I mean, with Asim, he treats me like shit.”

“Hm-mm. So you were going to steal from him? I don’t believe.”

“No! Stealing? No, Goodness no! I get ten K a month, why would I steal? No, it’s...”

“PARDON? COMBIEN?! DIX MILLE?!”

Oh Christ, I shouldn’t have said that. Obviously she got much less than me.

“Yes! Ten ... thousand ... Saudi riyal ... per month.”

Thankfully that worked out to about 2700 dollars, give or take. Which is a lot, but not expat money. Her indignant expression melted.

“I zawt you meant dollaaruh. Ten thousand riyal, zat is not seau much...”

Now it was my turn to act indignant.

“Well, it is for me, thanks! Do you know what panto pays per show? Especially in the middle of June? Not much, love! Normally I’m lucky to take home a hundred quid a week for being an extra! And it’s tax free, with free room and board, let’s not forget! It’s a lot of money to some!”

“Yes, but still ... I get twenty-two thousand per month. But of course, I have a job that requires training. Zat makes all ze difference. Anyway, why are you wanting to be going to his room?”

“Just to ... mess with him. Find something, make his life hard. Find his porn stash, or his booze. Or his cigars. They can’t smoke, can they?”

Although cigarettes have killed more Muslims than ... well, than other Muslims to name one prevalent cause of death, smoking is technically haram. As it says in Surah Al-Baqarah Ch:2 V:195: ‘Don’t make your own hands the cause of your own destruction.’ But smoking is common in the Arabic world, as anyone who has visited countries such as Indonesia, Turkey or Egypt can tell you. There, smoking is considered ‘makrooh’, which is muslim-talk for: ‘This particular vice is probably okay because I’d like it to be.’ In Saudi it is actually considered haram, but they’d have to lock up two-thirds of the population. When I was there, the country was just transitioning into a ban on smoking in public places. Up until 2014 these people would smoke in a maternity ward given half a chance. Well, men at any rate. You can make your property abstain from pretty much anything, can’t you? Less than one percent of Saudi women are active smokers. It’s like those vegans who insist their dogs are happy eating nothing but bean curd.

“I don’t think finding his cigarettes will bring him much trouble, Anglais,” shrugged Anaïs. “And I know for a fact he doesn’t smoke or drink. Pornography, I don’t know. Probably on his ordinateur. But you are not the Neo from the Matrix, are you?”

“I didn’t find anything, anyway,” I said, trying to look despondent.

“Then why you want to go back?”

“Because I think that’s where I lost my phone.”

You know what would be funny? If my phone rang right there and then. But it didn’t, because I’m not an idiot and I did pay SOME attention in spy class, thank you so much. It did get me some much needed empathy from her, though.

“Non! Idiot! Are you sure?!”

“Well, not entirely. But pretty sure, yeah. I had to hide under a bed when a maid showed up and that’s where I had it last, to set it to silent. But now I tried going back to look for it and there are all these guards at the stairways.”

“Okay, so now what? You are in so much trouble, Anglais! But I cannot help you. I can’t go anywhere on zis ship without a guardian. Zey brought me here zis morning. I have to call even to use ze toilet.”

“Well, I came here to see if I could use the lift.”

“Ze lift?”

“Yes. There’s supposed to be one. Goes straight to deck four.”

“Ze lift...”

“Have you seen it? Could it be in the Sayada lounge? Can I get there from here?”

“Non, eet ees right here, Anglais. Behind you.”

Fuck. Fuckerdyfuckerdyfuck. Double fuck with whipped cream and a massive ‘Fuck This’ cherry, new at FuckDonalds for only ninety nine fucks, limited time only. Obviously it wasn’t a full-size lift: it was a dumbwaiter! I thought the panel she pointed out was concealing a blast chiller or something, but behind it was a box of about 20 inches wide, 16 deep and at most 30 inches high. My dismembered torso wouldn’t even fit in there, much less with all my favourite appendages (and that’s all of them) still attached.

“Oh CHRIST! I’m never gonna...”

For a quarter of a second I considered if my diminutive French friend would fit, but that wouldn’t have helped me and besides, she immediately held up her hands.

“NON! Don’t even zink about it, Anglais! A child couldn’t even fit in zere. NON!”

“No, of course not. You’re right. Shit! How am I going to do this?”

She leaned against a worktop, looked around as if she was observing the room for the first time and said:

“Window.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Yes. This one opens. I think above us there is a ... walkway?”

