The Protocols of Carstairs
Ron Dudderie
Table of Contents
Preamble
Chapter 1 – Looking back in anger
Chapter 2 – Home shit home
Chapter 3 – A Caroline in the sand
Chapter 4 – We have lift-off
Chapter 5 – Keller we have a problem
Chapter 6 – The trial of Carstairs
Chapter 7 – Here's to Las Vegas
Chapter 8 – A fox is a wolf who sends flowers
Chapter 9 – This round is on me
Chapter 10 – And all that jazz
Chapter 11 – Let's put on a show
Chapter 12 – The hardest working man in Vegas
Chapter 13 – It's time to play the music
Chapter 14 – Plane frustrating
Chapter 15 – Discretion is key
Chapter 16 – The road to perdition
Chapter 17 – The pilgrimage of Carstairs
Chapter 18 – Got the MacGuffin
Chapter 19 – The Deadly Hajji
Chapter 20 – All Your Base Are Belong To Us
Chapter 21 – To find the truth you must leave your cave
Chapter 22 - Of bikes and men
Chapter 23 – The spy who came in from the heat
Chapter 24 – My dinner with ISIS
Chapter 25 – Count on Carstairs
Chapter 26 – Double face-off
Chapter 27 – The long and winding road
Chapter 28 – Vengeance was waiting for me
From the author
The Protocols of Carstairs
by
Ron Dudderie
Volume 7 of the Carstairs Series
This is the final part of The Arabian Adventures, a three book story arc within the Carstairs series, which starts with 'This Is Your Carstairs Speaking' and continues in 'Carstairs of Arabia'. All books are available as eBooks at funnyandsexyebooks.com, so you can start reading within minutes.
Acknowledgements & Disclaimer
Thanks once more to Steve B for proofreading this behemoth not once but twice, and doing it so quickly, too. It's not as easy or as fun as it seems, folks! Thanks also to William Harr and Avid Reader for their time and effort.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The author does not necessarily condone, support or agree with actions and statements made by characters appearing in this story and urges readers to take a literary view, not a literal one.
This book airs many concerns over and criticisms of Islamic mores and culture. I'm sure this won't help, but may it be noted the book does not actually condemn or insult the religion or its prophet, but merely the people who claim to follow its teachings and yet do not unequivocally condemn all the violence and inequities perpetrated in its name. Assaulting me in any way merely proves the point of this book.
Subscribe to a newsletter (low volume) at https://tinyletter.com/ronsdirtybooks for updates and news about new books.
You may update your copy to the most recent version at any time. Go here: https://funnyandsexyebooks.com/webshop/self-service-page/
Bespoke cover illustration by Mohammed Elhussieny, a gifted illustrator available for hire via Upwork.com. He gave me EXACTLY the cover image I wanted, and then helped me make it better. And then I ruined it by doing the lettering myself. He was not given a copy of the book before accepting the assignment, nor a summary of its contents.
Start date: July 1st, 2019
End date: March 23rd, 2021
Cleanup end date: May 1st, 2021
Release date: May 20th, 2021
Version 1.1, updated July 2021.
Chapter 1 – Looking back in anger
Chapter 1 of this book is available as a free 89 minute audio recording.
(Click here if possible or visit funnyandsexyebooks.com)
Wednesday, September 9th, 2015. ///risky.approach.wacky
“ENGLISH! VISIT FOR YOU!”
I had to be poked before I responded to the announcement from the guard, as I was contemplating my future at the time.
“English? Where?”
The guard was pointed in my direction and came up to the cell.
“You want visit? It is...”
He checked a form.
“Ej-bas-tohn. From British embassy.”
A visit from Mr. Edgebaston... That was all I needed: MI6 to the rescue, except not really. They had been very clear about that: if I got myself in trouble I was on my own. Edgebaston was the local intelligence coordinator at the British embassy in Riyadh. We hadn't met in person, but we'd spoken over the phone once or twice. He usually made me deal with his underling, until I started bringing in detailed information about active terror cells.
Now he was acting on behalf of the embassy, which would send out someone to speak with British citizens detained abroad. Not to help in any way, mind you, but just to show the flag so that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs could plausibly say that 'the matter has our attention and we have been in contact with Mr. King, but we cannot interfere in the legal proceedings of a foreign government'. I expected this conversation to be brief yet depressing.
I was led into an interview room which was somewhat nicer than my communal cell, if not by much. The floor was just bare, sealed concrete, and there was a side table that contained some paper cups and a bottle of water. A man sat with his back to me as I came in. Floppy, grey hair, bad posture. He had a black attache case with him, which he accidentally kicked over as he turned round.
“Oops! Uhm, Mister Carstairs?” he said, reaching for my hand.
“P... pa...”
DAD! That was my father! Alfred van de Casteele. A man who, even though I came from his loins, can most charitably be described as an absentminded dingbat. I love him, but he is completely and utterly useless. Daft as a brush. Deaf as a post. Hobbies: obsessive sports watching and casual racism. Functional alcoholic. Incorrigible prankster. The father my wife Melody never had. In fact, the father I barely had myself when he was younger. He'd been making up for that in his old age, though. Him and Melody were thick as thieves. He can be very charming. Apparently.
Dad grabbed my hand.
“Ralph Edgebaston, British embassy. Thank you, officer. We'll manage from here.”
The door closed behind me. I wasn't sure if this room was bugged, but I hadn't recovered from the shock and so I said:
“What the... HELL are YOU doing here, you deaf old coot?!”
“Now now,” said dad, turning his head sideways to show me a skin coloured hearing aid behind his ear.
“You got one! FINALLY! I mean Jesus, that's only what, three decades overdue?”
“Yeah yeah yeah, just sit down. Can't be sure if this place is safe to talk.”
He gestured at the seat opposite him. This room had no large mirrors and the only thing on the ceiling was a double fluorescent tube lamp. There was a window, but it was placed so high up the wall you couldn't see out of it and so narrow my head would barely fit through, never mind the rest of me.
“It probably isn't,” I said, as I cracked open the water bottle and poured two cups. The seal was intact.
“So I've got this:” dad whispered.
He picked up the attache case and opened it. Then he fiddled with something inside and both his voice and mine were heard. I was dumbstruck: after a few seconds I recognised my own voice reciting the English Caravaggio tour in the British Museum. Dad's voice was reading from Moby-Dick. It was bizarre.
He leaned in.
“If we don't shout, they'll have a hard time listening in. Clever, that!”
“Caravaggio's innovations inspired Baroque painting, but the Baroque incorporated the drama of his chiaroscuro without the psychological realism. As styles evolved and fashions changed, Caravaggio fell out of favour.”
“Whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet, and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street and methodically knocking people's hats off, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”
“Dad,” I hissed. “Why are you here?”
