The King’s Gambit: Chapter 3 (The Prostitute)

Washington D.C., USA: late evening.
“I should have let him rape me. I should have let him rape me,” the voices in her head were turning into screams. She twisted and pinched her lower lip, from both the inside and outside, with the long polished nails of her thumb and index finger. The salty blood started to go into her mouth. She took out a Kleenex from the glove compartment of the car, and wiped the blood from her teeth and tongue. It was raining intensely, and she was stuck in a traffic jam, on the Memorial Bridge, trying to get to the downtown Grand Hyatt.
Her cell phone rang. She kept her eyes on the road and her left hand on the steering wheel. She restlessly started searching for the phone, through her large black purse on the passenger seat, with her right hand. It was her private line, used only by her clients. “Yes, this is 703-301-1961. Yaz speaking,” she hurriedly replied. “OK. 9:15, Room 412. I’ll be at the Hyatt in about forty minutes.” The Grand Hyatt, located in the center of Washington D.C, across the street from the Convention Center and only six miles from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, was never her first choice.
Exactly forty minutes later, she turned onto H Street NW, and pulled up to the underground parking gate of the hotel. She rolled down the car window and pulled out the parking slip from the automated machine. Had it not been for her high paying client, she would have never agreed to an, “appointment” in this hotel. The electrical parking gate creaked open. She gently stepped on the accelerator. Her white BMW started to gradually move forward. And it seemed as if she were slowly driving back into her past. Each level into the lower parking lot basement took her back one-year. She parked her car on level four, section A.
It was four years ago when Yasmeen Azizi, the twenty-nine year old ex-supermodel, had been assaulted in this exact same parking basement. She could still remember it as if it had happened yesterday. She had just finished hosting a successful launch of her designer lingerie line in the Constitution Ballroom of the Grand Hyatt. She remembered clearly how he had appeared from nowhere, just as she stepped out of the front door of the parking elevator. He had grabbed her from behind, put his hand over her mouth, and dragged her into the empty janitor’s closet. Before she had been able to comprehend what was happening, there was a sharp knife next to her neck. She could still taste the horrid drunken smell of his breath. He was shorter than her, but much heavier and stronger. Her immediate reaction was to scream for help. “Shut up,” he had shouted; his strong beer breath stinging her nostrils. She had continued screaming and struggling to break free. She still cringed with pain as she vividly recalled how he had lifted his right hand and slapped her with all his might. “You fucking bitch, shut up, or I will cut you into pieces,” he had screamed, as he started to rip away her blouse. She heard someone walking outside the closet. Sensing this to be her last chance, she had grabbed her assailant’s arm with both hands, bit his fingers, and pulled it away from her mouth. As his left hand instinctively moved away from her mouth, she had yelled, “Help me,” with all her strength.
The man turned her around. They were facing each other. He had put her long hair into his left fist, pulling her head back and exposing her neck. Still screaming and crying, she thought he would cut her neck and leave her there to die. It would be something much worse. With a small flick of his sharp knife, he had ended her life, without killing her.
The difficult reconstruction surgery had taken five hours. It was accomplished by moving tissues that still had blood supplies, from one part of her lip to another. There had been a loss of vermilion margin. The cupid’s bow had also been destroyed. The inner lining mucosa was advanced from the inside of the lip to reform a new vermilion margin, after restoring the cupid's bow. The rapist had cut her on the one part of her body which could never been reconstructed perfectly. For a person whose face was her livelihood, this meant an end of a world famous career.
Ten years ago, Yasmeen was a naïve carefree sophomore daughter of the Somali ambassador to Iran. Eight years ago, on a trip to Milan, a photographer from the Ford Modeling Agency had discovered her. A year later she left college, and moved to the US east coast to pursue a promising modeling career. Four years ago, known only by a first name, Yasmeen was the third highest paid black model in the world, with a potentially lucrative personal line of clothing. She had been on the cover of Vogue, Cosmo, Elle, Glamour, Mademoiselle, and every other major fashion magazine in the world. She had even done a spread in Playboy. All of this against the wishes of her conservative Iranian mother, with whom she shared her last name. Six months after the imperfect plastic surgery, every major and minor modeling agency and fashion line dropped her contracts.
And now, Yasmeen Azizi was the highest paid upper-society call girl in the capital of the most powerful country in the world. Her clientele included the who’s who of the District of Columbia powerbrokers. Businessman, lawyer, banker, politician, beurecrat; the list was long but extremely distinguished. Yasmeen had quickly figured out that being a successful escort was more about good business sense than good sexual qualifications. Her powerful clients paid as much for discretion as they did for the sex. As a rule, she only kept one client from each profession. She never contacted her clients directly. Third parties, in a location of the client’s choice, always arranged their meetings. And she never expected or accepted any gifts.