“Yes. Like on deck two, below us. It’s not wide. But I can’t climb up there!”

“Have a look,” she said, opening a metal latch that held an oblong porthole in place. It had a hinge on one side and opened almost effortlessly. I looked out and up. The walkway on deck four had a solid metal balustrade, which meant the handrail I’d have to climb over was at least two metres above the bottom of this porthole, and I’m only about five foot seven. I’d have to extend my arms and hoist myself up on a deck drain, all while at midsea on a ship that was circled by a dinghy with armed men and trailed by a coast guard ship. In a white suit, no less.

“I couldn’t. Really, there’s no way.”

“Sure you can!” said Anaïs, who had stuck her head out of the window when I had retracted mine. “Stand here, on ze edge, pull yourself up and you are zere!”

Young people can be so annoying, can’t they? With their fully functional, taut, pain free bodies that haven’t yet been ravaged by rooftop fights and a lifetime of office work. Climb out of this porthole, hoist up ninety-something kilos and get my leg over the edge of a metal balustrade? What am I, Spiderman’s accountant’s paraplegic five year old son? I don’t bloody think so!

A black phone, mounted on the wall and equipped with a curled cord at least two metres long, warbled.

“Un instant,” muttered Anaïs, and answered. “Ah-oui? Hm-hm. Okay. Yes. Two minutes. No, TWO.”

She hung up and turned to me after closing the porthole.

“Zey will be here for ze next batch. Look like you work here. Vitez!”

I hung up my jacket. My phone was actually in my inside pocket, but I didn’t have a chance to remove it because she was watching me. The pen was clipped to the inside of my shirt pocket, but everyone carries a pen, right? I quickly put on an apron she took out of a drawer.

“Won’t it be a problem that I’m a man?” I asked, as I did the knot behind my back. Anaïs was busy arranging a tray of small vol-au-vents.

“Ze Indonesians, zey don’t care.”

“Indonesians?”

“Whatever zey are. Here, cut zis. Very thin. No peel.”

She tossed me a cucumber. I looked around for a paring knife and spotted a big wooden block with horizontal metal strips. Those were magnetic and held a large selection of knives. If you take cooking seriously, you’ll need at least five different types. Do it for a living, and you will have trouble making do with less than ten: paring knives have six different varieties for a start and then there are chef’s knives, boning knives, knives for slicing, cleaving and the beloved Santoku knife, which can do it all. It differs from a Chef’s knife in that it has a straight blade, so you can’t rock it backwards and forwards. I reached for it and found myself holding the entire wooden block with six different knives still attached.

“Bloody hell.”

“Yes, ze magnets are a bit too stronk-uh,” laughed Anaïs. “Just twist, Anglais.”

That helped. I kept my back to the kitchen and I don’t think I was even noticed by the two Pilipino waitresses who came in to get the next batch of food. (It’s not Filipino, I’m told: their language doesn’t really have an F, which is one of the reasons they all sound like they have a hare lip. Remind me to forget this later, because who cares?)

“Allez, climb up,” said Anaïs, as soon as the girls were gone. “Keep ze apron on. It will keep your cleauthes clean.”

“No! I can’t! It’s too high.”

The look she gave me encompassed everything that the French feel is wrong with the English, with a backlog of at least five hundred years.

“Well, I cannot push you up! You want get arrested, perhaps?”

“More so than falling into the sea, certainly! Bu ... hang on ... This block: can I use that?”

“For what?”

I took off all the knives and motioned for Anaïs to open the porthole again. Then I leaned out and attached the block to the outside of the hull. The ‘klunk!’ that rang through the kitchen was proof enough that this thing was as committed to this ship as a US police officer to finding a suspicious black person in need of some internal ventilation. Anaïs understood what I was aiming for.

“Hope you can get it off again!” she said.

“These knives yours?”

“Non.”

“Good.”

I reached for the longest one and used it to crowbar the block off the hull. Just when I was done, the grey dinghy with the soldiers came into view, on one of its endless laps around the ship. A fixed lamp on the bow illuminated the sea ahead of them, but they didn’t shine one at the ship. The crew had lost their focus after at least three hours of this and they were mainly looking for external threats or hoping not to get sea sick, so I just ducked back inside and left the block where it was. It was light brown and the exterior of the ship was cream, so it didn’t stick out much.

