[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel (6 page)

I found a little patch of grass across from the Pia theater and set up poster and bullhorn. The poster featured the religion’s (naked) patron saints ascending to heaven to join other (naked) saints. This immediately attracted the attention of the dozen or so men already in the triangle. Within moments, the nearby traffic had stopped.

I’m sure they were more interested in my preaching than the photos, but who’s to say?

It took the police about ten minutes to arrive, and all of ninety seconds to arrest me. If I’d have known I would last that long, I would have passed a hat—I’m sure I could have gotten a few hundred riyals from the crowd.

(II)

Those were happy times.

A little more than twenty-four hours later, I had my back pressed against the chain-link fence in the Saudi prison as three men with grimaces and hard fists walked toward me. They didn’t look like they wanted my autograph.

The best advice I have ever heard about fighting against overwhelming odds came from a wise old sea daddy whose name escapes me at the moment:

Run!

Unfortunately, that option was not open. So the first order of business was to even the odds with a preemptive strike against the most vulnerable goon, a stocky and swarthy Arab whose nose looked as if it had been sliced off and relocated a half inch to the right of its original position.

I tried to do the same thing for his head. Grabbing his shirt with my left hand, I pulled him forward as my right hand swung with the shiv across his neck. Then I pushed him backward with my knee, dumping him in a heap on the ground.

The knife was too small to go all the way through his neck. In fact, it barely looked as if he was scratched when he first fell. But then blood began spurting out like the Disney fountain at Epcot, a perfect quartet of jet streams.

The other two lugs didn’t seem to notice. The nearest lunged with both fists flailing. I ducked, then jerked up quickly, aiming my knife at his belly. But he was faster than he looked. He ducked and I missed his stomach, flying forward.

The other managed to trip me, and as I hit the ground I lost the shiv. Until now, the rest of the crowd had been feigning disinterest, an admirable survival technique in a confined space like a jail yard. But the knife was too much to resist; a naked female would have gotten less attention. Everyone in the yard dove for the shiv, swarming over myself and my assailants. Unable to spot the blade in the scrum, I crawled for daylight, propelling myself through the squirming crowd on my knees and elbows.

Somehow I made it to the side of the building, where a pair of jail guards were waiting out the fight. Seeing me as easy pickings, they grabbed hold of my legs and dragged me without ceremony into the building, through a hall, and up a pair of steps to a luxurious lounge complete with a sauna and bargirls, very soft pillows, and a masseuse whose fingers should be numbered among the ten wonders of the world.

At least, that’s how my fevered brain remembers it. The reality may have been slightly grittier. In any event, I soon fell into an undisturbed slumber, and didn’t wake until the next morning, when we were summoned for prayers by the blare of the prison loudspeaker.

My eyes opened into the dim blue light of predawn filtering through the window above my head. There were only two other inmates in my cell; even though it was about half the size of the one where I’d initially been locked up, the lack of nearby bodies made it feel like a hotel.

“Come, come,” whispered one of my companions, nudging me gently. He was Pakistani, and spoke in English. “Do not be caught in the cell. It would be worth many lashes to dally. Come.”

I followed along to the yard, did the prayer thing, then wandered around in search of Garrett. He was standing near the fence about where I’d seen him the day before, away from the other prisoners. It was still relatively dark, but I noticed that he had some bruises to his eyes and the side of his face that hadn’t been there before.

“You again,” he muttered as I walked over to him.

“Me.”

“You shouldn’t hang around me. It’s bad luck for both of us.”

“I’m going to get you out,” I told him.

He snorted contemptuously.

“Tomorrow at ten,” I said. “Where will you be?”

“At night?”

“In the morning.”

“Studying the Koran.” He didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. Maybe they hadn’t given him a good verse to memorize.

“Where will you be?”

“In the library.”

“I’ll come for you.”

“Right.” I’ve heard assurances that Iran doesn’t want to build nukes voiced with more conviction.

“Make sure you’re there,” I told him. “No matter what else happens. You understand?”

He made a face. I pointed to his eye. “You want more of these?”