“Well, your mother wanted to come. But that seemed a bit impractical, given where we are. Same for Ms. Keller, really. Peter Fox is on some sort of list, fingerprints and all. Sending Kate or Kelly seemed a bad idea, and...”
“YES, you daft maniac, I GET all that. But why YOU? You're... I'm sorry, but I mean this in a loving way: you're useless. At this, at any rate.”
Dad didn't seem offended. He never does.
“Well, I'm all you've got. We wanted a first hand account and the embassy won't be doing anything for you, so Caroline arranged for me to go in as Edgebaston. I got here on a private plane, would you believe it! Your mother insisted on coming along, too.”
“Mum is here?!”
“In our hotel room. Wild horses, you know. Even though she was told she couldn't see you. Well, maybe in that square, if we stay long enough.”
“Oh, cheers dad!”
“First time ever! Food wasn't very good. When you think private jet, you don't really expect microwaved lasagna, do you? I mean...”
“Stop talking about the fucking airplane. Please. This is serious. I am in deep shit.”
Dad's default facial expression, 'mild bewilderment', changed into something not unlike sadness.
“Are you? Because we have no idea.”
“Of what? The charges, you mean? Neither have I, but it's going to be epic. If they convert it to community service, I'll be picking up trash long after the sun has extinguished. But they won't. Orphaned, Caravaggio took to the streets and fell in with a group of painters and swordsmen who lived by the motto nec spe, nec metu, 'without hope, without fear'. BLOODY HELL, this is annoying!”
I pointed at the suitcase, which was droning on. Dad shrugged.
“But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster— tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. It's a one hour loop. I've got all the time in the world. But look! Here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! How about you start from the top and tell me everything? And I do mean everything. So we'll know what to expect.”
I turned down the suitcase volume a little, because this was driving me up the wall.
“Dad? You've known me my entire life. Last time we met you asked me how I take my coffee. You must have asked me that well over a thousand times. You also offered me wine, as you do with every meal. I don't drink wine. Never have.”
“That's good, 'cause I didn't bring any. I hope there's some at the hotel, though. We're at the... uhm... the tall one. Looks like a Ladyshave. Is that any good?”
“So why would I bother telling you everything that happened, only for you to forget ninety percent of it and warp the rest into something incomprehensible that will only confuse and upset the girls?”
His face lit up.
“Ah! I brought a thingy.”
He opened a small compartment of the case and took out a black button. Can't quite describe it, but think of a large shirt button without any holes in it. It did have a blue light on it, which blinked in a steady pattern. On the back was a piece of double-sided medical tape.
“Stick that here,” said dad, pointing at his own trachea. “This thing also records. With that on, it can filter out your voice. They said they can manage anyway, because they know what the recording is saying, but this makes it easier. Also, please stop insulting me and insinuating I'm demented. When it's about you or Kate there's nothing I can't or won't do. I'll remember every bloody word. So start talking.”
I stuck on the button and trusted that the recording was actually in progress. Dad never had a problem with computers and electronics devices and seemed confident that things were fine.
“Okay... Well, where to start? A couple of days ago I...”
Dad turned up the volume a little. We stuck our heads close together.
“Start with the attack. In London.”
“I told you about that, remember?”
I had, over the course of a few longs walks we had taken together in the days after the attack. It was the first time in my adult life that my father stepped up to care for me. He sensed I needed to talk and he volunteered to listen. I'm not sure if he had anticipated it would take close to a week for me to say all I had to say, but never once did he complain. He just kept asking questions, and inviting me to talk some more. I really needed that.
“I do remember. Very well. But the others will want to hear it, too. From your perspective. So, please. Start there. Caroline says you can tell us anything and she'll make sure the UK authorities will never hear of it.”
“That's not going to matter very much, considering what's in store for me,” I sighed.
“Oh come on, surely it can't be that bad?”
“Wanna bet? Let me get some more water first.”
“So, as you know I was on the Underground with Melody, Edwin, Kate and of course Diana. I'd had my first read-through of a play Diana had asked me to perform with her. Kate had come to watch because... well, because she's Kate and when I'm doing showbiz-type things she wants to be involved. Melody had come along because I'd had an affair with Diana and she was mildly worried we'd be tempted into misbehaving. And we couldn't get a sitter at short notice, so Edwin came along. He was good as gold.
After the read-through we decided to go out for dinner. Diana's husband Nigel was there too, but he wanted to smoke and so he decided to walk to the restaurant. The rest of us weren't up for a long walk, so we took the Underground. I'd have taken my car, but Ali was stuck in traffic. As it turns out, the terrorists had caused this traffic jam, somehow. To maximise the number of victims and stop the police from responding quickly.”
“Don't get ahead of yourself,” said dad.
“Okay. So when we arrived at Paddington, Mel and I had to reassemble Edwin's stroller on the platform. Diana had to go pee, so she went ahead. Turns out she didn't get far, but for a while I had no idea where she went. A bomb went off near the ticket office and then two guys on the platform, one with a gun and one with a scimitar, a sword, started attacking people. There weren't too many passengers, as there had just been a train. But the guy with the scimitar hacked two people to death. I saw that happening. And the guy with the gun, who was on a different platform, also killed a few people.”
I sipped some water. I'd revisited this hellish tale so often, I had become slightly numb to it. Which is good, I suppose.
“You don't need to go into detail. How did it end?”
“It ended with me pushing the guy with a gun in front of a speeding train and feeding the one with the sword into the open machinery of an escalator that was under repair. That's where Kate had hidden Melody and Edwin, but he had found them. If not for Diana, who came out of nowhere, he'd have struck both of them with his sword. But he killed Diana. She died with her head in my lap. On the platform. And then Peter Fox showed up and took us away. Except Diana. She was dead.”
“She was a wonderful woman, Martin. We'll never forget her.”
“I know. I won't. So... A couple of days later, I got a visit from Sir Rupert Dupree, of the Home Office. And some MI6 guy. Simon Something. They had a request: I'd met a Saudi prince when I was in Qatar to audition as Aston Martin's spokesperson. We had a competition and somehow I lost and still got the gig. Prince Asim. Now, Asim thought I was Caroline's butler. Or rather, that I was her business advisor posing as a butler.”
“Why did he think that?”
“Well, Caroline and I were having a bet. She said I couldn't be Carstairs for any length of time without breaking character. I said I could. He sort of stumbled into the middle of that and we never saw the need to tell him what was going on. Anyway, he liked what he saw, or thought he saw, and extended a job offer to me, which Caroline declined on my behalf. And then Sir Rupert asked me to accept it anyway, because prince Asim is the cousin of prince Omar.”
“And who is Omar?”
