The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 15: Discretion is Key
The flight was uneventful, but very comfortable. I accepted the fact I couldn’t do a damned thing with Omar’s laptop right now, as even my own laptop was stuck in the cargo hold and my stays in the office for the three prayers that came and went until we landed in Riyadh were never more than about fifteen minutes. The rest of the time I spent with Asim and Alexandra. As I also helped her with other subjects we spent some time discussing books she had been tasked to read. The Swiss academy for some reason considered American literature the only type worth bothering with, Orwell’s 1984 being the sole British exception. While I admit it is convenient that it is all in English, I felt the list was rather shortsighted. Some marvellous or at least important books have been written in German and French, and translated rather well. Where were they? Where was The Stranger by Camus, Voltaire’s Candide or even something lighter like Arsene Lupin? (I suppose Houellebecq’s ‘Submission’ was a bit much to ask from a Swiss institute that mainly functioned as a correspondence school for Arabic shut-ins.) Likewise, no mention of Kafka, Mann, Hesse or Böll. You may expect some Dutch authors and titles from me at this point, but if I’m honest very few Dutch literary classics have stood the test of time and I basically gave up on Dutch and Flemish authors the second I graduated from high school.
And so we discussed the turgid, outdated prose that had been selected for Alexandra, even though I’d last read some titles more than twenty years ago. But that is what Wikipedia is for, right? Omar dropped in and suddenly decided he wanted to google F. Scott Fitzgerald to see if he was Jewish. He wasn’t, but he was Irish Catholic. That didn’t sit well with Omar either, obviously.
“You should read books by Muslims! If you should read at all,” he muttered.
“If I want to get a diploma I should read what’s on their list,” answered Alexandra. “And I promise never to read another book after that.”
That stung a bit, but I could see her point. Schools have a habit of sucking the joy out of reading with their selections. My German teacher allowed me to read absolutely anything as long as it had a glued spine and an ISBN number. My German reading list consisted mainly of trashy detective novels and for some reason a German translation of Catch-22 (which is hilarious if you think about it but I never noticed at the time), but he allowed it and that was one of the reasons I did so well in his class.
Still, this literary salon was not unwelcome to pass the time. Asim really, really wanted to discuss Lord of the Rings, so we spent some time on that, even though it wasn’t on Alexandra’s list. But bless him, really. He’d read a book once and wanted to talk about it. By the time we broke for dinner he’d written down seven more titles he now wanted to read and even Omar had decided he’d give Fahrenheit 451 a go, presumably because the topic of book burning appealed to him.
What with the 16 hour flight but travelling East It was around 2 p.m. on the 23rd of September when we finally landed, well-rested in my case, in Riyadh, and a fleet of cars took us back to the Guest Palace. I found myself humming from the moment the heat entered the cabin as the doors swung open and I didn’t really stop during the ride to the palace or while I was unpacking in my room.
“You are in a very good mood, Mr. Carstairs,” remarked Omar during the ride.
“I am, rather,” I admitted.
“Are you looking forward to everyone leaving for Mecca so you have the Guest Palace to yourself? Is that it?”
“No. I’m just ... I’m glad to be home, I think. It’s been a busy week. I was terrified I’d get found out all the time. And now I’m here and things are back to normal.”
“Mr. Carstairs has promised he will cook for me tonight, in my palace,” said Asim, listening in from the front seat. “Stuffed bell peppers and the Eton mess for dessert!”
Asim called his villa a palace. I suppose some kings have made do with less in the past. It was just his default word for the concept of a house, much like every hotel room was a suite to him.
“Yes, of course,” sighed Omar. “How could I forget? You’re not just suddenly a great singer and comedian, you are ALSO a chef. And a teacher.”
His voice was dripping with sarcasm at this point. It was also the first time he’d appraised my performance as more than just ‘adequate’ in private. He’d said some nice things about it in public, though, because it would be weird if he hadn’t.
“And an impressionist!” said Asim, who had clearly misread the mood from upfront.
“You are welcome to join us, Your Royal Highness” I said, feeling generous.
“Thank you, Mr. Carstairs, but I think I will spend my first evening home with my wives and children. They have missed me terribly.”
“Can I come?” asked Alexandra.
“No,” said Omar, and dug out his phone. And that was the end of it.