“Fuck off.”

“Make sure you’re in the library. Ten o’clock. Sharp.”

He looked at me like I had the plague, and moved away.

*   *   *

My conversion to Islam began twenty minutes later. It was an extremely moving event.

Dragged into the interview suite, I was happy to see that my usual spot on the floor had been spruced up with some fresh applications of bleach. They hadn’t gotten all of it—a myriad of dull brown splatters covered the spot where I was tossed, face-first—but it’s the thought that counts.

I wallowed in the dust for a moment. Then, lo, a holy voice began speaking to me, and I was filled with the spirit of the most holy and glorious Messenger, the one, true Voice of the one true and glorious Allah.

Suddenly I understood the sacred writ. Nay, more than understood. I began propounding it, albeit in every foreign tongue known to man, and several that weren’t. As I cited chapter and verse of the Holy Koran, even the most skeptical of my observers was moved to the deepest emotions: they kicked, they punched, they screamed, they pummeled. Through it all I continued my litany of praise for the Prophet, for the Book, for the one and only force of life, the being I am not worthy to contemplate, let alone mention.

For thirty solid minutes I spoke in tongues, imparting blessings upon all in earshot. By the end of the session, not only had my interlocutors and their aides joined me in prayer, but three other guards and two supervisors were now proclaiming the verity of my Truth, a special aspect of which revealed the very Holiness of the Saud family not just as defenders of the faith, but as veritable UNIVERSAL ETERNAL HOLY MEN SENT DIRECTLY FROM THE MESSENGER HIMSELF!!!! (Editor—yes, we need those caps!!!!)

It was, clearly, the most tremendous and spiritually uplifting conversion to Islam ever, certainly in this prison. And that, naturally, required an e-mail message to headquarters that very morning.

A message intercepted by Shunt, who had hacked his way into the pitifully primitive system used by the jailers.

The response from Riyadh was immediate—a high-level team of clerics would arrive the next day.

I’m not sure if it was the shower or the meal, which included something similar to meat, that tipped me off that salvation was on the way. Maybe it was the fact that the afternoon beating wasn’t nearly as severe as the earlier ones, or that the waterboarding was at best halfhearted. I should note that Saudi law does allow certain prisoners to be released if they memorize a passage from the Koran and truly convert, revert, and pervert, and the administration was undoubtedly used to dealing with phony prophets.

My conversion was anything but phony. I propounded on the Divine Plan for the Kingdom, which naturally included exalted places for the conduits of my message—the torturers who had corrected my grammar and helped with the difficult questions of where to place the accents.

Whatever. I slept better that night than I had in months, aware that salvation was at hand.

(III)

I woke to the fervent baritone of the jail guard as he sang his praise of the early dawn, muttering in Arabic that the curs of Allah better get their butts up before they were flailed with the stick of heavenly persuasion.

I greeted him at the door of my cell most reverently, head bowed.

“You,” he muttered. “I have heard of you.”

I lowered my head even farther. “I am not worthy of your attention,” I muttered in poorly accented Arabic.

How poor was my accent? To the uninitiated, the words might have sounded like “You are the bastard son of a goat-fucked mother.” But surely I can’t be blamed for my poor diction.

He rapped on the cell with his stick. I bowed my head lower.

“True believers fear the almighty and powerful,” I told him. “And screw your mother, too.”

This clearly placated him, as evidenced by the fact that he only poked me twice in the face with his stick before moving on.

I sang his glorious praises, thanking him for his gift of compassion.

My two cellmates were understandably cautious, and gave me a wide berth as I shuffled out to the hallway. I found new inspiration in the hall, realizing that the entire staff was worthy of a place in paradise, and all should get bonuses of five thousand dollars (American) come the Sabbath. My proselytizing reached a fevered pitch as I walked trembling out to the yard. I was moved by the spirit—and the prods of the guards behind me.

Word of my conversion had spread through the jail. Practically everyone was watching as I took my spot for the morning prayers. I’m sure they were expecting me to lead them with some profound revelation. But conviction is best understated. I went deep within myself, barely moving my lips in prayer.