“A person of interest when it comes to financing terrorism, and this attack in particular. Now Asim is basically a nobody. Sixteenth in line to the throne, so he gets a sizeable allowance, but he's in the doghouse for messing up some business deals. But he and Omar are really close, like brothers. Asim idolises Omar, and Omar relies on Asim when it comes to social interactions. You see, Omar is a bit of a heel. Short tempered, no time for idiots, dull as dishwater, totally devoted to his family. Smarter than most anyone he meets, and he knows it. Not a people person, in other words. He keeps Asim around to grease the wheels, so to speak. And MI6 thought that Omar was behind the attack, or that he had at least financed it.”
“Did he?” asked dad, who had been listening attentively. The only other time I ever saw him paying attention like this was when Andy Gray did the after match analysis.
“Turns out he did, but not on purpose. He just donated lots of money to a mosque led by an imam who helped coordinate the attacks. I'm pretty sure he knew his money wasn't going to orphanages, but I'm satisfied he didn't know any specifics.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Because I interrogated that imam for about twelve hours. He's dead now.”
Dad flinched.
He knows I've killed people. I've told him about those two crackers in the Underground, but also about Emma Lestrade's psychotic boyfriend and the US Customs Officer who had a go at Kelly and who turned out to have been abusing his power for ages. But killing the boyfriend had happened in something of a daze, as he had just attacked Kelly and subsequently stabbed Melody. And the American, that was more like an accident. I hadn't set out to kill him. But this was different. This was deliberate. I could tell dad was shocked.
“Interrogated...”
“Tortured. Not all the time, just when he was holding out on me.”
That wasn't strictly true, but somehow I didn't want my father to know I'd enjoyed it.
“And... they know this?” asked dad, gesturing at the door behind him.
“I don't... I suppose. I dumped his body in the trash. He's either in a landfill or an incinerator by now, unless someone saw me. But if it's not that, it may be the fact that I blew up his mosque.”
“You... you...” stammered dad.
“Well, I didn't actually blow it up. I just wanted to set fire to it, during Friday prayer. Look, I'll walk you through it. So I accepted the job and came to live with Asim for a while. There I learned he wasn't doing so well: his allowance was cut and he had been relegated to a small villa. Nice enough, but not for a Saudi prince. He had a staff budget, but spent it all on my salary. Which was fine, because the palace still sent cleaners over, and he ordered food from the palace kitchen. He was actually pretty happy there, playing video games all day and hanging out with his buddies. I never did learn what kind of business deals he was working on, or which one he'd fucked up, but we got along fine. But I needed to get close to Omar, not Asim. Get it?”
Dad just nodded. The bewilderment was back.
“So I met this guy from the CIA, John Stein, who...”
“Excuse me? I think you mean MI6?”
“No. CIA. MI6 didn't do jack shit for me here. They barely have a presence. Saudi is left mostly to the Americans, and they saw me coming a mile off. But they are interested in Omar as well, so John told me about a way into Omar's palace.”
“Which palace is that?”
“Uhm, Omar has a palace near Mecca, but for some reason he's here most of the time with his family. He stays in what's called the Guest Palace, on the grounds of the actual Royal Palace, where King Salman lives. There are palaces all over the country. They have a LOT of princes. Asim's villa is also technically a palace. It's like an embassy, in a way. So, Stein tells me that Omar has a niece, princess Alexandra. She lives with him. And she has a private tutor, professor Markhan Rasul. If I were to get rid of Rasul, I'd stand a good chance of becoming Alexandra's tutor.”
“Oh. This is a lot to keep track of. Why would... I mean... You're a butler.”
“Yeah, it wasn't easy. So I killed professor Rasul.”
Dad briefly leaned back and threw up his hands.
“Of course you did... Dare I ask how?”
“Injection. In his neck. On a yacht. In the Gulf.”
Dad shook his head, rather cartoonishly.
“A... a... yacht... Did you sing?”
“What? Yes. How did you...”
“That's on YouTube. Do you know people back home seem to think you're either dead or have taken on a new identity? There's footage of a man who looks like you, except with a beard that it now turns out you actually have, singing Desafinado on this vast yacht, in the middle of the ocean. The audio is crap and it's mostly out of focus and from quite far away, but some people swear that it's you. Sounds like you, too.”
“Well, it was me. Long story. Anyway, I killed the professor and shortly after I was hired to tutor princess Alexandra in Economics. And Geography, but that's less urgent.”
“And, and, and did you... put the professor in an incinerator, too?”
“No. Made it look like a... like he'd accidentally hung himself with a belt. Whilst... pleasuring himself.”
“Eeeuw.”
Yes, I get that from my father. Just that, as far as I can tell. Oh, and the dimpled chin.
“Yeah. So Omar found him with one of his underpants on his face and obviously kept that VERY quiet. Asim was there as well. So now I become Alexandra's tutor and I move into the Guest Palace with Omar. Except not really, because he and his family live in a different section. I hardly ever meet them. In fact, when I teach the princess it's like the warm-up to a Punch and Judy show. She's behind a curtain. But hey, at least I'm on the inside now. There's this laptop that the CIA is interested in. And so am I, because at that point I didn't know much about Omar's involvement yet. But then he introduces me to this favourite imam, Musa ibn Ja'far. He's in charge of the Hittin mosque, one of the strictest in town. It's where the Mutawa hang out, the religious police. Like a club house for the Gestapo. That's the imam who turned out to be behind the attacks. Actually, not just him: there are others, but he did the recruiting and brought in the money. He also paid off the relatives of the attackers, who get a monthly stipend for the loss of their family member. And his mosque was used to stash everything. Weapons, drugs, and as it turns out explosives.”
“Which you detonated? That was on the news. In fact, it still is. One of the largest attacks in living history on the Arabian peninsula.”
“That's only because Iraq isn't on the peninsula. And I'm sure Yemen has seen worse. But I didn't detonate those bombs. In fact, I had no idea they were there, or I'd have stayed well away. What I did was fill the fire suppression system water tank with ethyl alcohol. I'd found a stash somewhere. Then, during Friday prayer, I set off the alarm and that was going to burn everyone inside to a crisp. I'd have used Zyklon B but the man said it was on backorder.”
My father's face performed some interesting gymnastics while I spoke.
“Whu... whu.. You did WHAT? YOU... WHAT?!?”
Dad threw himself back in his chair, causing a horrible scraping noise.
“I used the sprinkler system to douse a bunch of the most fanatical Muslims I could find in alcohol, which they do voluntarily whenever they think they can get away with it, by the way, and set fire to them. During Friday prayer. Which is kind of a big deal. But then somehow the explosives Imam Musa had in storage also went off and took out half the building.”
“Half the building?! Half a city block! Martin! What the hell has gotten into you?! That's terrorism!”
