In the Kingdom of Men (26 page)

“Amen,” Mason said. He flipped his cigarette to the fire and peered at Abdullah. “The way I see it, nationalization is the only way you’re ever going to get a fair shake. Once you get your own people trained and educated, Americans will be as useless as the Italians, expedient labor you can ship back out.” He squinted one eye. “Just don’t say you heard it from me.” When Abdullah didn’t respond, Mason sat back. “You’re right,” he said. “We can talk more about this later. We just need to enjoy our coffee.” He held out his cup. “You know why Arabian horses hold their tails up
so high?” When Abdullah hesitated, Mason quirked his mouth. “So the wind can blow in their ears and out their asses.”

Abdullah stared at him for a moment, then broke into an appreciative laugh. I felt the mood lift and was grateful, but then Abdullah shifted and looked at Mason, new seriousness in his eyes.

“The explosion at the stabilization plant,” he said. “Two of the men who died were my cousins.”

Mason rested his arms on his knees and nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Abdullah glanced at me as though he wasn’t sure he should continue in my presence. When I dropped my gaze, straightened the hem of my shirt, he continued. “The pipes ruptured because they were not sound,” he said.

Mason nodded. “The company should never have allowed that to happen.”

“Why,” Abdullah asked, “was it allowed to happen?”

“The pipes, you mean.” Mason pushed out a breath through his nose, raised one shoulder. “Laziness, procrastination. Failure to oversee operations.”

Abdullah studied him for a long moment, and I could see that he was gauging Mason’s sincerity. “No man can serve two masters,” he said, and Mason brought up his eyes.

“Who do you mean?” he asked.

“You are senior staff,” Abdullah said, “a company man, yet you claim allegiance to the Arab workers’ cause.”

Mason flipped his cigarette to the fire. “We both know that if you shut down the pipes, you shut down the money. I’m not saying it’s an excuse.”

“No,” Abdullah said, “there is no excuse for causing an innocent man’s death.”

Mason looked up, squinting against the light. “Causing?”

“What do you call it when repairs are ordered and paid for but never made?” Abdullah asked. “What do you call it when deception
puts money in the pockets of the rich and results in the death of the poor?”

Mason held his gaze. “I call it business as usual,” he said.

“Not here,” Abdullah said. “Not until the oil came.” He looked away, then back at Mason. “My cousins died because of greed. I want to know whose purse their blood has filled.”

“You think someone was skimming?” Mason asked.

“I don’t think,” Abdullah said. “I know. It is why I am a driver instead of an engineer.”

Mason hesitated, then lit another cigarette, let out a slow breath. “It would have to be someone in Maintenance,” he said. “Supply.”

“Buck Bodeen,” I said, and both men looked at me as though they had forgotten I was there. “He was the department head in Abqaiq. Maybe he got caught,” I said. “Maybe that’s why he and Betsy had to leave.”

Mason stared at me for a moment, then gave a slow nod and dropped his eyes to the fire. “Just not soon enough,” he said. He turned to Abdullah. “Who would have taken those orders?”

Abdullah looked at me, his face drawn. “My cousin and brother by marriage,” he said.

Mason tipped his cup. “Alireza,” he said, and Abdullah nodded.

“He is a dangerous and brutal man,” Abdullah said. “He is no favorite of the emir.”

We all sat in silence a long moment. When both men again turned their eyes my way, I knew what they were thinking—that they had made a mistake by speaking of such things in front of a woman.

“I won’t tell,” I said, “not even Ruthie,” but my grudge against Alireza was growing by the minute.

Abdullah dipped his head once, then moved to snuff the fire and scour the cups with sand before packing them carefully with the last of the food. Mason climbed on the little black mare, grimacing
as he settled his sore seat, then reached down and pulled me up behind him. When Abdullah mounted the bay and led us out of the trees, I took a final look back, hoping I might catch some glimpse of Badra hightailing it toward us, unwilling to be left behind, but all I saw was the tamarisk stand and the acacia tree that had been my goal. By the time we filed back into Abqaiq, the sun had drifted toward the horizon, and I knew that Yash was already gone and that Abdullah would be searching for Badra by moonlight.

I peered up at the sky, knew just where the guiding stars would be.
I could go with you
, I wanted to say.
I could help you find her
, but I knew I would never be allowed. Mason’s mood had grown more sullen, and I knew he was angry—at Buck Bodeen and Alireza, at the company, at me.

