“Does this Ebara have the support of the entire religious community?”
“That remains to be seen. As usual, the Grand Mufti has not been heard from, which hinders Ebara covering his uprising with that needed permission. We believe that Ebara’s campaign is being financed from outside of Saudi Arabia. We have picked up reports of foreign financial supporters. Russia and China are likely suspects.”
Kyle leaned forward, elbows on his knees, lost in thought for a moment. “I can understand how this Ebara guy might be the one whipping up the support for a rebellion by going on television and shouting his sermons. But I assume most of the Saudi military is still loyal to the House of Saud, despite the horrendous attack by a couple of rebel pilots. Am I right?”
“Yes,” replied Abdullah. “It appears that this spirit of rebellion is a momentary thing within most of the units. Overall, the soldiers are still obeying their orders.”
“So that leaves a good question, sir. If the officer corps is still loyal to the throne, who is running the tactical side of the coup?”
The king paused. “We don’t know.”
“Whoever it is, is a professional. He knows what he is doing,” said Kyle. “Let’s get all our intel people here and in Washington working to identify him. Chop off the head, the rest of the snake dies.”
The king rose. The private audience was over. “I will give such instructions,” he said. “Meanwhile, collect those nuclear weapons as fast as you can.”
36
JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA
MOHAMMED ABU EBARA TOOK a long look at the bright cover of the entertainment magazine. It featured a beautiful young woman in a bikini walking hand-in-hand on a sparkling beach with a muscular male who also was in a tight and skimpy bathing costume. Ebara found the public display of nudity and affection to be both disgusting and offensive. A headline over the color photograph read:
STEFI AND BARNS:
CARIBBEAN HONEYMOON?
Stephanie Haddad of Lebanon was among the most popular singers in the Middle East, a product of the MTV generation, known as “Stefi” by her millions of fans. Only twenty years old, she was mysteriously sexy with black hair that had been lightened with color until it was a tawny waterfall that reached past her shoulders. She had a reputation for being wild, was rich, dressed provocatively, drove a red Porsche convertible, and openly dated British football star Barnaby Weathers. They were a stunning couple whose unblemished faces and perfect bodies were often displayed in magazines, and her hard rock songs and sultry dances were among the most downloaded items among the young people of Saudi Arabia.
Ebara flung the disgusting magazine into the trash. It was a lie. The harlot was not in any holiday resort in the Caribbean with her infidel boyfriend. Right now, she was cooped up in one of Ebara’s barren jail cells, alone and wearing nothing but a dingy gray scoop-neck prison shift that buttoned along the back.
IN ADDITION TO BEING a celebrity, Stephanie Haddad was also a Muslim and had decided to fulfill a requirement of her religion by making a haj, the pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca in Saudi Arabia. She was much too well-known to appear during the proscribed time for the real festival, but she felt safe in making an umrah, an off-season visit that would still be spiritually satisfying. When she was older and no longer in the spotlight, perhaps she could perform the true ritual visit. This time at least she could make the walk seven times around the black cube of the Kaaba and stone the devil.
Her trip was planned in secret and her publicist announced in Lebanon that she and Barnaby were taking an extended holiday at a villa on a Caribbean island. The photo of Stefi and her boyfriend had been staged on a secluded beach in Spain and leaked to the media. Then, with the color washed from her trademark mane of hair, the makeup removed, and the Victoria’s Secret lingerie left behind, Stefi entered Saudi Arabia under an assumed name. She was covered and pious, a proper young woman traveling with her brother, naïvely believing that her fame could be left behind.
ONLY TWO HOURS AFTER she crossed the border, Mohammed Abu Ebara knew she was in the country. What better way to demonstrate his authority than by publicly degrading and whipping this particularly insulting harlot who pranced naked before the face of God? Before Stefi even had a chance to leave Jeddah, the gateway to the holy shrines, he struck.
A political riot was arranged while she was out shopping and Religious Police swept her up to slam her into the dirty cell. Ebara announced the arrest on television and charged the slim singer with public blasphemy. His judges came to a quick decision, because the defendant was not entitled to an attorney, a jury, or even allowed to hear the evidence against her. There would be no embassy contacts, no telephone calls, not even a prior notification to the Shura Council, which might oppose his intentions.
The three judges sentenced her to fifty lashes with the cane. Ebara balked: not enough! A thousand lashes, he demanded, and the cowed jurists, fearful of making a powerful enemy and perhaps ending up in jail themselves, agreed.
ABOUT NOON THE FOLLOWING day, two female guards entered her cell, clamped handcuffs on her wrists and took her out. She thought for a moment that she was being released, but found herself being hoisted into a dank, covered truck that contained four male Religious Police guards who leered at her as she sat on a side bench. A wooden chair also was in the truck.
At the downtown marketplace in which she had been arrested, she was still handcuffed in the truck, while Ebara’s men spread the word that a special event was about to occur in the square. Foreigners and journalists were particularly encouraged to attend. A crowd gathered, thinking that there might be a brutal beheading and there were some noises of disappointment when the chair from the truck was placed in the middle of the open area: just a flogging.
Stefi began to lose some fear as she waited, replacing it with a growing sense of defiance. I’m Stephanie Haddad! They can’t get away with this! She would offer bribes, or ransom, or whatever it was called down here.
EBARA WAS SATISFIED AT the way the event was unfolding. Like the rebellion, it was another public demonstration of his soaring power. Straying Muslims around the world would quake, then rally to his cause.
Ebara had postponed the flogging until Dieter Nesch and the terrorist Juba arrived, so he could judge their reactions when he meted out this remarkable punishment. They also needed to understand his determination and strength to do whatever was necessary as a true leader. Guards shoved aside the crowd to make room for the two special visitors. Nesch, the short, pudgy banker, was in a buttoned suit. Juba was casual in a dark shirt and gray slacks, his face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat that disguised the eye patch. Neither seemed particularly interested. Ebara intended to change that attitude of indifference by showing them sharia law at work!
“Bring her,” he told the guards. He gave the long and flexible bamboo cane a good shake. The tip swished back and forth through the air, like the pendulum of an evil clock.
Despite her increased resolve, a tear rolled down Stefi’s cheek when the guards came. They laughed and said they were not interested in a bribe from a whore.