Chapter 18: Teach her a Lesson

I suppose it’s only normal that you take on the English accent to which you are most often exposed. In my case it started when BBC 1 and 2 were made available on the Dutch cable network. I loved almost every show they put on and that shaped my theretofore rather unremarkable Dutsj Ekssent. Well, Lexy grew up watching shows and films like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Beverly Hills 90210, Clueless, The Twilight Saga and related TV trash. Not every character on those shows speaks Valley Girl, but the ones she liked most did.

I learned this over the course of the next few days, because don’t think that the purpose of our first meeting was to have a nice cup of tea and a bit of a chinwag together. I was out of the room in less than two minutes and then I was asked if I would mind getting started right away, or rather after Dhurh prayer. That was at least an hour away, but I had already learned that anything up to ninety minutes before an upcoming prayer is considered lost time and therefore best spent lazing about, drinking tea and gossiping. Again: under no circumstances should you retain a muslim on an hourly basis. I’m not saying don’t hire them! That’s racist. I’m saying: performance based contracts only. Particularly for the ones who grew up in the Middle East.

“I’m quite willing to start, but if we can’t right now then may I have a look at my room?” I suggested. Omar looked at the Khafama.

“Room no ready.”

“It will be fine, Carstairs. You’re in a palace,” said Omar. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. You can go anywhere on the second floor, but only to the teaching lounge on this floor. And do not go beyond this corner. That’s where my family lives. That’s private. Understood?”

“Very good, Your Royal Highness,” I said. Asim shook my hand and wandered off and then that bloody Khafama made me wait in a corridor with one terrible chair for over forty minutes. There must be some life lesson there about not pissing off people who can exert influence over you, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what that might be.

Eventually I was led into a room in another part of the building, with a view of the inner courtyard on one side and a beautifully carved wooden panel on the opposite wall. It was not an unpleasant room and quite tasteful compared to most areas I’d seen so far. Obviously the rug was Persian, the place reeked of perfume and there was a white leather sofa, but that’s a given. But there was some nice framed artwork on the wall, a book case with a rather impressive selection of titles, an elegant rosewood desk with matching chair and one heck of a comfy lounge chair. The Khafama led me into the room, knocked on the panel and then, after a few seconds, slid it sideways. I didn’t see that coming. It unveiled a closed curtain, made of black screen printed silk. I suddenly understood what was going on here.

“Is she behind that ... curtain?”

“You no move! NO MOVE.”

I’ve never actually been in a confessional booth, what with me being an Atheist and it not being part of any guided tour of churches I’ve ever visited, but this set-up seemed to be an oversize version of it.

“Your Royal Highness, are you there?” I asked, facing the curtain. It was also connected to a rail at the bottom, to keep it taut.

“Yah.”

Omar walked in.

“Oh good, you’ve started! Well, Professor ... Oh, wait! Force of habit. MISTER Carstairs. If you don’t mind, the Khafama and I will observe for a while.”

I didn’t really think I had a say in the matter. Omar plonked down in the lounge chair and I snatched the seat at the desk just before the Khafama sat down there, which would have forced me to remain standing. Not for long, obviously. Just long enough for me to hoist that tedious fuck out of the window and watch him crack his skull on the edge of the pool three floors down. Sadly, it didn’t come to that. I placed my chair near the window, opened my leather carrying case and took out the Economics textbook that was prescribed by the Swiss academy.

“Well, ummm ... Lexy ... Glad you’re here. From Professor Rasul’s notes I’ve learned that last time you met he asked you to read up on Neoliberalism and to prepare a small introduction. Correct?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Then would you be so kind as to tell me about Neoliberalism?”

There was a lot of rustling of papers, interspersed with the odd sigh. Then, in a barely audible voice, she said:

“Neoliberalism is the 20th-century resurgence of 19th-century ideas associated with laissez-faire economic liberalism and free market capitalism. Those ideas include economic liberalization policies such as privatization, austerity, deregulation, free trade and reductions in government spending in order to increase the role of the private sector in the economy and society. These...”

“Yes, if I can just stop you there: I do in fact have access to Wikipedia myself.”

I had brushed up on the subject only a few hours ago and obviously that had been one of my stops.

