Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

“The line of direct succession has been severed,” said one voice and everyone looked at Aziz, who was representing the sprawling royal family. “The king had appointed his eldest son to be the heir, but the simultaneous death of the crown prince has left the position open. We must choose a new leader and announce him as soon as possible.”

“Agreed. The question is, ‘How?’” said a colonel who was the military envoy to the meeting tonight. He was not in uniform. “The successor must come from among the king’s sons or grandsons. I cannot see either of His Majesty’s full brothers ascending.”

The construction magnate from an influential family, chosen as the spokesman for the nonpetroleum businesses, agreed. “Both of the brothers are too far along in years to assume day-to-day responsibility during this crisis. His Majesty had three sons in direct lineage. With the crown prince also dead, only two of the true sons remain as candidates. The sons by other wives do not qualify.”

“The eldest is a corrupt playboy and is unacceptable to the tribes,” snorted the sheikh who was a Bedouin chief from the south. “The youngest has not proven himself as a man, for he is a father of daughters-no sons at all. He is also unacceptable to us.”

The conversation lapsed into silence for a few moments. Not only royal succession, but competing commercial pressures were in play at the table. Fortunes were on the line.

The executive from the rich oil industry coughed to get attention. “Let us not forget that there is a rebellion going on outside these doors, my friends.” He cast a stony glance across at the imam who was the religious faction’s man at the table. “Our king was murdered by zealots who are out of control.”

The imam retorted, “The rebellion was caused by a corrupt government that strayed from the will of Allah and the words of the Prophet, praise be unto him. The Grand Mufti is not involved in any way in this matter.”

The eyes of the oil man swept around the table. “You are wrong. The overall population is not in rebellion. They are still sitting it out, huddling in their homes, just like our exalted Grand Mufti. His silence has allowed that vile dog Ebara and his muttaween to seize leadership of the rebels. Ebara is a disgrace to our faith.”

Prince Aziz steepled his fingers before speaking. “Our religion and our politics are threads in the same fabric. The House of Saud ruled with the support of the Wahhabis, and the monarchy in turn allowed them to spread and enforce the tenets of our beliefs.” He turned to face the imam. “It appears that the religious leaders are no longer satisfied with that longstanding arrangement.”

There was a rumble of private discussions around the table for a minute before the oil representative again spoke. “All of us are worried about the future,” he said. “Saudi Arabia is not Iran. The citizens will not accept a totalitarian theocracy, nor rule by the muttaween . We must show our people that our new king has unanimous support, so he can assume the throne immediately.”

The imam was sweating beneath his robes. “There are proper groups already in place to make this decision. Why should just the six of us tell the rest of the nation what to do?”

The colonel slapped the table. “Yes! We have the Consultative Council and the ulema and the Majlis and the Shura and the muktars and twenty million other bargaining Saudis. They would never even agree that a circle is round, much less come together on a decision of this magnitude.”

Prince Aziz sighed: “I have thousands of cousins in the royal family and all of them would like to ascend. Even me. But we can haggle later. Right now our people need a king and our military needs a leader in order to quell this rebellion. If you are all satisfied with the House of Saud, please, just pick somebody!”

The powerful executive from the oil industry concurred. “This tawdry rebellion threatens to swallow us all. We need to stabilize this situation fast or risk having some outside force come in to seize our production facilities. If that happens, our very lifeblood will be under the thumb of international supervision for many years to come. Our most precious resource will be beyond our control.”

The imam had his own instructions from the leaders waiting in the mosques. “There is much more to consider than the oil and money,” he stated with a cold glare. “If it is the Will of Allah, praise be unto him, that a new kind of government is rising to save our nation, then we are all bound to obey.”

The tribal sheikh stared at him. “You would let a foolish thug like Ebara take over? I will tell you here and now that the Bedu will never stand for it.”

“Then let us choose,” someone said. “Who among the grandsons? I put forth the name of Prince Abdullah, who is easily the most qualified among those in the true bloodline.”

The imam became stiff in outrage. “The ambassador to the United States? That disgraceful man was about to sign a peace treaty with the Jews!”

“He was following the decision of our government,” the colonel reminded him. “Our country has never fought Israel and let’s hope we never do. Many in our generation are tired of hearing sermons about how the Jews are to blame for everything that goes wrong. The military has no objection to Abdullah. Does anyone else have a nomination?”

“Prince Abdullah has the diplomatic and military experience to take over. We can live with him.” The man from the oil sector settled back into his chair. The tribal sheikh agreed.

“That is our decision, then,” said Prince Aziz. “It is unanimous, is it not?”

“I shall inform the Grand Mufti of your suggestion,” the imam said. “His decision will be rendered after appropriate thought.”

That was too much for the sheikh, a man known for his fiery temper. He rose from his chair, his eyes darkening and the muscles of his jaw quivering with barely suppressed fury. He was a man of the desert, a Wahhabi Bedouin, a tribe that never hesitated to purify the wishes of the Prophet with the blood of enemies. Violence was part of his heritage and he brooked no respect for preachers. He pulled back his robe and a jeweled dagger glittered in his belt. “That is not good enough. You are stalling. You will take this to the Grand Mufti as the choice that he must endorse immediately! Or, perhaps you may not go back at all. Perhaps I should cut off your ears and give you a better reason for not hearing what we have all decided? We can always send another messenger.”

The colonel rose. “I believe the sheikh and the imam have a few private matters to discuss. I would be honored if the rest of you would join me downstairs for some coffee.” They all walked out, closing the door behind them.

Five minutes later, the imam came stumbling down the stairs and went through the group without a word, his face pale and his fingertips shaking. The sheikh followed, a sneering smile on his dark face. “It is now unanimous. Tomorrow we announce a new king.”

INDONESIA

J UBA WATCHED THE TELEVISIONnews on the 42-inch flat plasma screen, mentally keeping track of the score. The bodies were piling up and he was winning easily. The House of Saud had been decapitated, the country was temporarily leaderless and that sanctimonious weird preacher, Mohammed Ebara, was busily stirring the religious pot. Everything going as planned.

Using the remote control, he replaced the chattering news people with the Web site of a private Swiss financial institution that served only very wealthy customers. The money was piling up in his private account, and more than enough was available to pay the people he had hired to continue the pressure. Slowly, slowly, he would stoke the fire with unexpected strikes throughout Saudi Arabia. The fighters were already in place, just waiting for him to release them. It was a tight schedule that eventually would build to a crescendo of violence.