Chapter 18

The nasty, repellent serpent was only a few feet away, so close that its fetid breath was blowing ever so softly over its intended victim, palpitating in paralyzing fear.  The hood expanded gently, as if the cobra needed to be more intimidating.  Watching with remorseless, death-filled eyes, heartless, devoid of any compassion, the cruel reptile toyed with its victim, quaking with unquenchable fear.  Pausing, the massive hooded head raised to its intended height, the head weaving and bobbing just slightly, parrying with its stone cold victim, just ready, any moment now, to make its death strike.  Just now, any moment, strike, strike. . .

The hunched over figure in the braided and gilded chair roused with a start, beads of perspiration on his brow, jerking himself back into sensitivity, fearfully aware of the heartless vision, heart pounding, adrenaline seeping into the bloodstream and so desperately glad to be rid of the nauseating dream.  The dreams, always the dreams.  They must be portents for him, signaling something to be aware of, alarm bells ringing, warning him of something.  But what?

He had nodded off only a few moments, slipping into the terrifying dream.  His cup of tea, placed by his chair in his private quarters, was still warm.  That dream was still so fresh in his memory.  And he never wanted to go back.

King Ibrahim, the reigning monarch of Saudi Arabia, was an old man now and a mental and physical wreck.  The imperative of keeping the Kingdom together had never been so crucial.  What did they expect of him, both his subjects and the infidels barking outside the door?

Yet he knew what the dreams foretold was true.   It was in the wind blowing over the undulating dunes in the Rub al Khali.  It was in the cobra’s eyes.  It was in the bazaars where the merchants haggled.  It was in the ships loading oil at Ras Tanura and Yanbu.  It was in the camels rambling over the desert.  He could see it in the princes, the way they looked at him, the way they talked when he turned his back.  It was behind the veils, in the secret corners of the mosques, in the mournful muezzin’s call at dawn.  It stared him in the face, forcing and shaking him from his slumber, stirring the folds of his robes, tugging and pulling at him, taunting him, grabbing him by the beard and slapping him shamelessly now.

The truth.  Someone was plotting for his throne.  He could see it now, drinking his tea with shaking hands.  Yes, the dream all over again.  He couldn’t shake it away from him.

The serpent.  Tariq.

Leaning his head back against the top of his chair, he suddenly realized how uncomfortable the hard chair was to his trembling frame.  The Prince had never seen him as a young man, vital and virile, a match for any in his day.  He must somehow summon every fiber of strength in his aging body and rise up to the challenge before it was too late.

It was bad enough that he had his hands full elsewhere in the Kingdom.  Rebel clerics spouting their venom at noon prayers, their whispers to the minions seething with religious zeal.  Foreign workers targeted in their own homes.  Khobar Towers should have been the wake up call.  Now the fundamentalist wave was even taller and more menacing.  Young men standing idly in the streets with no work to beckon, their supple minds filled with indignant rage at the infidels and their march elsewhere just outside the Kingdom borders.  It would only get worse.

The House of Saud had been found out.  Their once dangerous little games of being America’s friend on one hand and funding, buying off or otherwise placating the radical, fundamentalist tide at home and abroad with the other.  At the time, it had made perfect sense to bribe the dangerous elements, keep them in their hole, and preserve the House’s rule over the restive Kingdom. 

And he, Ibrahim, had funded and approved many of the schemes, including those outside the Kingdom.  The madrassas, the questionable charities, Lebanon, the PLO, Hamas, Islamic Jihad and miscellaneous other groups.  Everywhere, influence had been sought and bought.  He had closed his eyes, looked the other way, ignored the chatter, and hadn’t listened to even his closest advisors.  Until 9/11.

Now, the Americans didn’t trust him anymore.  There was a time when the Kingdom could play or threaten its oil card to keep the U.S. off its back.   But Ibrahim didn’t dare do that now.  The Americans had contingency plans for the oil fields of Ghawar.  They were on his doorstep in Iraq, Qatar, and Bahrain.  They had even given Saddam the boot even though they had botched all of Iraq afterward.  And where was Saddam now?

Yes, he rather despised the Americans and their alien culture.  But, he admitted to himself, they were the most inscrutable infidels he had ever witnessed.  They had saved the House of Saud from Saddam during the reign of a predecessor.  They had planted their flag on the moon, so holy to Islam.  And they weren’t in the mood to take any insolence from him, the King, but only the latest monarch of a kingdom increasingly revealed by each passing day to be made of paper.  If he were to challenge the Americans, or merely fail to be accommodating, he might be deposed with their blessing.  Their president was a friend of Tariq and Ibrahim did not want to become another Saddam.

Again, Prince Tariq, the serpent, waiting and plotting in the shadows.  How could he handle him?  He couldn’t con the Americans into eliminating him.  Or could he?  To plunge in the dagger himself might be his own undoing, as the next generation of princes within the House was not his most ardent supporter.

And then there were the dreams.  Always the dreams.

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