Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

Matteen waited to see if the man would offer a counter, but none came.

"If they come on foot, Matteen?" Sinan asked again.

"The same thing, like we did in Afghanistan. Know the land, Sinan, and use it. Anyone who comes to us, comes to us blind. But we fight with our eyes open, and with clear vision, we are victorious."

Sinan thought about that, looking out at the desert lit by stars. Since his arrival, he'd spent almost all of his time in the camp, with the exception of the successful trip to the West Bank. His days, spent mostly in prayer, classes, and training, left little time for exploration of the surrounding area. But he would find the time, he resolved.

Anything that made him a better warrior, Sinan would do it. • Sinan felt the change, the truck's tires moving from cracked and desiccated earth to pavement, and he guessed they were soon to arrive at their journey's end. He had no idea where it might be, but he also lacked any feeling of apprehension. Abdul Aziz was in the cab, leading them, and it was Abdul Aziz who had brought him this far, after all.

The truck slowed, then stopped, but the engine remained running. Sinan heard one of the cab doors open and Abdul Aziz's voice, but he couldn't make out the words. A man's voice answered, and there was the sound of machinery, and the truck shook slightly as the cab door slammed closed again. The truck started forward with a lurch that nearly sent each of them toppling one against the other. Sinan righted himself and looked out the back to see that they had passed through a gate into a compound of some sort. The gate was closing now, and in the illumination from the guard post, he saw two men dressed like paramilitaries.

The truck stopped again, and this time the engine died. Doors opened for a second time and then Abdul Aziz appeared, lowering the gate to let them out.

"Treat our host with respect," he warned them. "No matter what he asks or what he says, he is worthy of your respect, and he is your host."

Sinan dropped out of the vehicle behind Matteen, adjusting the strap of his rifle on his shoulder. The others fell in, and Aziz motioned for the men to follow.

They were in an enormous courtyard, the size of a football pitch to Sinan's eyes, and that alone would have been amazing, but more than half of it appeared to be comprised of an immaculately maintained lawn. In the starlight all colors washed away, but from the scent of it, Sinan knew it was lush and green. Centered on the lawn was a fountain, perhaps eleven feet high, spurting water in arcs that shimmered as they fell to the pool at its base. As they walked along the tiled driveway that skirted the lawn, Sinan felt the sand and dirt in his clothes, grinding against his skin.

Following Aziz, they made their way to the front of an enormous, sprawling mansion. Marble steps led to a massive door where two more paramilitaries, wearing grenades and pistols on their belts, each holding a submachine gun, watched their approach. Sinan thought the men looked bored and wondered if they would ask for his rifle, and then wondered what he would do if they did. Much as he hated the thought of it, he decided he would hand it over, in order to show respect.

It turned out that the rifles didn't interest the guards; they wanted their boots. Following Abdul Aziz's lead, each man removed his shoes, setting them in a matched pair on the second step, before proceeding inside.

The group moved into a cavernous entry hall, so brightly lit that Sinan's eyes began to tear from the glare. Chandeliers glowed above, and sconces along each wall, and there was more marble here, on the floor, on the walls, on the curving staircase that climbed to the upper floors. Fixtures glittered gold and silver, compounding the effect.

A young man in a black thobe and white kuffiyah came through a door down the hall, followed by a boy no older than ten.

"Salaam alaykum," the man said.

"Salaam alaykum," Abdul Aziz echoed.

The man reached for Aziz's right hand, placed his left on Aziz's right shoulder, and Aziz mirrored him. They exchanged kisses on each cheek before releasing the grip.

"Hazim will take them to the study," the man told Aziz. "But His Royal Highness wishes to see you first, upstairs."

"Very well." Aziz turned to them. "Go with the boy."

Sinan nodded, reassured. It explained the extravagance of the mansion, the mysteriousness of their journey, the guards, everything. This was the home of a prince to the House of Saud. At least now he understood where they were, if not why.

Hazim led them down the hall and through another set of doors, and here the marble floor gave way to smooth stone and a new flight of stairs, this one leading down. They descended perhaps twenty feet into what Sinan would have called a rec room but that he assumed was the indicated study.

The floor was carpeted in an emerald-green shag that felt strangely uncomfortable to Sinan's bared feet. Three large televisions occupied the far wall, spaced irregularly, two of them plasma screens, one of them a projection model. All three were on, and all were broadcasting sports, two football games, one basketball. A billiard table stood to one side, purple felt with fittings that Sinan first thought were brass but on second look decided were gold. Books and magazines were strewn on the easy chairs and couches, and he was shocked to see that a number of them were pornographic. CD jewel boxes and DVD cases littered the floor. The titles ranged from Arabic to English, pop music from the Middle East and the West.

Sinan looked to Matteen, and Matteen frowned, made the faintest shake of his head.

"Please, be comfortable," Hazim told them, and then vanished through a door off to a side.

The group stood still for a few moments longer, and then two of the Saudis propped their Kalashnikovs against one of the easy chairs and took up pool cues. Matteen moved to the nearest couch, facing one of the football matches, the remaining Saudi joining him. Only Sinan didn't move.

It was all so Western, he thought, and this made him uneasy. It had been years since he'd been anyplace like this, in a space like this, and it was a space for William Leacock, not for Sinan bin al-Baari.

He didn't like it, and he didn't like it in the home of a Prince of the House of Saud most of all.

One wall was covered with framed photographs, and Sinan made his way to it, picking his steps carefully to avoid the debris. The pictures were a mix, black and white as well as color, and as far as he could see, the only unifying factor was that the same man appeared in most of them. If there was a purpose to the display, Sinan figured it was in presenting their host the Prince in as many roles as possible.

Most often, the Prince appeared in a black thobe and white kuffiyah, with trimmed black beard and mustache, often wearing sunglasses that failed to flatter his face. There was one of the Prince with King Fahd, and another, apparently more recent, with Crown Prince Abdullah. Another, elegantly framed and dominantly placed, showed the Prince seated between Usama bin Laden and Mullah Omar, taken at a camp, presumably in Afghanistan before the Coalition had arrived. Still others showed the Prince with various holy men, Sheikh Wajdi Hamzeh al-Ghazawi and Sheikh Muhammad Saleh al-Munajjid, and Dr. Faud bin Abdullah al-Shimmari.

It wasn't all vanity. There were three photographs of racehorses, beautiful creatures at a gallop, breaking away from the pack. Another of a kindergarten graduation ceremony, and Sinan recognized it instantly, because he'd seen others of its kind before. Beaming Palestinian children, wrapped in pretend bomb harnesses, their hands dripping with the red paint that signified the blood of the apes and pigs.

The door opened again and Hazim returned carrying a silver tray laden with small cups. The boy served the men at the pool table first, then worked his way around the room, offering coffee to each of them in turn. Sinan sipped his, savoring the flavor, the hint of cardamom mixed into the drink. By the time he'd finished the cup, the boy was making second rounds, and this time Sinan waggled the cup in his hand back and forth, indicating that he was fine, that he didn't wish another serving. The coffee had driven the taste of the desert from his mouth but had failed to do anything for his thirst.