It took them just under two minutes to overtake us and disappear around the back. The Coast Guard ship was ahead of us, and I doubted anyone there was looking behind them. Still, it reminded me that I’d have to be fairly quick. I wrenched off the block, ruining a very nice knife in the process, and gave it to Anaïs, who held it as I stood on a metal trash can, stuck my head and upper body out of the porthole and then gingerly turned around. I now sat balanced on the inside of the porthole, which wasn’t very comfortable. The wraparound apron protected most of my behind from any stains. Anaïs gave me the block, which I attached to the hull about halfway between the porthole and the deck above me. It didn’t look out of place. You’d easily mistake it for a light or a ventilation panel cover or something like that, as long as it was aligned horizontally.

“No time like the present,” I said, more to myself than to Anaïs, and clumsily raised my left leg to get a foothold on the rim of the porthole, which was already occupied by my behind. Still, I managed to raise myself up without too much undignified grunting and groaning (or God forbid: a fart) and at that point the wooden block, which seemed almost glued to the hull, came in real handy. It can’t have been a dignified sight, but I soon had my left hand around a mostly decorative cleat installed in the drainage hole for the deck and managed to hoist myself up. Just when I had slung my leg over the balustrade, the patrol dinghy appeared from around the stern. I leaned over the balustrade and when one of them eventually looked up, I gave them a disinterested nod. They politely waved back and resumed their chat.

I won’t pretend I had just scaled Everest. The sea was very calm, with winds no more than force two or three. It had been a warm day, but the sun was down and out at sea it’s easy to catch a breeze. If anything, I was a bit chilly.

I had also been a bit clumsier than necessary because I didn’t want to get any grime on my clothes. After all, I was dressed entirely in white and the apron only covered so much. But even so: I had been at least twenty metres above the water and even though I know how to swim, I do not know how to dive. I do in theory, but in practice I would have hit the water like a sack of potatoes. Below me, the porthole closed, which was understandable. The air conditioning in the kitchen was sorely needed and open portholes are suspicious. I’m sure Anaïs would keep an eye out for me, in case I had to get back there via the same route.

I took off the apron, folded it up and stuck it in a cabinet that held two life preservers. I now wore a short sleeve white shirt with epaulets, that is to say the straps over which an epaulet would slide. This was a deliberate choice: together with my white pants it made me look like someone in a merchant navy uniform, albeit without insignia at the moment. That’s not unusual: they generally don’t get epaulets for all their shirts and jackets, so more often than not crew will walk around without them, especially when they are out of sight of passengers

The actual bridge of the ship was one deck above me, on what was technically deck five even though it spanned only the bridge, plus a seating area for whoever was deemed most important on board. Now if I ever commission a luxury yacht I’m going to forego the view and have my suite installed at water level, because the higher up you go, the more you feel the ship swaying and rolling. Let the grunts get queazy, I say.

The walkway here was very narrow, just enough for service staff to clean the windows. I made sure to remember where I had climbed up and walked past the darkened windows, headed to a sliding door. It opened without any problems. I stepped into a hallway that ran directly to the aft side of the ship. Some twenty metres to my left was a vestibule that led to the lift and the staircase. The guard who stopped me was at the foot of that staircase, unless he had been replaced by now, but as the stairs twisted around halfway I could not be seen. Now to find Omar’s room, 402. The cabins here had no numbers, but from the lay-out of the deck it was pretty clear what the biggest space was. Also, its door would be nearest the lift. The other clue was the gold royal seal on the door, which was basically the sword that’s on their flag, with some visual elements that I suspect are a part of Wingdings. A palm tree and an open book, presumably the Qu’ran. I took my white cotton butler-gloves out of my back pocket, which is where I usually keep a pair. They’re the same ones museum staff use to handle works of art, and Melody can get me a box of fifty pairs for seventeen quid. They last only a few hours before they tear or stain, but at those prices who cares? The door handle, gold plated, obviously, opened smoothly. I braced myself to find the Professor there, but it was empty. I guess the meeting was running long.

Look, do you really want me to describe Omar’s suite? Opulent. Gold and white. Tasteless, yet furnished with very expensive European art. A gold statue of an falcon, just about the only object strict Muslims can have statues of: some birds and dogs have a special status in Arab culture, like the falcon and the Saluki, a dog breed used in the hunt. Dogs are unclean, but apparently the mouth of a Saluki is an exception. That and goats’ arses, as we all know. Pa-dum.

