CHAPTER 56
The Secretary’s Palace, Riyadh
“He is here.”
The secretary looked up from his reading. He folded the London Times, laying it on the Tufft pier table next to his chair in the library. The hour was late, near midnight.
“Has he passed through security?”
“Yes, Your Highness, he has been checked twice.”
The secretary didn’t want the meeting, at least not directly. The man was born in Saudi Arabia but had spent the last several years in Yemen. He had been wanted for some time. His reputation was, like many others, of being someone who believed what the Yousefs of the world were saying. Muslims were being abused and the faith was in jeopardy.
“His name is Abdullah Hassan, Your Highness. He wishes to surrender to you directly and has a message from Yousef.”
“And why does Yousef need to use a messenger?”
“He says Yousef can’t leave his current position. He carries a cell phone that Yousef will call into at midnight precisely. He says that Yousef has an urgent update for you.”
The secretary wasn’t sure that he wanted to talk to Yousef again. It had only been a few days since their last meeting. The last thing he needed now was anyone talking about him conducting ongoing communications with Yousef. Now that the news of the Al-Quds correspondent’s planned visit to Yousef had spread, many on the Council were nervous about what would happen next. The secretary tried to act confident, but inside he felt frantic.
What will you do to me next, Yousef?
He sighed. Time to find out.
“Well, bring him in.”
It was well past Ramadan, but the man had pled for a visit. The secretary was a member of the House of Saud and a Sayyid. It was his duty to give an audience to any believer who asked for a meeting. The tradition went back thousands of years, to the times of the first Bedouin. As a Sayyid, he was a direct descendant of the prophet Muhammad; a descendant of Muhammad’s daughter, Fatimah, who some believed was the Islamic prophet’s only daughter. And as a member of the House of Saud, he had his responsibility to his tribe. Visits such as this were usually granted during Ramadan, but the messenger had an important message to deliver.
“As sala’amu alaikum.” The secretary rose to greet the visitor.
“Walaikum as sala’am.” The man looked pitiful standing before the secretary in simple sandals and broadcloth robes tied at the waist. His feet were cracked, dry, and the brunneous sort of dark brown that one would expect from a life lived without shoes or socks. His hands were small, but the secretary noticed the black dirt under the long, broken nails. He was weasel-faced, with eyes that darted back and forth across the room but never made contact.
“And why are you here?” The secretary didn’t offer the man a chair or tea or any other courtesy. It may have been a violation of the Koran, but the man was suspect. The secretary wouldn’t allow this meeting to last one minute beyond what was necessary.
“I come here as a humble man doing the will of Allah.”
He seemed nervous. Something was not right. The secretary looked beyond the man to his assistant. His eyes telegraphed the message: Are you sure this man is safe?
The thin, dirty man was sweating visibly.
“Are you all right, brother?”
“Yes, I have Yousef.” The man reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a cell phone. The others in the room stood back as he reached for the cell phone. Everyone in the room was dubious of his intent, but the security force had always done a good job. And he had cleared security twice. The man dialed a number on the phone.
“Yes, yes, I am here.” The visitor spoke into the cell.
The secretary could barely make out the conversation, but with the few words he heard he recognized Yousef ’s voice.
“Yes, I am here with the secretary. I just greeted him. He is here, now.”
An odd comment.
“Yousef would like to speak with you. It is his wish to make amends.”
The secretary took the cell phone and lifted it to his ear. It felt sticky and warm.
“Hello, is this my cousin?”
“Muhammad has taught us that we must do everything in our power to stop the infidels, even if it means the loss of our lives. Dam butlub dam. Blood demands blood. Did you really think the spy woman in Qatar would stop me? Did you really think that cutting the oil out of my inheritance would deter me?”
“Is that why you wanted to speak with me, Yousef?” The secretary’s anger was building.
Loudly, the clock chimed midnight.
In that same moment, the secretary looked down at the cell phone and saw what had caused it to feel sticky: Bloody fingerprints.
“Allah!”
At precisely the same time, a text message arrived on the phone: Dam butlub dam.
“Praise Allah!” the man cried as he stepped toward the secretary. A white wisp of smoke suddenly started to come from below the man’s shirt, from his side.
A flash of light hit the secretary at the same moment the blast struck him in the center of his chest. Despite his being a man of good weight, the bomb lifted him off his feet and threw him back into the pier table, which his body weight crushed.
The visitor’s upper torso disappeared from view, but his legs remained there, standing, the shaped charge in his abdominal cavity having blasted forward, not downward.
As the secretary lay on the floor, struggling to breathe, the security guards and medical personnel rushed in, surrounding him. He lifted up his hands to see blood everywhere. Mostly the visitor’s blood, it appeared, although the secretary’s eyes were out of focus, as his glasses had been blown away in the blast. He saw—and felt—that he’d taken a great gash across his palm. Apparently, as he raised it to protect himself from the blow, the bomb had cut it deeply.
But the secretary, third from the throne, a leading candidate to become the next king of the House of Saud, was still alive.