The Artificial Mirage (22 page)

The golf cart stopped in front of a white man in a white thobe and black-and-silver Versace sandals. “I’m Walter. And you’re Santa Claus. At least I hope you are.”

“I am,” Charlie replied.

“So where’s your bag of goodies, Santa?”

“In the car. Some of your elves have their own set rules for Santa.”

“Oh, they’re harmless. Are you in a hurry?”

“Eh, well, I’ve got some more stops.”

“I won’t waste your time.” He slapped Charlie on the back as they walked through the sliding stained-glass door and up an escalator with an opaque convex glass dome skylight. They came upon an array of tables with cobalt blue tablecloths. There was a pond with flowering lilies and bright orange goldfish the size of flounder. In the corner next to a lime green glass archway door that overlooked another garden, there was a large parrot sitting on a perch beneath one of the palm trees planted in an empty marble square. “Have a seat,” Walter said as he took the napkin off the table and let it drop into Charlie’s lap.

Charlie took a cursory look around the room and saw that there were about twenty men sitting alone. They were all Indian, Pakistani, or Filipino. Three Korean men in blue overalls with a Korean logo he didn’t recognize emblazoned across the chest sat in a corner, playing cards. “Not many women here, eh?”

“Yeah. This is a bachelor compound. Used to be all Americans back in the day. You’re a rare breed these days,” Walter said.

“You can’t get pork chops delivered?”

Walter beamed back the accommodating smile unique to men voluntarily doing work beneath their position. “It’s all about risk/reward for you, right? Same here. And the price for a perishable item like that doesn’t justify the freezer space. You can check out the menu.”

“I wasn’t trying to score a sale, Walter. Just curious.” Charlie waved his hand and activated the AR menu.

“I’m sure Saleh would drive a freezer truck full of bacon across the causeway himself if he thought he could get away with it,” Walter said. “But he wouldn’t get away with it. And he knows it. Too bulky. Too risky. Too little reward.”

The light clattering of metal against porcelain acted as white noise. “No music?” Charlie asked.

“Some of these guys are hardcore Muslims, so no music. That just goes with the territory.”

“I guess,” Charlie mumbled as he looked around at the dining hall, taking in the fact that nearly all of the men were in fully occluded mode.

“Yup,” Walter seemed to answer. “Nobody’s ever fully here. Makes you wonder about what it was like back in the day with the bloody camels and the dust and…Well, they’re still here. But you know what I mean, right, mate? I guess you and your lot get along just fine over in Bahrain.”

“Oh, well. You know. Yeah…Bahrain.”

“Hey, mate, do you have a place to stay here in Saudi?”

“Why?”

“Lots of vacancies here now ever since the attack. They stepped up security. But a lot of people think this place is jinxed. Don’t ask me why. They just do. Their residence is included in their contract, but they opt to live somewhere else.”

“That’s interesting. Not sure how the logistics of that would work.”

“Oh. It’s nothing. You just slip one of the smileys a few riyals, and you get your key card.”

“I prefer Bahrain, Walter. I really do. But thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Sure, mate. Anytime. You know, there are two essential methods of protecting against a terrorist attack in Saudi Arabia: absolute security or no security at all. Some blokes go for the full-on security, like here. But most can’t afford it. So then you’ve got your other option, which is no security at
all. And you’d be surprised, mate. How many blokes swear by that. Because it works. Do you ever hear about a terrorist attack on some two-star shit motel? Fuck no, mate. Because nobody gives a fuck. But, then you’ve got your random violence and degenerate types on meth with some wild religious ideas lurking in the back of their minds.”

Charlie paused as an Indian waiter came with a sizzling plate of diced steak and alfalfa sprouts.

“That’s Japanese style,” Walter said. “We like to mix it up. Give them a tour of the bloody world while they’re here. These poor bastards…monks of money. The Saudis won’t even give them multi-entry visas—afraid they’ll leave. Some of them have multiple residences—never sleeping in the same place more than a few nights.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Fucking gypsies. Fucking paranoid corporate fucking gypsies. They’re out there, mate.”

“You’re Australian, right?”

“Fucking right I am.”

“How long have you been here?”