Much as I like going on vacation, it is always good to come back home. And this time I didn’t have much to unpack, as I didn’t bring a lot with me in the first place. There was no laundry, either: I just handed everything over to Amina, who seemed pleased to see me. She had been among the line-up waiting to greet the limousine that brought us home from the airport. Omar’s family had also been waiting (though not in a line), along with the Khafama. They made a big song and dance about his return, like he was a war hero or something. Our limousine drove off to take Asim home as soon as I got out. I deftly stepped behind the van that held our luggage, smiled at Amina, took a service door, was saluted rather sheepishly by a guard who hadn’t anticipated me and who didn’t want to risk getting yelled at and made a bee line for my room. My suitcase would no doubt follow me soon enough.
As Omar and the Khafama were elsewhere, Amina and I found the time to have tea together in my room. This was not allowed, obviously, as we were both single and therefore not allowed to socialize without supervision. Still, it would be fine. I’d look up Anaïs as well in due course, but it’s just that I ran into Amina first.
“Where have you been?” she asked, after she had bagged my laundry and we’d made ourselves comfortable. She insisted I sat in the only comfy chair in the room. She sat on the bed, but as she had made it herself that was fine.
“Las Vegas.”
“Really? But prince Omar...”
“Yeah, well ... His objections to the place were flexible, it seems.”
“Did they ... you know?”
She wanted to know if Omar and Asim had been gambling and drinking, because the Muslim rumour mill needs new grist non-stop. A juicy story about Omar would be valuable currency amongst the staff. Sadly I am not a snitch. Besides, I couldn’t in all honesty say Omar had been misbehaving. He hadn’t touched a drop of anything, nor a woman he shouldn’t have. Much like myself, by the way. The same could not be said of Asim, though. But his reputation was mud anyway. As to what Alexandra had been getting up to: most definitely wine and dancing.
“No, no, nothing like that. Just a few meetings here and there. I mean, we had a look round, obviously. No harm in looking.”
“No, that is true,” sighed Amina, clearly disappointed about the lack of goss’. “It is amazing, though. The Paris hotel. And the fountain show.”
Her eyes fixed on a point just behind me. I sipped my tea and waited until she returned.
“So you’ve been there?” I asked. This startled her.
“Oh! No! No, no. How can I? I am always here. No, I have seen something about it on television. And the fountain, that is the same fountain they have in Dubai, at the base of the Burj Khalifa. That’s how I know. I’ve been there. Dubai. Have you?”
“I have. Dubai is amazing.”
“It is. But I’m sure Las Vegas is more amazing.”
“It’s weirder, that’s for sure.”
I gently probed her about her family life, her story. Not because I’m incurably curious, but because I knew her to be entirely alone here and wanted to give her the chance to share and reminisce, or to vent if that were more applicable. Amina worked very hard, seemingly non-stop, and literally had nowhere to go in her scarce free time. The Khafama served as her mahram, which is technically not even allowed as they weren’t related. The girl was desperate for another life, but I was not here to set up an underground railroad. Some kind words and leaving the toilet without skid marks was all I had to offer.
“So what will you do when Her Royal Highness gets her diploma?” she asked, probably trying to deflect my questions about her life. I sucked in air through my teeth, then realised that’s not particularly nice and stopped half-way, which made her giggle.
“I don’t know. Omar has some younger children, but right now they just go to school here. And I’m not really a teacher by trade.”
I took another sip. Why is tea so much better from a porcelain cup than a mug?
“Maybe you can start a theatre here and give cabaret shows,” suggested Amina, grinning. “I hear you are a fantastic singer,” followed by: “OH! Are you okay? Can I ... Oh, I’m so sorry!”
I’d have done the classic spit take, but I’d just swallowed the tea and some of it went down the wrong hole, so I had a nasty coughing fit and tea even came out my nose. She ran for the bathroom and gave me a clean, fluffy white towel with the palace logo embroidered on it. Great towels to dry your balls on, by the way. I was still hacking and spluttering and she gingerly thumped my back. People have gone to prison or worse over a lot less physical contact, so I pushed her hand away.
“Don’t ... urg ... ack, ack ... grrr ... Why would you SAY that?! What do you know!?” I asked, rather angrily. How the hell did this girl know I’d been imitating the great Martin King in Vegas?
