Florence of Arabia (39 page)

France once again found herself sans naval
bases and discounted crude oil,
but still and forever ineffably, irresistibly belle.

Wasabia
found itself once again cut off
from the sea and having to pa
y Matar the hated Churchill tax, now double the previous rat
e. King Tallulah blamed the dismal reversal of his Country's fortunes on his nephew Foreign Minister Crown Prince Bawad. U
nder an obscure provision of Hamooji law,
the disgraced prince was stripped of his wealth and prettiest wives and internally exiled to a region of Wasabia inhabited mainly by baboons (the country's only tourist site of any note). Vans stop, and the guides, shouting above the din of baboons, point out that the lowly mud hut in the distance is the dwelling place of Prince Bawad—yes, "that" Prince Bawad. It is said that his howls can be heard at
night even above the baboon din,
bu
t this may be an exaggeration. E
ven Wasabis have a sense of humor.

George and Renard went into business together. Their Firm, Renard Phish Strategic Communications, is one of Washin
gton's top public relations firm
s, wit
h clients all over the world, in
one of those distinctly Washingtonian ironies, they were retained by the Royal Kingdom of Wasabia to improve the kingdom's image in the United States, an image in much need of repair. The two of them are so busy that George complains he is working far too hard: but then George is never really happy unless he has something to be unhappy about. In such free time as he has, he oversees the painstaking renovation of Phish House, which he purchased from the estate of his late mother. Already there is talk of a ghost.

Florence's little house in Foggy Bottom was quickly overwhelmed by media and curiosity seekers. Agents bearing book and movie contracts hurled themselves against her front door. America does not make life easy for its heroes. She escaped out the back on her motorcycle. They pursued her, but she lost them in the Virginia suburbs. With Bobby
’
s help, she assumed a new name and identity. No useful purpose would be served by describing Florence's new looks, except to say that heads still turn when she walks down a street. The Fund for Arab Women thrives.

Following the submarine exfiltration. there was much debriefing by various government officials. They all professed ignorance, even skepticism, of the shadowy Uncle Sam figure Florence described to them. And yet the officials were forced to acknowledge that she could not have done what she did without the assistance of certain elements of the United States government. The more obvious this became, the less eager they were to pursue the matter. Could this have come from—the very top? The officials began casting nervous glances at one another. The silences grew longer and more awkward. Matar was once again the Switzerland of the Gulf, oil was flowing, America was—God be praised—spared the necessity of having to be more prudent about its gluttonous consumption of energy, the French and the Wasabis were back in their boxes. Why not call it a day and leave well enough alone?

"We're done," the chief debr
iefing officer said finally. H
e had never bothered to introduce himself. On the way out, he turned and looked at Florence and said. "Got dinner plans?"

Florence began to have dreams. Being shut up in a cell with a corpse for three days and escaping decapitation by seconds would qualify in any diagnostic manual as traumatic. She woke up trembling, though at least she could reach over and find Bobby. Lately, the dreams had featured Uncle Sam. It was bad enough to spend the days tormented by wondering who he was without having to encounter him in her sleep going, "Heavens to Betsy!" and "Goodness gracious!"

In the dream, she was driving her motorcycle at a very fast speed down the country road, and suddenly, he was standing in the center. She had to hit the brakes and go off the road into a tangle
of briar and blazing yellow for
sythia. The thick interwoven mesh of vines acted as a net. She hung there like an insect snared in a spiderwcb, and there he was, grinning, standing over her, saying, "You're going to kill yourself if you keep driving like that, young lady"—at which point Florence woke with a squeak, and there was Bobby, who had seen all the horrors the world had
to offer, snoring away contently
.

It was over coffee one morning, after another of these disturbed sleeps, that a headline in the business section of the
Post
caught her eye. It was on page three. She might well have missed it.

waldorf group gets
$
2.4
billion in additional wasabi financing

She stared at the headline for a few moments and then read the story. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it. She knew all about the Waldorf Group. Everyone did. It was the Washington-based investment-banking firm with close ties to Wasabia. There were twelve directors on its board: three former U.S. presidents, secretaries of defense, state, commerce, treasury, two ex-CIA directors ...

"Son of a bitch," Florence said.

"Unh?" Bobby said, shuffling barefoot into the kitchen wearing pajama bottoms, scratching his chest and yawning, sniffing at the air for traces of brewing coffee.

the waldorf
group's
offices occupy the two top floors of a Washington. D.C., office building that, fittingly, overlooks the White House. The view from the boardroom is quite spectacular, allowing the various directors to see many of the government buildings they once ran. The conference table is of rich burled walnut, the chairs Luxuriously upholstered in Milanese leathe
r. The ashtrays— many
of
t
he directors like to puff away on fresh Cuban cigars—are of the finest crystal
.
A
map of the world, stuck with doz
ens of pins denoting Waldorf Group investment projects,
seems to announce, "It's a big,
big world, and it's all ours!" Today another pin would be stuck into Wasabia and, that done, the directors would enjoy drinks, a little chitchat, the latest off-color jokes—the current one involved two nuns driving through Transylvania—and then disperse variously into Secret Service-driven vehicles and helicopters and private jets. The board meeting might go a bit longer than usual, given the recent developments.