“In the Gulf? Fuck. More than twenty years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Time. Fucking bloody time. Fuck time. I have a nice life. And my daughter is going to a fucking boarding school in Switzerland. Got her a recommendation from the owner of this place, mate. That’s bloody wasta for you, mate. You ever have Saudi champagne?”

“What?”

“Saudi champagne, mate.”

“What is it?”

“Just a sec,” he said as he pulled up an intercom app. “Arun, get me two glasses of Saudi champagne. OK,” he said as he took the earbud out of his ear and dropped it in his lapel pocket.

“So what is it?” Charlie asked, looking up from his plate.

“Oh, it’s nothing, mate. Just some fruit juice and Seven Up. Bloody hilarious. When I first got to Saudi, a group of us were sitting around drinking this stuff. One old bloke who’d been here forever said this was as exciting as it got.” Walter rolled his eyes. “Fuck, was he wrong. And not just about that.”

“What else?”

“Everything. Come on, mate. Let me show you. Come on, mate.”

“Where?”

“I was just joking about the Saudi champagne. I need to show you something.”

“Sure,” Charlie said as he followed him downstairs into a room full of bookcases. They walked all the way to the back.

“Watch this.” He pushed one of the shelves, and it opened like a door. The LEDs intensified and revealed a long wooden bar with a selection of whiskeys and beers on tap. “Pretty impressive, eh?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Where’s the humidor?”

“Humidor? That’s a good one.” He pulled the bookcase door shut.

“I guess you can’t be too careful.”

“Security can’t take a holiday. The terrorists don’t.”

“No, they certainly don’t. The champagne is in my car.”

“And the hash?” he whispered under his breath.

“Yeah.”

“No problem. Where are you parked?”

“By the main entrance.”

“No need to panic. Just use the service entrance. Follow me.” Walter led him behind the bar and down a red brick stairwell that led to a loading dock.

“Go out the tunnel and turn right. Your car is right there. You can drive it right up here.”

Charlie walked back to the parking lot and got in the car. Three middle-aged Saudi men emerged from a dented brown Bentley. He started the car and flicked his stylus around like he was sending a memo. Lauren’s face was translucent like mist and twice the size of the car. He looked over, and the Saudis were gone. Slowly, without touching the accelerator, he steered the car into the truck depot.

“Great,” he said as he grabbed the satchel and examined the four bricks inside. “You know what this is?”

“Hash.”

“No, mate. This is something much better. It’s been genetically modified. The guys in this compound will forget they’re even here in Saudi.”

“I never heard of a Saudi geneticist.”

“They’re out there, mate.”

“They sure are. So what else do you fellas do for fun around here? I mean—besides tennis?”

“You’re funny.”

“I try.”

“Just don’t be too funny. The Saudis don’t appreciate it. And whatever you do, don’t smile. It’s the sign of weakness.”

“I’ve heard that.”

28

T
he highway was completely unlit, but the full moon was bright enough for Charlie to see the outline of a high wall set against the tops of houses and apartment blocks on his left. On his right was the blackness of the empty desert. There were no road signs—only AR indications of latitude and longitude on the windshield that guided the car according to the map Saleh had put in his phone. Unlike downtown Al Khobar, the area was completely bereft of AR. The car veered off down a two-lane street with sand drifts so deep it nearly came to a dead stop at one point. An illuminated Hawk momentarily appeared in his rearview mirror before ascending. He put his hands up to shield his eyes from the intense brightness of the cluster of floodlights ahead. Through his fingers, he saw the windshield go blank from a lack of input. The car zigzagged between concrete barriers designed to prevent car bomb attempts. The floodlights were so bright, it almost seemed like daylight. There were two guards standing outside of a clear acrylic box playing what looked like AR badminton. They looked over at the car as it stopped at the entrance. One of them straightened up and approached with a formal gait while the other returned to the clear box. He made a chopping movement with his hand at his forearm to signal that he wanted to see Charlie’s ID. Three brown Hawks hovered outside next to them, swooping down occasionally to peer into the car’s windows. He kept reminding himself they were only interested in terrorist threats to the residents. Charlie handed the guard his passport. The guard took it and looked at him and then in the back seat. He flipped through it and waved for him to proceed into the compound as he handed it back to him. Once inside the walls, the charming faux-American suburb revealed itself. Condos with vinyl siding and oak trees nestled amid trimmed hedges and green grass.

