Operation Scheherazade
by Sinbad
Chapter 17
Roger Taylor knew nothing of the adventure that the two boys had been involved in. All he knew was that Ricky was beginning to behave badly with regard to his friend Maureen. He could see that the boy was jealous and was hopeful that he would realise soon that Maureen was not about to replace Ricky in his affections. That his feelings for Maureen were different and separate to his love for his son.
He looked for a topic of conversation for the meal table that would be un-controversial and might meet with the boys' approval. So he raised the topic of the forthcoming camel races. It was still his intention to take time off work and take Ricky, and now Chris to see the races. Ricky asked, and so he answered, that Yes, Maureen would be coming too. And the table fell silent again. Not my greatest success, thought Roger, bitterly, and wished for the first time since they'd separated, for Shirley's presence. She was so much better at this sort of thing than he was.
The conversation had made Ricky uncomfortable. It had reminded him that he'd promised the King not to go to the camel races. And he couldn't think of any way to explain to his father why he didn't want to go. And now the opportunity had passed and he would have to find some way to bring it up again.
The next day, the boys went for a long walk in the cool of the morning, and when Maureen picked them up at lunchtime she was surprised to find them both much more talkative and friendly than before. And at the pool, they sat with her under her parasol and accepted her offer of bottles of Pepsi. Wonderful, she thought – they're finally warming to me.
The boys' strategy was to keep close to her in order to see who she spoke to and what was said between them. And they endured an afternoon of girl talk and gossip, none of it even slightly suspicious – unless you include accounts of illicit shenanigans between teachers, both married but to different people, as suspicious.
The day of the camel races arrived. Ricky still hadn't told his father he didn't want to go, and he began to think it wouldn't matter much if he did go. And it would save a lot of awkward lies.
The races were to begin at noon, so they had plenty of time to get there. Roger and the boys enjoyed a leisurely breakfast prepared with great skill by Mohammed, who had learned his trade working for the British Army during the time of the British Mandate for Palestine. They had a full fried breakfast, bacon, sausage, egg, beans, fried bread, mushrooms. The mushrooms were out of a tin, and the sausages were beef because Muslims don't eat pork, but that didn't detract from the treat. Bacon came from the British NAAFI, the shop that stocked imports for the ex-pats. Fried free-range egg, the yolk soaking into crisp fried bread – heavenly. As Mohammed put it when agreeing the shopping list with Shirley shortly after he joined the household, “Eggs, Sit'te, you want hen eggs or factory eggs?” Shirley always specified free range. Hen eggs.
The telephone rang and Roger rose from the breakfast table to answer it. He returned moments later and announced that Maureen wasn't coming with them after all. Something had come up and she would be unable to go. Roger was saddened by this, but he could tell the boys felt differently. Oh well. He'd give his attention to making the day as enjoyable for Chris and Ricky as he could.
They took some provisions with them, a sandwich each, prepared by Mohammed, and bottles of water. And folding chairs. With these things loaded into the back of the Land Rover they set off into the desert.
The Camel Races were a small event, patronised by the King in an attempt to raise its profile. A race course was marked with poles linked by rope, in a patch of desert near the 'King's Highway', the major road that runs North to South through the country, part of the ancient trade route of that name that ran through Jordan on its way from Babylon to Egypt.
A rickety wooden grandstand had been constructed beside the course, and adorned with red carpets and cushions for the seating, as befits an event attended by the King. And behind the grandstand the camels and their carers sat or stood, and the jockeys, in silks just like the jockeys in horse races, paced nervously. It was all very informal, no enclosures, spectators able to mingle with competitors and inspect the camels at will.
Roger took photographs of camels with the two boys posing in front of them. He took photos of the comical jockeys in their bright chequerboard colours. He took photos of the soldiers in their desert uniform – long ankle-length khaki robes, and red and white military Keffirs, very dashing. In the days of British rule, the Desert Legion had acquired the nickname 'Glub's Girls' after General Glub who was in charge of them, and their uniform robe. But there was nothing girlish about the stern, dignified soldiers of the Desert Legion who were there, perhaps on duty, perhaps to join the spectators.
