At Peril in Riyadh

Copyright © 2011 by F. Dean Berry, MDF.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-2340-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-2339-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-2338-7 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 08/08/2011

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday, September 13, 1979

Hijra, 20 Shawwal, 1399

It was an arid and alien land. The strangeness was not geographic, for the Saudi Arabian desert surrounding Riyadh looked like the Arizona of his youth, but the culture and the people were different, and David Larsen hid himself there, lost among the other foreigners living on the oil money.

David was no oilman. Though he had broad shoulders and large, strong hands, they were uncalloused, accustomed to surgical tools rather than wrenches, pipes, or chains.

By moonlight, he ran on the sand that covered the bottom of a wadi. In western America, he would be in an arroyo, a gulch, or a dry wash. Better than running on asphalt or concrete. He neither noted nor cared which way the dry bed twisted and turned. He did not like desolation, and only discipline brought him here each day. In olden times, there might have been desert lions or leopards, but now he feared only snakes.

He stifled a shudder as a memory intruded. When he was very young, older boys had pinioned his arms and draped a slithering, alien monster around his neck. They had not told him the gopher snake was harmless.

To suppress the pain of memory, David had long since slipped into a counting compulsion, and so he numbered his long, easy strides. Hardly winded when he reached two thousand, he climbed the banks of the dry streambed. The perspiration evaporated into the dry air as quickly as it formed; his shirt was not even moist. Such a run a few hours later could end in dehydration and collapse in the rays of the September sun. But, as in all deserts, the cold of night lingered, and there were goose bumps on his naked arms.

He stared to the east. His watch read twenty-nine minutes after five; the sky was almost light enough to tell the difference between a white and a black thread. Had Muslims of previous generations similarly identified the coming of dawn? The sounds from the city carried the mournful Muezzin calls from hundreds of minarets, not quite in unison and sounding like a series of small echoes repeated in a haunting minor key.

Allahu Akhbar. Allahu Akhbar.

God is most Great.

I testify that there is no God but God.

I testify that Muhammad is the Prophet of God.

Come to prayer!

Come to salvation!

Prayer is better than sleep.

God is most Great. Allahu Akhbar!

There is no God but God!

Like ghosts, wavering images appeared as the darkness began to vanish. Only the faint, bulbous tops of minarets relieved the stark rectangles of thousands of buildings. Most Arabs in the city would still be abed, and only a few of the faithful would begin the Morning Prayer, bowing and kneeling and prostrating toward the West, toward Makka, the Holy City.

With no interest in prayer, David turned away from Riyadh. A faint, silent breeze blew, but, upwind of the city, no smells reached his nostrils. He stared into the distance. He knew life was there—lizards, snakes, and birds. Among the low hills of broken shale, living plants existed—widely spaced scrub bushes in the shallow valleys, tufts of grass, and other camel browse, but not a tree in sight. Only a wasteland, as if God had furnished it with leftovers. He let the loneliness engulf him.

One hundred and fifty miles to the south lay the edge of the Rub al Khali, the Empty Quarter, an area as big as Texas, all sand dunes. He longed for such desolation where he could embrace complete loneliness. David tried to pray but could not do so coherently and rejected the memorized prayers of Muslims or Christians. Angry with God, he did not feel solace.

He turned again to the city. Riyadh was almost as desolate as this desert. If there were no oil, he and a million other foreigners would not have come to this place. Where might he have gone instead?

David thought of those who had betrayed him, who had driven him to this alien culture. His wife, now his ex-wife. His partners in the Mesa Plastic Surgery Center. What could he do about them?

As the red sun rose, he turned from the glare and clambered back down into the wadi. Counting his paces, he began his lope back to the city. He always tried to make the return number the same two thousand, but it never happened.

He reached seventeen hundred and sixty-three when he came around a sharp turn to find himself confronting a browsing camel. Startled, David swerved to the right, struck his shin against a boulder, and lost his balance. Reacting as he had in his football years, he broke his fall with a shoulder roll. The camel raised its head high in an aloof, regal posture. Chewing on its mouthful of grass, the beast slowly turned and sauntered disdainfully away, body swaying in an awkward gait.

