‘I think we have met before, somewhere?’
‘We have, your Highness; in 1975 I came to your country to discuss supplying you with arms for your liberation from the United Arab Emirates. I came to see your General Mamoud Hayassa, and I was introduced to you whilst I was here.’
The Emir nodded disinterestedly. The servants brought in finger bowls, dry towels, and then perfume to spray on the hands of the three diners, and then tea was brought in. The Emir seemed in no mood to talk further, and so the three men sat in a strained silence. After some minutes he turned to Culundis. ‘You come from Greece, I believe?’
‘Yes, your Highness.’
‘I have not visited Greece.’
‘You would be most welcome, should you ever wish to come,’ said Culundis.
‘I shall never wish to come,’ said the Emir emphatically. He turned to his son and gave one long positive nod. It was the signal for his son and Culundis to leave; Missh stood up, and bade Culundis to stand. The Greek couldn’t get to his feet fast enough.
Neither Missh nor the Greek spoke to each other until they had stepped out of the elevator back in Missh’s quarters. ‘My father does not speak much these days,’ said Missh.
‘No,’ agreed Culundis.
‘He thinks all the time about modernization, about new buildings, new roads, new industry; he forgets that there are also people.’ Missh pulled two huge brandy snifters out of a cupboard, handed one to Culundis, and filled it a quarter full; he then passed him an Upman’s corona, and took one himself. They settled themselves into Missh’s massive white velvet sofas.
‘Is he not aware of the feelings that are brewing?’
‘He thinks you can cure any discontent by the threat to fill in water holes, because that is the threat his father used, and his grandfather before him. He thinks that all the twentieth century has brought is an ability to utilize precast concrete and smoked glass; he isn’t aware that other things have changed as well as building techniques. He saw the Saudis get rich from oil, and he thinks he can create a kingdom like theirs. But he has no idea what it means. He thinks he can build the greatest industrial nation in the Middle East — out of fifteen hundred square miles of desert and seventeen thousand tribesmen and nomads. Sure, there are a thousand of our countrymen who want it — but there are 16,000 who don’t. They want their traditional ways of life, and their religion. He’s built schools, brought in teachers and begun educating. But what do most of those he has educated do? Do they go into industry? No, not many — they go back out of the cities, and they start organizing their people to resist the change. There are two strong leaders, who have the support now of maybe five, maybe ten thousand people; we rule them, but we don’t own them, and for the first time they are being made aware of this.’
‘How big is your army?’
‘Fifteen hundred.’
‘And how many of those would remain loyal?’
‘I do not know — it is impossible to say. Many have relatives who have died or had to resettle because of my father’s punishments. I have some good friends in the army; they tell me of much discontent.’
‘How long do you think you have?’
‘Every day I hear talk of new plots. I have already told you of the incident with my car; I don’t think we have long, not long at all. The two religious leaders, Al Hassah and Abdul bin Kakohha, both have equipped small armies. I do not know who supplies them, but I think it is the Americans.’
‘And you can’t turn to the Americans?’
‘No. I would love to, but they would not help us — if they do, they will lose the friendship of the Emirates.’
‘The Russians would help you — and the Libyans.’
‘Sure they would. I don’t want to be in the hands of the Russians, and I don’t want to be in the hands of Gaddafi. I want one day to become friendly with the West — that is where our future lies. Perhaps one day go back into the Emirates. There is no chance of that if I get into bed with either the Russians or the Libyans.’
‘But the rest of the world thinks you are supported by them anyway; that has always been the view of the press — and politicians, from what one hears and reads.’
‘Of course — and the Russians and Libyans are not going to deny it. It makes them appear to have another foothold in the Gulf,’ said Missh. Culundis drew heavily on his cigar, inhaled the smoke deeply, and then blew it up towards the ceiling; he swilled the brandy around the snifter, and took a large sip. ‘So your only solution is a private army, one that is paid by you, and is not interested in politics, religion, ideology; only the fat wage packets?’
Missh nodded, slowly and a little sadly.
‘My friend,’ said Culundis,‘I can get you all the guns you could ever wish for, and more bullets than you could shoot in a million years. I could have you two hundred thousand automatic rifles delivered tomorrow. I could get you field guns, mortars, tanks, fighter aircraft. I can get you nuclear weapons — nuclear combat weapons and if you want, nuclear intercontinental missiles; give me one month and I can get you enough nuclear weaponry to be able to hold the world to ransom. But none of it, none of it at all, is going to give you any future if you have thirty thousand restless people in your country. To hold them at bay, you would need a loyal army of thirty thousand men; and that it would be impossible to give you. I can put together an army for you of top-rate loyal men — but at the very most four hundred, maybe five hundred men. Although your country is small, your population is very spread out indeed. There is no way a few hundred soldiers could control your country.’
Missh nodded. ‘I know. My father hoped to lure his people into the cities; he felt he could keep better control there.’
‘You can coop them up, but you can’t stop them from thinking, from talking. I can name you dozens of countries where the rulers thought they could; but there aren’t many from those dozens where those in power today are the same people who were there ten years ago, and you’re going the same way, Abby. You are right on the brink of the slippery slope.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
Culundis again took another deep draw on his cigar, and a mouthful of brandy. He got up from his chair, walked over to a sidetable, took a handful of nuts and walked over to the window, eating them as he went, and looked out and down at the lights of Tunquit. He then glanced down at his jacket pocket. He had managed to flush the tongues down the lavatory, and the stain didn’t show too much. He stared back out over Tunquit and could see Missh, seated, reflected in the glass of the window.
‘If you want to survive, Abby, you are going to have to kill your father.’
There was a long silence. ‘Impossible. I could never contemplate it. I love my father.’
Culundis spun round. ‘Of course you love your father. Who doesn’t love his father? But unless someone takes the reins of this country — and from the way it sounds, there may only be weeks left to do it — and gets the message across that there are going to be major changes, an end to the filling in of wells, and everything else that they want to hear, both you and your father are going to be dead. Your father has to go. You have to take the reins, supported initially by everyone upon whom you can rely in your Government, armed forces and industry, and with your rear protected by one totally dedicated group: the mercenary army that we bring in. You have to get up there and you have to say to your people: “My father is gone. I am bringing you new leadership, youth, understanding, compassion. Let us all work together!” We will see how they respond. Some troublemakers will rise up — and we will eliminate them.’