“Let’s just break down some of what you just said. Laissez-faire economics, what’s that about?”

A brief pause, followed by:

“Laissez-faire is an economic system in which transactions between private parties are free from government intervention such as regulation, privileges, tariffs, and subsidies.”

Again, that was verbatim what Wikipedia says about it.

“Excuse me, do you have a computer there?”

“Uhm ... No?”

“A phone, perhaps?”

No answer.

“You can’t answer my questions by Googling them. Could you put that thing away, please?”

A sigh.

“Could you tell me why it’s funny that Laissez-faire is a French expression when it comes to economic perspectives?” I asked, which was something I was pretty sure she couldn’t find online. She seemed to be trying, though.

“Uhm ... Could you, like, hang on?”

“What, slow connection? Did you run out of data on your bundle?”

Don’t, Martin. Just don’t. Hold your damned tongue just for once, you idiot...

“No. So tell me why it is funny?”

“It’s funny because the French are famous for their protectionism. They are all about government intervention. And when the government doesn’t act fast enough, the farmers or whoever it is that wants something special, put up road blocks with burning sheep quicker than you can say ‘baguette’. It’s almost the opposite of Laissez-faire.”

Did I hear a snort on the other end?

“Okay?”

“Good. Let me just test you on some basic concepts. Private parties, what are those?”

“Huh?”

“What are private parties?”

“They are ... parties ... that are private? Not for everybody?”

“Yes, I rather meant in the context of economics. You and I, are we private parties?”

“I don’t understand?”

“Yes, we are. You and I are private parties. If I have a chocolate bar and I sell it to you for a dollar, that is a transaction between private parties. But now let’s imagine that we both have our own companies and you want to buy a million chocolate bars from me. Are we still private parties?”

“No?”

“Yes! We are still private parties. Anyone or anything who is not the government is a private party. Write that down. Now, can you tell me what’s Neo about Neoliberalism? Or to put it a different way: what is the difference between classical liberalism and neoliberalism?”

“Classical liberalism is a political ideology and a branch of liberalism which adcate ... cates ... advocates civil liberties under the rule of law with...”

“STOP DOING THAT!”

“Hey! Don’t shout at me!”

“My apologies. But I must insist you stop consulting Wikipedia or indeed any website unless I tell you to. Let’s go back to the first chapter of the book, and see what’s stuck. That’s page ... seven. Do you have it?”

“Yes?”

“Right. Let’s pick a word at random here ... Interest rates. That’s good. So, we are currently in a period of low interest rates. What’s good about that and what’s bad?”

“Uhm ... It is good because ... it makes borrowing money cheap?”

Finally! An ounce of insight!

“Very good! Yes, it’s easy to borrow money, which is generally good for businesses. But there’s a drawback as well, which is...”

“Uhm...”

“Think about consumers.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“And then ... articulate an answer. About a negative effect of low interest rates. So imagine borrowing money is really cheap, and consumers therefore spend more of it. Either because a loan is cheaper or because there’s less of a motivation to save, because your savings don’t yield much interest. So either way, this is the time to get a new car. That causes...”

“I don’t know all this! Stop asking me all these questions!”

“Inflation! Low interest rates cause inflation.”

“Oh.”

Oh. A perfectly reasonable answer for a first grader, but this young lady had completed three years of advanced education and the last two years had actually included economics. What else didn’t she know? I decided to find out.

“Princess, could you just tell me what the economy is?”

“Excuse me?”

“The economy. What is it? What comes to mind?”

“It is a subject? About money?”

“Yes, but I mean: what encompasses the economy? And don’t give me a Wikipedia summary, either. You don’t have to give me a concise definition. Just tell me what’s in the economy, in your own words.”

“I don’t...”

“Just ONE thing. One thing that’s part of the economy.”

“Banks?”

“BANKS! There you go! Banks are a very important part of the economy. What else?”

“Money?”

“That’s ... yeah, okay. Money. Go less abstract.”

“I don’t know?”

I suppressed a sigh.

“Are you sitting down over there?”

“Yes, of course?”

“Is it a nice chair?”

“It is fine?”

“Do you have a pillow there?”

“What?”

“A pillow. Get yourself a pillow, put it on your chair. Then sit down again. Because you and I are going to be here a while.”