I was showered and in bed when he came from his study, still carrying the drink he had been refilling since we arrived home. He stood in the doorway, considering me from a distance, his face half in the shadows.

“You let her run, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice flat.

“I’ll be more careful next time,” I said. “I promise.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” he said. “You want to ride, you go to the Hobby Farm like the other wives.” He turned and disappeared down the hallway.

“Never let the sun go down on your wrath,” his mother once told me, her single piece of advice before we left Shawnee, but I didn’t care. The days that I had imagined with Mason as a comfort now seemed more like a trial.
I wish he’d just leave
, I said to myself, and the thought startled me. When had I begun to wish him away?

I didn’t realize I had been asleep when I woke later that night, still alone in the bed. At first, I thought that it was the sound of the horses that I heard, but then I made out the low murmur of men’s voices. I pulled on my robe, walked down the hallway, and peered around the corner. Abdullah had returned and sat with Mason at the dining table, his
ghutra
folded away from his face. I saw how his
glistening black hair fell against his shoulders, beautiful, but not like a girl’s—like an animal’s, I thought, or maybe a kind of man I had never seen before—and I remembered the story of Samson and Delilah. What would it feel like to hold that hair in my hands?

“Mason?” At the sound of my voice, their heads jerked up, and Abdullah’s face opened with surprise.

Mason leaned back, let out a heavy sigh. “Gin, for God’s sake, will you just go back to bed?”

Abdullah looked quickly at Mason, a flash of disapproval crossing his face before he pulled his
ghutra
close. “Badra is safely home,” he said. “I wanted to return this.” He pulled my blue scarf from inside the fold of his
thobe
and laid it on the table.

“Thank you,” I said, and drew my robe a little closer. “Are you talking about the explosion?” I asked.

Mason lifted one hand, let it drop. “Bodeen is gone,” he said. “Alireza is untouchable. Like fingering ghosts.”

I folded my arms. “Do you want coffee?” I asked.

“Coffee would be good,” Mason said without looking, and I knew that he was still angry with me.

Abdullah lowered his gaze as I walked past him and into the kitchen. I pulled out one of Betsy’s tea towels—this one Friday—and considered its stitch as I waited for the pot to perk, wondering again what had happened to Sunday, whether Betsy had known or even suspected what her husband was up to all those hours he spent in his study, building his ship in a bottle—and that is when I remembered the red leather book.

I found the volume in its place, the ledger sheets still pasted in back. I held it for a moment, hopeful that my hunch was right, not only because I wanted to help Mason and Abdullah, but because we now had this enemy in common: because of Alireza, Nadia was in danger, and Burt was dead. I arranged a neat tray with three cups and saucers, sugar and cream, added a plate of Yash’s macaroons, and tucked the book beneath my arm.

“Ashkurik,”
Abdullah said as I placed his coffee in front of him.

“You’re welcome,” I said, acting as collected as I could in my bathrobe. I held out the book to Mason. “Take a look at this,” I said. “The last few pages.”

He peered at me for a moment, then took the volume, rested it on the table, and flipped to the end. I took my chair and watched him read down one page, and then the next. “This is it,” he said. “Bodeen kept a record.” He looked at Abdullah with something like amazement. “It’s been right here in my own house the whole time.”

I wanted to say that it wasn’t his house, not even Bodeen’s, that it all belonged to the company, but the look on Abdullah’s face as Mason moved the volume in front of him kept me quiet. He wasn’t eager or satisfied but grim as he took the book, and I realized that what he was seeing wasn’t numbers but the lives of his people reduced to scribbles on a page.

“Bodeen put in a requisition for supplies,” Mason said, dragging his finger down the column, wrinkling his forehead, “but it looks like he pocketed half the money, gave the other half to Alireza.” He pushed back, and the skin around his mouth tightened. “It’s not just about graft. It’s about what’s wrong with this company,” he said. “It’s all tied together. Put the least skilled, lowest-paid workers on the front line. Something like this happens, there’s always more where they came from, right? Pay a little blood money and walk away.” He tapped the ledger, raised his eyes to Abdullah’s. “I’m not done with this,” he said. “Not by a long shot.”

