Chapter 26: Si Vis Pacem, Nolite Exacerbare Carstairs

It was about ten minutes to showtime. I’d be at the mosque in three minutes or so, although K-T would drop me off at the mall entrance and then proceed to another destination. We were making good time, because although some traffic kept moving, many cars just pulled to the side of the road wherever there was space near a mosque. Sometimes cars were abandoned in the middle of the road, blocking each other in. The police never made a fuss: after all, everyone was supposed to be praying.

Men got out of their cars and either crammed into a nearby mosque or they produced a prayer mat from the trunk and lined up. Sidewalks were preferred, but facing Mecca was more important so sometimes lines would run at an angle, crossing sidewalks, patches of grass and even zebra crossings.

Right now they were just chatting, or patiently listened to the sing-song coming from the speakers (why is sound quality never a consideration there? Why are they still making these bullhorn speakers with a dynamic range between 7999 and 8001 Hertz?). Pretty soon they would kneel down, directed by the muezzin of whatever mosque was in earshot. Two small boys were among a group of about twenty men, but I saw no women and no girls praying outside. The most charitable explanation I can come up with is that women are given priority seating to worship inside the mosque and men pray outside. But the one I’d put money on is: ‘just pray in the kitchen, bitch’.

During the regular prayers, cars that were still moving carefully drove past them. But Westerners knew that this Friday prayer was different, and that you were at serious risk of getting more than a dirty look if you went about your business while it was in progress. Most Westerners learn to time their daily dump to coincide with prayers, by the way.

Suddenly K-T got stuck behind a procession of police vehicles, escorting some limousines adorned with the Royal Crest and one with some sort of ministerial logo and a little green flag on the bonnet. They were going our way, and overtaking them seemed like a bad idea.

“Steady, K-T. Don’t draw attention. That’s a procession of police vehicles.”

“Understood. Time to destination now plus one minute.”

“That’s fine. We’ve got time. Let’s review the plan.”

“I will drop you off at location three: mall entrance. I will proceed to location five: the upper deck of the Mahandra Mall car park. I will deploy the drone if unobserved and direct it one hundred metres above and fifty metres east of Hittin Mosque and begin recording. I will retrieve the drone when directed to...”

“Stop here. You got this. Let me out. I can walk to the mall quicker from here. Proceed to location five.”

“Understood.”

She stopped and let me out at the far side of the square. The heat slammed down on me, but I’d only be out for a minute or so. I should have used sun screen, but I’d forgotten to bring some with me. To my surprise, the convoy turned the corner and also came to a halt. I’d have guessed they were on their way to one of the grandiose mosques, not this local one with the ambiance of a Protestant morgue. It was busy outside. I felt uncomfortable passing through the crowd, because I was clearly not on my way inside and therefore the devil, but I wanted to get to the coffee shop before the mall doors closed.

“CARSTAIRS!” yelled an all too familiar voice. I froze.

“CARSTAIRS! HERE!”

No! Not him! I was surrounded by a lot of traditionally dressed Saudi men, so I couldn’t find Asim. But when I felt his hand on my shoulder, I knew it was him before I turned around.

“My friend! What luck! How are you? I have been calling you, but you ne...”

“Your Royal Highness, I thought you were in Mecca?”

“No, no, we are back! Omar is here, too. He is inside. He wanted to pray with the brave and righteous men of the Mutawa.”

That’s not how Asim usually speaks about those men, so I assumed a few of them were within earshot.

“Oh? Oh, well ... That’s lovely. I’m actually on my way to that Belgian coffee shop up there and I want to get there before they close.”

Then I realised what was about to happen. I leaned in.

“Asim ... Are you going to pray?”

“Yes, of course! With Omar! We all stand with the Mutaween!”

Dammit. Not Asim. I liked Asim, in a way. I didn’t particularly respect him, but he was a gentle soul. He never complained about Jewish conspiracies, he didn’t fantasise about elaborate ways to execute gay people and he was courteous and respectful to Caroline, and women in general insofar as I could tell.

