The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 2: Home Shit Home
Still Wednesday, Sept 9th, 2015. Guest Palace. ///keener.statue.scanner
As prisons go, this palace was certainly an improvement. And if I’m honest, which I generally am, I didn’t even think of contacting my parents until I’d had a rigorous shower in that marvellously tiled bathroom and a nice long go on the Japanese magical toilet. That water jet probed parts of me that had never seen daylight in order to flush out the last lumps of carbon, let me tell you. (I’m actually long overdue for a prostate examination, but as long as those require a twenty-four hour fast and a man with rubber gloves drawing the blinds that is just not going to happen. You totally should get examined, I really do mean that. But it’s not for me.)
Once I felt suitably cleansed I found my phone had charged back to twenty-six percent, so it was time to call my parents and let them know the crisis was over. The thing is: I had no idea how to reach them. Dad had mentioned the hotel ‘shaped like a Ladyshave’, but I didn’t have a room number. And even though I do have a head for numbers, I didn’t actually know their mobile numbers from memory as dad kept shopping around for the cheapest contracts. And so I called Keller & Fox and asked for Alice, Caroline’s secretary. I could have called Kate, but technically I was still a spy of sorts and calling my former office was already risky enough. I’d also memorised two contact numbers given to me by MI6, but they had been entirely useless so far.
Alice was dumbstruck when I announced myself.
“Martin? You’re FREE?”
“Yes. But I’m still in the country. And I will be, for the foreseeable future. So can you contact Caroline and would you happen to know where my parents are staying?”
“Yes. Yes! I can find out. And Kate, can I tell Kate?”
“Yes, you can tell Kate. Please do, in fact.”
“I’ll call Caroline and let her know you can be reached on this number. Or ... can you? I mean ... is it safe?”
“Safe enough, I suppose. But I’ll take some precautions, anyway. Have her give me five minutes.”
My precautions, and I do hope I am not divulging any intelligence trade secrets that will make me be seen as a tattle tale by the spying community, was to step into the bathroom and turn on the shower and the hair dryer. Clever, right? I mean, I could have searched the place for bugs, but first of all I’d be amazed if there were any and second (of all? Such an incongruous language, English) that would take half an hour. The hair dryer was an ‘inheritance’ from the late Professor Rasul, which I kept around to dry my razor blade. They last much longer if you dry them thoroughly, you see. Same goes for testicles, by the way.
Sure enough, Caroline called after five minutes. The number was, as always, shielded.
“And we have a caller! Hello, you’re on the air with Carstairs and friends!”
“Very ... funny...” said Caroline. “Where in blazes are you?”
“Where the buffalo roams. But do you know where I can reach my parents?”
“The Four Seasons, of course. Martin, when were you released?”
“About an hour ago. Look, I want to see mum and dad first thing. Can you let them know I am on my way? I mean, I assume you’re in contact with them?”
“Yes, dear. I’ll inform them. They’re booked in under your own name.”
“Good. I need to pick up my car on the way. Be there in ... forty-five, I should think.”
“I’ll let them know. Martin, do NOT discuss anything with them. Don’t pour your heart out. Certain things have been kept from your mother. Most things, in fact.”
“Understood.”
After a careful shave, more of a trim really, I picked out a suit for the occasion. The occasion being that I was standing upright, because I always wear a suit. Well, Carstairs does. I went for a relatively formal one, although it was the only Italian cut I had with me. The Boglioli was navy blue, combined very nicely with a salmon pink shirt and a brownish silk necktie mum had given me for my last birthday. I think she was shocked at having spent well over two hundred quid on a tie, but she’d made the mistake of asking Caroline for advice.
I only had one decent pair of brown shoes left, picked the nearest cufflinks and tie clip I could find and finally strapped my government issue spy watch onto my wrist. It was dead as a doornail, because it barely survived for more than twenty-four hours unless I recharged it by holding on to the steering wheel of my government issued spy car, a modified Aston Martin Rapide S.