As he clutched a bleeding leg, David shouted, Damn you, you stupid camel! Why don’t you look where you’re going? And damn your careless master! What in hell are you doing out here?

David cursed this barren country and its arrogant, aggressive inhabitants. He continued his curses, including people in general and his betrayers and enemies back home. And there were special words for the woman who had forsaken him. He damned all who had conspired to isolate him here, six thousand miles from home. And from Joshua, his son.

He seized a stone, writhed to his feet, and hurled it after the long-gone beast. Limping, he walked the rest of the way to his car.

By now, the sun stood halfway above the horizon, a splendor of red and gold. He drank water from a cooler, then bathed his injury. The pain of the raw abrasion lingered, as did his anger.

But then he threw back his head and laughed aloud as he realized the futility of cursing a camel. Well, at least he felt something. He had finished his run without counting, and, by God, without looking for snakes. Surrender had brought him to Arabia; he would use anger to get back out. Away from the emptiness surrounding him. Away from aggressive Arabs. Away from loneliness. Home. Back into the world of men he understood. And of women he did not. And back to his son.

In darkness, within a grove of date palms, Mansur sat in the driver’s seat of a huge, rented dump truck, one hand on the steering wheel. He pulled a cigarette from the pack of Lucky Strikes and put it between his lips.

For five days, he had followed the dakhtar to this place. Saw him disappear into the wadi and waited for him to return. The man would always stop by his little Toyota, sit sideways in the driver’s seat, and drink from a water bottle. Then Mansur would watch him drive away, back to his medical clinic. Now he knew the routine and was ready. Morshed, Mansur’s man, had been instructed and would follow those instructions: Maim or kill the dakhtar, but do not let him interfere with our plan. I will squash the little Toyota like a scorpion. He glanced at his watch. Any minute now.

CHAPTER TWO

David drove his Toyota slowly over the potholes and trenches of the dirt road. He saw flashing headlights behind, and a dump truck roared past, forcing him to move far to the right. He turned eastward, onto the pavement of the Dammam Road. Had he turned in the other direction, it would have been the Makka Road. He glanced at his watch. Only 6:00 but traffic was already heavy.

Many in Riyadh had first learned to drive in middle age and used ancient caravan rules, which meant racing to be first at the next waterhole. David found himself following the truck that had passed him. In the rearview mirror, a silver star suddenly appeared—a Mercedes emblem—only a few yards behind.

Another Mercedes. Ah, well. Tailgating is common practice in Riyadh.

Later, as people headed into and out of the city in seeming insanity, the roads would be even more crowded. Already, luxury automobiles, clunkers, pickups, and trucks surrounded him, drivers all scowling, clenching their jaws, and honking their horns if anyone came near. Driving in this madness provided his major sport. The only time he felt alive.

Strange, though, the truck so close behind was silent.

At the first traffic circle, he tried to ease right into the exit lane, but the first of the two trucks in front of him blocked it, leaving him in the other lane. Puzzled, David wondered if he had somehow offended the driver. No, probably just another aggressive Arab. He gave a mental shrug and continued around the circle. The camel had been enough trouble for one day.

The second truck turned with him and both drove completely around the circle, but the big Mercedes could not take the turn as fast as his Toyota. Well ahead, David evaded other vehicles and exited on the straightaway.

David could no longer see the truck ahead, and the one behind followed several cars back. Now it seemed like any other day. In the midst of madness, Arabs raced to line up for the next signal. Horns sounded all around. At an intersection, he braked as the light turned to red; his was one of the cars in front of one of the three lanes. But five cars lined up side by side—one squeezed in to his left, and another opposite with right wheels on the sidewalk. The Mercedes was four cars behind.

When the light changed to green, those in the rear began to honk furiously as those in the lead raced across the intersection, jockeying for position in the three lanes. David held the middle against all competitors. Not knowing from which direction danger might come, he cast his eyes right and left, and even across the center divide.