My words wouldn’t have been heard even if I were shouting, for as I began uttering them, a helicopter thundered overhead. The Russian-made Mi-8 was in so-so condition, offered for sale at the bargain price of only $550,000: an incredible deal, though at that price one had to expect some sort of mechanical deficiencies. Which no doubt explains the engine problems and the near crash landing in the second courtyard of the building, a feat that took considerable skill.

Have you met Trace Dahlgren, vice president of Red Cell International and part-time helicopter pilot?

*   *   *

I know what you’re thinking: Dick is going to scoop Garrett up and run to the helo in a blaze of gunfire. Trace will gun the engines and they will sail off into the sunrise, just like in that movie …

The Saudi guards thought something similar. They rushed to the helicopter en masse, discovering Trace and the very frightened salesman trying to put out a small fire under the instrument panel. There were shouts and complaints and drawn guns.

The salesman fainted, leaving Trace to stare down the Saudi officials on her own. She did this in a yellow sleeveless shirt about two sizes too small and a pair of jeans that defined the term “painted on.” She proceeded to get out of the helicopter, demonstrating with a series of complicated hand gestures where she thought the problem had actually originated.

Garrett, meanwhile, was at the edge of the crowd near the fence. I wouldn’t say he was leering, exactly, but he certainly had the expression of a man who admired manual dexterity.

Suddenly he was also overcome by heat exhaustion—that or the sharp pop to the neck I administered.

I’ve carried heavier men—Shotgun comes to mind—but Garrett weighed enough to provoke a mental review of the signs of hernia as I toddled from the courtyard into the building in search of medical assistance. The guards had moved out into the yard for a better view. I descended the stairs to the lower level, carrying my load ever lower as I walked past the “interview cells” to the steps on the far side. Both Garrett and my butt were practically dragging the floor as I climbed up to the small yard where the garbage was collected in a series of small Dumpsters and largish bins.

The smell was absolutely delightful. It got even better as I approached the half-filled rolloff.

Mechanical problems cured and salesman revived, the helicopter took off from the rear of the yard, much to the regret of the population. Meanwhile, I clamped my teeth shut and went to work. Not five minutes later, a garbage truck rolled up. Two hulking attendants hopped off the back, pushed the Dumpster over, and had the lift empty it into the rear.

Someone shouted as the truck started to pull away.

“Two prisoners are missing!” he yelled. “Stop the garbage truck!”

It was a trick nearly as old as Sharia law. Alarms began sounding and guards began running. In the back, the helicopter began hovering unsteadily over the compound.

Meanwhile, two members of the night shift began making their way out the front door of the building, heading for the approaching bus with the other employees at the main gate. One of them tripped after exiting the building and struck his head on the sidewalk. His friend kindly helped him up and walked with him toward the stop.

That was us: the garbage bins were just a ruse, and a convenient place to dump the bodies of the two men whose clothes I stole. It was a perfectly executed getaway, out the front door.

Or it would have been, had Murphy not been driving the damn bus.

(IV)

The bus had pulled away from the curb and started down the narrow lane to the exit when it stalled. It was right in the middle of the road, blocking all traffic to the main building. When the driver couldn’t get it restarted, we were ordered off.

Garrett was still out of it. I put my arm under his shoulder and eased him down the aisle, half walking him, half pushing him toward the exit. The driver eyed us suspiciously, but I managed to get him down the stairs without being stopped or asked about my sexual preferences. Nearby, the guards had hauled the two would-be escapees from the back of the garbage truck. Though clearly unconscious, they were being questioned ferociously.

I shuffled toward the back of the crowd, hoping not to be examined too closely. I had my beard, and in the shadows could probably pass semi-plausibly for a sunburnt nomad. But Garrett looked about as white as white could be, and no amount of fussing with the collar of his long prison uniform shirt could hide that. We stood out from the other patients, and I knew we were eventually going to be found out. So rather than waiting for that to happen, I pushed my still comatose comrade upright and walked with him in the direction of the garbage truck.