Statuesquely tall. Long shining black hair pulled tightly back. Large deep and dark eyes set beautifully into a shy virtuously innocent face. A thin long neck leading to perfectly round breasts on a 34-26-36 figure. A tight flat stomach with long lithe legs. Yasmeen had the face on an angel and the body of a goddess. The lip surgery had cost her the seductively famous trademark pout. It had also cost her an international modeling career. But she was still a head-turner, and at a rate of ten thousand dollars a night, was able to keep a foothold in the extremely addictive and intoxicating circles of the rich and famous.
Tonight’s client was a testimony of this prowess and influence. Carl Davis Jr. had met her at a congressional dinner, three weeks ago, where she was escorting a prominent young businessman. They had exchanged pleasantries, followed by quick flirtatious glances throughout the night. Within an hour, she had marked him as a potential client. Two weeks later, his assistant had called her with a confirmation of room number in the Hyatt.
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia:
Rafi Qureshi moved the throttles to idle position, and very carefully flared his Citation X on the left runway of the King Khaled International Airport. He enjoyed landing his jet, and had taken over the controls from the co-pilot on the final approach. The forty-two hundred meter runway left plenty of room for him to gradually slow down the airplane, without having to stand on the brakes. He cleared the runway, using the second exit, onto the taxiway. It was half past ten in the morning. He had to reach the Royal Pavilion by eleven o’ clock. He was forced to stop his aircraft on the taxiway, waiting for a Qantas 747 to clear onto the tarmac. The five minute wait seemed like an eternity. The 747 finally received clearance, and started taxiing towards its designated gate. Rafi passed the 747 to his right, taxied to the V.I.P. tarmac, and quickly went through the engine shutdown sequence. “You take it from here,” he ordered the co-pilot. Before the engines had shutdown completely, Rafi opened the aircraft door and quickly jumped out, nearly spraining his ankle.
“Prince Talha is expecting me,” he told the receptionist. The receptionist walked him into the triangular shaped Royal Pavilion. Rafi looked up at the arches, rising one above the other, until they met at the roof, thirty meters above the shining marble floor. “Mr. Qureshi?” inquired a tall man. “Yes,” Rafi replied. “I will be your attendant throughout your visit. Please allow me to get your luggage,” offered the attendant. “His highness has requested me to ensure you are well rested” the attendant pointed towards the private Royal suites in the lounge. “No that’s no problem. Let’s get going.” Rafi ordered.
The forty-minute helicopter ride into the desert was more enjoyable than the long Citation X flight. With an area of two hundred and twenty five square kilometers, King Khaled International Airport resembled a small city. The helicopter flew straight on a northerly heading, passing over the Mekhar Valley, until it finally reached the desert. They flew low enough over the desert for Rafi to see a few Bedouin tents, and pick out a couple of camels. It took another ten minutes to get to the Prince’s private desert hideaway. The hideaway was larger than anything Rafi could have imagined.
Prince Talha bin Muhammad bin Tariq bin Abul-Aziz received his guest at the helipad. The Prince was dressed in black shoes, a white cotton thobe, with a white ghutra on his head, held in place with the help of a gold threaded black agal. The delicately manicured fingers of his left hand were busy finding their way through a set of white prayer beads. “Keefak, Mr. Qureshi?” the Prince asked in a combined Arabic and British accent, as he ducked under the rotating propeller blades, to kiss the cheek of his long-awaited friend. “Ana bakhair. Wa anta?” Rafi struggled hard to squeeze out the only Arabic he could recall from his childhood classes. “Alhamdullillah,” replied the Prince enthusiastically, seemingly impressed with Rafi’s linguistic skills. “How was the journey? Do you need some rest?” asked Talha. “No I am fine, I slept on the plane,” replied Rafi. “Let’s go then, everybody is waiting for you,” Prince Talha pointed towards his small-motorized caravan.
Rafi liked and respected Talha. Talha was three years younger to him, but financially worth eight times as much. “He had a royal one hundred and fifty million dollars head start,” Rafi reminded himself. “But still the guy has balls, or khaslay, or whatever the hell they call them in Arabic,” Rafi concluded. “It means I am Talha, the son of Muhammad, who is the son of Tariq, who was the son of Abdul-Aziz,” Rafi recalled Talha explaining his name in perfect Oxford English to a group of admiring reporters at the ground breaking ceremony of one of HMC&J’s biggest chip making plants. “And by the way, my country is named after my great-grandfather,” the Prince had added, charming an already-charmed audience.
