Billionaire

11

Jimmy Culundis, the Greek international arms dealer, lay back in the massive bath tub that was sunk into the floor of the huge bathroom and felt very relaxed. He was in the finest luxury money could buy, from a bath with a built-in temperature control system that maintained the bath water at whatever temperature the occupant selected, to the gold-plated taps, to the expensive soaps, to the climate-controlled room walled in marble and smoked-glass mirrors. It wasn’t unlike the bathroom he had in his house in Geneva, he decided. Nor unlike his villa in Greece; nor unlike his apartment in Paris.

Culundis was in a guest suite in Prince Abr Qu’Ih Missh’s private quarters, on the sixty-fifth floor of the Royal Palace in Tunquit, the capital of Umm Al Amnah. It was Friday night, and his private DC-8 had landed him at the country’s airport less than one hour earlier. He ran the soap down his flabby stomach, then, for a moment tensing his muscles, he raised his pelvis up out of the water, and carefully soaped every part of his long, limp phallus, a part of his body of which he was particularly fond and proud — the only part, in fact. He soaped around his scrotum, the inside of his thighs and his thatch of pubic hair, and then dunked everything back into the water. Then he slid his right hand under the water, gripped his phallus, and lifted it up, so that the top of it poked out of the water like a periscope.

Then, pretending it was a periscope, he turned it, first to the right, then to the left; then he stretched it up out of the water, as far as it would go in its limp state, bent it forward like a hosepipe, and started making the sound of machine-gun fire.

Suddenly, he became aware that he was no longer alone in the room; someone was looking at him. He lifted his eyes upwards. He saw a blonde girl, in a thin white dress that was virtually transparent and had a slit from the navel to the ground; she was smiling at him, and had an amused twinkle in her eyes.

‘Abby said you might like someone to scrub your back.’ She leaned forward, and the dress parted completely over her white, slightly tanned thighs. The Greek’s eyes bulged, and he decided that either Prince Abr Qu’Ih Missh had curious taste in the way he liked his housemaids to dress, or else the country of Umm Al Amnah was suffering from an acute shortage of ladies’ underwear. Her eyes moved from his, to a spot further down the bathwater. He looked down there too, and then went even redder. His phallus was standing bolt upright, several inches out of the water and, this time, completely unsupported by his hand.

An hour later, Culundis and Prince Missh stepped out of the express elevator onto the ninety-fifth floor of the Royal Palace, the dining quarters of Sheik Hyyad bin Bakkrah al Quozzohok, thirty-seventh Emir of Amnah, the Prince’s father. Missh had changed out of the expensive T-shirt he had been wearing earlier in the day into a cobalt-blue djellabah and traditional head-dress; he was, as was customary in his father’s quarters, barefoot. Culundis was in a cream silk Nina Ricci suit, a bright yellow silk shirt and a green-and orange striped satin silk tie. On Missh’s tactful suggestion, he too was barefooted, and not looking totally at ease about being so, in spite of having spent his entire childhood in that state. They stepped out of the elevator into a small marble hall, in the centre of which was a huge arch, with armed guards in djellabas standing on either side. They walked through the arch into a large windowless ante-room. The room was dark, with light provided by a few open candles; the walls were hung with tapestries, which could scarcely be seen, and the marble floor was covered in a magnificent Persian rug. A servant immediately brought them a tray with two cups, each containing thick sweet coffee. Culundis frowned in disappointment at not getting an alcoholic drink, then remembered the blonde and felt better. The sweet smell of roasting meat filled the room. As they drank their coffee, Missh pointed out to Culundis the history of the family that was depicted in the tapestries; Culundis grunted politely, and wondered if it would be rude for him to light a cigar. He peered through the gloom and the works of art that had taken scores of women hundreds of years to complete and decided, quietly to himself, that once you had seen one damned Arab wandering around the desert, you had seen them all.

A servant walked in from the next room, which was again connected by a huge archway, stood in the centre of the archway, and bowed slowly.

‘Come,’ said Missh, ‘my Father is ready to receive us for dinner.’ The two men walked through into a much larger, but not much brighter-lit room.

‘How come there aren’t any windows?’ Culundis whispered.

‘My father does not like anything to distract from the food and the company. Elsewhere in his quarters, there are many windows.’

The floor on one side of the room was bare marble. The floor on the other side had thick carpeting and was richly scattered with cushions; seated in the midst, on an enormous pile of cushions, Culundis could make out a frail-looking old man, very thin, with long bony arms and long bony legs that protruded from his robes.

Missh went up to his father, bowed down, and the two embraced each other; then Missh stood back and bade Culundis walk forward. ‘Father, you remember Mr Culundis?’

