Chapter 25: I had a Cunning Plan

Sunday, 30/8/2015. Saudi Royal palace.

My day started slowly, with breakfast being served without any extra items. I called on Anaïs with an eye on a cheeky kiss or a bit of a fondle, but was told by a rather indignant Malaysian chef who caught me looking around in her kitchen that she had been seconded to another palace for the next few days, to help prepare for yet another banquet. He then demanded to know how I knew her and what my business was with her, but I just told him I was acting under orders, pretended I didn’t even know the pastry chef was female and that it was none of his damned business. I wondered why this guy, who was clearly not a Saudi, was so uptight about it, but then I remembered Malaysia also has a religious police force. They have a term for being around a member of the opposite sex for no good reason: khalwat. It’s not just Saudi muslims who make their countries a terrible place to live, let’s not forget that.

I spent the rest of the day reading and generally taking it easy. Eventually news about raids in London and all the other cities where I had found sleeping agents of doom trickled in via various news media. But as I had expected, there were no repercussions for me.

That day I left the house only once, between afternoon and evening prayer. Time to find out where the imam lived. I wore Western clothes, but had styled myself like the white men I saw in the malls, unwilling chaperones to their covered up wives and daughters. Slacks and short sleeve shirts, tennis shoes and with either a wallet in their back pocket or carrying a ‘man clutch’, which was surprisingly common here. My father used one until the late Eighties, steadfastly refusing to wear a coat between April and September, regardless of the weather. Men here had the same problem: what to do with your phone, wallet and other detritus? Still, it has an effeminate quality, so eventually my dad gave up. The decade after that he carried what he called a ‘milkman’s wallet’ in his hand. No less than three times he managed to leave it on the roof of the car and drive off. I’ve noticed that American men who live in warm climates often use pouches attached to their belt, but honestly I wouldn’t want to be found dead with one of those fanny packs. I had opted for a plastic shopping bag from Lulu Centre and would blend in reasonably well in the streets around the Hittin mosque. There were a few shops in the area that attracted Westerners. Home security, aquarium supplies, satellite receivers, that sort of thing.

I started my surveillance with Belgian coffee and cake and settled my bill when the first men out the door hurried back to their houses and shops. I hopped in K-T’s passenger seat and waited for the imam to emerge. He was one of the last ones out the door, chatting away with some older guys, and then leisurely walked home. It was hot and unpleasant outside, because there was no wind to carry away the exhaust fumes and the cooking smells that began to waft from the apartment buildings, but he didn’t seem to mind. I watched him walk down a street and only ordered K-T to start driving when he turned a corner.

“Let me out here, circle this block until I order you to come near.”

“Understood.”

She stopped without making a sound. I hopped out, waved at the hologram now visible behind the wheel, and strolled fifty metres or so behind Imam Musa. Eventually he turned into an ally between two buildings, crossed a small car park with space for about five vehicles, and disappeared behind a faded green door. I would have no trouble finding this place back again, day or night.

Asim’s house was closer by than the palace, so I went there for a swim and a cup of tea. About two hours later I was back, now dressed in one of Asim’s dishdashas, and looked for a place to wait until the imam reappeared. As a Westerner I would have stood out in this area if I loitered for too long, but dressed as an Arab pretending to be mesmerised by his phone nobody seemed to notice me as I waited in the shade of a lone date tree that was desperately trying to survive on AC runoff water.

Ten minutes before the prayer was to start, the green door opened and Imam Musa began his five times a day walk to the mosque. He would have made that trip thousands of times by now and I could tell he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings at all. Maybe he was busy composing a sermon in his head, or thinking about Jo Guest’s alluring smile. (By the way, she has a distinct Derbyshire accent. Once I’d heard her speaking, I was completely over her. Nothing wrong with the accent per se, but it’s just not what I imagined. It’s a bit whiney and mumbling. They pronounce ‘come’ as ‘koohm’. Uy koohm frum Dahrbeshuhr. Brrr.)

I didn’t even need to follow him to the mosque. This would be an ideal place to nab him.