“Keep your voice down, dad. That's not terrorism. That's pay-back. A taste of their own medicine. These people jump for joy each time something like this happens in the West. Absolutely over the fucking moon every time there's a shooting in a disco, or a stabbing, or a beheading. And I didn't plan any explosion, did I?”
“No, just a cremation! Bloody hell, I can't believe I'm hearing this. I mean, going after that imam is probably justifiable, but...”
“You don't know these people, dad. They're brimming with hatred.”
“Clearly they're not the only ones! How am I going to tell this to you mother, Martin? 'How is our boy doing, Alfred?' 'Well, he's got a silly beard now and you'll never guess: he's a MASS MURDERER!'”
“It's only mass murder when it involves people. Each and every one of the fuckers I've killed would have cheered at your beheading, simply for you being a Christian.”
“I'm no... I'm not a...”
“That's even worse. Atheism is worse, to them. Look dad, I promised Diana I'd find the people responsible and make them suffer. And I promised that chap I stuffed into the escalator engine I'd take ten lives for each person killed in his attack. That was nine people, so they owe us ninety. Plus ten for Diana, to make it an even hundred. I've been doing it piecemeal, but that was taking forever.”
“Piecemeal? You mean... Killing people individually?!”
“Yes. Two customs officers, although one of them slipped and cracked his skull, but I'm still counting him. One Mutawa in a shopping mall. Two in the desert. That's five. Oh, Rasul, that's six. And Imam Musa. So seven down, ninety-three to go! At this rate, I'll be here until Edwin graduates. That mosque was just to speed things up.”
Dad just sat there, with his mouth open. After a few seconds he swallowed and said:
“Martin, last I heard over two hundred people had died in that... explosion, fire, whatever. They're STILL pulling people out of the rubble, most of them burned beyond recognition. Several countries have sent forensics experts to help identify the victims. Twelve thousand people took to the street in London, in a silent memorial walk. Over half of those weren't even Muslim!”
“Then they're idiots, blind to the danger that surrounds them. Okay, so I may have overshot the mark somewhat. But those explosives were going to be used to kill just as many people, except in the West, or Iraq. At least now they did some good.”
Dad briefly buried his face in his hands, sighed and looked up:
“Maybe. Maybe. But... If that's what you're in for, there is no way they're ever letting you go. If you only get life imprisonment that would be a minor miracle.”
“Well, clearly we don't want that. So come on. Let's have it.”
I beckoned at him with my hand.
“Have what? Oh, the money? The guard took it. He says you'll get it back. It's three thousand Saudi Riyals, the maximum amount. He said they test the bills to make sure they're not soaked in soluble illicit drugs.”
I knew that was the procedure for giving money to prisoners. The guards also deduct some 'administrative costs' for themselves. I'd be lucky to get half of it back, but that wasn't my concern right now.
“I don't mean money. I mean the stuff. The pills, or whatever it is. Hand it over, please. I'll keep it safe until the interrogations start.”
“Martin... What are you talking about?”
“Suicide pills. Look, Caroline sent you. She arranged this suitcase, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then she'll have put in something for me to end my life. Let's have a look.”
He grabbed the suitcase and pulled it away from me. Somehow that raised the volume.
“MARTIN! SIT DOWN. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild I'M SORRY, IT'S THE rolled his island bulk, the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale I CAN'T SEEM TO FIND THE VOLUME ROCKER.”
“It's right there, I saw the murder that Caravaggio committed in 1606 was not the end of his violence in THE HINGE!”
“Another murder?!”
“No, that's the... the suitcase! It's one of the most senior knights in the Order of St. John in Malta. Caravaggio was arrested.”
“WHO?”
“DAD! For fuck's sake... The attack had a profound impact on Caravaggio's mental and physical state. His vision and brushwork suffered from the assault...”
I wrestled the suitcase out of my old father's hands, located the volume rocker and set the suitcase back to an acceptable volume. The recorded versions of dad and myself were back to their background mumbling. While I had the suitcase, I searched it for hidden compartments and found none.
“Told you,” said dad. “No pills or anything.”
“Oh, I'm SO happy you're right, dad!” I said, crossing my arms and leaning back in my chair.
“Martin, we had no idea you were in this much trouble. All we knew was that you were detained, and we figured you had been caught spying. That's bad enough. In fact, Peter is proposing to kidnap a young Saudi prince who is studying in the US, so we can set up an exchange. Which is... I mean, when I heard that I wasn't even sure I'd heard it right. We're ready to KIDNAP someone for you. But there's no way they'll exchange a...”
A guard rapped on the door and spoke in disturbed tones.
“What did he say?” asked dad.
“I don't know, do I? I don't speak Arabic. Probably telling us to be quiet.”
“You STILL don't speak Arabic? You've been here for two months!”
“Not quite. Okay, calm down. Drink your water. Is there anything else I should tell you?”
“I don't know, do I? How many more atrocities did you commit? What was that about one guy in a mall in the desert?”
“Oh, that. No, no, no. Two customs officers. The day I arrived via the border with Qatar they planted a bottle of booze in the trunk of my car. Then they followed me to an area without cell phone coverage and planned to ambush me and shake me down. Again, I might add. I wasn't having it, so I killed them and pushed their car off a cliff. Well, ledge. Incline. So that's two. Then there was an old sod who was terrorising a woman in a mall, so I kicked him down some stairs and he died. And then I took a girl to a hotel, which isn't allowed here, and we were caught. The girl got away but two Mutaween, that's the religious police, took me to the desert and were planning to torture me with mace. So I shot one and killed the other by...”
I guess dad had heard about this incident, because he finished my sentence. Well, almost:
“Dragging him... behind a... MARTIN! What HAPPENED to you?! Killing people left, right and centre! You have a family! A son, and a beautiful wife! Who can barely sleep, by the way. You trot off to the Middle East claiming you'll be back in a week and then it seems you're behind every item on the news! That MURDER you committed, dragging that guy behind a car... That's horrible!”
“No, no, no... Ploughing through a high street in a truck, killing women and children, THAT is horrible. This is payback. Fair dues. That guy ruined countless lives, all from people who just wanted a shag. I'm only sorry I couldn't see his face while I was giving him a tow through the desert. And if you can't see that, that is YOUR problem, not MINE. I saw Diana dying. THIS close to my face! They took a sword to my family, dad! A guy with a sword chased KATE. Fuck these people. Fuck them and their smug superiority. Their hypocrisy. Their violence, sanctioned by a bunch of geriatric fuckers on a religious power trip. Fuck them all.”
Dad said nothing. I saw him breathing in and out, twice, very controlled.
“I don't know much about Sharia law, but I wouldn't conduct my own defence if I were you. Is there anything you want me to say to... anyone?”