It was an electric car. In Saudi Arabia. Let that sink in for a moment: they gave me an EV in a country that has absolutely zero interest in providing charging stations. Driving electric had been massively inconvenient most of the time, because even though the range was fairly impressive, it hadn’t actually been enough to take me from Doha to Riyadh in one go. But then again, the car was self-driving and equipped with an A.I. that sometimes actually proved useful. Mind you, most of the time it wouldn’t understand a word I said, or just throw whatever I said to Google and read out the first search result, but there had been a few occasions where I was glad to have it help me out. The second worst thing about it was that it had been equipped with the voice of my sister, Kate. It made me miss her. (The first worst thing was that they’d named the bloody thing K-T and I hadn’t caught on to the wordplay for several weeks.)
I had ordered K-T to make its way to the border after it ... well, I’d come to think of it as female so she then, after she had dropped me off at the airport. But then I saw her trailing the prison van that took me from the airport to the jail, or I thought I did, and so I was reasonably sure she’d still be around. I had rented a garage especially for her. The building was in fact an old car workshop, including an office and a four post car lift with an inspection pit. It could have easily held ten cars, but I got a good deal on the rent and I installed an induction charger in the inspection pit so she could charge herself up. In fact, she could open and close the garage door as well. The only thing she couldn’t do was get a wash, because the Smiling Saudi hologram she could project behind the wheel wasn’t actually capable of any interaction with humans beyond a friendly nod.
I called her after I had inspected myself in the mirror.
“The number you have dialled is not currently in service,” said my sister’s voice.
“It’s me, Carstairs.”
“Hello, Reginald.”
“Where are you?”
“I am currently parked at the mall nearest Asim’s house. My state of charge is ninety-six percent.”
“Good. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
“Understood. As your watch has discharged, remember to face me for visual identification.”
“I know. See ya.”
“Standing by.”
Another prayer was in progress when I exited the lift and left the Guest Palace, as this building was called. It was on the grounds of one of the largest royal palaces, but there are quite a few of those and King Salman moves around quite a bit. Still, this palace had grounds the size of a mid-size airport, more buildings than I had managed to visit or indeed count so far, several layers of security including armed guards on rooftops and not one but two checkpoints along the long and winding exit road. The gardens were nothing short of magnificent and I’m sure the compound used about as much fresh water as the whole of Belgium on waffle maker cleaning day. (Every third Sunday of the month, Saturdays if that’s Christmas.) A wall ran around most of it, which is not unreasonable for a palace. I usually took my lunch at the largest building, which was where they hosted all the parties, kept most of the garish artwork and where King Salman locked up the majority of his female relatives when he was in Riyadh.
Prince Asim and his family had taken up residence in the Guest Palace, which was about five minutes away by golf cart. That’s where I lived, now that I was the personal remedial teacher of Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra bint Al-Said bin Saud.
Outside the Guest Palace was a small parking lot, where a few golf carts were available for staff members who had any sort of business at the main palace. For those who got to leave the grounds (which didn’t include palace staff and certainly not the women), there were six silver or white cars available. I usually took out the Ford Focus, but they were all nearly new and all had license plates and some other markings identifying them as palace slash government vehicles. Keys were left in the cubby holes of a wooden rack at the reception desk, so the guard on duty could keep an eye on them. If you were allowed to take out a car, which I was, you were supposed to leave a key ring with your name on it in the cubby hole. I was the only person who actually ever did so. Keys got lost constantly, which I suppose was one reason none of these cars was more than a year old. They kept a spare key for each one, but as keys these days also have transponders in them and can’t easily be copied, they just sold off the car as soon as both keys were lost. And of course, some cars never returned. One was found in a ravine in Iran, which is impressive as Saudi Arabia is in a virtual state of war with them, and then there’s the fact both countries don’t exactly border each other. Another car had been left at the airport and was recovered three years later.