Abdullah held his gaze a moment, gauging Mason’s conviction, but Mason didn’t have to convince me of anything. He would never walk away from a wrong that needed to be made right. Not Mason McPhee.

“What about Lucky?” I asked. “Maybe he can help.”

Mason slid his eyes away. “It’s hard to say where Lucky is in all this,” he said. “Right now, it’s just between the three of us.” He closed the book, handed it to me. “Put this back where you
found it,” he said. “It’s been there for this long. It will keep a while longer.” He stubbed his cigarette. “Abdullah and I still have some business to take care of,” he said, and I realized I was being dismissed.

I never liked being bossed, but there I stood in my nightclothes. I took the book to the study, slid it into place. Instead of going back to bed, I turned off the light and sat in Mason’s chair, listening to the muted voices of the men. No matter how pretty I was, no matter how smart and brave, it would never be enough to earn me a place at that table.

What if this were my study? I wondered. My job, my salary, my house? Because Ruthie was wrong
—we
weren’t earning more money than we knew what to do with. Mason was. I thought of my photos in the file drawer and felt just like that: as though a little bit of room had been made for me, a slip of space that I should feel grateful for.

Mason woke me the next morning by standing at the foot of the bed and rocking the mattress with his knee. When I opened my eyes, I saw him in his boxers, buttoning his khaki work shirt from bottom to top. “I want you to stay inside the compound until I get off this tour,” he said, twisting his cuffs.

I sat up and tried to focus. I thought it was because I had let Badra run, or maybe it had something to do with Alireza and Bodeen, but Mason shook his head. “We got bigger concerns. Word just came down that something is heating up between Egypt and Israel. Probably only a bunch of saber rattling, but it could turn serious.” He flapped his pants from their fold. “Some of the men are already flying their families out to Rome. If you can’t promise me you’ll stay in this compound and mean it, I’m going to send you out right now.” He strapped on his belt, picked up his duffel, and slapped on his cap before stepping close, lifting my chin. “And not a word about Bodeen and the ledger, okay?” When I gave a confused nod, he peered at me for a moment, then kissed
my forehead and walked out of the room. When I heard the Land Cruiser grind into gear, I pulled on my robe and moved my pout to the kitchen, where Yash kneaded bread.

“I don’t even know what this thing with Egypt and Israel is all about,” I said.

“It is about territory,” he said, and gave me a ball of dough to round and flatten. “The gentiles will not allow the Israelis to have more, and the Israelis will take no less.”

It dawned on me that I was living in the Promised Land. “The Valley of Abraham,” I said.

Yash nodded. “Christians, Jews, Muslims, all claim Abraham as their father, and see what a happy family it has made.” He tightened his lips. “Since the creation of Israel, there has been conflict at the borders, but Egypt is amassing troops, and Israel will not be intimidated. The Arabs who have spent centuries attempting to destroy one another will gladly join together against the Israeli colonizers.” Yash grew pensive. “Years ago, the British, in their ineffable fashion, promised Faisal a united Arab nation, then pieced out Israel and Palestine behind his back. He doesn’t show himself to be a vengeful man, but one wonders about the fury of his dreams.”

I remembered my grandfather’s fiery sermons from the book of Revelation. “The Bible says that the Antichrist will bring all the gentiles together,” I said, “and then comes the Tribulation.”

“If memory serves me,” Yash said, “it entails a great deal of pain and suffering.”

“The Seven Seals and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” I said, “and pestilence.”

The doorbell rang, and Yash looked up at the clock’s early hour. “Ah, yes,” he sighed.

Lucky busted in before either of us could reach the hallway, brandishing a bottle, Ruthie nudging in against him, looking like she hadn’t slept a wink.

“Genuine Cuban rum is what we got here,” he announced, “straight from Bahrain.” He knocked back a swallow and hissed through his teeth. “Damn, that’s fine.” He handed me the bottle and looked around. “Where’s that husband of yours?”

“He had an early meeting,” I said. I took a drink of the rum, found it surprisingly sweet.

Lucky’s smile tightened. “What meeting?”

I lifted one shoulder. “Maybe it’s about Israel and Egypt,” I said.

“Hell,” Lucky said, dropping back and cutting his eyes at Ruthie. “I talked to the fellas at the airbase, and they say it’s a big fuss over nothing. The militia has it under control.”