(Wrath-02)-Darkness of This World (2012) Read online

  All of the media, including the eight daily newspapers, are owned and controlled by one prince or another. The government maintains the Royal Decree for Printed Material and Publications with a list of topics that are prohibited to be written about or discussed. The Saudi Communications Company controls the backbone network through which access to the Internet must pass, and the list of approved sites is very short indeed. The mutawwa are tasked with enforcing the Wahhabist interpretation of Islam by scouring the culture for immoral teachings or immodest dress. Every public facility, including Western businesses like McDonalds or Starbucks, must enforce a kind of sexual apartheid, with separate entries and facilities for women and men. The men’s sections are lavish and comfortable, while the women and family sections are often dilapidated and neglected, sometimes not even offering seats.

  It is appalling to those who aren’t familiar with the culture. But it is the way it’s been in Saudi Arabia for hundreds of years.

  Until now.

  Now there were a very few of those who felt it was time to make a change. A few men within the royal family who felt it was time to turn the monarchy over to the forces of democratic power.

  His Royal Highness, King Faysal, Monarch of the House of Saud, was one of those men.

  King Faysal knew it would take several generations for the transition to be complete, but he was convinced that democracy and the teachings of Islam were not mutually exclusive ideals, and it was time for the kingdom to take the first step. Which meant it was time for the monarch to give up much of his family’s great power. It was a radical heretical and insane idea! But King Faysal had already begun. Over the past twenty years, he had reined in the mutawwa, set up civil courts with professional judges, authorized city councils outside of the influence of royal patronage, and, for the first time, named men to senior government positions who were not his nephews or sons. The next step was to free the press. A national assembly would follow, though that was still ten or fifteen years away.

  Fighting two hundred years of tradition, the courageous king had instituted the first steps of reform.

  But to say there was resistance among the princes would have been a colossal understatement, for they knew what they would lose. All of their money and power was at risk. They were the richest family in the world. It was a lot to give away.

  The king understood their anger, for he wasn’t a fool. Still, after a long life of laying the foundation, King Faysal intended to accelerate the transition to democracy by appointing his first son, Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal, to take his place on the throne, and Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal would be the last king, for he had already made a covenant with his father to complete the transition to democracy.

  The only problem, of course, was that there were other sons.

  And they were far from convinced that Crown Prince Saud should be king.

  • • •

  On the outskirts of the great city, at the end of a tree-lined road that abruptly stopped at a cement barricade, behind a wall with hidden towers and razor wire, was one of the three dozen homes the Crown Prince of the House of Saud had. The future king was a large man with dark eyes and broad shoulders and short, curly hair. He was fourty-seven, but looked younger, though there were days he felt very old. With a degree from the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard, the crown prince was decisive and sharp-tongued with his subordinates, but warm and easily manipulated by his family and friends.

  The prince sat quietly at the end of an enormous mahogany table. To his side, sat the American general. They were the only two men in a room so large it could have accommodated a group of a hundred or more. Brilliant tapestries, some five hundred years old, hung on the walls. The floor was imported Italian tile, the doorframes were rare and unnamed woods shipped from the Indian forest. The ceiling moldings were gold plated. Crushed glass had been mixed with the pastel paints on the walls, giving the room a brilliant radiance from the desert sun that reflected through the twenty-foot windows.

  The general stared for a brief moment, taking in the beauty of the room. The prince didn’t notice. He had a lot on his mind. He needed a smoke and he fidgeted nervously as he tapped on his pack of American cigarettes. Moving his chair across the tile, the prince leaned his arms on the table. “Coffee?” he offered.

  The general shook his head.

  “I’ve got some beautiful teas I’ve brought in from Oman. The leaf is so thick, it will, how do you say it . . . knock your feet off.”

  The general smiled. “I think you mean knock your socks off, Prince Saud, and no tea, but thank you.” He smiled again, knowing the prince was teasing him now.

  “How about a Coke then, General Brighton?”

  “Yes. That’d be great.”

  “Diet? Caffeine free?”

  “Regular Coke is fine.”

  “Oh, you crazy fool!” the prince scolded, trying to hide the smile on his face. “Get you away from Sara and you really cut loose! Next thing you know, you’ll visit my kingdom and take home another wife!”

  The general shook his head adamantly. “You know Sara. I don’t need to say any more.”

  “Yes, yes, General Brighton,” the prince finally smiled. “If all men were so lucky! And frankly, good friend, I don’t understand how she fell for you. You are like a Bedouin camel herder who married a princess. Despite all your failings, God has smiled on you.”

  Neil only nodded. The crown prince was joking, but he knew it was true. “And how is Princess Tala?” Neil asked.

  Saud nodded happily. “Beautiful as ever! And did you know we were expecting another son?”

  Neil smiled happily. “Congratulations!”

  Prince Saud clapped his hands in a gesture of gratitude, then touched a hidden button under his desk. A young Indian man hurried into the room holding a silver tray over his head. He poured soda for the American and tea for his master, then laid out a silver tray of sugar cookies and pastries and hurried from the room.

