Grishkov smiled. “I know the strip. I’m quite sure you’re right.”
Vasilyev continued, “In the strip, Charlie Brown has a stick on his shoulders with a bucket at each end. Linus asks him ‘What are the buckets for?’ Charlie Brown replies, ‘One is for all the money I’m going to make.
The other is for all the shit I’m going to have to take. When one or the other is full, I’ll know it’s time to go home.’ In the next panel we see the same two characters and the same two buckets. The only difference is that one of the buckets is dripping. Without being asked, a glum Charlie Brown tells Linus, ‘I punched a hole in the shit bucket.’ Particularly after the 2003 bomb attacks that killed dozens of expatriate workers in their residence compounds, I think most Americans and Europeans have crossed the Kingdom off their overseas employment list without regret.”
Their conversation ended as the car pulled up outside an unimpressive two-story building that looked much the same as those on either side of it. All were the same drab off-white color, and Grishkov would have bet they had been built at the same time using the same blueprints.
The driver exited the car and without saying anything to his passengers walked to the door of the building, which opened at his approach.
Vasilyev looked at Grishkov, and they both shrugged and followed the driver.
It took a moment for Vasilyev and Grishkov to adjust to the gloominess of the interior, a sharp contrast to the bright light outside. They quickly realized that the only illumination came from a few narrow windows set high in the wall. Grishkov glanced at Vasilyev who simply nodded, and was sure he had the same thought. Whoever had designed these buildings wanted to make it impossible to enter except through the heavy metal front door.
As they emerged from the entry hallway Grishkov and Vasilyev saw an elderly man sitting on a heavy carpet, surrounded by cushions. A large, low wooden table was in front of him, which held a large teapot and a plate piled high with cookies. There were also three glasses full of a dark liquid that Grishkov fervently hoped was black tea. The man was stirring sugar into one of them, at the same time gesturing impatiently for them to come and sit.
“You will have to forgive my failure to rise and greet you properly. I regret that I am not as mobile as I used to be,” the man said, pointing to the cushions on the other side of the table.
Grishkov noticed that the man, who did appear elderly, nevertheless seemed quite alert and intelligent. He was dressed in a fashion nearly identical to Sheik Nimr al-Nimr in a picture Grishkov had seen taken not long before his arrest and execution, and was even thinner. The low white turban on his head marked a sharp contrast from the gutra worn by nearly all Sunnis in Saudi Arabia, and instead looked very much like the turbans worn by Iranian clerics.
Grishkov had a sudden moment of understanding. So, the Sunnis in this country saw the Shi’a as foreigners, no matter how many generations they had lived in Saudi Arabia.
This reminded Grishkov of a discussion about Chechnya he had engaged in many times with Vasilyev. Grishkov argued that you were either a rebel or someone who gave them material aid and deserved death, or you were an innocent bystander who deserved protection and the full rights of any Russian citizen. Vasilyev saw guilt or innocence as a continuum, with few people in such a long conflict either completely one or the other. So, shoot back at rebels shooting at you — absolutely. But for the rest, perhaps local autonomy and removing the right to vote in Federal elections made more sense.
Grishkov argued that such measures would only fuel resentment and increase support for the rebels. And so their arguments had gone. He wondered what Vasilyev would make of the situation here, and how it would affect their reports back to Moscow.
As they both sat, Vasilyev said, “First, allow me to compliment you on your excellent English. We have the honor to address Ayatollah Sheikh Massoud al-Ahmadi?”
The man smiled. “You do. And I have the honor to meet Anatoly Grishkov and Alexei Vasilyev?” he asked, pointed at each in turn.
Noting Vasilyev’s raised eyebrows, Massoud laughed and said, “I was told the older man would be Vasilyev. No offense.”
“None taken,” Vasilyev said dryly, noting Grishkov’s barely successful effort to suppress a smile. “I have always believed that with age comes wisdom. Or, it can if the person makes an effort in each passing year.”
Massoud nodded approvingly. “An important addendum. As for my English, I am sure you know that I went to university in England. It is one reason I was chosen to lead our community at this troubled time. We need to let the world know what is happening here, and the countries that the Saudis will listen to speak English.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “What you say is true. But as you have seen recently in Syria, Russia is not without influence in the Middle East.”
Massoud smiled and said, “Please, I am neglecting my duties as host. We must drink this tea before it gets cold. I understand that most Russians like their tea strong and black. Happily, so do I.”
Grishkov’s opinion of their host rose with his first sip.
Massoud pointed at the sugar bowl. “I took the liberty of adding some sugar to each glass, but you are welcome to add more. I find it is better to add it as soon as the hot tea is poured in the glass, or it will not dissolve properly.”
Grishkov found himself nodding. It was remarkable how such a small thing could make him look more kindly on a man the Saudis considered one short step removed from a terrorist worthy of arrest and execution.
Next Massoud pointed to the pile of cookies next to the teapot. “You must try these. They were made by my wife. These are called Nan-e Nokhodchi and are made of chickpea flour, so are safe to eat even if you have a problem with gluten,” he said with a smile.
Vasilyev and Grishkov were both surprised that a Saudi cleric had even heard of gluten, but both knew they had no choice but to try one of the cookies. Grishkov in particular disliked chickpeas either whole and cooked or puréed into hummus. Both were pleasantly surprised, though, since the cookies tasted nothing like chickpeas. Instead, the flour practically melted inside their mouth, and the flavor left behind was that of pistachios.
Well, that makes sense, Grishkov thought. Iran is world famous for its pistachios, and the Shi’a community here would certainly have access to a supply.
“These are excellent,” Vasilyev said sincerely, while Grishkov nodded vigorously and reached for another.
“Very good!” Massoud laughed, ”I must remember to tell my wife. Now, I understand that you are looking for information about what is happening here in the Eastern Province.”
Vasilyev nodded. “Anything you could tell us, even background information, would be helpful.”
Massoud leaned forward. “I am sure you have heard what happened at Al-Awamiyah, and the execution of my predecessor Sheik Nimr al-Nimr. You have probably heard about the execution of several of his relatives, as well as the summary shootings of several others.”
Vasilyev simply nodded.
“What you don’t know is just how many Shi’a died at Al-Awamiyah, and how many have been killed since. Now, anyone can toss around numbers, and have them dismissed as propaganda. We realize that. So, what I am giving you now is different. It is proof.”
Massoud held up a USB flash drive.
“On this device, you will find a complete list of all the Shi’a killed by the Saudis at Al-Awamiyah and later. For each name you will find their date of birth, Saudi national ID card number, and the date we either know they died or simply disappeared.”
Massoud paused, clearly working to keep his emotions under control.
“You know that in these times nobody can live without leaving a digital mark. You Russians have quite a reputation for being able to access any network. If any country can confirm that the people on this list are dead, it’s yours.”