“Yes. To all the girls and mum, that I love them and that... that... I'm sorry. I'm sorry this happened. I planned it carefully and I don't know what went wrong. And to you: thanks for coming. Sorry I yelled at you. And to Caroline... Tell her to recover my laptop and decrypt it. It's in storage here, with my luggage. My IT-guys will know the password, it's the one we use for master backups. There's information on it MI6 will want to have. I recorded the interrogation. There are a few notes, as well. Make sure you get it. I wasn't able to upload it all.”
“But some of it?”
“Yes, but not... I did upload something, but that's just a confession I made him read. Rough edit. Needs a bit of work. It's not on a public server. Now, don't go before they come get you. Turn that thing off and tell me about Edwin. I know you've been seeing him every day, so I want to hear everything. Absolutely everything. Even what I already know.”
“Well... he's...”
Dad sighed.
“Martin... Why are you so calm? This is... this can't be anything but the end for you.”
I drank some more water.
“You know, I'm not so sure it is.”
“REALLY? You're not sure? You killed more people than Philip Morris!”
“Interesting observation for someone who smokes to this day. But the thing is, I've only been detained. There has been no interrogation. You'd think that, given what I did, I'd have been tied up with a lamp pointed at my face from the moment they captured me, but they haven't. And when I presented myself at the airport and checked in, no alarms went off. I walked underneath a bunch of cameras as I entered the departures hall, my luggage was barely looked at during a security screening, I presented my passport at check-in and they labeled my bags. That's weird, isn't it? Things only went pear-shaped after I went through passport control. You'd think they'd be all over me, trying to find out if I had an accomplice. But basically I've been left alone since processing, and detained with other prisoners. So yeah... I'm not too worried. Massively inconvenienced, certainly, but not overly worried. Perhaps you could alert Asim? He might be able to tell you more.”
Dad nodded.
“I'm sure Caroline will be able to reach him. I take it he doesn't know what you've been up to?”
I shrugged.
“Maybe he's pieced it together, but in that case it's too late anyway. But for now, tell me about Edwin and don't stop until they come knocking, okay? And turn that thing off, it's driving me mental.”
Fifteen minutes later I shook my father's hand, trying very hard not to fall apart. Yes, of course that happened. I was in prison, and I'd just been talking about my son. How could it not? He was better at handling it than me, it must be said. Which was good, because it's weird if the man from the embassy starts to blubber when he leaves. Two disinterested guards waited in the doorway.
“Goodbye, Mr. Edgebaston. Thank you for your time.”
“Good luck, Mr. Carstairs. And just so you know: we're all proud of you. Mistakes were made, but even so: very, very proud.”
“Thank... ahem... thank you. Sir.”
If you recall, in my previous journal I asked you to imagine a Saudi border control post, and you were spectacularly wrong. You came up with this horrible cliché, based on what Hollywood thinks a Bolivian passport office looks like, including a fly-specked fan with strings. Turns out it looks more like a pharmacy than anything else, or a car rental station.
So, round two: Saudi prisons. What are they like? I'll give you a few minutes while I tell you what happened just after I was stopped at the airport.
I was made to sit on my knees, and then handcuffed in full view of other passengers going through passport control. Obviously all of them looked the other way. I was taken into an office, searched very thoroughly and then they demanded that I boot my laptop. I did, using the method that only gained them access to a barely used Windows installation. That seemed to be enough. I was made to sit on a chair for half an hour, during which a number of phone calls were made. I could actually see my flight boarding and the gate closing, through the shutters of the office I was in.
My bag was taken from the plane, or rather from the baggage train, and brought in. They searched it in front of me and found the medallion I was given by Mr. Mohammed to identify myself as a somewhat high ranking staff member of the royal family. That raised some eyebrows, but it didn't change anything.
A senior officer who spoke English then came up to me. Obviously I wasn't feeling very optimistic about the future at that point, but I think I managed to hide it quite well.
“You will be taken to a cell,” he announced.
“May I ask what the problem is?”
“Your name is on the list. That's all I know.”
“Excuse me, what list is that, exactly?”
“The list of people who are to be arrested and taken to prison when they try to leave the country. We will inform the British embassy and the ministry of Civil Service. Now be quiet and don't get up from that chair.”
So, Saudi prisons. Maybe you Googled it when I wasn't looking. You seem the type, frankly. You'll have found many accounts of torture, and of sexual abuse when it comes to female prisoners. Especially those protesting for equality, which is a very easy way to get incarcerated. You may also have seen the footage of one prisoner who was hung upside down by other inmates and savagely beaten as prison officers looked on. (Which, in and of itself isn't saying much: if someone shat in my bed, I'd do exactly the same to him.) There is also plenty of evidence of torture by the state, and more than one activist has been taken to hospital, mentally destroyed and covered in burns from electroshock torture.
There are about 61,000 prisoners within Saudi Arabia. Half of them are Saudi nationals and 90 percent are men. Whether or not the incarceration rate is low or high depends on your perspective: 197 prisoners per 100,000 people. (Land of the free: 655, Canada: 114, Netherlands: 61.) But half of those detained haven't had their day in court yet. Not that it matters much in countries like that, obviously.
As in all prisons worldwide, mental issues affect a large percentage of inmates, so there is a thriving black market for medication, or at least for whatever helps you to dull the misery. Alcohol isn't an option, because even detained Muslims still maintain a certain amount of hypocrisy, but 'hashish', as it's called locally, is very much in demand, as are all kinds of psychotropic medication, cigarettes and food. Yes, food. Some prisoners at the bottom of the food chain have come close to starvation.
Money is a bit of a problem, as it's taken away when you are processed. You can get it back after a few days, but you do get a receipt with the amount, which you can show to other inmates for credit. And you'll have to, because you'll have to pay for everything.
This all sounds very bad. But don't worry: just make sure you're convicted for terrorism! Suddenly it's a whole different kettle of fish! You'll go to the al-Ha'ir high security prison in Riyadh. It's still a prison, but much less crowded. There are still guard towers with machine guns and you will share a cell with six to eight people, but cell doors are mostly not locked and you can spend the day chatting, playing chess or watching TV. Conjugal visits are possible in a hotel-like wing of the prison, where you and the missus get some privacy in a carpeted room with a fridge, a telly and your own shower. And a bed, obviously. You can attend weddings and funerals in the outside world and you'll even be given a few thousand dollars to present to the happy couple. Yes, THOUSAND. Your family is put on welfare while you are incarcerated and your kids can come and play with you. If they don't live nearby, the government will pay for airfare and hotel costs. Isn't that lovely? Just be sure to be a proper terrorist, not some poor dope incarcerated for a PDA (public display of affection, a big no-no), celebrating your birthday or Valentine's day, criticising the government or the restrictions placed on individual freedom by Islam or said government, taking pictures of a Royal Palace, showing your knees or shoulders (even as a man), wearing tight jeans or dining in the family section of a restaurant as a 'bachelor'. That will get you sent to one of the less pleasant prisons. But if you were stopped on your way to join IS, the Islamic State, to do some beheading, al-Ha'ir is where you'll go.