“Because ... I mean ... on the boat. You sang on Omar’s boat, right? On the night that the Professor died.”
We were in the professor’s room: I had killed him and taken over his job, to get closer to Omar. Or rather to Omar’s laptop.
“Oh, yes, THAT! The show on the boat! Yes! UUUUUGH. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Went down the wrong pipe. Windpipe. Throat.”
“Yes, that was obvious! I’m so sorry I startled you. You don’t have to be embarrassed about that! I think it is wonderful that you can do that. I would have terrible stage fright.”
“Yes, I get it now. I’d forgotten about it. Oh my goodness, I’m going to have to change this shirt, aren’t I? And the necktie. More work for you, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Carstairs. I am happy to do it. But now I have to go, or the guards may come looking for me.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, and got up. “Listen, Amina: am I right in thinking you wouldn’t mind a change in scenery? By that I mean: if I leave Saudi via ... a way other than the airport ... Would you ... want to...”
Amina gave a sad smile.
“Then I would be in Doha, or Bahrein or Oman. Alone. No passport. On a watch list.”
“Perhaps you could get asylum?”
“Maybe. If I make it to a Western embassy, you mean? Not from the brothers.”
The Arab nations refer to each other as brothers, with Saudi very much the oldest brother who thinks he should call the shots.
“Have you thought about it?”
“I would have nothing. A woman without a husband? She is worth as much as mule. And the Western embassies don’t recognise girls like me as refugees. No, that is not the way I get to leave. But it is fine, Mr. Carstairs. This is my life. Allah wills it for me.”
I fell silent. I really wanted to help her out, even with a pretend marriage, but I am not really Reginald Carstairs after all. I am Martin King and I am already married. Any Western embassy would figure that out in a hurry. Plus, for a Muslim girl marrying a Westerner who does not convert to Islam is not acceptable. No, this wasn’t anything I could help her with. Not now, at least. I had to keep my eye on the prize. The laptop.
“I see. Well ... I won’t keep you then. Let’s have tea again soon.”
“I would like that, Mr. Carstairs. And I will miss you when you are gone.”
“Not for a little while, though,” I said, and walked to the door to open it for her. Which in hindsight is weird, because she was after all my maid and neither of us really lived here.
She held her hand, or rather two fingers, against the door, to stop me from opening it.
“Do not misunderstand me when I say this, Mr. Carstairs: if you need HELP, I will help you. I don’t mean ... touching. But help. Real help. You can always ask.”
“Help me? That is ... very kind. But I’m fine, really.”
She looked at me for a few seconds, as if the answer to some puzzle was scribbled on my forehead.
“Just remember. Even if I can’t help, it is always safe to ask.”
“Thank you, Amina. Likewise.”
She put her headscarf back on and left the room. A colleague in the corridor called out to her and so I stood back and let her pull the door shut, so someone else wouldn’t have any gossip either.
Right, what’s next? Shopping! Asim had requested one of his favourite dishes, although I’d never heard a word against anything I’d served up so I think he was just glad I was coming over. I got changed, entirely ready for the day even though I’d been on a plane throughout the night. A quick shower had been more than enough. My phone and watch were charged and just as I was ready to leave the room my watch buzzed. The screen showed a yellow question mark.
“Oh God, the car!” I sighed, and stepped back into the room to call K-T.
“The number you have reached...”
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Please state your name and the purpose of your call.”
I knew she had to do that, to verify it was actually me. Just like some websites log you out if you’ve been inactive, K-T occasionally needed to hear my voice.
“K-T, it’s Reginald. I’m back in the country. How have you been?”
“Confirmed. Hello Reginald. You’ve been away for a long time.”
“I know. I suppose you’d like to have a wash?”
“I am currently at the garage, fully charged. I did not want to enter the palace grounds during your absence. Would you like me to collect you?”
“Uuuuuhm ... Let’s not, until the guard has seen me behind the wheel. Tell you what, meet me at the Lulu mall. In Murabba.”
“Do you mean the Riyadh Avenue mall?”
“Yes. With the Lulu.”
“Understood. You have seventeen messages.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I am unable to...”
“Okay, see you there.”