Omar got up with what can only be described as a shit-eating grin.

“I think you have this well in hand, Mr. Carstairs. Unlike Professor Rasul, apparently. Good day.”

He directed some admonishments and threats in Arabic at the curtain and then left us. The Khafama stayed put, but I didn’t care.

Well, that was the start of a rather intense week. Not only did we get started revisiting the basics of economics, but I also took the liberty of figuring out how she was doing with her other subjects. That wasn’t as bad as I feared: her English was fine, even if it sounded annoying, her French was better than mine will ever be and even her math fundamentals were acceptable for her generation. There were, however, vast gaps in her knowledge of history and World literature. I didn’t worry too much about that last one, because foreigners aren’t expected to know as much as the natives. My British friends are sometimes shocked at how limited my knowledge of English literature is. They seem to think it’s general knowledge, part of a decent upbringing. I then explain to them that my country actually has its own literary heritage, even if only 23 million people can appreciate it. As a Dutchman I am by no means required to study Shakespeare or be conversant with Dickens, Chaucer and Woolf. I was only supposed to have read Catcher In The Rye, An Old Man And The Sea and one Jane Austen novel and have a basic idea of what Romeo and Juliet is about and I was done as far as middle school was concerned. That’s what they test you on. And so it was for her: Pride and Prejudice, Lord of the Flies and The Raven: done. Lord of the Flies was a replacement granted by her Swiss tutors, when they realised Animal Farm isn’t really the kind of book a Saudi wants to be found in possession of, given that it’s mostly about pigs. It’s not banned, strictly speaking, but let’s just say demand and availability are low. (Surprisingly, the movie Babe did very well in the 1995 illegal VHS-tape circuit, or so Asim tells me.)

She’d already studied the summaries and practice questions you can find online, which would likely see her through any test. Same for French, although I personally dropped that subject in favour of trigonometry. But world history and art history were definite weak spots as well. Professor Rasul hadn’t left any notes about that, so I had to assume he didn’t care.

Truth be told: neither did I. This girl was destined for a golden cage, diploma or no diploma. I wasn’t here to teach her, I was here to spy on her uncle and eventually spill some blood.

So yes, I could have just nodded my way through the books, as Rasul had done, because by the time her exams came around I hoped to be long gone. But you know me, don’t you? I’m an insufferable pedant who is almost autistically incapable of passing up the opportunity to display his mastery of trivia. I’m quoting Kate verbatim here, by the way. I love her, but we do have rows from time to time. She took it back, but I know her well enough that it’s probably at least half true. Especially because neither Kelly nor Melody said a word against her, but just backed out of the room. Dutch has a very concise word for what I am: a ‘frik’. A perennial schoolteacher. I freely admit it, but it has worked in my favour far more than it has worked against me.

Perhaps it is worth describing my first night at the palace, just to pad this brief, nay terse aide-memoire a bit. Oh, I just noticed I didn’t write down what I had for breakfast on May 1^st. Yoghurt and a croissant. I’ll have to get back to you on the brand of yoghurt. Bloody hell, how is this thing almost four hundred pages by now? In real life I don’t say very much during the day. About 7000 words, the average for men. That’s compared to around 20,000 for women. Yes, I’d say 7000 is fair. But when I sit down at the end of the day for this journal, suddenly I fall victim to bouts of sesquipedalian loquaciousness like you would not fucking believe!

It’s just that ... So much SHIT HAPPENS. I’m powerless against most of it and perplexed by the rest. My girls aren’t here to tell them about it, and so I find myself furiously banging my laptop keyboard, almost desperate to empty those buffers and record all that is new and weird. I’ve already worn out the baseline of the E!

After about three hours, interrupted by a prayer which I spent taking a lovely catnap in the teaching room while the princess disappeared to the prayer room on the ground floor, we called it a day. That may not seem much, but one on one tuition is a lot more intense for both parties. I can’t say we hit it off, but she was certainly pliant. Then I felt it was time to get settled in, so I went to get my suitcase from K-T.

“There is a message for you,” she said, when I stuck my head inside to pick up the suitcase from the space behind the front seats.

“There’s always a message for me. I’m tired.”