  The crown prince studied his friend and smiled with satisfaction. “How long has it been, Neil?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Crown Prince Saud,” Neil replied. He never called the prince by his first name. “Sometime just before the fall of the Prince Basser. We saw each other at the U.N. Liberation Conference. That’s been, what, almost a year now?”

  The prince grimaced slightly at the use of the word Liberation. Well, maybe. Depending on who one was talking to. He sipped at his tea. “You are too busy now, Neil,” he said over his china tea cup. “We never have time to talk! I used to see you regularly until you earned your first star.”

  “Life has picked up a little, there’s no doubt about that.”

  “And you have grown so quiet, my good friend. Tight-lipped and secretive. Are you never going to tell me about what you do now?”

  “Your Highness, you already know. I work for the NSA. Long days, piles of paperwork, endless meetings, buckets of mindless reports, huge egos and office politics more bloody than war. There, that’s my job. Not much excitement, I assure you of that.”

  The crown prince huffed in sarcastic reply. “I think that’s not true, my good friend. Not now. Not in these times. Not with the battles raging against rising tides. You’re the military liaison to the White House national security advisor! You are the tip of the sword. Everything runs through the NSA! Every proposal, every war plan or decision is vetted through you. It is a very important position. High visibility. Very fast track. You personally brief the president almost every week. I’d say, my good friend, you are on your way to the top. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Doesn’t that have a good ring?”

  The general didn’t answer, but picked up his glass and took a drink of his soda.

  “I think you are involved in quite important decisions that you can’t talk about,” the prince prodded. “Which was exactly why I brought you here,” he quickly thought to himself. “If you will just listen! If you will read between the lines. If you will think and remember what I tell
you today!”

  The prince tapped the pack of cigarettes as he thought to himself. “How are your sons?” he then asked. “Twin sons! Allah has blessed you. How old are they now? They must almost be men!”

  “Luke and Ammon turned nineteen last winter, and Sam, do you remember our adopted son? He’s in the Army. I’m proud of them all. “

  The prince smiled happily. “I am happy for you and Sara. You are good parents, I think, even in your old age.”

  Brighton laughed. “Remember, Your Highness, I am two years younger than you, and you don’t seem to be slowing down in your parenting despite your old age. Didn’t you just tell me Princess Tala was about to have another son.”

  “Yes, well, it is one of the responsibilities of a king. I’m just doing my job.” Both men smiled before the prince continued in a much more serious tone. “As the crown prince of the House of Saud, the royal line runs through my veins, leaving me the obligation to produce future kings, and though I have eight daughters, I have only three sons. All of my younger brothers have more sons than I do. It leaves me in a position of weakness, I’m afraid.”

  The crown prince peered at the general, an intense look on his face. “Listen to me, Neil! See the look in my eye! I can’t say it out loud, so remember my words. I have only three sons. My brothers have many more. My oldest son will be the next king, but only IF they let him live!”

  General Brighton watched the prince carefully as an uncomfortable silence developed. The prince was worried about something. He sensed it and frowned, not knowing what to say.

  The prince stared at him a moment, then sipped at his tea. “Is this room also bugged,” he wondered? “Do they listen here as they listen everywhere?”

  Brighton pushed his chair back from the table to cross his legs, then brushed his hand through his hair. “You know, Prince Saud, for a short time we had the most exquisite decoration hanging over our fireplace at home. A silver-and-gold emblem of the House of Saud. Two crossed swords and a palm tree. It was simply the most beautiful thing we ever owned.”

  “You enjoy it?”

  “Of course!” Brighton answered as he thought of the gift from the prince. Three hundred thousand dollars worth of gold, silver, diamonds and pearls! (He had been forced to appraise it before turning it over to the government.) He shook his head. “It was too much, my good friend!” he said.

  “Are you kidding? To celebrate the coming of age of your sons? It was too little, I assure you, and it was but the smallest token of my affection for you and your wife. When a son reaches adulthood, it is reason for celebration. I just wanted you and Sara to know I was thinking of you.”

  The general sipped his soda. “Thank you again, Your Highness. Still, you are too generous, and of course, as you know, I had to register the gift with the Pentagon Ethics Division. They actually own it now. It is property of the U.S. government. They let me keep it for awhile, but it is not really mine. Conflict of interest. I hope you understand.”

  “I understand, I understand. I even suspected that might be necessary. When you retire, I will send you another one just like it that will truly be yours.”

  “Your Highness, perhaps it would be better . . . .”

  The prince waved a dismissive hand. “Please, Neil, it is a tiny thing to me and I want to do it, OK? Now instead of worrying about the complications of gifts and ethics, let’s pretend for a while, OK? Let’s pretend we’re fighter pilots again. Let’s pretend we don’t have the weight of the world on our shoulders. Let’s pretend time hasn’t changed us and the world is more simple and less dangerous, like it was before. Let’s pretend we are back at fighter pilot school, back when you weren’t so impressed that I came from the royal family and I was more impressed with your flying, and please, will you not call me Your Highness? When it’s just you and me, and no one else is around, can we go back to the way that it once used to be? Let’s go back to our call signs. I’ll call you Gameboy and you call me Sultan.”