I didn’t always use K-T, especially because I sometimes sent her out to keep an eye on things elsewhere. I could either take one of the palace staff cars, but you’re expected to return those, or request a driver from the drivers pool in the main palace. That meant driving a golf cart from the Guest Palace to the main palace, which I found to be very, very enjoyable. The gardening team had everything ship shape and I drove past luscious hedge rows, a burbling fountain and a row of pink roses, sheltered from the worst heat by a perforated sun shade, which gave a lovely, dappled effect and helped the smell to linger near the well-watered flowers. It was hot outside, but it had been hot in Las Vegas as well and by now I don’t worry about it so much. You’re never more than a few metres away from the shade or an air-conditioned car. You’ll live.
I had an easy time getting a chauffeur, as several volunteered as soon as I showed my face at the desk. I’m an easy customer: I don’t stand on ceremony, I know where I want to go and I won’t make them park and wait in the sun for six to eight hours and then make them drive me to a restaurant or drag them through a shopping mall to use as a cheap pack mule. Rich people can be pretty awful to service staff, though that is not exclusive to Muslims. I had a driver back home, Ali, and he was a pain in the neck sometimes, but I would never decide where he should park or deny him the chance to grab lunch or use the toilet just so I wouldn’t have to wait five minutes. And so I soon found myself in the cool, marble corridors of the mall where I knew to find everything. K-T signalled to let me know she was parked outside and so I got a trolley and entered the Lulu supermarket to start the big shop for tonight’s dinner.
A heavyset man approached me near the freezer section.
“Scuse me,” he said, in an American accent. “There’s supposed to be a sports fishing store round here?”
“There is. Top floor of the tower section. You just...”
“Then get your ass in there, son,” he grumbled, and walked off.
Ah yes, the sports fishing store. It’s not my hobby (and I certainly don’t consider it a sport) but if you are in the market for a silly hat, lures, wader boots, nets and fishing rods there is no better place to go than Moh’d bin Lursi trading Sports Fishing Supplies. Even though Riyadh is hundreds of kilometres from the sea and nowhere near an inland lake or even a river! But then, it is actually a CIA front. The salesman, a dark-skinned Pakistani with enviable hair, will happily sell you whatever you like, but if the camera hidden somewhere in the glass display case that faces the entrance identifies you he may also let you into the back room. And that’s where I went after I’d done my shopping and placed the bags in K-T’s trunk with explicit instructions to keep things nice and cool back there.
Gerard was waiting for me. He was a man with Asian features and I knew him quite well. He greeted me with typical American exuberance, as if we’d been linebackers together.
“Martin! Good to see you man! Shit, you had yourself an adventure there, didn’t ya? John is on his way. Have you got time for a debrief?”
“Gerard, do you sit here all day, just in case an agent shows up? I mean ... it’s weird enough having a totally useless store as a front, but why be here? What’s here that can’t be done ANYWHERE else?”
“So no hello then?”
“Hello. Gerard, do you sit here all day, just in case...”
“Yeah yeah yeah, I get it. Look, I could tell you...”
“But then you’d have to kill me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that myself. But let’s just say there is more on this floor than just this shop. And we didn’t build it, we bought it. It had been here for six years before we moved in. We’re actually the only business that imports wading boots. Plumbers like them, and construction crews working on the tunnels for the subway. And there’s quite a few aquariums around town, public and private. We’re the only place where you can get filters and fish food and stuff like that.”
We could hear John’s booming voice as he entered the store.
“Is he here?” he asked.
“Oh hey, I didn’t tell him YOU had come in,” said Gerard hurriedly. “He thinks it’s a different operator. But I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of seeing you.”
“Oh thanks! I love being a disappointment!”
John came into the stock room, which we used as a meeting room, and was met by Gerard.
“Jerry! I’m up to my neck in fucking rice niggers now. You know those engineering teams they got ... JESUS WEPT, IT’S AGENT ORANGE! HOLY HELL!”
He moved in for a hug. It’s scary to be hugged by a CIA capo, let me tell you. Would I be getting bugged? Painted with a radioactive marker? Injected with something?
“HEY HEY HEY! Get back!” I said, and pushed him away.
“Oh, man! What the ... I’m glad to see you!” said John, now indignant.
“That’s nice. I’m happy to see you, too. I just wasn’t expecting a bear hug, okay?”
“Man, I thought you Scandinavian types were all about getting in touch with your feelings,” shrugged John, and pulled up a chair. I didn’t bite. The CIA does not employ people who think The Netherlands is a Scandinavian country.