I had a small shopping list, most of which could be obtained at the Lulu center. It included a pack of three remote controlled outlet switches, a plastic funnel from the kitchen wares department, a box of latex gloves from the child care section, a head mounted LED flashlight from the sporting goods aisle (you can do some cave exploration south of Riyadh, in Al Kharj), a few rolls of plastic sheets and duck tape from the DIY section (or LSEDI section as it’s called in the Middle East: Let Someone Else Do It), a few boxes of matches and some more odds and ends. I then had dinner at the pancake restaurant again, because I tend to stick with what I know. Then I went back to my room and set an alarm for midnight. I had another busy night ahead of me.

Monday, August 31^st, 2015. Saudi Royal Palace.

A quiet day in, mostly spent reading and grooming. I fucking hate that beard. The first month it was all bristly and hard, but now that it was soft it had become a magnet for crumbs. The glasses I had been wearing almost continuously were beginning to show signs of wear and tear. They were supposed to be part of my disguise, but the lower half also functioned as reading glasses. As I expected to be back home by the end of the week, I decided not to worry about it. But then I felt like going out for dinner and dropped by an optician, who easily rectified the problem and didn’t even charge me for it. He was a Saudi, the first one I’d met with a proper job. The call to prayer sounded when I was indoors and he absentmindedly pushed a button to lower the shutters while he fiddled with the hinge of my frame.

“Don’t worry, you can leave via the service door. Or can I get you a cup of tea? I have Lipton.”

“Oh, wouldn’t say no that! You sure you don’t need to ... pop out?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sure they can manage without me for this one. Would you fill the kettle? The kitchen is behind that curtain. Use bottled water.”

“Sure. Your English is impeccable, if I may say. As is your taste in tea,” I said, as I disappeared into his pantry. We kept talking through the thin, green curtain.

“Well, I trained in the UK. In Bath. Ever been?”

“Once. Somerset is a bit out of the way for me. I went there to visit the Herschel museum.”

“The astronomy museum, right? I had my rooms in that street. So, is Kelly with you here in Saudi?”

I practically had a minor stroke as he said that. A Saudi knew about Kelly? I hadn’t even introduced myself as Carstairs!

“Uhmm ... No. So you noticed that, did you?”

“Ha! Who doesn’t know Mr. Carstairs? You know, I seem to remember hearing they were looking for you. I saw some very funny pictures on Facebook.”

“Yeah, it’s ah ... just a few people having fun, I hear.”

Up to that point, my main worry had been British expats. I may have done that big Hollywood movie, but even so I’m a virtual unknown outside the UK. There are thousands, no tens of thousands of celebrities out there, many of them tweeting and doing whatnot to get attention. I don’t take part in that nonsense, and so I dropped back into obscurity quite fast. Keller & Fox monitors this for many of their assets. I’m basically known in the UK and Germany, and that’s it. The Dutch are vaguely aware of me, but they seem to think I’m a minor character on Downton Abbey or something like that. You know Rutger Hauer is Dutch, right? We don’t give a shit about him, or about Carel Struycken (Mr. Lurch), Thekla Reuten (Highlander, The American) or Michiel Huisman (Game of Thrones). Unlike Canadians, who go fucking APESHIT when they discover a Loony somewhere (‘Hey, did ya know Paul Shaffer is Canadian! Oh yeah!’), we just don’t care. Our country is so small we take it for granted many of us spread their wings elsewhere. Bloody show-offs...

Tea became very awkward, for me at least, when he took out his phone to show me his Facebook timeline. I have no account there. Well, I do, but only Kelly and the media centre have the password. I’m basically one of Kelly’s sock puppets, retweeting or liking everything she finds important. That’s fine with me. But now I had to lie to this nice man, and gently dissuade him from taking a selfie with me there and then, and posting it on Facebook with the caption: ‘Look who walked into my store! Where can I collect the finder’s fee? LOL!’