Their Land Cruiser wound its way through the Prince’s personal mini town. Giant satellite dishes, television trucks, huge air conditioned tents; one housing a private ISP catering to the large network of computers on the estate, were all spread out over an area of ten square kilometers. They passed by four parking lots filled with wall-to-wall SUVs, a private shooting range adjacent to a rather large personal gymnasium. And Qureshi’s favorite: a gigantic stadium-sized artificially created habitat, where Talha kept his private collection of the world’s most rare falcons. It was a strange, powerful and eclectic combination of old and new. The Arabian desert mixed with downtown New York.
Rafi felt a bit nervous, as he stepped out of the vehicle, and started walking towards the meeting area. The guard opened the door, and Talha and Rafi stepped into the simply decorated hundred feet by thirty feet tent. Rafi broke out of his state of nervousness, and quickly back into reality. The tent was well air-conditioned, but dimly lit. It was furnished with a small meeting table in the middle, surrounded by eight cushioned leather chairs. Only three were occupied. Rafi noticed the head chair was empty, and assumed that Talha would be occupying it soon. There were tables at the corners of the tent with refreshments and drinks. The wooden floor was completely covered with large Persian carpets. Rafi could hear the somewhat irritating sound of the large air-conditioning unit, coming from outside the tent. The three occupants of the table stood up, coldly greeted him and the Prince, and then shuffled back into their comfortable chairs. Rafi slowly looked at each one, attempting to put names to faces. He had met two of them before, but could not recall ever meeting the third.
Sitting in the center chair, on the far side of the table, was Nasser “Jacque” Cherel; the exquisitely dressed French-Algerian CEO of the largest financial institution in the province of Quebec. To Jacque’s left sat General Hussein Suran, the Arbil-born Butcher of Kurdistan, and now the deputy head of the Iraqi Republican guard. To Jacque’s right was the father-in-law of Prince Talha, Faisal Al-Hayat. Faisal was an Egyptian construction magnate, who amongst other things was part owner of Selfridges and Marks and Spencer on Oxford Street, and now the full owner of the world famous Al-Ghurair center, next to the Clock Tower, at the intersection of Al-Nikhal road and Al-Riqqa road in downtown Dubai. Faisal had made his fortune as a middleman for the Saudi Royal family, during its many billion dollar defense deals with the American armament companies. He had then used his American contacts to become the main conduit of supplies to the Afghan mujahideen during the Soviet invasion. Since then, he had moved onto the more benign business of buying and constructing buildings in the most expensive neighborhoods of the world.
Rafi acknowledged everyone’s greetings, and walked towards the refreshments table. He noticed a small man in his late fifties approaching him. The tight white pajama, long shirt and a black waistcoat dress looked familiar. It was as if Rafi were looking at a tinier, older and more traditionally dressed version of himself. “Maaf karjo sir, tame Rafi Bhai hay,” the man imposed in a soft but somewhat imposing manner. Rafi was surprised to hear the strange combination of Gujrati, Hindi and English. The man, who must have been in his late-fifties, seemed a complete misfit in the present company. Rafi wanted to inquire how this man knew his name, but felt it would be rude to ask. “Have we met?” Rafi politely asked in English, assuming that to be the safest language of communication. “Rafi Bhai, hum Bombay kay Haji DawoodBhai Chandiwali. Humka boat hay na boat.”
Rafi tried to imagine a small fishing boat, sailing out of the Bombay harbor, with the man in front of him sitting on the deck. He would later discover his rather pushy Memon colleague had never even been to the city of Bombay. Dawood was born in East Africa, and had later moved to Kuala Lampur when his father shifted his family business into Malaysia. Even more surprisingly, Dawood’s mention of the word boat actually referred to the fifth largest shipping business in Southeast Asia, extending from Japan on one end to the New York harbor on the other. It was an empire started by his father in Bombay with ironically a small fishing boat. Dawood was meeting Prince Talha to purchase the latest Directional Global Positioning Systems with sub-centimeter accuracy, for all of his ships. His company, Bombay Dawood Shipping Incorporated, owned four complete floors in Kuala Lampur’s famous Petronas Towers. BDS Inc., under Dawood’s shrewd guidance, was now larger than many international navies.