Culundis stood awkwardly; Missh hadn’t briefed him on what to do. The Emir opened his bony arms, and Culundis leaned down and received a short, cold embrace. The Emir bade Culundis sit, as with all guests, in the place of honour on his right, and his son to the left.

‘It is an honour to be here once again, your Highness,’ said Culundis. ‘You look well.’ The Emir nodded politely, and stared fixedly ahead. Culundis soon saw why. The food was arriving. Eight servants staggered in holding a massive cauldron that was about four feet wide, although only about two and a half feet high; there was a thick rim of rice, from the centre of which rose a pyramid of dissected mutton, topped with four sheep heads, from which the tongues curled outwards. Two more servants followed with a huge steaming pitcher, from which they poured a gravy sauce containing the offal over the pyramid.

The Emir leaned forward, plucked the tongue from one head, turned to Culundis on his right, and proffered it. Culundis took it, nodded graciously, looked at it, and took a small nibble. There were only two things which he absolutely loathed to eat; one was apricots, the other was tongue.

Culundis watched the Emir lean forward, cut some strips of meat off a shoulder, make a small ball with some rice, lay the strips around the outside of the ball, and place the whole assembly in his mouth. Whilst his attention was diverted, Culundis slipped the rest of his tongue into his jacket pocket with one hand whilst pretending to push it into his mouth with the other; the Emir, chewing slowly, turned to look at his son’s guest. Culundis made large, slow, chewing motions with his mouth, and the Emir looked satisfied that his guest was content.

He was a strange-looking man, thought Culundis, in complete contrast to his tall and handsome son; he was no more than five-foot four, thin as a rake, with an almost birdlike face. The face was dominated by a large hooked nose, on either side of which were half-moon shaped eyes which darted nervously about every few seconds, then stopped for some moments whilst the heavy lids slowly closed together, then opened again. Those eyelids were about the only thing father and son had in common. Both had that long slow blink. It made the son look arrogant, and the father like a crow that was digesting a worm. The bird-like face of the old man was even more accentuated by his bony arms and legs, so thin they were almost scaly. Neither father nor son spoke, but concentrated on hacking bits of meat and packing their rice balls. Culundis looked around for a knife. The Emir noticed he had stopped eating, leaned forward, and pulled out another tongue, again handing it to him with a gracious nod. Once more Culundis went through the motions of eating and then slipped it into his jacket pocket. The remaining two tongues went the same way, and then Culundis relaxed a little; he hoped the stain wouldn’t show too badly through his white pocket, and he looked forward to a morsel of the lamb he could enjoy. He saw the Emir looking at him patiently, waiting until he had finished chewing. Culundis completed, for the fourth time, the motions of finishing off a tongue, and licked his lips, whereupon the Emir clapped his hands together and the servants came in and removed the cauldrons. Culundis began to feel extremely glum. Finally the Emir spoke:

‘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.’

Missh stared hard at Culundis. ‘Jimmy — there is something you must understand. These are my people; my family have ruled them for thirty-seven generations. Whatever has happened in the past, however cruel my family may have been, I want no more killing. I will not kill any of my people. Not one, ever. You had better understand this, and understand it well.’

‘And you, Abby, had better start understanding the world, and stop spouting idealist crap at me.’

‘Do you want the business or don’t you?’

‘I don’t do any business unless I think it has a chance of succeeding. If you expect me to put five hundred men in this country with your father remaining as ruler, then I’ll say goodbye now and go back home. They would have no chance. If you want a blood-bath, you can recruit your own mercenaries. I don’t want to lose my lot.’

There was a long silence. Missh stood up and walked around the room for some minutes. ‘I can’t kill him, Jimmy; can’t you understand that?’

‘Then you have to persuade him to abdicate.’

‘How could I do that?’

‘You’ll have to tell him.’

‘And what chance do I have of making him agree?’

‘I don’t know; that’s up to you.’

‘And if I don’t succeed?’

‘Then you kill him.’

‘You expect me to go to him and say “Father, either you abdicate or I kill you”.’

Culundis looked at him and nodded. ‘You don’t have any choice, Abby.’

Missh joined Culundis at the window, and stared out. It was some minutes before he spoke.

‘I think maybe I feel strong enough to ask him to abdicate — but if he refuses, then I don’t know what to do. For sure I cannot harm him.’

‘What you do is up to you, Abby. I’ll come and do some plain talking with you, if you think it’ll help. But if he stays as leader of this country, I’ll give you all the hardware you want to buy, but I won’t let you have one single man.’

Missh nodded, and looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock.