I spun a yarn about being tired from the never ending attention and having taken up a friend who worked for Aramco on his offer to come visit. I implied I was working on my memoires and in the end I escaped the store having done a selfie with him with my glasses on, which he promised only to post in a month or so. By then he could print it out and frame it, for all I cared. I had no way of making sure he kept his word, but right now a bit of commotion on social media was not my concern. I’d give Saudi Arabia my parting gift on Friday, and be out of here by Sunday. Then I’d have all the time in the world to do guest appearances, interviews and, most importantly, hug Edwin until he was blue in the face. I’d be there for him every single day, and do anything Kate planned for me. Speaking engagements, commercials, guest parts, whatever. Come Sunday I’d be Martin King again. But now I was Carstairs, and I was not going anywhere. I had a promise to keep. A promise to Diana, but also one I’d made to that piece of shit I’d stuffed into the escalator...

Tuesday, September 1^st, 2015. Saudi Royal Palace.

Another day with nothing to do! I slept until late, because I’d had a very busy night at the mosque. Bringing all that ethyl alcohol to the attic had required a few trips, and then I had to dispose of the empty canisters. I had drained the water tank, which had taken over two hours, and refilled it to only about ten percent of its capacity. While it drained through a small pipe that lead to the washroom downstairs, I had to mess around with four electric space heaters. I didn’t want to do that in the prayer room, so I had to lug them all one by one into the office. I was there for so long that early morning prayer started below me, and I had to wait upstairs while they prayed.

Halfway through I remembered I hadn’t yet wheeled the fourth radiator back into place, but fortunately nobody noticed and the Imam didn’t bother going into his office this early in the day. The entire prayer took all of ten minutes, and two minutes later the building was deserted. Still, that could have been a major problem. You think you can manage every detail, but after four hours of messing around under torch light you inevitably get sloppy.

As I took K-T back to the garage, she had a nice little surprise for me.

“I have received a multimedia file titled media package.m4v. Would you like me to play it?”

“Oh, sure.”

I saw the familiar, albeit less than spectacular title card that the Keller & Fox media centre adds to footage it delivers to news outlets for broadcast. It’s a static image with some details about runtime, rights attribution and file specifications, plus the monochrome Keller & Fox logo. They have a few, but this version needed to look good on an NTSC screen in 1980 and they’ve kept it. Kate calls it ‘the turd’, as in: ‘Has that clip been turded yet? Did someone stick a turd on that?’ I myself am reminded of an eight bit sprite, which brings to mind fond memories of my Commodore 64.

“Auto drive.”

“Engaged.”

The file turned out to be a compilation of news footage about the arrests that had been carried out. It started with a clip from ITV News.

“Police have arrested four men in London, suspected to be jihadi militants, in raids on an estate in Peckham that startled local residents. At the same time, a similar operation was carried out in Manchester, where two men were detained at the premises of a metal workshop on an industrial estate. The authorities have confirmed that these men were in the final stages of planning large scale attacks on the general public, although further details regarding intended targets have been withheld. In both locations police found unregistered weapons, including assault rifles, grenades, suicide vests and bomb-making materials.”

I saw footage of regular police officers blocking the entrance to a street, while in the background men with balaclavas and dark blue bullet proof vests seemed to be carrying out a search. Armoured police vans blocked most of the view, but the camera man had spotted a sniper returning from his position on a roof top. Overhead, a helicopter could be heard. The ITV clip changed to a Sky News segment that picked up the story. An excited newsreader, not older than about twenty, continued:

“Security experts and officials say all or nearly all those arrested were of Middle Eastern or South Asian origin. They were mostly unknown to authorities and the security services are said to be credited with their discovery. While operations in London and Manchester were underway, similar arrest were made in...”

New footage, now of what looked to be a really nice farm house with white walls and a thatched roof. In a ditch outside, a car lay on its roof. It had hit a telegraph pole, which had snapped.

“ ... Ti kilometer uden for København. Anholdelserne var tidsbegrænset med det Britiske politi, der tilbageholdt mænd i London og Manchester. I Glostrup lykkedes en mistanke at flygte i en grå Volvo, men politiet ramte bilen i en grøft udenfor denne gård i Risby, hvilket resulterede i en dødelig skade. Postbud Bjørn Rastrup var vidne til arrangementet.”