Rafi finally noticed the last occupant of the tent. He was standing with his back to Rafi, still working on his tea and finger sandwiches. His hair had grayed, and he had put on some weight. Rafi could tell from the wrinkles on the back of his neck that he had aged. They had last met over twenty years ago. Yet Rafi had been following his every move for the past three years, like a venture capitalist following the rise of a successful start-up company. Rafi now knew him better than he knew himself. He had remote-controlled this man’s political career from a distance, in ways no one would ever know.
Gathering his strength, Rafi stepped behind the man, lifted his hand to tap him on his shoulder, and then backed away. He wondered whether the man would even recognize him. Their last contact had been ages ago, when he had buried Rafi’s father, and consoled the teary-eyed struggling cab driver in an overseas phone call. As the man turned around to walk towards his seat, Rafi politely extended his hand, “Ali Saheb, how have you been?”
Negev Desert, Israel:
“Two hundred and three F-16s, eighty-eight F-15s, , one hundred and one F-4s, fifty A-4s and twenty-six Kfirs,” General Yitzhak answered rather proudly. Tiny Israel, with a population of slightly over four million, has one of the largest Air Forces in the world. “What are our kill ratios?” asked Prime Minster Shariel. “We have destroyed six hundred and eighty six enemy aircraft and have lost twenty three since independence,” replied Colonel Moaz. The Prime Minister quickly calculated and came to an astounding ratio of over thirty to one, in favor of his Air Force. By far the highest in the history of international air combat.
Michael had never been to the Havat ha-Shikmim before. This was the name given by Shariel to his personal residence. Michael expected it to be quite a bit larger. It was located at the center of small ranch in the Negev desert. Yitzhak and Michael had flown out from Ramon airbase, and had landed straight onto the Prime Minister’s private helipad. “I am in distinguished company,” Michael thought to himself. He recalled seeing the helipad on television a few weeks ago, along with the smiling face of Carl Davis Jr., the first ever African-American Vice President of the United States, stepping out from a US Marine helicopter. “This is not just an important visit to the PM’s house. It must be damn important,” Michael murmured out loud.
General Yitzhak spent the next two hours explaining the whole operation, in the minutest of details, to Ari Shariel. Colonel Michael Moaz sat silently on the black leather sofa next to the General, analyzing his commander’s every word. The General was the head of the Intelligence Directorate of the Israeli Air Force. It was slowly becoming clear to Michael why Yitzhak had a reputation in the Israeli military of being a kick-ass tactician. Ari Shariel, a retired Army General himself, had organized many military attacks during his distinguished career. However, the appearance and disappearance of exaggerated wrinkles on his forehead gave a clear indication to Michael that the complexities of this attack were stretching the limits of even the experienced Israeli Prime Minister’s comfort level.
Michael quietly and correctly narrowed his own role in the plan down to two possible positions. He was having difficulty deciding which one of the two roles would be more challenging. Any doubts he had were completely removed when General Yitzhak described the final phase of the attack. Michael watched in amazement, his mouth wide open and speechless, as the General listed in detail the weapon configuration of the attacking aircraft.
Colonel Michael Moaz was a deeply religious man. He recited Kiddush every Friday night, and went to the Synagogue every Saturday morning. He observed strict Kashrut dieting laws, avoiding pork and shellfish even when not at home. He kept a Mezuzah on his front door. With the exception of strict flying duties, he tried his best to not work in public on the Sabbath. He had fasted on Yom Kippur for as long as he could remember. He gave alms. Before every Hanukkah, his whole family donated hundreds of candles to the needy. But he had just been requested to accept an assignment every military pilot thought about, but none wanted to carry out. Only two had ever accepted it in the history of air combat. All such assignments were voluntary, and when the Prime Minister looked over at him for his acceptance of the responsibility, Michael could neither say yes nor no. His throat dried up, his palms were getting sweaty as his mind stressfully struggled with the moral and religious implications of becoming only the third human being in the history of mankind to carry out a nuclear air strike.
Michael forced himself to gain composure. He did not want his old confidant and instructor, General Yitzhak, to see him in this state of weakness. He slowly turned his eyes towards the Prime Minister, and without saying a word, nodded his head in approval. Sensing the tension in the Colonel’s reply, Ari Shariel half-heartedly smiled, and asked Yitzhak how he had come up with Mumlakeh Shalak as the name for the strike mission.
The wily old military genius slowly raised his eyebrows, and replied, “Do you play chess, Mr. Prime Minister?”
[To be continued . . .]