“The message is from the British Embassy in Riyadh.”

I sighed and put the suitcase back. Then I got in. K-T was parked in the sun, but she had soaked up all the heat and converted it into electricity, so it wasn’t very warm inside.

“Play message.”

It was audio only.

“Mr. Carstairs, this is William Constable, I’m with the British Embassy. I’m calling to inform you that your import license has been approved and may be collected at any time. Just ask for me, William Constable, and I believe you now have my number. Thank you.”

Finally! MI6 had woken up!

It was late in the afternoon when I showed up at the embassy on Tayma Street, which was located about ten minutes away from the palace. In the area you’ll also find the embassies for Sweden, Belgium, Thailand, Japan, Australia, Kenya, India, Mexico and obviously the International House of Pancakes. Actually, that would be hilarious but it’s not quite true. There is, however, a pancake restaurant called ‘The Pancake House’, located in the heart of the diplomatic quarter. I would love, and I do mean love to know what intrepid entrepreneur one day woke up, signed that lease and said: ‘You know, I’m sure those diplomats are sick to the back teeth of supping on goose liver and quail eggs. I’ll bet you anything that come Friday, they want nothing more than a nice short stack with banana and cinnamon!’

The embassy was a walled complex, put up before civilisation had gotten much of a foothold in Riyadh (if it ever did), and so it was set up as a small, self-sufficient compound. I’m sure these days many embassy staff are fine being housed outside that wall, but it was once a place for the British community to relax, have a drink and in the early days even take a swim. Private security, with officers from different countries of the Commonwealth, handled the visitors who came in to renew passports, use the notary services and what have you. A friendly middle-aged lady welcomed me from behind a painted desk and asked me to take a seat while Mr. Constable was summoned from somewhere inside the building. I then met him in a small booth, such as you might also get in a passport office. My seat was chained to the floor and he had a panic button on his side of the counter.

“Mr. Carstairs, such a pleasure. Do sit down.”

I pegged him to be in his late twenties. He had a curiously yellow mop of hair and one of his front incisors was crooked.

“Thank you. I was told there is an import license I can pick up?”

He smiled.

“I’m sure you’re aware that was a just a fib to get you here. I am with the intelligence desk and uhm ... Tea? Coffee? Juice, perhaps?”

“Orange juice would be lovely. So, how do I know you are someone I am allowed to speak to? Because I must say I’ve wondered why it has taken you a full month to reach out to me.”

“Susan, can we get a Minute Maid orange here?” he said to someone I couldn’t see. Damn. Minute Maid is an atrocity, pasteurized beyond hope and blended to be consistently disappointing.

“Well, we have been following your progress. I will admit we are not exactly overstaffed here and you seemed to need a bit of time to find your feet, judging by the frequency of your reports. Which, by the way, we much prefer to get in writing. But now that you have ensconced yourself in the Royal Palace, we felt this might be a good time to reach out.”

“I see.”

“See if there’s anything we can do. Lend a hand, perhaps.”

“That’s very kind. Perhaps I should tell you I have already made some friends here who have made a similar offer.”

“Oh, we are very much aware of that. Mr. Stein and my superior officer play tennis. But even so, we prefer to get briefings from our agents first hand, and not via foreign agencies. Just a little rule we have.”

Oi oi, things just got a bit frosty here!

“Obviously. Well, there’s not much to tell, except that I managed to get my hands on a recording of a meeting I’m sure will be of interest. It is between a Russian arms dealer, a bunch of North Koreans posing as Chinese and prince Omar. It took place last week, on a royal yacht.

“Excellent! Hang on, did you say ‘last week’?”

“Yes.”

“And when exactly were you going to furnish us with this recording?”

“Well, here’s the thing: first I wanted to hear it for myself, but I didn’t find the time until I was back here. Then I found out I can’t understand it, because the Professor probably had his phone tucked in his sleeve or something. And so I gave it to the CIA for analysis.”

Constable seemed shocked first, then dismayed, then both.

“You ... gave it to the CIA? After ... AFTER you tried to ‘hear it for yourself’?!”

“Oh, don’t worry! I made a copy. I can get it to you, no problem.”