I don’t speak a word of Danish, but fortunately there were subtitles:

“ ... ten kilometres outside Copenhagen. The arrests were timed with the British police, who detained men in London and Manchester. In Glostrup one suspect managed to flee in a grey Volvo, but police rammed his car into a ditch outside this farm in Risby, resulting in a fatal injury. Postal worked Bjorn Rastrup witnessed the event.”

Well, poor old Bjorn had a day he wouldn’t soon forget! He told the reporter how a grey car tore around the corner, pursued by a Danish police car with the sirens on, and a blue sedan that also had a light on the roof, plus one guy in assault gear leaning out and taking potshots at the car with a really big gun! This is not really something the Danes are used to. American police forces may like buying army surplus and pretending to be special forces, but Danish patrol cars seldom even make it to fourth gear and in 2014 the entire police force of the county used a grand total of 58 rounds. That still sounds like a lot, but it’s less than American police use to caution a single black man for a rolling stop. Apparently the Danish authorities were convinced these drastic measures were warranted, based on the intelligence I had helped to uncover.

Danish TV were careful not to mention the guy’s religion, because even though he spoke fluid Arabic, was born in Pakistan and yelled ‘Allahu Akhbar’ to the camera when he was taken away, it was of course not relevant. He might be a Wiccan, or a Druze. Heck, he might be a Jedi. Who’s to say?

Up next was a French police spokesperson, who had been drafted to give a report of the arrest made ‘in Paris’ (brackets to be explained soon) because there had been no camera crew around when a single suspect was detained at work. He was an employee of the Nogent-sur-Seine nuclear power plant. That’s actually 120 kilometres south-east of Paris, but then again Paris-Vatry airport is actually 210 kilometres away from Paris and Ryanair once marketed it as an ideal gateway to the French capital. France is a foreign country, as they say: they do things differently there. (Do I hear some British giggling in the background? Can I just bring up ‘London Oxford airport’? Right. Thought so.)

There was no information about any arrests in New York or Boston. I don’t know why. It may just be easier to hide a terrorist arrest in the background noise of American news. SWAT teams on their way to an arrest or another school shooting are as commonplace as ice cream trucks and postal vans. At least they were in Los Angeles, where I lived for about a year.

After some stock footage of the power plant, which looked rather peaceful in the French countryside, the file ended just as K-T signalled the large roller door to open. She carefully drove inside and came to a stop just above the induction charger.

“I enjoyed that. Next time play a Bugs Bunny cartoon before the main feature. Gets me in the mood,” I said, as I got out. It was swelteringly hot in the garage, because I was only ever there for a minute or two. My palace staff car was parked inside, so I opened the passenger door and started changing back into my Western clothes.

“I am unable to...”

“Yes, never mind. It’s fine. Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask: have you still got that drone?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Isn’t the battery shot to hell by now, because of the heat?”

“I am unable to parse your query. Please restate.”

“How is the battery of the drone doing?” I said, very slowly.

“The battery is currently at 95% capacity. Two additional packs are available. Flight time is now approximately thirteen minutes in motion, nineteen if stationary and under low wind conditions.”

“Good. Just checking. Anyway, I’m off to bed.”

“Sleep well, Reginald.”

“Bye, sweethe ... Ah! I mean piss off, you rust bucket.”

The guard at the palace gatehouse was mighty suspicious when I came back in, as he had also seen me leave. He checked the car from top to bottom.

“Where were you this night, Sir?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe the queue at the McDrive. Awful, just awful. I think the McRib is back.”

He was not amused. I didn’t want him reporting this to anyone, so I quickly changed tack.

“It was just a late night with friends and they offered me the spare bedroom.”

“I must ask you to blow into this.”

He produced a breathalyser from his booth and screwed on a clean mouth piece. For a second I was worried, because I had been lugging around cannisters of alcohol for half the night and had opened them, too. That thing might go off from just being near me! But after I had blown into it for ten seconds it beeped and I was free to go. He even managed a polite smile.

“Good day, Sir.”

“And good night to you!” I answered back, even though I was pretty sure I’d be in bed before him.

Wednesday, September 2^nd, 2015. Saudi Royal Palace.

