Sword of Allah

Amman, Jordan

The Saudi woke refreshed and early after getting in from the airport quite late. He travelled so much that it had long since ceased to be an adventure. Instead it was a chore, and it was good to be home. He stretched out in his bed, searching for the cold corners with his toes, and delighting in the scent of the young woman lying beside him. He turned to look at her, a flight attendant for Emirates, facing away from him. She had worked in first class and there had been a certain frisson between them from the start. Perhaps he reminded her of her father? He was always surprised when a woman almost half his age found him attractive. She had said that she was Iranian. He marvelled at the flawless skin of her back and the hint of muscle in her upper arm stretched out beyond her head. He had performed well for her last night and they had both slept the exhausted sleep of lovers.

He slipped out of bed and went to the home office off his bedroom. The cold flagstones and dark indigo Belouch rugs, a present from an old Soviet client, felt good under his bare feet. He checked the screen of his computer. He had mail. After twelve hours without checking his in-tray, as usual he had quite a bit of it. There was one email that intrigued him. Its subject read, ‘A sign from Allah’. The Saudi opened it. No message, just a URL. He doubleclicked on it and a connection was made to a newspaper he’d never heard of before called the Sydney Morning Herald. The headline roared, ‘ATTACK’.

He reached for the television remote and touched the button, the dark rectangle that hung on the wall coming quietly to life. He switched to Al Jazeera. The picture instantly caught his eye. He increased the volume several bars so that he could hear the accompanying sound but not wake the woman snoring softly. A building had been blown up somewhere. A US embassy…but where, which one? More than eighty dead…many wounded…structural damage…suicide bomber…Jakarta. The Saudi smiled. The sign. This would certainly boost the confidence of his partners in the Indonesian enterprise.

‘What’s on?’ asked the woman, looking at the television. His movement about the room had woken her.

The Saudi turned to look at her and his heart skipped a beat. She was naked, sitting up unself-consciously in bed, pink nipples the colour of her lips on cream-coloured breasts that pointed towards the ceiling.

The Saudi was reminded of an ice-cream sundae with cherries on top. Oh happy day, he thought, licking his lips. He said, ‘Nothing, moonshine, just the news.’

‘I think you should come back to bed right now,’ she responded, pouting.

The Saudi was suddenly aware of his erection. Was it the event in Jakarta or the fact that the woman was now tickling her breasts lightly with her fingertips? He shrugged. It was a joyous dilemma.