David risked a fender as he roared into the right lane, bypassing a dirty pickup. But a Ferrari raced just inches behind. David dodged back to the middle lane. Now he and the Ferrari led the pack at 100 kilometers per hour. David was exhilarated by the contrast with his carefully planned days and his silent, walled evenings.

Just past the Intercontinental Hotel, another red signal loomed ahead. He stepped on the brake and screeched to a stop, hoping those behind would do the same. Glancing in the mirror, he saw the truck again, behind the Ferrari, two cars back, all skidding to a stop. David squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating a chain-reaction collision. When he neither felt nor heard a crash, he let his shoulders relax. A prickle of sweat ran down his neck.

Insh’Allah! God wills all!

When the light changed to green, the competition began again with a clamor of blaring horns. David, first across, took the left lane. A mistake; he wanted to exit at Airport Street, and was now in the wrong lane. Instead, he crossed over the steel ramp of the prefabricated overpass spanning Airport Street. He would reverse at Pepsi Cola Circle and return to his destination.

He felt the steel beneath his car clang as the wheels hit. Not more than a second later, he heard a metallic thump, and his rearview mirror filled with the image of a radiator grille with a Mercedes star. Too close! He stomped on the gas pedal. He would have to scramble to make the next light. He didn’t want to make a quick stop with that behemoth just behind.

The next signal turned yellow as he wove through traffic at fifty miles per hour—the truck sounding its deep-throated horn. As he saw the Mercedes ignore the red light, the sweat on his neck trickled down his back. This guy must be pursuing me! An accident in the city at that speed could have dire results, and, as a foreigner, he would be presumed to be at fault. The truck driver must be crazy. Wanting to live, he clutched the steering wheel with sweating hands. He was not as afraid of being blamed as he was of being injured. He wished for a seat belt, but they were not available in Saudi Arabia. Not a game anymore, but a matter of survival. Most of the traffic had diverted at Airport Street, near his clinic. He moved into the left lane. A center divide and a stone wall on the right.

He knew he was driving too fast, but dared not slow as his adversary stayed right behind him. When they neared the small roundabout at the intersection with Pepsi Cola Street, David slowed to prepare for the counterclockwise arc. He began to turn. The truck would keep other traffic away. David could maneuver better than the other, and he would drive around the tight circle and exit in the other direction. The Mercedes would have to reduce speed, and David would escape. Almost free. He smiled to himself.

He slowed to 60 kilometers per hour and began the turn. Without warning, from the right, out of a vacant lot at the angle between the road and the street, a second Mercedes truck lumbered onto the road, heading across David’s lane. He had evaded the jaws of one fox and blundered into the jaws of another. If he braked, his small vehicle would be crushed between the sturdy trucks … his body would be mangled, while the truck drivers would be safe in their seats high above.

Instinctively, he turned farther to the left, onto the concrete center of the traffic circle, wheels screeching as the car careened. When the wheels struck the curb, the Toyota lifted into the air. With a massive jolt and the crunch of tearing metal, the big truck behind smashed into David’s left rear wheel, and his car began to spin as if on a revolving stage.

Time was distorted … seemed to halt, and thoughts coursed through his head. Insh’Allah. It is the will of God. Will I live? Will I die? Joshua! Laraine! What will become of them?

As the rotation neared halfway, the shocked face of a man with a scraggly white beard, a head cloth wrapped around his head, loomed as an apparition. Reality jolted David back to the present. Someone stood in the center of the circle. Oh, God! Don’t let this car hit him. How did he get there? If I hit him—if I kill him …

When the gyration stopped, his car was facing the gigantic truck. The truck engine was still growling, and the front wheels were now on the center curbing. The driver of the truck remained out of sight high above. Across the hood of the truck, just beneath the Mercedes star, were crudely painted, foot-high letters: S A T.

During a time of silence, drivers and pedestrians stopped to see; he wondered whether they were waiting to see if he would he get out of the car. Or whether he was just a bleeding hulk. The door jammed; he forced it and clambered out onto the concrete.