Now if there ever was a suitable candidate for terrorist prison, I'm sure you'll agree that was me. But at that time I didn't know about al-Ha'ir and even if I had, I don't think I'd have mentioned my qualifications. Nobody else had, so far. And so I said nothing, which I would also have done if I had been detained in any other country.
An hour after my plane had left I was given the chance to use the toilet. I felt that might be a good decision, even if the experience wasn't very private. I was then put into the back of a white van with a guard and found myself driving through Riyadh at night, a very familiar experience. I could see out of the rear window and was pretty sure K-T was two cars behind us at one point. Sadly, my watch had been taken away, as had my phone. So perhaps it wasn't K-T, as she had no way of tracking me.
I was taken to Riyadh Expat Prison, which doesn't really look like any prison you'll have seen on TV. No central courtyard, no towers with armed guards. It's where anyone with any kind of visa problem gets sent, plus those whose visa is about to be cancelled for breaking the law. It's not so much populated by murderers as by Pakistani and Indians who overstayed their visa, although you shouldn't think of this as a pleasant waiting room filled with people whose only crime is having been a bit careless with their paperwork. It's a prison, and there are many reasons, including a few legitimate ones, people end up there. Smuggling drugs or alcohol, stealing, lewd behaviour and acts of violence were also quite common charges. But this wasn't a high security prison, as I was told it. You could have fooled me, though.
The van passed through an entry gate, was locked in during an inspection and then another gate opened. The officer removed my restraints, which had been fastened in front of me during the ride. I was ordered to leave the van and had to carry my own luggage. Then I went through processing by myself, as the only new arrival for this evening. The officer who did that grudgingly spoke English when it turned out I understood next to nothing of his Arab dialect. You see, I was used to hanging out with royalty and as anywhere else, they speak in a very specific way. Mind you, there are local accents from The Netherlands I can't even understand, so this wasn't all that strange.
I feared a strip search but for some blessed reason they were not at all interested in what I might have up my bum. Obviously I had nothing secreted there (and for the record: I never have), but perhaps that would only have caused them to probe deeper. My belt had already been taken away at the airport and now they wanted my shoe laces. After that and a very thorough patdown I was taken to a solitary cell with a thin mattress that, in the dim glow of a light fixture embedded in the ceiling at least, didn't seem particularly dirty. I'd have liked a pillow and a blanket, but you know me: I hate to be a bother. There was also a black plastic bucket for my convenience. I was glad I gave at the airport, but this would probably be the way to go in the future. This, or worse. Oh, if only I'd known what was in store for me in that regard...
Although I'm describing all this very matter-of-factly, I obviously went nearly insane with fear from the moment they nabbed me. Given what I'd done, even a secret ten minute trial (not very unusual in what Saudi Arabia without a hint of sarcasm calls their 'legal' system) seemed like a luxury. A fair bit of torture in my future seemed a given, because obviously I might have hidden explosives elsewhere, or had an accomplice. I realise that the passport division at the airport doesn't get to hear the ins and outs of every crime for which they have to detain people, but given that mine had been on the news non-stop since it happened and would cause three days of national mourning, you'd think they'd make the connection and at least be very keen to get first crack at me. There was none of that, though. But that didn't occur to me that first night, when I thought I'd never again see my wife, my son and my sister, or indeed any of my loved ones. If there had been any feasible way to kill myself in that cell, I'd have done so. I know you can in theory bang your head on a wall until the internal bleeding kills you, but that requires a level of determination I simply do not possess. Hanging, shooting or jumping to my death is as far as I'll go. Starving myself isn't an option, either: I can't even stay on a diet for more than a month.
And so I didn't sleep at all that night and my back hurt from the thin mattress, so I decided to sit upright. That's how the guard found me after the morning prayer. At home I always ignored it, but here the call to prayer rang through the building and was impossible to miss. There was a qibla on the ceiling, an arrow pointing to Mecca, but as you know I don't partake. Well, I partake in the violence, but not the worship. And I'm not that fond of pork.
“You. Come.”
I was in no mood to be flippant. And I wasn't going to be confrontational, either. Generally speaking I don't shy away from a fight, but only an idiot would antagonise a prison officer, or his cellmates.
I was marched down a corridor by two guards. The place was a bit old, but generally clean. Think less Alcatraz, more Humanities Faculty of a poorly funded Greek University. Chipped paint on concrete walls, doors that had seen better days, but also cool marble floors that smelled of Dettol, though most tiles had a chipped corner or two. I passed two large rooms, each with four cells in it that consisted of little more than vertical metal bars. Each cell housed up to six occupants. The bars in the first room had once been painted baby blue, the ones in the second room were gunmetal grey and in the third room, which we entered, the theme was mint green. Well, mint and brown rust.
And so after a brief walk I was unceremoniously ushered into a cell with five other people in it. Two walls were concrete, two walls were iron bars. I could see into three similar cells. There was threadbare carpet on the floor of every one of them, and six beds. One bed was bare. Bare as in: just a steel frame. The carpets were of the flying variety: generally two by one metres, of the kind Arab merchants somehow expect tourists to shove in their suitcase when they fly home.
“I guess this is me,” I said, walking towards the empty bed frame. The door shut and the guards exchanged some information in Arabic with the most senior inmate.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Forgive me for not speaking Arabic. I have...”
“Slip,” said the man nearest the door, a tall fellow with a grey beard and deep set eyes. He wore a grey dishdasha, which is standard issue in Saudi prisons. You don't have to wear them, though, so many guys around me were dressed in white, or in slacks and shirts.
I knew what he meant: he wanted to see what had been taken from me, and especially how much money. I had a fortune in the bank, but not much in cash. Well, I was about to leave the country. The equivalent of ninety US Dollars had been recorded on the slip. I gave it to him. It seemed best to roll with any punches right now.
“Three three seven Riyals,” said the man, more to himself than to me. “Watch, cheap. Phone. Samsung.”
I knew for a fact that watch was anything but cheap because of the car it came with, but the battery had probably died again and the strap wasn't much to look at. Then he looked up.
“What you do?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Yes, you know. Liquor?”
“Bit early for me, thanks.”
He looked very surprised because I flinched as soon as I said it.
“Sorry. That just popped out. I'm a bit nervous. Didn't mean to be funny. Uhm, no, nothing to do with liquor. I was detained at passport control, so...”
The man made a horizontal gesture with his hand, which I took to mean: shut it.
“I am Chawich. You know?”
“I'm sorry, I don't.”
It sounded like 'shaweesh'.
“Chawich. Head of barracks. I am the boss here. Not you. Not anyone. Me.”