‘My father works in his study until late every night. He will be there now, and it will be quiet. Now will be a good time for a talk. Will you wait here?’

Culundis nodded.

‘Would you like some company while I am gone?’

‘No,’ said the Greek, with a grin. ‘To show my confidence in you, I’m going to start making some plans. If we’re going to move fast, I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.’

Missh felt far from confident as he stepped out of the elevator into the dim candlelight of his father’s hallway. He had brushed his teeth and sprayed on some strong cologne, to try and mask the smell of the brandy and cigars; his father despised alcohol and smoking. He walked down the long corridor and knocked on the massive jewelled double-doors that opened onto the most bizarre room in the palace. His father called for whoever it was to enter, and Missh walked into the room.

The room occupied half of one floor of the palace. One wall, eighty feet long, was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, packed with books. Two other walls were windows overlooking Tunquit, and the fourth wall was hung with huge blow-up photographs of oil rigs and factories in Umm Al Amnah. The floor was brown marble, strewn with crimson rugs, and the ceiling was intricately stuccoed and covered in paintings of scenes from the Koran.

Throughout the room, neatly arranged into groupings, was almost every electrical gadget that had ever been invented. There was an office section, with an IBM computer, a word processor, a telex, tele-text; a games section, with television, space invaders and a battery of other slot machines; a garden section, with a remote control lawn-mower, a computerized sprinkler system — which was plumbed in and would spray a circle of plants placed around it; there was a full-size passenger airline flight-training simulator; a robot which could walk across the floor, pick up a sheet of paper and walk back; and a device that would open and shut the window blinds depending on how it was shouted at.

The Emir was seated at his black lacquered desk in the centre of the room, and gave his son only the most cursory of nods as he entered, before inclining his head back down to the papers on his desk top. Even though, over the past ten years, Missh had become used to this spectacle, it still did not stop him from thinking about how utterly incongruous it all was: his father, in his djellaba and bare feet, spending almost all the hours of his life in this room, playing with his toys, reading glossy brochures and making multi-million dollar deals with international companies to build plants in Amnah.

The desk was the only object in the room older than the Emir. It was eight feet wide, studded with white stones and inlaid with reliefs in gold; it had been in the old palace, four miles outside Tunquit on the Suttoh road. Since moving into the new palace, the Emir had sold the old palace to the Hyatt Hotel group, who had turned it into the Amnah Hyatt.

The Emir looked up from behind the desk and bade his son sit on a bizarre chesterfield that looked like it had been found on Mars. ‘You don’t come to see me often, my son,’ he said.

‘I know, father. We are both busy with our separate lives.’

The old man shook his head. Missh felt uncomfortable. He wished he had remained standing; he didn’t like sitting so low down that he could only just see over the top of the desk.

‘He is a strange man, your guest you bring to eat.’

‘Strange, father?’

‘He says we have met before. I do not recall — I have not met him before.’

‘Father, he was being polite — he did not wish to offend your memory; but you did not merely meet — you hired him to equip your entire revolutionary force, and to provide soldiers, before you declared Independence from the Emirates.’

‘This man?’

‘Yes, father.’

The old man shook his head. ‘I hired this man? I do not believe it.’

‘But you did, father.’

‘I must have been an unwise man then to have hired a person such as this.’

‘Mr Culundis is a good man, father. What do you have against him?’

‘He has insulted us, my son, insulted us most gravely. I have never in my life been insulted in such a manner.’

‘What do you mean? How has he insulted you — us?’

‘You did not notice, perhaps? He was the guest of honour at our meal. I cut for him the finest meat of the animals, and I gave it to him. He did not eat this meat — he put it in his pocket.’

Prince Missh had done something his father had not: he had seen something of the world beyond Umm Al Amnah. From the age of ten, he had been sent to school in England — first to prep school, and then to Harrow; from there he went to Cambridge. Many of those things which were so sacred to his ancestors, he could see in perspective of the late twentieth century world; others, like his father, had not had this advantage. Missh personally felt only amusement at the situation; but he could fully understand his father’s anger. ‘He comes from a different culture, father; perhaps, for him, tongue is like pork is to us — forbidden — and he was being too polite to tell you?’

The Emir looked at Missh. ‘You are young, son. You have so much to learn, and I have such little time to teach you.’ He shook his head. ‘I worry, son, you have had too sheltered a life; you are so naive, so naive. Sometimes I do not even know where to begin. What will happen to this country after I am gone? You will not last five minutes, not five minutes.’

Missh stared at him for several minutes in silence. ‘Father — do you not realize what is happening out there beyond the walls of this palace?’