Seeing the old man still upright, David walked to him and asked if he was all right: Kief halak?

The crowd murmured softly as if expecting a funeral.

He heard the old man say, Tiyub, Il Hamdulillah. I am fine, thanks be to God.

David answered with the same, Il Hamdulillah.

He turned to see if the trucker was injured. High above, he saw the driver’s malevolent, scarred face glaring down at him through the side window.

If I had a surgical wire wheel, those scars could be reduced by half, he thought, looking at the man’s pockmarks. But he’d still be uglier than any man I’ve ever seen. Nothing could help those eyes. That ugliness comes from within.

Still scowling, the man offered David a finger salute, and, with a blast on the Klaxon, moved his vehicle across the edge of the circle and back onto the Dammam Road, insolently shifting gears as he roared away, following the other truck.

Traffic halted. Drivers and pedestrians gathered around the wrecked Toyota to debate the incident, discuss the damage to the car, and dwell on the goodness of Allah in sparing the Hajji and even the infidel.

David checked the car over. It looked pathetic—left rear wheel bent halfway to the axle, whole left side dented as if a giant fist had struck. Probably not drivable, and probably not repairable. He didn’t care. Tow trucks were efficient these days, and it would be off the streets before noon. He’d probably never see it again. Mal ‘aysh. No matter. He could always get another car.

He felt buoyancy rising within … as if it would lift him up in the air. And he became aware that he was smiling. My God, I was lucky. I don’t really want to die. I want to live!

A man in European clothing approached and, with a distinctly British accent, said, Good Lord, you were lucky. You did well to keep from being smashed to jelly between those monster lorries. I say, your leg is bleeding.

I know. I ran into a camel. When the stranger looked puzzled, David said, The camel wasn’t injured, either. Hey, I’m alive! That means something, doesn’t it?

Yes, I suppose it does, the Briton said, offering a scrap of paper. I jotted down their registration numbers. Good thing they have both kinds; I can’t read Arabic. He paused thoughtfully and added, "Do you know, they both had the letters S A T across the bonnet?"

He looked sharply as David smiled. The man indicated David’s running shoes and bare legs, blood crusted on the right shin. Can I give you a lift somewhere?

Thank you, but no. I’ll have to wait for the police. Anyway, my villa isn’t far away. I would appreciate if you could be a witness.

Of course.

As they exchanged cards, they talked about the weather. Only twenty-five minutes had passed since he had left the wadi.

CHAPTER THREE

Stopped on the edge of the traffic circle, Mansur Ghazi sounded the Klaxon, shifted the gears to low, let out the clutch, and headed east. The bastard had not even been injured. Mansur had struck just when Morshed’s truck had cut him off, and the Mareekhan should be dead or at least mangled.

As he sped away, he relived the meeting eight months earlier …

Juhayman’s eyes were fiery and beard wild as he railed against the al Sa’uds. Those participating met in a mud-walled house in the old section of Riyadh. He had been last to arrive; the first were twelve Bedu coming from different tribes, united by the strict Wahabbi sect of Islam.

As Mansur stooped to enter the plank doorway, Juhayman offered a limp hand to shake. Mansur knew the others had been kissed, hugged, and welcomed as brothers. Mansur’s anger flared into rage toward this man. Shoving his way to the rear where his back would be against a wall, he sat on the dirt floor, next to the others, who moved as far away from him as possible. They shun me because they fear me. They know I could kill any of them. That’s why they hired me.

There was no right of assembly in the country, and so these men, uncharacteristic of Arabs, spoke softly. In a quiet but fierce voice, Juhayman sang the invitation to prayer in a monotone:

Allah elah ‘illah! Wa Muhammad rasul Allah!

There is no God but God and Muhammad is his Prophet!

Mansur lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The others formed two lines and recited the entire prayer ceremony the required five times. When the men rose from devotions, he stubbed out his cigarette on the dirt floor and maintained his position. He never exposed his back. And when he died, he would be taken directly to Paradise, and prayers were not necessary.