“I see.”
“You want bed?”
“Yes, please.”
I assumed he meant a mattress, maybe even a pillow.
“Five hundred.”
“Five... I see. Per...”
“Month.”
“Right. Well, this is my first time. I do have money, I just don't know how to get to it.”
“Family. They can give. First week, you can borrow. Make sure you get it. Else...”
He mimed a punch. Very convincingly.
“I see. That's... Okay. Sure. I haven't got any family here, but if I can make a phone call, then...”
“Phone call two hundred, two minutes. Outside country four hundred. You want cigarette?”
“No, I don't.”
“Food?”
“Is it... Again, I don't mean to be funny, but... is it provided?”
He shrugged.
“Some. Sometimes. Your name?”
“Carstairs.”
“First name?”
“First name is Reginald. I generally go by Carst...”
Again, the gesture.
“You English?”
“Yes.”
“You Christian?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
That's the first time someone asked. Which implied there could be a wrong answer, but I had no idea if this guy had any particular beef with the Lutheran synod or the Southern Baptists or perhaps the Pentacostal Assemblies of the World, so I just hoped for the best.
“Anglican. Church of England.”
“Minister?”
“Me? No. Just... layperson.”
He gave me a brief stare.
“We all Muslim. When we pray, you pray. Understand? We all pray.”
“Okay.”
“But NOT out loud. Not you.”
“Understood.”
“Sit down. Mattress come today. Pillow. Sheet. You have teeth brush. They give tomorrow.”
“Right. Thank you.”
“Sit down. Don't talk.”
So that could have been much worse. It would make for a more entertaining narrative, but I wasn't drafted into any underground prison fights, I didn't have to find the biggest bully in the yard and kill him, I wasn't jumped and raped and... You know, I really don't watch prison dramas but none of that happened. I was simply told the rules and given a line of credit.
I suppose I could tell you about my fellow inmates. After a day or so I had learned all their names. Some didn't speak any English, some did but couldn't be bothered and one or two were up for a chat, but in a way that made it feel as if they were merely assessing my net worth, or any skills I might have that were useful around here. But what's the point, really? I just kept to myself. Whenever it was prayer time everybody, in every cell, sat on the floor and faced Mecca. I was expected to sit behind them and to commune with my God in whatever way I deemed appropriate. I just folded my hands, closed my eyes, murmured a bit and waited for it to be over. At the end I'd throw in an 'Amen'. The first time I also made the sign of the cross, but that earned me a furious stare, so I stopped doing that.
So, something had clearly not gone according to plan. Nothing like a few nights in prison to help put things into focus. I'd nearly forgotten I had spent the night in a cell once before, but it came back to me pretty darn quick. Oh, how I'd loved to have been back in the drunk tank in that London precinct right then! I don't even remember how I got there. Oh, I know WHY I ended up there alright! Drunk and disorderly conduct. Yessir. They had to come get me off a bus shelter, as I'm told. Christ alone knows how I got up there. Sure can't do that when I'm sober. That was the night Kate banished me from her house and, as far as I could make out, from her life. One of the worst things that ever happened to me, and I've been in a terrorist attack, amongst many other deeply disturbing things.
That night I found my way into a bar, tapped into my then still rather insignificant celebrity status, got drunk as a lord on what must have been at best three or four pints and said some things I am not remotely proud of. I meant them and I still do, particularly where Mexico is concerned, but I'm not proud. I could have phrased it better, is what I'm saying. The rest is a blur, but I woke up in a cell, wearing an outfit provided by the Salvation Army, and immediately benefited from white privilege. Never saw a judge, never even got a fine. Someone had even found my wallet.
Anyway, that seemed a lifetime ago. It was in fact only two years and change. And now I was here, detained without charges. At least no charges that I knew of, but it could very well be related to the fact they were still spooning bits of dead people out of the crater that once was al-Hittin mosque. Still, you'd expect a bit more fanfare. When they caught Timothy McVeigh I highly doubt the FBI said: 'Well, that's him sorted. But today is POETS-day, so stick him in gen pop and let's see what he has to say come Monday.' But then again, McVeigh was arrested for driving a car without license plates and they only found out who they had caught three days later...
The food wasn't great by any standard, but it wasn't terrible. Chicken and rice aren't my usual choice for breakfast, but I'll have it. There was milk in individual cartons, with straws. Two slices of bread and a packet of cream cheese. A local banana. Those don't look like much but you'll never want a Cavendish ever again. A lamb stew with onion. Tea with crackers. Some prisoners even had fast food delivered. You could fill a bottle with tap water, and some meals came with tea or coffee.
I wasn't all that hungry, but imagine United Airlines quadrupling their food budget in economy class and you'll get a pretty good idea. Nobody took my food, or spat in it. No, the food wasn't the issue.
The smell wasn't the issue, either. Arabs are generally very clean people, and not just because there's a prescribed wash before every prayer. Clearly a room with about twenty-eight grown men who have little to do all day is going to smell like farts and feet, but we also had air conditioning. Oh yes! Not so much for us, I think, but for the guards. They kept the room at around 25 degrees Celsius, which is a little warm for my taste but then I didn't grow up in Satan's armpit. It did mean there was some air circulating. It probably also made the prisoners less sweaty and irritated.
No, my main problem was entirely sanitation-based. Each of the three cell groups got half an hour, twice a day, to use a washroom down the hall. That's where the showers were, and some sinks. There were also toilets, but sadly they were of the squatting variety. I just... I can't. I'm not used to it. There wasn't any toilet paper, because you were supposed to rinse your bum with a small hose. That, at least, made it possible to give the footrests you were supposed to centre yourself with a good rinse, but you did get a pretty good view of the hole everything disappeared in. Oh, if only it disappeared a bit more... Also, I now know that those sandals they wear must be speckled in piss and faeces. No wonder they think it's disgusting to show someone your feet: they know where those have been!
We had to use these squat toilets straight after another in those thirty minutes. They were out in the open, too. No stalls. You were just supposed to look the other way. But I wouldn't have been able to have a go even if I'd been alone with one of those awful things in the middle of the Gobi desert, in a tent. They repulsed me. And so I didn't use the facilities for anything other than a pee and a whore's bath. The others laughed whenever I shivered in the doorway, facing into the corridor. Most Westerners were like me, they said. I'd come around, eventually. What goes in, must come out. Well, perhaps. During my autopsy seemed like good time to me. I just ate the chicken and rice, not the bread. If you chew hard enough, you can piss anything out, I figure.
My cellmates understood I wanted to be left alone, and so they did. Not that they particularly respected my privacy, but I didn't speak Arabic, I was just a lowly Christian (prisoners get very uppity about their faith and Muslims sure as shit are no exception) and I think they expected me to be gone as soon as I'd paid a fine or received a few token lashes for messing about with liquor or dirty books, or having a bible on me. In fact, most of them hadn't been here all that long.
