Dead Men Read Online Free PDF Page B

wealth in billions, and Othman had made his money by carrying out the tasks they regarded as beneath them. He was a facilitator, a middle man who helped to sell the oil that lay far beneath the dunes, and to acquire the weapons that kept the Kingdom’s enemies at bay. He had bought some of the most expensive homes in the world for his royal clients, ordered jumbo jets with circular beds and Jacuzzis with gold-plated taps. Othman was semi-retired now, though one could never fully retire from the service of the Saudi royals. When they called, Othman would answer. It would be that way until he died.
    Othman was a wealthy man, and he believed in helping those less fortunate. That was why, once a month, he journeyed into the desert, sat in a tent and made himself available to any citizen who wanted to speak to him. It was the Bedouin way.
    Othman placed the glass on a gold-plated saucer and nodded at his manservant, Masood, at the tent’s entrance. Masood was in his late sixties and had served Othman for a little more than forty years. Othman trusted him like no other. He was his assistant, his butler, his food-taster, though never his confidant. Othman trusted no man with his innermost thoughts. Masood pulled back the silk curtain and ushered in the next visitor. It was just before midday and Othman had spoken to twenty-six men already. Women were not permitted to address him directly, but it was permissible for a man to make a request on behalf of a woman, providing he was a blood relative. Othman would remain in the desert until he had seen every man who wanted an audience. Some wanted advice, some an introduction to further their business interests, some wanted money, some simply to pay their respects. Whatever they wanted, Othman would listen and, wherever possible, grant their requests.
    Masood ushered in a dark-skinned man wearing a grubby dishdasha , his head swathed in a black and white checked shumag scarf. He looked at Othman, then averted his eyes. Masood nudged him and he walked over the rugs to the centre of the tent. ‘Greetings, sir,’ he mumbled. He rubbed his nose with the back of a wrist, then put his hands behind his back and stood awkwardly, like a schoolboy waiting to be punished.
    ‘Sit, please,’ said Othman, waving at a row of embroidered cushions.
    The man sat cross-legged and put his hands on his knees, still reluctant to meet Othman’s gaze.
    Masood hovered at the man’s shoulder and asked him if he wanted tea or water. The man shook his head. Masood went back to the tent’s entrance.
    Othman was used to people being uncomfortable in his presence. He was rich and powerful in a country where the rich and powerful held the power of life or death over lesser mortals. ‘What do you need from me?’ he asked quietly.
    The man swallowed nervously. ‘I bring you a message, sir, from your son.’
    ‘I have many sons,’ said Othman.
    ‘From Abdal Jabbaar,’ said the man.
    Othman’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Abdal Jabbaar is dead,’ he muttered.
    ‘Yes, sir, I know. I spoke to him before he died.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘I was in Guantánamo Bay. I was held by the Americans, as was your son.’
    The man was mumbling and Othman strained to hear him. ‘The Americans let you go?’ he asked.
    ‘After four years. They decided I was not a threat.’
    ‘And are you a threat to them?’
    The man looked up and smiled cruelly. ‘I was not when they took me to Cuba, but I am now,’ he said. ‘I hate the infidels and I will do whatever I can to eradicate them from the face of the earth. But first your son said I was to speak with you, and to tell you what they did to him.’
    Othman studied the man in front of him with unblinking eyes. The other lowered his own, reluctant to meet Othman’s baleful stare.
    ‘What is your name?’ asked Othman.
    ‘I am Khalid Wazir.’
    ‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Othman, picking up the silver teapot. This time the man nodded. Othman poured mint tea into a