“What does that guy have to do to get a cup of tea, anyway?” he asked Gerard.
“Wait five minutes until Brady is back from the supermarket, ‘cause we only had Earl Grey and he don’t like that,” explained Gerard and sat down.
“Okay, agent Hollywood, tell us all about your trip. You fucking MANIAC you!”
John playfully thumped my shoulder.
“That was you on stage in Vegas, right? Martin King, Still Alive in Vegas. Brilliant title.”
I gasped. Was he serious? ‘Was that you on stage?’
“Y ... yes! Who the FUCK else would it be!?”
“Yeah, I thought so. Man, I would have paid almost any amount to have been in the audience. Jonathan said it was awesome.”
“Jonathan? You mean ... my singing instructor?”
“Vocal coach. Yeah. One of our guys. He’s actually a dialect coach. Helps agents with regional accents, English and Spanish. He’s the son in law of a buddy of mine. Said you nailed it. And that you did a great job making the Arabs believe you were actually Martin King’s secret double. But I didn’t think you’d be coming back, into the lion’s den.”
“I had to. I still don’t know what the money is for. And I haven’t gotten into Omar’s laptop either.”
“Shame. They did a great job of keeping the transfer a secret. Jonathan never found out how and where they did it, either. We tagged a few cars, but they swapped ‘em out. Oh well, it’s just a matter of sneaking into his office. I can get you an autopick and all the gear you need to copy his drive.”
“I think I have that covered. But an automatic lockpick would be good to have.”
“Great! You took some pictures of the lock, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s have a look. Hey, I hear all kinds of celebs showed up at your show?”
“Could we just focus on the...”
“Oh yeah, sure.”
As it turned out, Omar’s room had a security lock that required a special type of autopick. It would take 48 hours to get it here.
“That’s two days! He’s going to Mecca any day now, for the hajj.”
“Well shit. I might be able to hurry it up, but it ain’t like we got a warehouse full of them. Do you know where the key is?”
“Omar has one, but I’ve never even been near his private rooms. The Khafama has one, too. His rooms are outside the family area.”
“Well, start there. I’ll put a rush on that pick, but the sooner you get in, the better. Oh hey, your boss asked if you wouldn’t mind dropping in.”
“My boss? What, Omar?”
“Edgebaston! You know! Your MI6 handler!”
“Oh, HIM! You know, I’d forgotten all about him. I don’t think I’ll bother, really. What’s the bloody point of him anyway.”
This was very amusing to John and Gerard.
“Do you want me to get an application form so we can make this permanent?” teased John.
“Yes, very funny. When this is over I’ll be sure to give the CIA a positive review on Yelp. Now, I have about half an hour before I am expected at Asim’s house to cook dinner. So, where can I get a set of Torx screwdrivers, but for those secure versions with the dome in the middle. Know what I mean? T8, 9 or 10, probably.”
“They’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” said Gerard, reaching for his phone.
“Wonderful. Any other questions?”
K-T was unusually quiet on the drive to Asim’s large and mostly empty villa, which he referred to as a palace because, you know, a prince lived there. It did actually have a small silver emblem on the gate, which indicated to local police to tread carefully or refer matters to the palatial security service. I watched that emblem swing away as I drove K-T through the main gate. Asim came out of the house to greet me.
“Reggie! So good to see you!”
“Hello, Asim. Would you mind helping me with the bags?”
I had an enjoyable evening in Asim’s home, which had been my home for a few weeks as well. I’d spruced up the kitchen considerably and he had left it like that, even though he usually had all his meals delivered from the palace. Left to his own devices he could make cornflakes for breakfast and prepare a frozen pizza, but that was about it. I prepared the dish and we played a racing game in his living room on one of his many consoles while it was in the oven. After he had beaten me for the third time in a row, despite my best efforts, he paused the game.
“Carstairs, did you mean it when you said you would be interested in coming with us to Mecca?”
“Oh, absolutely. I mean, I may underestimate the inconvenience. If it means I’ll basically be locked up along with Alexandra for the duration I may have to reconsider, but if it means I get an opportunity to see what it’s all about? Love to. Especially if you’re coming as well.”