The King arrived by helicopter with a big entourage. Ricky noticed that he was piloting the machine, and thought how amazingly accomplished he was. But the King's arrival signalled the start of the races and the first race was announced. Eight camels lined up in an untidy line at the start, each with a diminutive rider perched on its hump, one leg hooked around the hump and the toe hooked behind the knee of the other leg, to lock the rider in place. Very necessary, since once the starting gun had gone off and the animals began to run, the ungainly manner in which they ran, legs flailing outwards as well as forwards, resulted in the poor riders being shaken every which way. And the strangest part of the event was that the camels, willing enough to run when goaded to it, nevertheless showed a marked preference for the company of their competitors, and ran as a group around the course, none breaking rank to finish first. The spectators clapped politely but it was a less than exciting spectacle.
While they waited for the next race to start, and the jockeys manoeuvred their mounts into position at the start line, Ricky fell to daydreaming. He remembered Mr Farquharson's warning about terrorists and the possibility of sabotage or suicide bombers, and his caution not to attend any large event. Ricky wondered if this counted as a large event. It was not very large – there were probably only two hundred spectators all told, although most of Jordan's dignitaries were there, supporting their King. And suddenly something awful struck him.
He turned to Chris and to his father sitting beyond. “She didn't come!” he cried, as though that explained everything.
Both Chris and Roger looked dumbfounded. Ricky, exasperated by their obtuseness, repeated “She didn't come! Don't you see?”
But neither of them did see. So Ricky explained as though to infants: “She knew something bad was going to happen, so she didn't come!”
Roger was none the wiser but Chris caught on. “Oh, my goodness! There'll be a bomb, or something!” and then at the top of his voice “A bomb! A bomb, that's it, a bomb!”
Ricky had been frantically trying to think what to do, but that became rather academic. Chris's shouting had been picked up by others, the call 'bomb!' was being repeated over and over, and panic was sweeping through the grandstand. People were running in all directions, but down off the grandstand and into the open. Some of the VIPs and the King's party attempted to maintain dignity and moved away from the wooden structure at a walking pace. Chris had grabbed the hands of both Ricky and Roger and pulled them forcefully down the steps with the result that they were among the first to get clear of the canopy of the stand. In no more than four minutes the whole edifice was deserted and people were beginning to calm down, and turn around and look at the devastation they had left behind. The carpets and cushions were all awry and the grandstand looked forlorn, bereft of its intended load. Some just began to make a move back towards their seats, when there was a deafening explosion and the whole centre section of the stand rose in the air, splintering as it went. Fragments of wood flew upwards and outwards and everyone ducked. Some people were hit by the flying wood and there were some injuries. But no-one died, thanks to Chris' panicked shout.
When the dust settled it became clear that the worst damage was to the royal enclosure in the front centre section of the grandstand. There was nothing left of the structure there, just a big hole and a crater in the earth beneath, decorated with wood fragments.
The King seemed quite unfazed by it all, despite the obvious inference that the bomb had been meant for him. He came over to the group of three dazed Englishmen, breaking away from his bodyguards to do so.
“I thought, Richard, that I might not have a chance to thank you again for your assistance. My contact was successfully achieved and a line of communication has been set up. But now I have a very special reason for wishing to thank you. Very possibly I owe you my life!” The King spoke quickly and quietly before his bodyguards arrived in earshot.
“Thank you , your Majesty. But it was Chris who sounded the alarm. This is my friend Chris Sutton, sir.” Ricky was having a little difficulty hearing, and his own words sounded odd in his head because of the ringing in his ears from the explosion.
The King shook Chris by the hand and Chris blushed crimson through his tan.
“I'm very pleased to meet you, young man. I should have known that Richard would have an accomplice!”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” stammered Chris.
Roger Taylor was watching all of this with his mouth hanging open. He was completely lost, and the King's next move didn't help at all. Hussein shook Roger by the hand warmly, clasping his with both hands.
“Mr Taylor, you have a fine boy. I hope you are very proud of him. I would be glad to have him as my son.”
- and then the King broke one of the cardinal rules of royalty around the world. He said:
“If there's ever anything I can do for you, just let me know!” - which is of course an invitation to abuse the offer. How tempting it must be to reply with 'well if you could just buy me a yacht?' or 'I'd like a holiday home in Mustique!' but Roger understood and had the grace to accept the gesture for what it was – a gesture.
The bodyguards arrived and the King meekly allowed them to shepherd him away and to his helicopter. The rotor blades began to turn and Ricky noticed that this time it was not King Hussein in the pilot's seat. A voice in his ear spoke:
“You have quite a bit of explaining to do, young man!”
He turned and faced his father. “Yes, Dad. And some of it you're not going to like, I'm afraid. Can we talk on the way home?”