I didn't sleep very well, for what I assume are obvious reasons, but generally I'd drift off around three a.m. and then wake up for the first prayer. That would have to do me for the day. I'd been allowed to keep my glasses, but as I had bought them mainly as a disguise they were actually a bit too weak to read with. I need +1.25 and these were +0.5 so I'd be able to walk around the airport with them. My day to day reading glasses had been lost in the aftermath of the explosion. I did have a spare pair in my luggage, but it would be a few days until I'd be allowed to retrieve those. So during the day I couldn't read, not that there was much English reading material, and I couldn't speak with many people. One guy in an adjacent cell was so bored he tried to have a conversation with me, but Arabs are only ever looking for gossip and after we'd established we had absolutely no mutual friends whose secrets we could rat out to each other he lost interest. I told him I worked for Aramco, which seemed the easiest way to avoid any follow-up questions. Almost every Westerner works for Aramco, or for a supplier. They're everywhere.
I made a phone call on my second day. I'd put in for one with the Chawich, but a suitable phone had to make its way to the cell block first. I didn't get any privacy and in fact the Chawich stood ready to time me. That's why I dialled Keller & Fox asset management, our 24 hour emergency helpline. And I was in for a nasty shock when they picked up:
“Keller & Fox asset management, this is Kate, how may I help?”
KATE! Of all people, Kate! She never answered this line! In fact, she was in charge of the people who were in charge of the people manning that phone line! It's a very difficult job, because you must be able to deal with all kinds of emergencies. It takes about six months before they'll let you do that without constant supervision. But Kate is one of the instructors, so I suppose it makes sense she handles a call every once in a while. But why THIS one?!
“Hello? Anyone there?” she asked. They won't hang up on you.
“Uuuuurgh... This is Reginald Carstairs,” I croaked, trying to keep it together.
I could sense Kate tense up as well.
“Mister... Carstairs? Do... do you have the...”
She'd have recognised my voice, but she needed to hear one of two passwords. I chose the one for when I was not under duress. I was, but that other password is for when you're trapped under a car or something. Please, don't let me cry. Not now, with five people listening in.
“Windmill.”
She sounded relieved.
“Okay. How can we help you?”
I spat out the information as quick as I could, knowing all calls were recorded.
“I am currently detained at Riyadh Expat Prison, in Ad Difa, Riyadh. I don't know the charges. I need urgent assistance and cash. Bring cash to the prison, and I'll get it.”
“Yes... Yes... Can we reach you on this number?”
“No. I'm on a borrowed phone. Send cash, regularly. Weekly.”
“Are... you... in good health... Sir?”
“Yes.”
My bowels would rupture sooner or later, but death would be a blessed relief. I didn't say that, of course.
“Do you have a prisoner number for me?”
That's how good Keller & Fox asset management is: they know to ask for that kind of stuff. From ample experience.
“No. I was detained at the airport, don't know why.”
The Chawich made an impatient gesture, pointing at his watch.
“I have to end the call now. Get me cash and I can call for longer. Bye.”
“Bye, S...”
The Chawich took the phone from me and studied the display, which showed a timer. Then he disconnected the call.
“One minute,” he growled. “Cry is for baby, Christian. Do it tonight.”
I didn't know it at the time, but Caroline was already aware of my predicament. She had waited in vain at Heathrow airport, and that was after K-T had contacted her when my watch suddenly appeared within signal range after my flight had departed. But Caroline hadn't told anyone I was coming home, or even that suddenly I wasn't. Wheels were already set in motion, and presumably MI6 now had to deal with one the biggest threats since its inception in 1909: a very, very irate Caroline Keller. Poor guys...
About an hour after my phone call, an hour I had used productively to make a terrible spectacle of myself and lose any respect I might have had from my fellow inmates by going completely quiet while I cried my eyes out, one of the prison officers came to fetch me. I'd just dried up, somewhat.
“English! Where?” he yelled. Twenty-three fingers pointed at me, which was disconcerting as I had missed the connection between the question and myself. People yelled things to other cells all the time. It all went in one ear and out the other, usually.
“ENGLISH! VISIT FOR YOU!”
“Oh. Ah, yes. Here!”
He came up to me and consulted a clipboard.
“You want visit?”
He opened the cell door while his colleague took up a position near the entrance. He was the one holding a machine gun. Saudi prisons have a very simple yet effective way to keep the peace and make sure their officers are not accosted: if you try anything with the guy who's bringing you your food or walking you around, the other one fires randomly into the nearest cell. Works a fucking treat, that! Now every prisoner has an interest in making sure nobody messes with the screws. It hadn't happened in this prison for over a year, but stories about similar incidents in other prisons were shared like ghost stories around a camp fire.
“I'm not expecting a visitor,” I said, because suddenly I was afraid I was actually being taken to an interrogation.
“It is... Eg-bas-tohn. From British embassy.”
“Edgebaston?!”
“You don't want to see him? Is fine with me,” said the officer, and pushed me back into the cell.
“Oh, wait! Yes! The embassy! I'll see him, yes.”
As we now know, it wasn't Mr. Edgebaston. After the conversation with my dad I was ordered to turn out my pockets, but there was no patdown. I wouldn't particularly want to search a man who is entering day four in the same pair of briefs, either. And to my surprise I was given two-thirds of the cash my father had brought along. That allowed me to settle my debt. I was then offered the chance to make some more phone calls at a very competitive rate, provided I promised not to cry during or after them. I passed, but indicated I wouldn't mind having my own phone so I could send text messages. Old 'dumb' phones are very much in demand in prisons, because they work for up to ten days on a single charge. They're also easier to hide.
Along with my phone I got back most of the contents of my suitcase, so I suddenly had some clean underwear, my toiletries and even my watch. This was useless to me, because like the Aston Martin that was linked to it, it needed almost constant charging.
The problem of voiding my bowls remained, however. Not even a bribe could get me five minutes in private on a Western style toilet. Deep inside my guts, small portions of rice, lentils and chicken turned into coal, which would eventually become a diamond.
The fourth night in prison I actually slept for about seven hours. Isn't that amazing? You can get used to anything, it seems. I passed on breakfast and was informed by the Chawich that the guards were now monitoring me and that a continued refusal to eat would result in being tied to a chair and having Ensure or Ambronite poured down my throat. With that in mind I had another look at the squat toilet, but recoiled so hard I hit my elbow on a wash basin.
“I can make five minute alone for you tonight,” sighed the Chawich, who was the person the guards would cuss out first if my bowls ruptured.
“Thanks, but I'm looking for something more along the lines of a heroin overdose. Make it a double.”
“Next prison. Can't get here,” was the deadpan answer.