“Yeah, but ... Will you be missed? I haven’t seen you in a while and ... how about we sneak out of here and go get some coffee? The waffles there ... they’re amazing. I know the owner. He’ll let us...”

“No, Carstairs, I can’t. Not today. Omar is feeling unwell. And...”

His eyes drifted away. He was overhearing a conversation and translated for me, more out of habit than because I could do anything about it, or was even likely to care.

“I hear people saying imam Musa is late. His replacement is singing the adhan, which is unusual for a Friday.”

“Oh dear. Well, then perhaps we’ll have time for...”

“Ha! No! Prayer starts on time, no matter what. He’ll show up, I’m sure. Listen, you go get coffee. I’ll talk to you later. Charge your phone, okay?”

“Yes, but ... Your Royal Highness, we...”

But by then he had turned around and made his way to the front door. I sighed. I take my friendships seriously. Granted, Asim wasn’t even in the top ten, but I didn’t want to be his executioner. This was awful. But things had been set in motion. The imam people were missing was currently tied up in my garage. My plan had to be carried out. If I aborted now, I’d never get another chance to keep my promise. And so I watched Asim’s back until he disappeared through the door and turned left, to wash up before prayer.

“Goodbye, Your Royal Highness,” I said, to the surprise of an old man with a scowl, who seemed very tempted to use his walking stick on me for being so blatantly Christian on this of all days. Then I turned round and hurried to the mall. An Indian security guard I knew to be a Sikh because of his beautiful turban and the elaborately decorated kirpan knife on his belt was about to close the door, but he knew Westerners wanted to wait inside and so he waited with a patient smile until I got there. The air was cooler here, and the marble floor didn’t radiate heat.

“Thank you so much.”

He smiled as he wobbled his head and disappeared into his security office. Sikh are allowed to wear their prescribed head dress and ceremonial dagger in Saudi Arabia, but they do pay a price for it. They only get the shittiest jobs, although they are also sought after as security staff because they generally have the patience of a saint, are well groomed and tend to be fairly husky. The imposing beard helps, too.

I hurried up the escalator and found Maarten there, ready to close the shutters.

“Maarten! Wait up!”

He made a ‘no need to rush’ gesture with his hands and went back inside. When I walked in the door he pointed at the shutter control buttons from behind the bar. I pressed the red one, with the downward arrow. There was nobody else in the cafe, but it smelled great.

“Well well well, there he is again! The newspapers are still the same, you know. I only get them twice a week, when the flight from Brussels comes in.”

“But did you run out of coffee?” I asked, settling in next to the window. I’ve never been a regular anywhere, really. It’s quite nice! I felt like Norm from Cheers. Maybe I could get Maarten to ask me how life was treating me, so I could answer: ‘Like a dog treats a lamp post. Beer me.’

“No ... No, there’s plenty of coffee. Let me just finish the batter I was mixing, okay?”

“Take all the time you need.”

The mosque was now nearly full. One man hurried to cross the square and another one seemed to be on the lookout for the imam. I think it was his youngest son, but I couldn’t tell for sure. Some police officers from the convoy had also gone in, but most were preparing to pray outside, remaining with their vehicles. They were facing towards Mecca, but made sure to pick a spot in the shade of the minaret or one of the acacia trees that lined the dusty square to roll out their prayer mat. The caterwauling became more urgent and eventually the lookout gave up and went inside. I could see him giving a hand gesture to someone inside, probably to indicate that the understudy was up. Prayer must go on. Yeah, prayer must go on. Up here my hands were shaking, but calmness I was faking and my smile stayed on. Prayer must go on.

My watch buzzed. K-T had taken up position nearby and deployed the drone. I looked for it, even though I knew it would actually be far overhead and somewhat behind me. I fondled the remote in my pocket. Not too soon, Martin. The prayer takes at least fifteen minutes. Make sure they’re all fully engaged.

Maarten came to my table with a cup of coffee. There was a small biscuit on the edge of the saucer, and a tiny metal canister with cream.