His bed looked like a nightmare to make. I had hoped to find his laptop, but all I found was a white Apple iPad charger and a rather sturdy wall safe right next to the desk. I did some of the checks I was taught in Spy School, just to make sure I wasn’t being filmed. I didn’t have the equipment on me for some of those test, but I decided I wasn’t, because who has cameras in their private bedroom, anyway? Well, some perverts do, presumably, but not with a permanent feed that security staff can access. My own house has a security system and cameras, but none of them are anywhere near the bedrooms.

As a public service, I’ll tell you what to look for, as I’m happy to share that information. Hidden cameras have their uses to catch stealing employees and cheating spouses, but generally speaking they are employed by those who are up to no good. So let’s start with a list of hiding places: smoke detectors, books, air vents, wall sockets, tissue boxes, stuffed toys or anything with fake eyes, CD or DVD cases, hairdryer holders, alarm clocks and digital TV boxes that don’t actually provide TV signals. House plants are a particularly good hiding spot and you’ll also want to be suspicious of any chargers plugged into a socket.

Start by turning off the lights and drawing curtains, as many of these devices will have a red or green light. Well, the cheap ones at any rate. Bigger cameras might switch to IR mode and activate an infrared LED as a spotlight. Humans can’t see infrared, but you can kinda see the glow of the LED. Your phone camera can probably see it, so look through that at anything suspicious. (Test it by filming the top of your TV remote.) Also, listen carefully: this cheap stuff tends to buzz or hiss, especially after running for a while.

Don’t waste your money on any kind of phone app claiming it can find cameras or microphones. Those wouldn’t be able to find the fucking Hubble space telescope if it crash-landed in the middle of Times Square. You can buy surprisingly cheap and effective RF detectors, like the CC308+, but the build quality is roughly that of a sand castle. Those things can basically only locate stray radio signals created by electronic devices and they’re useless against hardwired equipment. Nice to have, but not exactly inconspicuous. Good, enjoy your next AirBNB stay. Back to our scheduled programming.

Obviously I was nervous. This was a bit beyond the point where going: ‘Gosh, I must have taken a wrong turn, could you direct silly old me to the vestibule?’ was going to cut it. But what was I going to do? Crouch? Skulk? Hide in a closet? No, if you’re going to be somewhere you’re not supposed to, you should at least act like it’s perfectly fine. When Banksy goes out to paint one of his wonderful murals, he doesn’t dress in black and wait until nightfall: he rents some of those traffic barriers, puts on a fluorescent vest, parks a van on the sidewalk and gets started. Nobody ever bats an eyelid until he’s done. There’s a saying in Dutch: brazen people own half the world. (‘And that is a truth like a cow’, that’s another one.) And so I had a good look round, although I did decide I’d slip behind the thick, black curtains if I heard a noise.

On closer inspection the prince really did have a nice art collection. Some antique vases, all of which were carefully secured so a storm wouldn’t cause them to topple over. A display case with Arabic silverware, including a coffee can and a filigree brooch. One or two paintings that rang a bell, although I couldn’t make out why ... Melody would know, I was sure of that. Maybe I should take a picture. Oh wait, I was undercover. I wasn’t supposed to be in contact with the home front. Besides, my phone was with Anaïs. I swear I recognized one of them. It was a Cubist oil painting, depicting a man wearing a chequered jacket and smoking a pipe. M. C. Escher meets Dali sort of thing. Not to my taste, but clearly not an insignificant piece. And then there was another Cubist one, although this was quite colourful. It seemed to depict a side table with a cup of coffee, a spork and a candlestick. To the right was a window with a big black frame, and a red curtain. Not sensational by any means, but the sort of print that would do well in the IKEA frames and wall furnishings department. I saw something rather similar in Paris, once. With Monique, who is mad for Cubism. Was mad, I should say. For cubism and in general. Maybe this was a reproduction?

The suite was very spacious, but not ludicrously so. This was only a ship, after all. Space is always at a premium. I’d say the main bedroom, which also had a writing desk and a small pantry, was the size of a ... let’s see ... a small teashop? Is that a reasonable international standard? Maybe I’ve been living in the UK for too long. Two doors led to separate bathrooms, one with a wide ‘vanity unit’ as our American friends might call it, and a bathtub. The other, smaller bathroom had a walk-in shower. Both had toilets behind another door, which I think is very civilised and something I will definitely want if I ever get to design my own house. From the largest bathroom another door led to a large walk-in closet, which barely had any clothes in it. Just some dishdashas and half a rack of expensive summer wear: moccasins, cotton jackets, some polo neck shirts in bright colours. Omar clearly wasn’t planning to stay for long. There was also a rack with formal wear, including a white jacket almost identical to the one I had been wearing. This rack seemed to be part of the permanent collection, so to speak. I put it on and found that Omar was about my size, though I would have the sleeves shortened and I’d be able to split the back seam just by doing a front lateral spread. (Which is a body building pose I had to research just to explain this to you and now Google thinks I’m gay, so thanks a lot.)

