‘All right,’ he answered, and hoped he didn’t live – or die – to regret it.
Central Business District
King Abdullah Economic City, Saudi Arabia
19 March 2010
Standing at the window of the luxury office building’s top floor, Elliott Webster looked out over the shimmering green waves of the Red Sea. His thoughts were of the past, of the empires that had risen and fallen along the coast. All of them were dust now, except for a few buildings and structures here and there.
The new empire King Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud had given his life to took shape all around Webster. Construction crews and earthmoving machines pieced together the steel bones of the tall buildings and carved foundations and streets from the baked sand. Noise filled the area which even the soundproofing of the room couldn’t eliminate. The muted throbbing vibrated the window.
One of the most impressive areas of the new city lay out in the harbour only a short distance from the coast. Several buildings jutted up from the outer perimeter of the island. Sunlight splintered on the steel frameworks where men walked along narrow beams and continued building for the sky. The centre of the island held more buildings as well as a grid pattern of streets and elevated highways. To the right, the designers had used the natural harbour to echo the island’s shape. The large, sickle-shaped marina held a flotilla of ships, yachts and boats. Most of those vessels were pleasure craft but some of them were barges that carried materials and equipment to the construction crews.
‘What are they calling the island?’ Stephen Napier asked. He stood at Webster’s side.
‘Financial Island,’ Webster answered.
‘Catchy,’ Napier said sarcastically.
‘Maybe it sounds better in Arabic,’ Tristan Hamilton drawled. He stood only a short distance away, leaning with one arm on the window.
‘You gotta admit, naming the place that, they’re hanging it right out there for everybody to see. Ain’t trying to hide what it is.’ Spider sat in one of the plush chairs using his laptop.
Vicky DeAngelo stood on the other side of the spacious room, one hip cocked against a credenza. She talked rapidly on her sat-phone, outlining the agenda she wanted her film crews to follow throughout the city. While on the flight over to Saudi Arabia, she had put together plans for a television special. Webster appreciated her business acumen and drive. It was those qualities that had made him seek her out. She had also made tentative agreements with Saudi Arabian advertisers to underwrite the cost of the special’s production.
‘It’s gonna be a pretty city when they finish up,’ Hamilton stated, ‘but it looks a mite under-defended, if you ask me.’
‘The Saudi Royal Navy is out there,’ Webster said.
‘So are American ships,’ Napier said. ‘I’m willing to bet that the American navy is going to keep more troublemakers out of the area than the Saudis.’
Webster nodded. That was one of the selling points he hoped to push to the young king. Instead of persuading him to listen, though, Webster was certain Prince Khalid would take the suggestion as a personal affront. In fact, the vice-president was counting on that fact. Khalid’s youthfulness and inexperience, as well as his burning desire to drive the Shia people from his homeland, should be enough to tip the scales towards war. And if that wasn’t enough, the intel that Dawson had only that morning passed along through informants he had access to within the country would. Webster was waiting for it all to hit the fan.
In the meantime, he would look like a hero, the man trying to put a lid on the seething cauldron that was the Middle East. When everything was said and done, Webster knew he would be seen as a saviour, even when his initial efforts were unsuccessful. That thought caused him to smile.
‘What’s on your mind?’ Hamilton asked. ‘You look like the cat that ate the canary.’
‘Building confidence,’ Webster replied. ‘Stockpiling positive energy.’
‘That’s good, because me, I’m feeling like the canary about now.’
‘It’s going to work out,’ Webster said. ‘Believe me, once the dust settles on this thing, we’re all going to be in a lot better places.’
At that moment, Hamal, Prince Khalid’s representative, entered the room. He had met them at the airport and been with them ever since. He was a burly man in his early forties with swarthy skin and a fierce forked beard. His scarred calloused hands testified to harsh years and a hard life. As a counterpoint, his white thawb and ghutra were immaculate.
A lot of people might overlook and underestimate the man, Webster realized. He wasn’t among them.
‘Mr Vice-President Webster,’ Hamal said politely, his black eyes roving over the group. ‘Prince Khalid will see you and your guests now. If you will follow me.’
‘Of course,’ Webster said, and did.
The opulent offices showcased wealth, privilege and power. They were furnished with expensive furniture, rugs and computer images of the proposed look of KAEC – what the locals called King Abdullah Economic City – when it was finished hung on the walls.
‘Ostentatious much?’ Vicky whispered.
‘Presentation is everything,’ Webster whispered back.
‘Not when it’s overkill.’
Six guards armed with machine pistols stood in front of a heavy security door that bore the coat of arms of Saudi Arabia – a palm tree over crossed swords. One of the guards stepped towards them and motioned the other guard forward. In short order, Webster was frisked and checked with a wand metal detector.
One of the men held out a straw basket.
‘Please put your phones and PDAs into the basket. They will be returned to you once you are out of his excellency’s office.’
Webster led the way by putting his Blackberry into the basket. The others followed suit. Then the door was opened.
Prince Khalid, dressed in a flowing thawb and ghutra, stood facing a wall of polarized glass that held the bright afternoon sun at bay. Six feet tall and slim, he didn’t look imposing in any way, but his manner compensated for this. Rigid defiance moulded his stance. He held his hands behind his back as he looked down on the city like a predatory raptor. He wore two large pistols holstered at his waist and a curved sword was sheathed down his back. Wearing weapons in public was something his father would never have allowed, but the prince looked like a warrior born.
Webster noted the young prince’s reflection in the polarized glass. Khalid had his father’s long hooked nose and sharp hawk’s eyes that gave his handsome features a dangerous edge. His beard was short and patchy, not quite filled in, giving him the appearance of a young man trying to appear much more mature than his tender years allowed. If he hadn’t been who he was, Webster might have been inclined to feel sorry for the young prince suddenly plunged in over his head.
Khalid flicked his gaze to Webster, held his eyes full measure for a moment, then looked across at the others. His lips pursed in disdain, as if they had failed to come up to his standards.
‘Prince Khalid,’ Hamal said, ‘I present to you the Vice-President of the United States, Elliott Webster.’
Knowing that the next move needed to be the young prince’s, Webster stood his ground. ‘Good afternoon, Prince Khalid. On behalf of the United States, President Waggoner and myself, I’d like to express our condolences at the recent losses you’ve suffered. Your father was a good man and a great friend to my country. He’ll be missed by us all.’
‘Thank you, Mr Webster. You are most kind.’ Khalid’s voice was almost a monotone, and Webster could hear the sharp edge of anger underlying his words. ‘However, you’re not here entirely to offer your support in my time of grief, are you?’
‘No,’ Webster said. ‘That’s the price a head of state must pay. Your personal life is for ever entangled with your leadership.’