My favourite was available, so within minutes I calmly drove along the tall, verdant hedges that lined the driveway, merged with traffic on King Fahd road and headed towards downtown Riyadh. By now I could probably make a living as a cab driver in this town, because I couldn’t actually read most of the street names and therefore had learned to navigate by landmarks such as malls, weirdly ornate coffee cans and fountains in the middle of roundabouts, company names on prominent buildings, malls, clinics, embassies and such. I’d sometimes use prince Asim’s white Land Rover, which had a navigation system that showed me all the street names in English. That helped, too. And they do label some major roads both in Arabic and English, because otherwise all the barely literate slaves ... sorry TCNs, would get lost. They don’t all speak Arabic, even if they’re Muslim.
It took me about twenty minutes to get to K-T, who was parked on the sprawling parking lot of a shopping centre. The fancy ones have covered parking, but this one didn’t, which made it a lot easier to find her. It, I mean. I parked next to it and positioned myself in front of the car for a few seconds, until I heard the door unlock.
“Hello dear, how have you been?” I asked, as I got into the driver’s seat. The car was nice and cool, because she knew I was coming.
“Systems are nominal. Please position your hands on the wheel to initiate charging your watch.”
I felt it easier to take off my watch and strap it on the steering wheel, at the six o’clock position. A red, empty battery symbol appeared on screen.
“So, were you behind me when I was being taken to jail, or is that my imagination?”
“I am unable to parse that statement.”
I sighed. This car had moods. One moment she’d act almost human and even ask to be washed, but the next she’d be as smart as a toilet roll holder at the DMV. Which is worrying, given that this was an autonomous vehicle.
“Oh, I see. It’s that time of the month again, is it?”
“It is four minutes after six p.m. on Wednesday, September ninth.”
“Oh, that’s it, I’m driving. Engage manual drive.”
“Engaged.”
As prayer had ended and most people were heading home, I got stuck in Riyadh’s rush hour traffic. This was fine, because I knew the city well enough to avoid the major arteries. I was now headed for the Kingdom Centre, a vanity project if ever there was one. It’s a very, very tall building that looks like a potato peeler. Or the eye of Sauron, if you’re a bit more creative. It’s 300 metres high, but that record was shattered soon after its completion in 2002. There’s a hole at the top with a skybridge across it. You have to pay to visit the observatory, which is unusual in a country that generally picks up any and all tabs for its citizens. Even though 300 metres is a bit pathetic in this day and age, it’s still a formidable landmark even in Riyadh. Prince Asim used to have an apartment there and I’d been to the hotel twice: once because I needed a crash pad and once because I needed to seduce an asset (I CAN HEAR YOU SNIGGERING AT THE BACK YOU KNOW! SEE ME AFTER!), by which I mean I needed a place to have sex with a nice girl. We did, but then the Mutawa showed up and that was a whole thing because you can’t even be in a hotel room with a woman who is not related to you, much less fuck her silly. However, if she’s related to you then raping her is fine. Such a rich culture, don’t you think?
Now I will be the first to admit that I’ve had less formal spy training than the bloke who cleans the gutters of the MI6 instruction centre I managed to get myself kicked out of in less than a week, but I was pretty damned sure I was being followed. Two black SUVs seemed to be playing tag behind my back. Cars like that are anything but rare in Saudi, but these had Westerners behind the wheel. White men, with baseball caps. Two in each car. That’s odd.
There are various techniques to check if you’re being followed, but most take ages, some will get you ticketed, virtually all are conspicuous to your pursuers and I was hungry. And so I used the only technique I figured was safe: I pulled into a KFC drive-thru. Sure, mum would be angry with me for spoiling my appetite, but I was long overdue something hearty and somehow I didn’t think Four Seasons room service was going to do the trick. But the thing is, I didn’t have my reading glasses on me so I couldn’t really read the descriptions below the pictures on the sign at the entrance, and I generally avoid fast food anyway.
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