The street was like any suburban American street, only cleaner and devoid of people: far too pristine. The lack of AR interaction was stifling, but he felt comforted as he looked up at the chlorophyll-enhanced leaves of the
oak trees. They sparkled at the edges like AR trees. The sidewalk and the fronts of the rows of townhouses showed no signs of wear. The only sounds were the whooshing of the cars on the highway in the distance and the occasional outbursts of laughter from the guards at the front gate. He parked the car at the curb and walked up to the numbered townhouse, 512. The walls must have been soundproofed, because the loud ether music wasn’t even audible before the door opened.

“You’re just in time.” The man, in his midforties and a white silk business shirt and black linen pants, spoke in a manner of professional clarity designed to convey meaning to those who might otherwise not understand. He gestured with his head toward a large glass pitcher on the kitchen island to his right.

“What’s that?”

“Sid. The local home brew. Moonshine—I believe that’s what they call it in your part of the world. I think they put oak chips in that one to make it more palatable.” He was British.

“Did it work?”

The man produced a forced laugh. “I’m Darren.”

“Charlie.”

“Would you like a glass?”

“Sure.” Charlie walked with him to the granite counter. All of the appliances were state-of-the-art and brand-new, like nothing he had seen since Saigon. The adjacent living room had furniture like a model home and a tastefully indistinct lithograph on the wall. It was the way Western people were supposed to like it.

“Don’t worry. I let it breathe.” The man giggled as he poured two glasses almost to the top.

“Thanks.” Charlie picked up the large cobalt blue wine glass and took a sip.

“Careful!” the man cautioned.

It was strong with a warm burn. “So what are you doing here in Saudi Arabia?”

“I’m part of the corporate structure of one of the major dairy companies.”

“Dairy?”

“Yes. Actually, I’m the CEO.”

“I didn’t know that was a big business here.”

“Well, there used to be only one…and it was big…but some tribal dispute changed all that. It happened before I arrived. I’ve only been here four months.”

“Dairy. Where do they get the hay and the water?”

“Oh? An agriculturalist? There are aquifers and farms. Saudi is actually a net exporter of wheat. The facilities at the dairy are really on a par with Europe. The aquifers are starting to run out now, though.”

“So what are they going to do?”

“The water needs to be further filtered.” He exhaled with great affectation. “But, as long as His Majesty is willing to pay, I’m willing to do what it takes to keep our cows properly nourished. Eventually, all that water they force down to force out the oil will be used for farming. It’s just a matter of time.”

“That’s hilarious.”

Darren raised an eyebrow as he handed him a pack of Saudi riyals wrapped with two rubber bands. “That’s quite a markup for a case of 2013 Krug.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly flowing out of cows, is it?”

“Now, that would be a neat trick.”

“It sure would.”

“It would certainly go a long way toward making this place more habitable.”

“And there’s also the…” He trailed off.

“Oh, right. Majed will bring down the money for that. You’re not in too much of a hurry, I hope.”

“No problem. You’ve got a nice setup here. I mean…for where we are.”

“Yes. It’s easy to forget the quality of life that we enjoy. And what would you say is your preferred year for Krug?”

“The 2013 is nice.”

“Yes, it is. Quite. To be honest, I don’t need the money they pay me here. And I think that contributes to some better-quality decisions that wouldn’t have been made otherwise.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Well, for example, last week my Saudi superiors told me to transfer someone to another department. I told them no. I wouldn’t have done that if I weren’t financially independent.”

“What did they say?”

“What could they say? He had to stay. Oh, they objected, of course. Would you like another glass?” Darren poured both glasses without waiting for Charlie’s response.

“Where is Albert?” Darren sounded exasperated as he tapped his stylus finger in midair a few times. “OK, he’s coming,” he announced as he refocused his attention on Charlie.

Albert came walking through the front door, wearing a shiny white T-shirt and jeans with a short black fur coat draped over his shoulders. He was carrying a small electric coffee grinder under his left arm.