“Thank you. Is there any cake?”

He looked me over and first I thought he was going to say something like: ‘Should you be eating cake, tubby?’, but it turned out to be a look of concern for my mental, rather than my cardiovascular health.

“Listen ... Are you okay? I mean, you’re welcome to come here, of course. But it feels as if you’re ... hiding from something.”

“I am the same fucked up mess I have always been, and I’ve been hiding from life since 1975. Today is no different from any other day, I assure you.”

“Okay. Just ... I was just asking. I thought maybe you were homesick, or something.”

“Homesick? Then why would I come to a Belgian coffee bar? I’m British. I’d eat beans on toast and find a traffic jam so I could sit in my car and mutter under my breath,” I said, trying to keep it light and get him to leave. But he wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even pretending to laugh.

“Zijde gij Brits? Menneken, gij heeft hier onderlaatst de Hollandse kranten zitten lezen en een sandwich Martinot gegeten! Gij zijt zo Brits als mijnen kont. En die’s nie Brits, kan ik u zeggen!”

I am the absolute worst spy there has ever been ... If your Flemish is rusty, I’ll give you a summary: he called me out for reading the Dutch newspapers and eating a sandwich only known and palatable to the Dutch and the Flemmings.

“Could we ... forget about that?”

He shrugged and turned around. Over his shoulder he said:

“Ik breng u een stuk taart. Of nee, I will get you some cake bedoelde ik te zeggen.”

“Thanks.”

When I turned my attention to the square, I noticed a lone figure walking across it. But he wasn’t walking towards the mosque, but rather towards us. In fact, he waved at me!

“ASIM! Maarten, my friend is out there! Can he come in?”

Maarten stuck his head around the kitchen door.

“What?”

“That’s my friend. He sneaked out of prayer. Can he come in?”

“Oh. Sure. He’s not ... You know, one of those sand Nazis, is he? That mosque is crawling with them, like lice on a hedgehog.”

“No, he’s cool! Can he come in?”

“Sure. I’ll call down to security and ask them to open the gate.”

Two minutes later and to my utter relief, Asim slipped under the half-opened roller shutter.

“Carstairs! So this is where you hide!”

“Your Royal Highness! Are you playing hooky?” I said, shaking hands with him although we just met ten minutes ago.

“Yes. I was stuck at the back of the room, because I talked to you. I lost Omar, so I made an excuse and got out just before they closed the inner door. We have fifteen minutes for coffee and then I have to hurry back. Omar will never know I was gone, ha!”

“Coffee coming up!” said Maarten, and made his way back to the kitchen. By now the prayer was in full swing. The loud hailers on the tower were relaying the prayers recited by the stand-in inside. The policemen, whom Asim had somehow managed to evade, were ass-up. Showtime. I slipped my hand into my left pocket. It was under the table, out of Asim’s view. The remote was nothing special: just eight buttons and a small LED in an enclosure the size of a Mars bar. I was sure this remote would be able to cover the distance, although I had expected to be able to hold it up to the window. If not, K-T could also reproduce the signal. Her powerful transmitter would cover several miles, but I wanted to be the one who pushed the button. And so I did, several times. But a minute later, nothing had happened and I couldn’t speak with K-T right now.

Then, as luck would have it, Asim got up to get a napkin from a table near the espresso machine, so I quickly held up the remote to the window and pressed it.

Inside the mosque, three space heaters set to maximum powered on. The switch my remote controlled was placed between the entire circuit and a box extender, hidden behind a bench. Soon, the heating coils would be glowing red. That would set off the tightly packed gunpowder I had harvested from the fireworks I had stolen. They wouldn’t explode, but give off quite a bit of heat and smoke. But that would not trigger the sprinkler system, as that was under my control.

“So, this is where you spend your time?” said Asim, as he came back.

“Yes, Yohwrihnes,” I said, absentminded. My attention was focussed on the doors. I had no way of knowing when exactly the fireworks would go off, but I had bought a similar heater and timed it. Anywhere between 30 and 60 seconds would pass before the coils were red hot, so I was counting in my head.

