Post by Jahani al-Reb on Aug 11, 2014 10:52:00 GMT -5
May, 2014
Madrid, Spain
In the heart of the bustling ancient city, high atop the newest skyscraper -- owned by and home to one of the largest crude oil concerns this side of the Atlantic -- is a penthouse suite so lavish, it would almost be fit to house God Himself. Almost. Three stories tall, with floors of white marble imported from Italy, chandeliers of the finest Waterford crystal, hand-enameled accents depicting abstract floral shapes, and no stick of furniture less than five hundred years old; two indoor pools -- one heated, one not -- and an en-suite fitness facility with all the latest equipment; a kitchen that could easily engulf your average suburban house, an oven large enough to roast a medium sized horse, counters of granite, and a walk-in freezer that practically has its own zip code: in short, a veritable palace in the sky. In addition to a small army of household staff, the penthouse currently plays host to its owner -- one Sheikh Anwar Djibouti -- and his 23-year-old son, back from Oxford for the summer.
The youth, glistening from the sauna and wearing only a towel around his waist, is stretched out on a padded table in the fitness area. A young woman clad in camouflage short shorts and a matching halter top applies a deep-tissue massage. Across the room, the local evening news plays on a wall-mounted plasma TV, most of which goes completely ignored -- right up until the anchor mentions an explosion at the American Embassy. This makes the young man pay attention. He waves the masseuse away with impatience and sits up, staring at the fiery images playing across the screen. A frown creases his brow.
"No..." he whispers.
Hastily, he pulls on a pair of trousers -- half of an old Armani suit he regards as his "casual" attire -- and runs barefoot and shirtless across the suite. So wrapped up is he in his flustered state, he nearly crashes headlong into a tall, bulky figure dressed in a Western style business suit, with a kafiyeh on his head. The big man grabs the youth by the shoulders, looks into his eyes.
"What is wrong, my son?" asks the older man in a deep, pleasant voice tinged with worry.
The youth points over the man's shoulder, where the evening news is playing on an even larger plasma television.
"The U.S. Embassy! Someone blew it up!" he cries, windmilling his arms for emphasis.
With a slow nod, the older man steers his son out onto the balcony. Up here, the lights of the city are as the twinkling of fireflies. Below, and a few miles distant, they can see the glow from the burning Embassy building, muted orange against the purple night. Privately, the older man is relieved at his son's perturbance: it means he's finally growing up, dispensing with all that radicalism nonsense. That was half the point of sending him to Oxford in the first place.
"Perhaps it was an accident," says the Sheikh, his voice as reassuring as the hand placed on the young man's shoulder. "Let us not jump to conclusions just yet."
"But... but... " the boy trails off; then adds, almost inaudibly, "I was gonna do it..."
His father rolls his eyes and sighs theatrically. "We have been over this, Jahani."
The boy's face draws itself into a scowl. "All my friends' parents let them blow things up..."
That isn't true, and both of them know it. Djibouti is from an old, respected family of good breeding. He wouldn't be caught dead with riff-raff like the Qaddafi's, half the Husseins, or that one particular offshoot of the Bin Laden clan. And neither should his son. These are not people to aspire to.
"Jahani al-Reb Djibouti! Your mother would die all over again if she heard you speaking in this way," the older man warns.
Jahani turns to look at his father, his expression like that of a man who has just been punched in the figs. It had been less than two years since his mother had succumbed to a congenital defect, a carryover from the days when people tended to marry cousins and not worry much about the consequences for future generations. The boy and his mother had been close -- maybe too close. She had coddled him far beyond his boyhood, and the Sheikh had allowed it. After the first three miscarriages, how could he not? She had never conceived again after that, as if the one successful pregnancy was all she had been permitted. And so it only made sense to devote every emotional resource to the child.
But Jahani is a child no more, and his father is concerned with the young man's lack of discipline. He is sorry for what he said, but it is true, in his own estimation.
"Listen," he continues, "you need to find a better way to deal with your grief. Do I not miss her as much as you? But this... We are not terrorists, my son. Nor freedom fighters. We have issues of much more import to deal with. This company -- "
" -- is your first and only love, Father!" shouts Jahani. "You cared nothing for Mother or for me! All your time, devoted to the pursuit of filthy oil, filthier money. You sell the lifeblood of our land to the Great Shaitan and become wealthy beyond measure, while in our homeland, people starve in the streets!"
This is a new rant, one the Sheikh hasn't heard before. It must be something he picked up in one of his political classes, or maybe from a wannabe radical school chum. The problem with college is all the Communists and Marxists running around. When he was that age, it was Nihilism that was popular with the kids, and he had followed the fad as well. At least until his own father had threatened to disown him. That had broken the spell immediately and thoroughly. Money, however, didn't seem to motivate Jahani -- and maybe that, too, is the older man's fault. The boy had never had to work for anything.
"You speak out of turn, Jahani." The Sheikh's voice is soft, dangerous. "Our country is not as poor as you pretend. You merely seek a target for your frustrations. Do not forget, this 'Great Shaitan' of yours is responsible for your education and your lifestyle. However..."
He glances at his son to make sure he's got the young man's attention.
"It may be time for you to go into the world and make your own way. To learn from experience instead of books. Tell me, my son, if you could have one occupation -- anything at all, aside from all this rubbish about holy wars -- what would it be?"
The youth gazes into his father's eyes for a full minute, wondering just how sincere the older man is.
"Honestly? Absolutely honestly?" he asks.
Sheikh Djibouti nods solemnly.
"It wouldn't offend you if I said I don't really care about oil, one way or the other?"
Now the older man looks a little less comfortable, but he nods anyway. Jahani points one wiry-muslced arm at the television, which is now showing a commercial for the upcoming edition of WCF Slam! Djibouti stares at the TV, puzzled.
"A news anchor? An actor? What?"
"A professional wrestler," Jahani answers, and folds his arms across his chest, silently daring his father to argue.
To the young man's great surprise, the Sheikh considers this for several moments, and then nods.
"At last... a goal. A goal for which you must attain a measure of discipline you have not so far encountered in your life. Yes. Yes, Jahani, I think you have made a wise choice. For once."
Some hours later...
In his private study, the Sheikh is talking to someone on an old-fashioned rotary phone, the receiver made of ivory, with inlaid gold in fanciful shapes.
"Yes, yes... I am aware that it was a gas leak. What I'm asking is.. how much would it cost to simply state that a certain 'terrorist' -- I despise that word, by the way -- has claimed responsibility?" He listens for a few seconds, laughs softly. "Then how about a sizeable donation to the cause of your choosing? It wouldn't exactly be a falsehood. People claim responsibility for things all the time." He goes silent again, longer this time. "Yes, absolutely. I'll wire the funds tonight. Right now, in fact." He smiles as the voice on the other end says something. "Oh, no... thank you. Goodbye."
Sheikh Djibouti leans back in his overstuffed leather chair and, uncharacteristically, rests his Italian loafers on the desk. A smart phone in hand, he pokes at the touch screen a few times, smiles again, and puts it away. One task down, one to go. The evening is late, but business rarely waits for a decent hour -- particularly when that business involves one's only son and heir. He picks up the receiver again and dials a number.
"Put me through to Seth Lerch, please..."