“Mr. Carstairs, need I remind you that it is all very well having a bit of fun on the CIA shooting range, but that you are actually here on Her Majesty’s behest?! And NOT the C-I-bloody-A’s!”

“Oh come on now, settle down! We’re all friends here, aren’t we? Special relationship and all that. Except they could be bothered to contact me. And they lent me some gear.”

“What for?”

“You know what? I’ll do you one of those reports you’re always banging on about. I’m going to have some time on my hands, anyway. I’ll send it to Miles.”

“Yes, that’s another thing! Mr. Bamford is not to be treated as your handler! He is, in fact, little more than a third party vendor! It is completely inappropriate to treat him as your liaison.”

“Really? He builds spy cars in your underground base. I’d say he has at least some level of clearance. And he loaned me a car. Look, if having a handler means there’s someone nagging me about filling out reports, I’d just as soon not have one. So tell Miles he can have his car back and I’ll let you know if I find something out. Okay? I’ll ask the CIA to cc you.”

“Mister Car ... King, you’re being very naïve if you think you are in safe hands with the Americans. Their interests and ours do not align. We want to know who has been putting bombs on London buses, and if there will be more. Americans just want to make sure the oil keeps flowing. Human rights, terrorist attacks that aren’t aimed at Americans or rooting out corruption in Saudi government circles are not their concern. As I understand it, you have a horse in this race. They do not.”

I nodded.

“You’re probably right. But I’m not the one who dropped the ball here. You have a choice: you can either start supporting me, including when I’m in need of advice, or you can continue to treat me like I’m your employee. But let me tell you one thing: Homey don’t play that.”

“Beg your pardon?!”

“You heard. So tell me how I can get that recording to you. I’ll expect a full transcript back in a day or so. And let’s get a move on, because I’m hungry.”

The nearest place to eat was The Pancake House. Seriously, that’s one of the best places in the diplomatic quarter. Their menu is comparable to IHOP, so pancakes are just a very small part of their selection. There are very few decent restaurants nearby, and I find it amusing to think that top diplomats from France, Italy, Spain, Japan and the UK come here whenever they’re sick of the Italian place two doors down. I recommend their Romano Chicken Sandwich. Not that I tasted this one, because I shovelled it down in just under ten minutes while I considered my career as a spy thus far. Kate’s birthday was coming up, and I was probably going to miss that. Edwin was taking huge leaps in his development and I wasn’t there to see it. I missed Melody, and Kelly. Every step outdoors felt like a walk through an oven. And I missed trees! I’m really not an outdoors kind of guy, but dammit if I didn’t find myself having short but very vivid daydreams of walking along the shoreline of a Scottish loch, in the dappled shade of tall, cool trees.

The sun had just set when I turned onto the small parking lot next to the ‘guest palace’. The guards had waved me through as soon as I produced the gold medallion. I took out my suitcase, went inside and had the guard at the door call the Khafama. He kept me waiting for ten minutes.

“Yes?” he asked, when he finally appeared.

“Hello. I would like to get settled in my room now. Prince Omar said you’d see to it.”

He grinned. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

“Room? Yes! Come.”

Obviously he didn’t raise a hand to help me with my suitcase, but I’d only brought the smallest one. He led me into a service corridor and we then took a sturdy goods elevator to the first floor. We turned a corner and then walked along a corridor that was a lot less attractive than the ones where the royals lived. Five doors down from the corner he stopped, rapped on a wooden door and immediately opened it with a very simple key. I wouldn’t leave a fart in a room secured with a lock like that.

The door opened to a small room without a window, with two double beds on opposing sides. To my left were two cheap plywood wardrobes. There was only room for a small table, which looked to have been Polish army surplus. A man dressed in a servant’s uniform was messing about on his phone on one of the bottom bunks. He got up right away, looking somewhat startled. Locking the door when inside was probably the resident’s code for ‘give me some private time’.

“Your new roommate,” said the Khafama, in Arabic. “Which bed is empty?”

The servant, an Asian man in his early thirties, actually managed to smile and pointed at the top bunk over his head. He offered his hand. I shook it, so as not to be rude, but this was clearly not what I had imaged.