Even though the news clip from home had been very welcome as a reminder that I had helped to prevent a few atrocities in the name of the religion of peace, I couldn’t bask in it for too long: there was work to be done. Even so, footage of bearded chappies getting manhandled into police vans was a treat that was hard to beat, so I turned on the television. I had only browsed the channels once and found one or two news channels in English, but couldn’t remember what those were. One turned out to be Russia Today, the other one Al Jazeera. I left it on as I temporarily focussed on the tools I’d need to get into Omar’s laptop.

Two cups of tea and a few too many chocolate biscuits later I looked up from my laptop, because I recognized something on screen: the palace I was in right now. It was just a short shot, which turned out to be part of some B-roll footage for a story set in Saudi Arabia. I turned up the volume.

“ ... been kept under wraps. We were unable to get any confirmation from the authorities, but sources inside the Committee have confirmed that the victims are a twenty-three year old trainee and an experienced agent, aged forty-five. They were found in the desert south of Riyadh. Preliminary findings indicate that the younger Mutawa dragged his senior officer behind his vehicle for several miles, causing his limbs to be severed.”

By now they were showing generic footage of the desert.

“The trainee then took his own life with a fire arm. The Mutawa are an unarmed force, that has come under much criticism, especially since the girl school fire incident in 2002. Agents routinely detain those suspected of breaking Sharia law, and take them to one of their offices, where no legal support framework exists. There have been many claims regarding the use of physical violence and even torture techniques on suspects before they were turned over to the Saudi Royal Police. The Mutawa are known for many acts that inspire scorn and ridicule, such as banning Valentine’s day presents, having a special ‘anti-witchcraft’ unit and being staffed by untrained personnel whose only qualification is to have memorised the Qu’ran. Officers are often drawn from families that have no ties with the Royal family and include a high percentage of ex-convicts who memorised the Qu’ran to reduce their sentence. However, violence within the ranks is extremely rare. This may explain why the Saudi Secret police, the Mabahith, has taken an interest. We’ll have more information on this in later editions.”

They played some sort of station ident (practically all Arab stations use gold coloured fonts, I’ve noticed) and continued with a story about a EU delegation of scientists who were visiting Iran to start a new round of inspections of the country’s nuclear facilities, but by that time I was packing a bag. Shit was about to hit the fan.

I left all of my suits behind and walked out of the building with a brown nylon bag that contained mostly electronics and underwear. I used a staff car to leave the grounds and called K-T to come and pick me up in the underground parking lot of the Mall of Arabia. She would need twenty minutes to get there, which I spent in one of the toilets changing into my Saudi outfit. It was still a bit of a shock to see myself dressed as one of them, with dark sunglasses and my shemagh draped in the humble teacher style. To be fair, that’s the only style I can manage, and also one that doesn’t require the guthra to be starched. I even remembered to apply a small fold in the middle of the mirzam, which is the part of the guthra near the forehead. If you don’t, you look like a nun more than anything.

I found K-T in the underground car park, because I had told her to park as far in the back as possible. When I walked up to her and tried to open the door, it refused.

“Hey, it’s me. Open up!”

She didn’t budge.

“K-T, open the door. It’s me. I’m in disguise.”

The lock clicked, so I got in and put my bag behind my seat.

“What was that about?” I complained.

“Your phone is turned off. I did not receive its bluetooth signal, and your head is covered up.”

“So why did you let me in?”

“I needed four seconds of speech to confirm your voice print. Is there an emergency?”

“If not now, then soon. Drive me to that supermarket on Al Haruba. I’ll need some supplies.”

“A fridge would have been nice. Should have thought of that,” I said, more to myself than to K-T. I had holed up in the garage, with plenty of bottled water and biscuits. The air conditioning unit was working at full blast, but it would take at least two to three hours before the heat that drenched the building was chased out. Fortunately there was also a unit in the small office, which only needed a few minutes to cool down the room from ‘oven’ to ‘bearable’.

A few days ago I had purchased an air mattress with a built-in pump. It wasn’t suitable for having sex, at least not the way I do it, but I’d be able to sleep here. There was a toilet and a sink, so I’d be fine. In my current disguise it would be easy enough to get a hot meal, or at least a burger, if I paid cash. I’d be out and about anyway, because my final plan wasn’t complete. Not yet, anyway. And while I was here, I might as well make the necessary preparations for phase two. Most of the supplies were here, so I stripped down to my shorts and got to work covering the walls and the floor in sheet plastic.

