A Night in Arabia

She lay on the bed, bathed in the blue moonlight that was pouring in through the pointed arches of the windows. She was clad only in a blood-red damask stripe sheet, her ripe brown breasts spilling forth into the cool night air.

Damn, she was beautiful.

Outside, the city of Riyadh glittered in the night, a sparkling and silent metropolis. Riyadh had once been a lush and fertile oasis in the desert, a palace of fountains and gardens. Now that paradise was largely paved over, covered with concrete roads, shopping malls, and KFCs. As the poet Frost once said, nothing gold can stay. Only the very wealthy still had access to the ornate and elegant beauty that once comprised the entirety of Riyadh.

And Fatima was very wealthy indeed.

She had come far, for a woman, in this backwards country. She had transcended the second-class citizenry that was traditionally reserved for her gender. Indeed, she was more powerful than most Saudi men. Most.

Then again, she came from a powerful family. Half of her kin did business with famous American oilmen, oilmen who moonlighted in politics. The other half waged Jihad against all America. Gold in one hand, a knife in the other. No matter how the coin landed, she had plenty of connections.

I crept silently from the bed as she slumbered peacefully, exhausted from our earlier lovemaking. I picked up her purse and opened it, rifling through the odds and ends that Westernized women feel compelled to tote around with them. She had a hefty amount of cash, in Riyal and Euro. I took it all. She wouldn’t need it.

Maybe I could sneak over to Greece before reporting back to Virginia. An extra week abroad wouldn’t hurt, right? Or maybe I could catch a ship from Dammam to Dubai, live it up a little. Lord knows I’ve earned it.

All I knew was that I needed to get the hell out of Saudi Arabia. Our biggest ally in the Middle East, yet also the nation that contributed the most manpower to the September 11 attacks. They smile in our face while they stab us in the back. We pretend we don’t notice because our President’s family is buying oil from them and selling it to us. It’s disgusting, really.

I can’t wait to leave this godforsaken country.

Fatima stirred in her sleep. I paused. Her breasts heaved, her wide hips turning under the sheet. I had half a mind to wake her up and continue what we started earlier in the evening.

No, best not.

I had met her at the Al Ardha sword dance that afternoon, her green eyes flashing at me from beneath her abaya as the Bedouin blades danced in the sky. She spoke with a British accent, and it was clear from her boldness that she hadn’t spent her entire life in Saudi Arabia. I too, was bold, and at the end of the day she was eager to retire to her private flat with me and relax her wardrobe restrictions.

“This country chafes me, Flynn,” she told me.

“I know. It’s impossible to get a good drink around here.”

“Let’s go to Italy, or Switzerland!”

“I’d love to. But won’t your father object?” I asked as I kissed her neck.

“He won’t mind, once this deal is made. He needs me to help translate and negotiate his business deal, but once we’ve reached an accord I’m free again. Free to come and go as I please!”

She seemed innocent and carefree, but I knew she was not as innocent as she pretended to be. She laughed as I began to nibble on her earlobe. “Your beard is tickling me!”

I had started growing my beard a month before. When in Rome, right? I liked having it; the beard was liberating… and it served as a great mask. Privacy is underrated, especially in my profession. I sucked her earlobe until she began to moan softly. She soon succumbed to my advances.

But that had been hours ago. And now I had business to attend to. I continued to rummage through her purse until I found her passport. There it was: green with crossed scimitars and a palm tree on the front. I flipped it open to the back and read the name that I found there:

Fatima Bin Laden.

I searched through my suit, which lay in a heap on the floor, until I found what I was looking for. I twisted the silencer into place, and cocked the piece with an audible snap.

“Flynn?”

Fatima stirred on the bed, her words the sleepy mumble of one only half awake. I glanced at her as she lay there on her back, the glorious black curls of her long mane of hair seeming to writhe in the moonlight.

Damn, she was beautiful.

It was a pity I’d have to kill her.