December Ultimatum Read Online Free

the coup, an old precaution. He sat on the stone-tiled floor and let the water run down over his shoulders and chest. When it reached his stomach it was as warm as his sweat.
    He smelt his own excreta in the lavatory bowl and through the thin bathroom wall he could hear a woman crying and a man shouting obscenities in French. He crawled back towards the far wall, across the room lit up now by flame-throwers billowing across the car park. Someone was knocking on his door, and he heard his room-boy screaming to him that he had lost his towel and his eye had fallen out on to his cheek.
    Franklin reached up to the desk by his bed, pulled his portable typewriter down and rested it on his lap. He steadied a torch on an open drawer and switched it on. It was still a long time to dawn, perhaps longer to the end of the fighting. He would write his story anyway, though it was a thousand to one chance it would ever reach New York, would be told long before he ever got out of Riyadh. Or would it? The story behind the story? Why it had happened?
    The end of the House of Ibn Saud, all-powerful Saudi Kings fallen suddenly from Islamic grace in a coup engineered from the Kremlin—whose target was the Gulf and its oil.
    It went far beyond what Oberdorfer had talked about, way beyond his understanding of Global petro-politics. As he had explained it the intrigue was OPEC’s alone, an intrigue that was to serve the separate greedy members’ own interests. He had said nothing about direct Soviet involvement.
    But yesterday, only eighteen hours ago, Franklin had been summoned to the Palace for an audience with King Fahd. He had been given a minute to collect his notebook and pens; no camera, no tape recorder.
    They had sat facing each other, Franklin on a cushion, the King flanked by six bodyguards. Another two stood by Franklin and so close he breathed in the sickly-sweet herb lotions they had rubbed into their bodies. The King was over-polite, ordering mocha coffee, thick and black and bitter, and served in English Doulton porcelain cups. During the first ten minutes of niceties, the King had offered ginger sticks and crystallized fruits and fresh dates stuffed with honeyed nuts. And then he had suddenly snapped his fingers and the coffee tray and bowls of fruits were quickly taken away and the bodyguards moved back to the edge of the carpet. He had spoken quietly but quickly, as if he had little time left.
    ‘You are an American I can trust,’ he said. ‘You are CIA. I know you are a journalist but your loyalties must be the Agency’s for me to talk as I wish and for you to carry my favour to Washington as I may need. Do I have your word?’
    ‘Yes, your majesty,’ said Franklin, ‘you have it.’
    The King wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief.
    ‘You came to Riyadh to report the OPEC meeting. I fear you may leave with a story of much greater moment. I shall tell you why and I ask you to carry this information to your Government. I may not be able to.
    ‘You will know from the briefing with your own people that certain OPEC members are planning to break up the Organization. Libya, Iran and Iraq. Others will follow. What you will not know is that they will use this to destroy the House of Ibn Saud, to end the Kingdom for ever.’
    He leaned back in his sofa and wiped the handkerchief across his forehead. A minute passed. Then he shifted himself forward and closer to Franklin. When he spoke it was little louder than a whisper.
    ‘You know the problems within the family. It is no secret. Crown Prince Abdullah, Prince Sultan. They have ambitions, wide ones that encompass the Gulf, ambitions that move as opposites and so fiercely they will tear my Kingdom and the entire Gulf apart. And they have willing helpers who will use my brothers to suit themselves. The mischief-maker in Libya leads them. Crown Prince Abdullah thinks he is using them in his stupid endeavours to turn history backwards, to pull up a drawbridge and make the