“You know, it’s funny: Omar complains that you call him that. Not ‘Your Royal Highness’, but what you just said. One word. I never noticed it,” chatted Asim. Fifty-two.

“Ah-hah.”

“He says you make it sound like a silly name.”

“Fifty-eight. That should be more than enough. I pressed button two, which powered up the sprinkler system I had set to ‘pressure test’ mode. That meant, according to the manual I had Googled, that the compressor would start up and build ten PSI of pressure, which would in turn force open the valves. I hadn’t been able to test that without dousing the entire mosque, but life is a gamble. Ninety litres of pure ethyl alcohol were about to be pumped into the mosque. Only a tiny spark from one of the radiators would be enough. One was right underneath one of the sprinkler heads.

“Sir! Would you like some cake?” asked Maarten from the kitchen. Asim turned his head, so I quickly lifted the remote and pressed button 2 again, just to be sure. The remote was small enough to conceal in my hands, so I made it seem like I was stretching out.

“Excuse me?” asked Asim.

“Would you like some Belgian ... what the fuck?”

The mellifluous warbling coming through the loudspeakers stopped and changed to confused jabbering, as everyone inside was being drenched by the sprinkler system. That’s annoying, but not grounds to stampede for the door. Not during Friday prayer, at least. But it wouldn’t take them long to notice that this wasn’t water. My guess was that it would behave differently coming through the nozzles, forming a cloud rather than a downpour.

Asim turned his attention to the window, because for some reason humans will automatically look in the direction sound is coming from to focus on it.

“Rain?” asked Maarten, whose Arabic was better than mine.

“No, not rain. Sprinklers,” said Asim. He’s saying that the sprinklers are...”

At that point, the fireworks ignited. A blood curling scream sounded through the speakers, but it was cut off after about two seconds. The police officers outside, all kneeling at this point, stood up and walked to the entrance to see what was going on. Two were drawing their weapon.

“What the hell is going on down there?” asked Maarten. I just shrugged.

Two small windows blew out at the same time, unleashing transparent flames. I could only see the shimmering outlines. That’s the beauty of ethyl alcohol: it burns invisibly. I was the only spectator who knew there to be flames at all. The policemen stopped dead in their tracks. Even though the restaurant had double glazing, presumably to insulate against the heat, we began to hear screams coming from inside the mosque. It sounded as if someone was castrating a hundred dogs simultaneously, three miles down the road.

The main entrance flew open and two men came running out. Their beards were smoking, but didn’t seem to be on fire. Even so, one kneeled down and the other began to roll around in the dirt, trying to douse the invisible flames. As the fire now had all the oxygen it wanted, the alcohol burned off quickly, but not before setting their dishdashas on fire. Suddenly they were engulfed in orange flames. Clothes don’t burn invisibly, once lit.

“Oh mijn here God,” stammered Maarten. “Het is een aanslag!”

Asim said something in Arabic and got up. I grabbed his arm.

“Where are you going?”

“To help! Omar, he is in there!” he said, and pulled free. I got up and grabbed him again.

“You’re not going to run into a fire!”

“OMAR IS IN THERE!”

He punched me in the shoulder, really hard. I let go of him and he ran to the control switch for the shutter.

“Asim, don’t go! You can’t go in there,” I pleaded. Asim pressed the green button with the upward arrow and Maarten was giving us updates from the window.

“There are more people coming out now. They’re on fire! Oh my God, they’re on fire! This is ... I can’t ... They’re just ... No, no, nooooo! Oh mijn here God, da kan nie! Da’s afschuwelijk!”

“Maarten! Help me! He wants to go in there!” I yelled. The shutter was now about two feet off the floor, but Asim thought that was enough and dove to the ground. I grabbed his feet and pulled him back in. As soon as I saw his arms, I pinned them behind his back. Maarten came to help me. We were both on our knees, grabbing hold of Asim’s dishdasha and pulling him back inside.

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Carstairs of Arabia

Ron Dudderie

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