The chief executive officer was presenting an overview of the group's recent investment in a diamond mine near Yellowknife when the door opened and a woman entered.

She was blond, very attractive, dressed in a business suit whose lapel bore a Secret Service badge denoting to the dozen or so agents outside that she was cleared to be in this august company.

The CE
O looked at the woman
with
surprise. Waldorf board
meetings
were not usually interrup
ted. His mouth remained open, h
e turned somewhat nervously to a man in his sixties silting against the wall of the boardroom. This man looked at the woman. He stood, smiled and said. "Well.
Florence,
hello."

"Hello, Sam." she said.

"N
o need for introductions," Uncle Sam said.

The twelve men si
tting around the table looked at Florence. The three ex-president
s smiled warmly, but then they had the most refined political instincts of those present. The former cabinet sec
retaries did not smile; the for
mer intelligence directors frowned.

"Can we talk later?" Uncle Sam said. "We're having a meeting."

"No," Florence said, "we'll talk now."

"I really don't think—"

A door at the opposite end of the room opened, admitting a wel
l-built man of steely aspect, he, t
oo, wore a Secret Service lapel badge. He stood there, hands crossed over his chest, jaw set, staring at Uncle Sam.

"H
ello. Bobby," Uncle Sam said. "Well, I guess everyone's here."

Florence said, "So, all along, I was working for a bunch of investment bankers?"

One of the ex-presidents said in a kindly, gentle voice, "One way or the other. Florence, we're all working for investment bankers."

"This group." she said, "got started with financing from Wasabia. Profits last year of eight hundred million dollars. Divided by twelve makes sixty-six million. You've been very successful, gentlemen. But the success depends on steady financing from your friends in Wasabia.

"Then the Wasabis start to have internal problems. Terrorism, too much power concentrated in too few people. Forty thousand crown princes. Vast unemployment and half the country under the age of sixteen. And if the kingdom crumbles and becomes an Islamic fundamentalist republic, there goes your financing. So, you want the kingdom to modernize, to reform. Not a bad goal in and of itself.

"Only they won't reform. They can't, because the power's concentrated, and because the royal family struck a deal with a fanatical religious sect hundreds of years ago. The royals got the power, and the fanatics got to keep things the way they were back in the good old Dark Ages.

"They
need to reform, but they can't reform. And what leverage, really, do you have? There's only so much pressure you can put on them. Because one of your partners is Prince Bawad, ambassador to the United States. An old golfing, skiing, shooting pal of two thirds of the people around this table. And, if I may say, one of the most despicable human beings on the planet. But let's not allow emotions in. Women are so prone to doing that, aren't they?

"And then one day Bawad's wife tries to defect. We, of course, hand her back, because nothing must interfere with the flow of oil and investment capital. She's executed. And in t
he process, I become involved. I
send in my proposal and cause a major freak-out at the
State
Department

"And now you have a means of forcing reform on the Wasabis. All you have to do is push a few buttons, pull a few strings. Among the twelve of you, you've got a Rolodex bigger than God's. And here's the amazing part—it's actually all for a good cause. That doesn't happen very often in Washington, does it? Two good causes—women's rights. Waldorf profits."

"Florence," said one of the ex-presidents, "I think I speak for everyone here when 1 say that you did a marvelous job over there."

A murmur went around the table: "Hear, hear."

"I think I
also speak for everyone here. Florence, when I say that we would much like you to come aboard."

"Hear, hear." Even the ex-intelligence directors were smiling now. Bobby, on the other hand, looked like he was about to reach into his jacket and take out his pistol and make history. What a headline that would be.

She said to him. "We're done here." Florence and Bobby moved toward the door.

"If y
ou change your minds." Uncle Sam said, "you know where to find
us. And we know where to find y
ou."

20 October
2003
-
19
May*
2004 San Luis Obispo;
Washington,
D.C.

*
Death of
T. E. Lawrence,
1935

acknowledgments

A thousand and one thanks once again to Mr. Karp and to Binky Urban; and a thousand and two thanks to the delightful and mysterious T. Freifrau von G. Thanks also
to: dear, dear Lucy; Tomas Sal
ley: John Tierney; Eric Fellen; Bill Hughes; Dr. Close; His Eminence Cullen Cardinal Murphy. Background-wise: Bob Baer; David Fromkin: Fetema Mernissi: Sandra Mackey: Sir Richard (F.) Burton. Inspiration-wise: Paul. Mark and
Brooke, splendid Americans all
in an unsplendid world. Finally, respect and homage to Fern Holland, a real-life Florence of Arabia, assassinated in Iraq. March 9.2004. age thirty-three.

ALLAH
YEHALEEHUM
.
UHTEE

ALLAH
HUMMA
YESKOONHA
FASEEH
JEEN
AA
N
OO.