All the others were Saudi and considered themselves superior to all others. Still, they would have accepted him as a member even though he was a displaced Palestinian, but then he wouldn’t be paid. No, thank you. I kill for the money.

As they sipped tea, Juhayman ranted about the ungodly Sa’uds, the rulers of the kingdom, who partnered with the Mareekhans, drank liquor, and were rumored to eat the flesh of swine. He spoke of his brother-in-law, the mahdi, the right-guided one, the messiah. All nodded, and they talked on and on, making and discarding plans until they reached agreement and each accepted some burden of responsibility.

Mansur despised them. They were so ignorant. Had they never heard of Muhammad Ahmad, who had declared himself to be the mahdi in Sudan almost a century past? True, the man had beaten the British at Khartoum and beheaded Lord Gordon, but he proved to be mortal when he was slain by Kitchener’s men in that same city. And the idea that Juhayman’s brother-in-law had been called to purify the earth of all iniquity was sacrilege. When Allah wanted the earth purified, He would do it Himself.

When Mansur was still a boy, his uncle had forced him to learn to speak fluent French, English, and Hebrew. You must know the secrets of your enemies, and so you must know their speech. Mansur had used that language skill in other countries in the past, and his knowledge of English was one of the reasons he had been hired for his task.

He became aware of all eyes as Juhayman said to him, "You may maim the Mareekhan or kill him, but he must not be allowed to claim the shipment. There are three wooden crates, all marked with Taht Ahla Sama. The submachine guns and two rocket launchers are in the small one. They are for you to use here in Riyadh. The mortars, heavy rocket launchers, and mounted machine guns in the other two boxes will be needed in Makka on the chosen day. You will be informed when it is time. The shipment will arrive in Riyadh at the end of Ramadhan. We will not be able to store them in Makka until a week before we strike. Then we will be ready."

I have nowhere to store three large crates.

Move them around every three or four days. Jabbar, a man working for Saudia, will notify you when the dakhtar is told they have arrived. Pick them up and move them before he does. Jabbar will obtain a truck from the airline. You must find a place to store it. But don’t leave it anywhere for very long.

After receiving his instructions, Mansur waited in silence. One, more brazen than the others, turned to Mansur and asked, Can you do what you say?

Hatred flowing from his very soul, Mansur glared at the man as Juhayman answered, "He is a member of the SAT. They have contacts in Mareekhah. We have given him the money. The rest is in the hands of Allah (Praise be upon His Name). If He does not wish us to have the heavy machine guns or the mortars, then we shall do without. We already have enough of the Russian AK–47s and other weapons. He paused. Perhaps that is why Allah allowed Nasser’s Egyptians to invade us—to flee and leave weapons behind for our use these thirteen years later."

Another asked, Why here? The heavy weapons? We shall not use them in Riyadh.

There are no foreign imports into the Holy City by air, so they will arrive here in Riyadh. Once inside the kingdom, transportation to Makka will not be difficult and can be accomplished before the day of deliverance comes. Mansur must get them out of the airport before the dakhtar claims them.

What day is it to be?

It will be decided at a later time. King Khaled comes to Riyadh every year and, Insh’allah, Prince Fahd will be with him. We have a friend, a servant in the king’s palace. We will set the day when he tells me his arrival date.

They spaced their departures as they had their arrivals. Every five minutes, Juhayman embraced and kissed a companion, and, as he left, both repeated, "Amr Allah!" At the command of God!

Mansur was last to leave, and Juhayman offered a hand. Mansur took it and tightened his grip, trying to bring the man to his knees. Surprisingly, Juhayman looked him in the eye and accepted the challenge. They locked hands in a silent test. At last, Juhayman said, Amr Allah! and they released. Surprised and impressed, Mansur respected the other’s strength.

Suddenly, squealing brakes and the blare of horns behind him brought Mansur back to reality, and, as the truck roared through the streets of Riyadh, he spat a Ptah and began planning the next attack on the dakhtar. The shipment was already sitting in the airport.

CHAPTER FOUR