Papal Plunder

TWO

TWO

BLOOD POOLS IN MY MOUTH—I spit some to the floor. My senses are all but with me now. Ironically the pain from the backhand woke me up completely. I try to keep my body language limp and non-threatening. How much did they know or suspect? They keep on calling me Mr. Deeh, so even if they didn’t know who or what I really was, they didn’t have a real name. Plus, my hands are unbound.

On the other hand, they of course know about the thing that happened at the hotel, then on the highway after that. I expect a lot of Saudis would have been very unhappy with the traffic situation afterwards. The question is, how much do they think I caused, and how much is just show from them? Do they actually think I came here to execute a badly planned heist and failed? Or were these guys also involved in what really happened?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “We went to go have a look at the exhibition, at the invitation of Prince Faisal...”

“Prince Bin Faisal,” the one in the thobe interrupts, looking at me like a cat looks at a mouse. He emphasis the ‘Bin’. I estimate him about ten, maybe fifteen years younger than me.

“Excuse me, yes,” I say, shaking my head. “Bin. Then, these guys with their guns come and...I don’t know what happened...” I trail off.

I see the guy sweating, but not from nerves. He rolls his eyes at me as I speak, looks to the smoking man next to him, then back at me.

“We have proof that you, along with your lady friend, came here to steal that artifact. Your actions led to the death of a senior Saudi official on a national highway.”

He gives himself away. Whatever happened last night, however they tried to stage it, one thing was clear. It was supposed to look like a general heist—an art theft of many objects, not just one item. But they’ve now mentioned that ‘one thing’ more than once. Everything is coming together, simply because he’s asking about the single stone. This, along with us not being in a police station—at least this is what I am assuming now—all makes me think that this whole situation is very much off the books. Which would mean, critically, not a lot of backup for them.

Probably.

“What stone, sir?” I try to sound exasperated. “There were many items on display last night. Am I under arrest?” I have to try to bait them into coming back into me.

“You are in a deep trouble, Mr. Deeh,” says the military guy now, blowing a long stream of smoke up at the ceiling as he finally extinguishes the cigarette.

“No need to be under arrest to disappear...” he continues in his broken, but precise, English. “You come into my country and threaten security of The Kingdom, you embarrass us in front of the Emiratis, you make the National Guard look...inefficient...”

As he says this, he gets up from his chair again, picks up the pistol and gestures with it to make his point. For me this means that this guy at least doesn’t think me a serious physical threat. He’s being textbook intimidating, like he’s probably been to dozens of other people in my position. He continues his act by striding back towards me. His finger is off the trigger.

I have a feeling the next step in his repertoire would be a pistol whip.

My face hurts enough already—I don’t feel like getting pistol whipped today.

The man behind me, the big invisible face-toucher, gives a step to the side and I hear a small jingle of what must be a key-chain. Is he armed? If so, not with a rifle. Earlier, when he’d rested both hands on my shoulders to keep me in place, I didn’t hear any motion or adjustment. He just reacted. If he has a rifle, it’s probably slung over a shoulder, to the back. I didn’t see anything when I looked behind me earlier.

Mister Bad Cop speaks again. He’s about six, seven feet away from me. I keep on looking at him like I’m someone who’s had enough adventure for today, thank you very much. I try to look scared. If he gets an inkling of too much confidence, he’ll react accordingly and play it safer.

“I make...deal with you, Mr. Deeh,” he says now, looking down at the pistol. He flicks the safety off. Then back on. Then looks me in the eye as he flicks it off again.

“Give us the stone, or take us to it, and you leave the country on a plane tonight. Business class...”

“First class,” the other one interrupts, to the chagrin of the military dude.

“Any class you want. No questions, no problems after that.” His face points a humorless smile at me—a smile that’s basically just pinched lips drawing back over stained teeth. Like someone had told him what a smile should look like. There hasn’t been kindness in this man’s face in ages.

I suddenly wonder if he’s going to hit me with the butt of the pistol, or simply sweep the gun across my face and let the barrel do the damage. I am absolutely sure he is about to do something—he still has a tight grip on the weapon, but the trigger finger is wrapped around the grip, below the trigger guard itself. We’ll have to see. I avert my eyes and take a deep breath. As much to look vulnerable as to get ready for what’s to come.

They should have bound my hands.