The closet turned a corner, which led to another door. When I opened it, I found myself standing on the other side of the large double bed, which had clearly been slept in.

From the hallway came a chime I hadn’t heard before, but that could only be from the lift. With any luck that would be the professor. I decided this was as good a hiding spot as any, particularly since I hadn’t even noticed this door at first. I left it ajar, making sure the lights in the closet were off. A few seconds later the door to the hallway opened and someone came in, mumbling to themselves in Arabic. Was this it? I checked my pen for the twelve hundredth time that day and peered through the slit. From a distance, obviously. That’s one of those things you learn at spy school: stand back. Did you know that snipers tend not to have their guns sticking out of the window, or even resting on the ledge? They only do that in movies. In reality they like to hide as far back in the room as possible, so that they’re much harder to spot.

Bingo! Jackpot! Ding ding ding ding! That was Professor Rasul, and he was alone! He placed a notepad on the desk and rummaged around in the folds of his dishdasha, from which he produced a phone. He seemed to be messing around with an app, which suddenly played a part of a conversation. I heard Oleg’s unmistakable voice, even though it was somewhat muffled. After a few seconds the Professor pressed ‘stop’, with a relieved but somewhat tired smile. Well, well, well! Someone had been making an illicit recording of this meeting! How attentive!

He briefly stepped into the largest bathroom and I could hear him filling a glass from the tap. Personally I’d never drink tap water on a ship, but given that I was about to kill him, I didn’t feel a warning was strictly necessary. I guess he took a painkiller. He’d do well to take five or six, given what was coming. When he emerged, he went to a black control panel mounted between two display cases, and pressed some keys. Not soon after, the room filled with beautiful music. I only needed to hear half a second to know what was coming, and I was well pleased. Violins spun up and after a brief intro I heard the most famous solo from Puccini’s Turandot, as performed by Pavarotti. Perhaps not what I would choose to recover from a headache, but certainly something I play in my car from time to time. Mostly to upset my driver Ali, if I’m honest.

Nessun Dormaaaa!

Nessun Dormaaaaaa...

The Professor let out a deep sigh and sat down in a white leather club chair that matched the desk, as he sipped from his glass. It was bubbling, so he had apparently taken one of those tablets that dissolve with CO2. I’m not sure if those are empirically better, but the bubbling is kinda soothing so I prefer them, too. They’re easier on the stomach, I find.

I love that piece. I’m sure most people only know it because it’s been used in countless adverts and cartoons, but it really is very, very beautiful. Suddenly I almost felt sorry for Rasul. He was clearly a cultured man. Watch Channel 5 for half an hour and you realise we need more men of culture in our lives. I took a step back and used the thin stripe of light from the gap to look at my pen as I carefully twisted it at the correct point, to reveal a very thin yet not very long needle. If I stuck this anywhere in Rasul and made sure the base of the needle touched his skin, it would eject five millilitres of a unique toxin, only available to the CIA. As you would expect from an entity charged with safeguarding democracy, they have built up a large collection of poisons, many of them derived from the most godawful creepy crawlies that stalk the rain forest or the Australian outback. This particular substance would kill a grown man in less than half a minute and crime labs would only find evidence if they looked for it. If you managed to hit the right spot, death might take as little as five seconds. But if you only had the access to, say, a thigh, it would take a little longer.

Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,

il nome mio nessun saprà!

I walked back through the closet and carefully opened the door to the largest bathroom. The light was on, triggered by an infrared sensor when I first entered. Quietly opening the door to the suite might have been tricky, but I knew the professor would have his back to me, or would at least be turned halfway, and with any luck even had his eyes closed. Just to be safe, I opened a white cabinet next to the mirror. It contained a can of shaving cream and a bottle of aftershave, but also one single pill in a blister pack. It could have been anything from a painkiller to hay fever medicine, but it didn’t matter. And then I calmly stepped into the room, the arm with the pen behind my back. Butlers walk like that all the time, don’t you know?

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Carstairs of Arabia

Ron Dudderie

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