“Yes, I am. I am looking forward to it. And I know Omar is considering it, but he is without his advisor. It’s hard for him. They were close friends.”
I’d seen the pair of them together. They were not. They were both the sort of people who never had any real friends and so they assumed time plus proximity equalled friendship. I was honestly better friends with the guy who brought me tea and toast every morning, and I still couldn’t tell you his name.
“I understand. Well, we’ll see how he decides. I take it you are pleading my case?”
“If you want! I would love to show you everything!”
“Thank you. Now, I have to get back to the kitchen.”
I’m such a mother hen sometimes. But hey, the bar for what passes for entertainment in Saudi Arabia is incredibly low. Cooking and video games were some of the best options around.
I got home, that is to say I got back to the Guest Palace, at around ten p.m. and left K-T in the nearest car park. A prayer was in progress, but guards on duty were exempt from those and would ‘catch up’ later, or do a quickie. I got one or two disparaging looks, although I interpret them as envy. Once a guard locked me out when I wanted to enter the building just a few minutes after prayer had begun and even had the temerity to point to the prayer room where everyone had gone, but I just walked fifty metres to a service entrance and let myself in. Security in this place was an absolute joke. Yes, there were guards. But nothing ever happened, so they had become experts at killing time. There were cameras on the grounds, but I never actually saw anyone watching the monitors and their double standards prevented them from aiming them anywhere a woman might conceivably show up. And the people who lived at the Guest Palace didn’t like them either, so there was a camera in the elevators and the lobby and that was it.
Fortune favours the bold, so I tried the Khafama’s door, just to see if it would open. Bloody heck, it did! But I wasn’t too sure how long he’d be gone, so as soon as I stepped into the room my heart started racing. Just to be safe I said:
“I have a complaint about the water pressure!”
There was no answer, but there was the distinct smell of an old man who lives alone in a room and will fart whenever he damn well pleases.
His room was similar to mine in size, but not in its lay-out. The ceiling light was off, but there was a light on the wall at the back of the room. That was enough.
Near the door was a flat screen television, currently showing a static image of a mosque. That’s just what the Saudi broadcasters do: when it’s time to pray, they don’t do a nice lead-in with breaks, ads and promos timed to end exactly as prayer starts: they just yank whatever is being broadcast off the air and switch to a pre-recorded clip for that particular prayer. An actor could be mid-sentence, they just don’t give a damn. A solemn voice comes on, along with a picture of a mosque and a slow text scroll. Rachmene, rachmene rachim! Whatever the fuck that means, because as we all know by now my Arabic ain’t worth a damn. Probably means ‘Roll up, roll up, laaaaadies an’ gennemen!’
Anyway, I was in a hurry but I figured the key wouldn’t be necessarily hidden. I don’t hide my car keys at home either, I keep them in a drawer. At the far end of his room, next to his bed (which had clearly just been slept in), there was a modest, wooden writing desk. Nothing special, but not office furniture either. His phone was on there, charging. A stack of documents with Palace and Ministerial letterheads, a brochure from a dental clinic, bottled water and a tissue box. Nothing special. But then I made the mistake of looking in the waste paper basket between his bed and the desk. Wanna guess? No you fucking don’t, mate. You do not want to guess how many crumpled up tissues I saw in that basket, or the smell that suddenly entered my nostrils.
The desk had a raised section at the back, with several small drawers that opened by lifting up and pulling copper rings. I didn’t waste time putting on my gloves and just opened the drawers. Top left: stapler, sticky tape, a comb, box of thumbtacks. Second from left: glasses case, a small scorpion cast in resin, a strip of CR2032 batteries with one missing. Next one: KEYS! Including one that was very different than the normal, saw toothed keys that were in use inside the palace: this one had dimples. That just had to be the key to Omar’s office. I pocketed it and headed to the door. But just as I was about to go through, I heard the Khafama’s voice in the corridor. He mumbled to himself. It sounded to me like: ‘Did I leave the door open?’
Now I could have easily overpowered him, but then it was game over. I could probably find a place to store his corpse for a day or so, but that meant I would need to leave the palace and indeed the country within hours. Another option was to stand here, arms crossed, and fake a complaint. But then he’d know I was in his room, at a very strange time. It’s not as if I could claim to have been unaware of prayer time, even though I did not participate. They make damned sure everybody knows about it.
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