I found myself struggling for a brief moment. I am Dutch. Although as a race and a cultural identity we are clearly superior to the rest of the planet, we do understand this does not give us special privileges. These servants lived here, too, three or four to a room. I imagine they too would prefer a private suite. I stepped into the room, not so much to settle in but so as to see the Khafama’s face just before his imminent demise, and from the corner of my eye I also spotted what passed for a bathroom for these people. Words fail me, but even though I saw some white tiles and something resembling a plumbing fixture of some description, it was clear to me that my many and varied sanitary needs would not be met there. I’ve seen restrooms in French lay-bys that were more pleasant looking.

I noticed my right hand was already taking corrective action of its own accord. In fact, it was slowly moving towards the Khafama’s throat and I could sense my thumb and index finger were getting ready to close around something and then lift it up. All I could do to stop this disaster was to mobilise my other hand and send it on an intercept mission. It did so successfully, so the Khafama and my intended roommate saw me smashing my hand into a steel bed frame in what seemed to be a deliberate move. They also heard me saying some very unladylike things.

“You okay, Sir?” said the servant. The Khafama just grinned and seemed ready to leave us to it.

“No,” I said, through gritted teeth. “Agh. Sorry to have troubled you. I look forward to continuing this ... ahh ... I think I broke my fucking hand...”

I had not, but I did have a delightful evening of throbbing ahead of me. I grabbed the suitcase with my functional and slightly more obedient hand, gave what must have been a very threatening nod to my former roommate and began to walk back to my car.

“This your room!” said the Khafama to my back, rubbing salt in the wound. In my mind’s eye I was already kicking his head into a mushy grey pulp, but somehow I managed to restrain myself.

“This won’t do.”

“His Royal Highness says you sleep here!”

“I will discuss that with him tomorrow.”

He ran around me and tried to stop me from walking around the corner, but he was less than a gust of wind to me.

“Servants can’t leave at night!”

“Oh good, then you won’t be following me.”

I had to put the suitcase down to call for the lift, as my right hand was currently too busy swelling up like a boxing glove. It was still on this floor, thankfully. The doors juddered open.

“You are not allowed leave!” said the Khafama to my back.

“I will be back at ten a.m. tomorrow. Make sure I have a proper room to myself. With a modern bathroom.”

K-T opened the door for me as I walked up. She didn’t speak until I got behind the wheel.

“Full auto. Asim’s house.”

“Are you injured?” she asked, as the silent electric engine effortlessly backed the car out of its parking space.

“Yes.”

“What is the nature of your injury?”

“I slammed my right hand into a metal bar.”

“Do you require medical attention?”

“I’m not sure yet. I could do with a painkiller, though.”

A brief whirring was heard before the glove box opened. A tiny plastic water bottle and a blister strip with five white pills rolled forward.

“Take one now with water. Minimum interval four hours.”

“Thank you.”

It wasn’t easy to open the bottle with just one hand, so I used my teeth. I managed to down the pill before we left the palace grounds.

“You seem to be in considerable pain. Please allow me to divert to a hospital.”

“Let’s give it an hour or so.”

Fifteen minutes later K-T sent a signal to the gate of Asim’s house. She was able to slide through with only a few millimetres clearance on both sides. I could tell Asim was in.

“Could you open the garage door for me? I can’t be rooting around for the key with my right hand.”

“I am unable to parse the second part of that statement.”

“Just let me in.”

The right hand garage door opened and we drove in, like a swan drifting lazily towards a piece of bread. I walked past the BMW and used my left elbow to open the door to the hallway. I heard loud music coming from Asim’s bedroom, which was unusual. He liked loud music, but he’d usually play it in his car or in the living room.

Clearly he had no idea I was in the house, and I didn’t want to startle him. Still, it would be weird to just quietly sneak into my room and go to sleep. I took a second to consider the best course of action, when the door to Asim’s bedroom opened. I heard three voices, two of them female. I backed into the kitchen without thinking, then slipped into the darkened storage room behind it. From there I heard Asim laughing and joking with two women as he took some chilled beer from the fridge. One of the women walked around the kitchen and I caught a glimpse of her: big, blonde, naked as a jay-bird. I took another step back into the darkness and waited until they had gone back into Asim’s bedroom. I would not be sleeping here tonight...

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Carstairs of Arabia

Ron Dudderie

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