“The attack on the Diplomat was not a one-off, Director. The noise that you just heard was the sound of the Crowne Plaza, down the street from the Diplomat, pancaking.”
“That white smudge on the black of the night is the backbone of our galaxy,” Abdullah said softly. The two men lay back on the pile of pillows and pondered the infinite sky. The galaxy was bright above the desert, far from the lights of the city and the flares of the refineries. Abdullah sat up on the carpet and smoked the apple-flavored tobacco of the hubbly-bubbly. Except for the gentle gurgling of the water pipe, no sounds broke the stillness that covered the rolling sand.
Ahmed rose and walked toward the embers of their fire. “You are such a poet, brother, but you try to change the subject.” He stirred the charred wood. “The Chinese are no different from the Americans when their troops were here,” he said as he spat into the dying fire. “They too are infidels.”
“Yes, they are infidels, Ahmed, but without the Chinese weapons, we will lie naked before our enemies. Many of our American weapons do not work anymore, without the American contractors and spare parts. My brothers in the Shura aren’t always right, but they may be right about this. We may need those weapons, and the Chinese must be here to make them work until we can.”
Ahmed shook his head in disagreement, prompting his brother to continue. “We must have weapons to deter our enemies. The al Sauds have bought important Americans to help get themselves back on the throne. The Persians stir up trouble among our Shi’a and those in Bahrain. And the Persians now have nuclear weapons on their new mobile missiles.” Abdullah stood up and walked slowly toward his younger brother. “We will keep these few Chinese inside the walls, deep in the desert.” He stared down at the remaining hot coals. “They will not stain our new society. The Chinese need the oil; they will stay in line. Besides, it is done. The missiles are here now.”
The two men walked away from the fire pit, with its semicircle of carpets and pillows, heading up to the crest of the dune. Below them the desert was bathed in the dim blue light of the stars and the halfmoon. “You know, Ahmed, the Prophet Muhammad, blessings and peace be upon him, camped very near here, just at that oasis. And our grandfather used to come here as well. Both of them loved the beauty of this place.”
He grabbed his brother’s arm, turning him to look into his eyes. “I did not come all this way just to be bound in chains again. While you were in Canada learning to cure people, Ahmed, I was learning to kill them. I personally slew al Sauds last year, and before that, in Iraq, I attacked their American masters. I am not going to hand our nation back to those swine, or anyone else. Allah, the merciful and compassionate, has given us the mission to create Islamyah from the fetid carcass that was Saudi Arabia.
“Those so-called Saud princes sit in their unclean mansions in California, drinking and dancing as they count the money they have stolen from our people. They buy whores in the American Congress to deny us the parts to make our American weapons work. They bribe the Jewish reporters to whip up support for invading us. They connive with the greedy British diplomats to spy on our embassies and steal our papers.
“They will stop at nothing until they have regained control of this land. Even now, the al Sauds, and those criminals in Houston who help them, are hiring assassins to kill all of us on the Shura. The Persians, too, infiltrate agents into Dhahran and the rest of the Eastern Province, pretending to champion the Shi’a.”
Abdullah released his grip on Ahmed. He loved Ahmed, younger, taller, with the deep brown eyes of their late father. He wanted to persuade him. “But what we have done now may not be enough. What do both the Americans and the Persians have that lets them think they can intimidate our infant nation? You know the answer. It is the bomb of Hiroshima — the killer that turns the sand into glass and poisons the land for generations. If we resist, they will char our cities and incinerate our people, so they can again steal the oil beneath our sands. That is why, Ahmed, my so-called friends on the Shura Council think we need our own bomb.”
Ahmed did not back down. “What about the Pakistanis? The al Sauds gave them the money for a bomb. You found the records yourself. The Pakistanis will defend us.”
Abdullah turned and began walking slowly back down the hill to the camp. “Yes, perhaps, Ahmed, but the only thing that concerns the Pakistanis is India. They say the right things about Islam, but they will keep their few weapons to scare the Hindus. The Pakistanis cannot be relied on. Besides, their missiles are primitive. We need more than a few little Pakistani arrows.”
A low cough and then a high-pitched whine stirred beyond the next dune. A wisp of sand flew above it into the desert night. The helicopters were starting. It was time to return to the city.
“So why did we come here tonight, Abdullah? I doubt that it was just to stare at the heavens and reminisce about Grandfather.” Ahmed was seven years younger and four inches taller than his brother. He had marked his twenty-ninth birthday only two weeks ago, when he had returned home after eight years in Canada, ending his residency early, because Abdullah had become a member of the new ruling Shura Council. And Ahmed wanted to be part of his big brother’s team now, just as he had wanted to play football with Abdullah and his friends twenty years ago. Since his return, Ahmed had pressed his brother on how he could help him with the new government of their country. But each time the answers were vague.
“No, not just to remember Grandfather.” Abdullah looked down at the sand and placed both hands inside his robe. “It has been very hard for me to gain agreement from the Shura for you to work in my ministry. Many members distrust you because of your years away.”
“But there are no decent medical schools here,” Ahmed shot back.
“Not yet. Someday we will again lead. And you must stay in medicine, Ahmed,” he said, looking back up the dune.
“But Abdullah, I want to work with you. I want to help our country, help bring back the pride of our people!”
Abdullah smiled. Ahmed sounded just like a little boy again. “And you will. You will start at a hospital next week.” Seeing the disappointment on Ahmed’s face, he ended the teasing game. “But you will actually be working for me, directly. The hospital job will be only a blanket thrown over your real work. You will be my eyes and ears in the nest of vipers across the causeway.” Abdullah smiled broadly, as if he had just handed an expensive present to his brother.
“Bahrain?” Ahmed asked in confusion.
“Yes. It may be only sixteen miles away on the causeway, but that place is home to thousands of infidel sailors and their boats. The Persians are there, too, smiling and pretending to be merchant traders as they go back and forth in their dhows, but actually plotting against our new nation.
“You will go there, publicly estranged from me and supposedly upset with our new government. You will do your work at the Medical Center in Manama, but what you will also do is collect special information, just for me. You are going back into the belly of the enemy again, little brother.” As he said that, Abdullah playfully punched hard against Ahmed’s soft abdomen. Ahmed did not flinch.
A white Land Rover appeared from over the far dune, to drive them to the improvised heliport on the sand. As they came upon the Black Hawks, Ahmed turned and poked back at his brother, punching him in the arm. “Abdullah, you’re really sure these American helicopters are still safe without the spare parts?”