‘I realize very well, son. The revenues of oil are being used to make us into the most modern industrial nation in the world.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘What are you saying? It is true; no one has the modern equipment we have. Just take a look around you — at this office — everything in the world that is new, advanced, for industry, for agriculture, for medicine — I have either examples here, or the literature. There is nothing that is new and that is of value that we do not have either in this country, or on order.’

‘But your people aren’t interested — at least, most of them are not. They are plotting, father, plotting now, and any day they will rise up.’

‘You talk rubbish, son. Your mind has been poisoned by your foreign education. I knew I should not have sent you — but the Sauds send their sons, Oman sends his — so I must send mine.’

Missh quietly related to his father what had happened to his car at the Quommah Beach Club.

‘It serves you right,’ said the Emir. ‘That Beach Club is a place of decadence. The heir to the throne of this country has no business in a place like that, and your people were telling you so. It was their way of getting a message across; that is all.’

‘You are crazy, father, if that is all you think it was — crazy. Unless we do something now, you and I and all your wives and all your loyal servants will be dead. The people are going to rise up like they did in Iran, like they did in so many countries. It is no different here.’

‘So what do you suggest?’ demanded his father, belligerently.

‘I’m not suggesting. From now on, father, I am telling you what is to happen, and you are going to agree.’

The Emir stared at his son incredulously. ‘I am listening, son,’ he said contemptuously.

‘You are to abdicate, and I am to take over as ruler. If we do this, then Mr Culundis will give us arms, and a loyal army to defend ourselves against the revolutionaries, and to rout them out.’

‘You are crazy,’ said the Emir.

‘No, father, it is you who is crazy. I will not stand by and die because of your madness.’

‘I suggest if you feel this way, then you take a plane and get out of this country, the sooner the better.’

‘No, father, this is my home. I am not leaving.’

‘And I am not abdicating.’

‘Oh yes you are.’

‘And just how do you propose to make me?’

‘By asking you nicely first: and then, if you do not agree, father — by force.’

The Emir pulled open the central drawer of his desk; it took him some moments, for it was stuck, and he had to jerk it out slowly, from side to side. Then he rummaged for several moments in a tangle of papers, pens, rulers, rubbers, cellotape, before he pulled his hand back out. In it he held a Browning revolver. It was a massive heavy gun, of First World War design, and looked like something that might have been discarded as obsolete by Lawrence of Arabia. He stood to his feet, swaying, shaking with rage and brandishing the gun out in front of him. ‘By force, you say, by force?’

He was pointing the gun at Missh, and shaking it about furiously. Missh put his hands up. ‘Be careful, father, it may be loaded.’ There was an explosion, and a bullet ripped through a window pane. The Emir’s eyes bulged and he swung the gun down towards the floor in fright; somehow, he pulled the trigger again, and a bullet tore into his own foot. Howling with pain he jerked the gun up, firing into his desk top. Missh had by now flung himself to the floor; the bullet ricocheted off a metal in-tray and ripped into the Emir’s stomach, flinging him backwards and onto the floor. Missh rushed over to his father and pulled the gun a safe distance away. His father lay there, ashen grey, bleeding heavily from both his stomach and his foot. Missh rushed to the telephone on his father’s desk; at that moment, two guards came running in through the door. Missh rang down to the palace’s residential doctor and instructed him to call an ambulance and come right away. Then he joined the guards who were kneeling by his father.

The guards looked at his father and then looked at him. Their eyes were full of suspicion. A cold wave of fear suddenly swept aside all the other emotions Missh was feeling. They suspected him of shooting his father; if his father died now, he could face a firing squad. He shook his head frantically. Ali Al Shammham, his family’s short, fat doctor, hurried into the room, clutching his black briefcase.

‘What happened? What happened?’ he shrilled in his high-pitched voice. He knelt down beside the Emir, whose breathing was becoming slower and deeper and whose eyes now remained shut for long periods between blinks.

‘My son,’ said the old man. ‘Bring my son.’

‘I am here, father.’

‘You are right,’ said the old man. ‘I am too old to rule — it is time I must step down. Tonight. Now. I have become a danger, a liability to you, to my country. From tonight, you are the new Emir—’ He looked up and around at the peering faces. ‘You here are my witnesses. From tonight, Prince Abr Qu’Ih Missh becomes Emir of Amnah.’ He nodded slowly, but certainly. ‘Now get me to hospital.’

Missh turned away, tears streaming down his face. The doctor gave the old man a shot of morphine, then began work to try and stem the bleeding. Missh picked up his father’s head and cradled it between his thighs. As the doctor worked, he wept, loudly and uncontrollably.