  The general laughed at the memory of when they were young pilots learning to fly the F-15, a couple young lieutenants slicing the air like thunderbolts through the skies. They felt like Greek gods! They had the power of flight! Nothing could destroy them! They were invincible!

  Both men smiled as they relived their private memories. Then the prince spoke, “General Brighton, over the years, you have always been a good friend. We see each other so rarely, but it always seems like nothing has changed.”

  The American general nodded. “I was thinking the same thing on my flight over. It’s been, what, more than twenty years since we first met at Eglin. Remember that place, Prince Saud? I used to complain about the heat. You complained about the cold. Playing golf until midnight with those stupid glow-in-the-dark balls, then staying up to study until 3 AM. Life was simple. Those were truly good days.”

  “We didn’t have so much responsibility, that’s for sure. Now here I am, the crown prince, and you, one of the youngest generals in the Air Force. We both carry heavy burdens. It’s not quite like the old days when the only thing we worried about was crashing into each other or running out of fuel.” The prince fell quiet, then added, “You know though, I have pretty much proven I am a better pilot than you.”

  The general had to laugh. “Are we really going to have this conversation again?”

  “No, no really, Neil. Think back to when we first met. As I recall, you made a pretty big deal about how American fighter pilots were the best in the world. I took exception. Now I think it’s time to lay down our cards and see what we have.”

  Brighton looked down and pressed the dark blouse of his Air Force blues. “You know, Prince Saud, we’re never going to settle this until we strap on a jet and call ‘fights on’ in the air.”

  “No, no, no, that’s not true. We have twenty years’ worth of flying to back up our claims. Now, let me see, how many enemy fighters have you shot down?”

  “Not fair, Saud! I was working on the staff during the war. No one was more disappointed than I was that I was not flying!”

  “Yes, my sympathies, OK. Now back to my question. I had two confirmed kills. Really had three, but the gun camera jammed so I couldn’t confirm that last kill, and you know the rules, no gun camera footage, no kill. Either way, I’m not selfish. I’ll let the other one go. So let’s see, that’s two, really three, as I just said, and you have, ah, how many enemy jets have you shot down in your career . . . ?” The prince’s voice trailed off but his eyes twinkled brightly.

  The general shifted in his seat. His face remained calm, but he clasped his hands. The competitor inside him started to rise.

  The prince looked for the white knuckles. He knew his friend well. “OK, OK, let’s not talk about that,” he said. “You’re right, that wouldn’t be fair. I mean, it’s not your fault you were forced to be a staff boy when the big show came to town. Let’s take another measure, ah, flying hours. I’ve got almost three thousand. More fighter time in the Eagle than any other pilot in the entire Royal Saudi Air Force.”

  “Got you there, Saud,” Brighton replied. “I’m pushing almost three thousand five hundred flying hours.”

  “Really? That is impressive!” The prince settled back in his chair. “But you know, of course, that I’m not including any of the time I’ve logged as an F-15 instructor pilot. Can’t count sitting in the backseat, watching some lieutenant jerk the control stick around. That’s not real flying, keeping some insane student pilot from killing himself! Real pilots do it. Watching doesn’t count! Now Neil, you’re not including your instructor time, are you, because if I were to do that, I’d be up around three thousand six hundred hours.” Again, the prince smiled. Game and match!

  The general struggled a moment, then shook his head and laughed. “OK, you win, Your Highness. But let me add, even if I could beat you, do you think I would be so foolish? Show up the crown prince of Saudi Arabia, the next in line for the throne! Can you image the diplomatic crisis such a lapse of judgment would create! So I wi
ll hold my tongue.”

  The prince shook his head, then stared at his glass. A still silence followed and the lawn sprinklers could be heard from outside.

  “Prince Saud,” Brighton said, “it’s good to be here, and it’s always enjoyable to remember old times with you. But I know there’s a reason why you invited me. I can see there’s something on your mind.”

  The prince lowered his eyes, then looked again at his friend. His face was suddenly serious and Brighton could see the deep crow’s feet that lined his dark eyes. The prince pushed up from his seat. “Come, let’s walk,” he said.

  THREE

  Along the Potomac River, northwest of Washington D.C.

  It would be their most difficult climb. In fact, it probably was impossible to make it to the top. It wasn’t that the rock was too high, or the way the granite jutted outward to create an inversion near the top, a jagged ledge that thrust into space. Nor was it because the face of the rock was so sheer. The thing that was going to make the climb so challenging was that there were so few protrusions to place their feet on or cracks to grab a hold of. It would be exhausting to make it to the ledge, then crushingly difficult after that.

  Still, they looked up in hunger at the challenge.

  At least one of them did.

  Luke and Ammon stood at the bottom of the rock, the sun shining behind them and warming their shoulders with its early morning light while several birds sang around them; sparrows, mockingbirds and robins calling to each other from the trees that lined the riverbed. The air was crisp and smelled of dead leaves and wet sand. The Potomac River ran low as it always did in the fall and swirled behind them, the water twenty feet from the shoreline where the sand and brush met the rocky cliffs. Above them, a sheer wall of rock rose up from the river, the remnant of some geological aberration that had piled the sand and sediment then crushed it into stone before a million of years of running water cut the softer sediment away from the harder rock.