A few hours later I badly needed a shower, so I had one in the garage. Towels were another thing I had completely forgotten about, but what is a dishdasha if not a giant towel? It would dry soon enough. I got dressed again and after the sunset prayer I took a ten minute walk to a nearby shopping mall, a small one that consisted only of a supermarket and five shops: a jeweller (gotta have a jeweller), a carpet shop, a phone repair stall, a frozen yoghurt and smoothies bar and a ladies’ dressmaker with blacked out windows. That limited my options for dinner, but I happen to like frozen yoghurt and my Arabic was just about good enough to order something from the big sign behind the cashier. I don’t think his Arabic was very good, either. I’d get myself a box of raisin cookies later.

Small or not, the mall still had a round central square (a round square ... English is such a limited language, don’t you find?) with some benches and a small stone fountain, which for some reason was illuminated by green lamps. There was a large TV mounted on the wall and while I enjoyed my raspberry frozen yoghurt the news came on. I had a great view from a plastic chair inside the shop. Outside, many shoppers broke their stride and watched the screen. News about the incident in the desert had not yet been officially reported. Sure, people with access to Twitter, Facebook and Al Jazeera on their satellite dishes had known for hours and it had probably already been on the radio news as well, but Saudi State TV saves the day’s news for its eight o’clock bulletin. It gives the censors a chance to do their job.

I didn’t see much of the bulletin, as the screen was often obscured by large headdresses, but both men and women stopped to watch. They even chatted amongst themselves, drawing the attention of a curious Mutawa hoping to exercise his truncheon. But even he started to watch the screen, where brief, far-away shots of the car I had left behind in the desert were interspersed with many police vehicles, important looking officers huddled together in small groups, technicians literally turning over rocks and a helicopter that was tasked with aerial photography. At one point they showed a sandy rock caked in blood. A few metres away a body lay under a white sheet. The crowd gasped. Men only spoke to men and women only to women, but it was clear they were shocked by this act of violence. Given that they could watch someone being decapitated every other Friday, I was surprised these people were so easily rattled, but then my yoghurt was finished and when I approached the throng I could just about decipher what they were saying. Apparently the bloodshed wasn’t what shocked them, but the fact two religious men had gotten into a fight and one had murdered the other. It’s one thing if Jews or Westerners slaughter each other like animals: that’s only to be expected. But these guys were both Mutawa! And I can’t be entirely sure, but let’s say I was about eighty percent confident that the TV commentary had suggested that foreign agents, probably Jews or other anti-muslim forces, were behind this. One chap even turned to me and asked me what I made of it all. Even though I understood the question, I wasn’t capable of formulating a coherent answer in Arabic. And given that I looked like them, that would probably come across as odd. And so I spread my arms and confidently said: ‘Jahud!’

That went down a treat with the man, who turned to his friends and repeated my theory. Jahud! Yes, of course! Jahud! Jews! Who else?

I’m still a bit ashamed about it, but it was one of the few things I could say confidently and concisely in this context. I could also have said ‘buza!’ or ‘al’aqzam!’ but imagine how that would have gone:

‘So, who do you think is behind this?’

‘Ice cream! Leprechauns!’

Not good. So I extricated myself from this impromptu bit of antisemitism and bought an Asian noodle salad, a roll of trash bags and a bag of plastic utensils. Then I went to back the garage and made myself as comfortable as possible on a self-inflating airbed (which was actually quite comfortable and only about one hundred and fifteen riyal). Life on the lam is not really my thing. And I’d have to rethink my exit strategy if the authorities were looking for me.

“K-T, I’m going to sleep,” I said to my watch.

“Are you sleeping here tonight, Reginald?”

“Yes. So don’t power down entirely, okay? Remain vigilant.”

“Please specify.”

“Tell me when someone is trying to break in.”

“Into what?”

“Into the building.”

“Understood. I will remain online. What is your estimated wake up time?”

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Carstairs of Arabia

Ron Dudderie

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