[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel by Richard Marcinko Read Free Book Online

there to get, but given the paucity of foreigners in Saudi jails, it surely wasn’t hard to guess.
    “Before you do anything rash,” Prince X told me, “first allow me to tell my lawyer, and he will arrange release immediately. For you, justice moves swiftly.”
    This naturally sounds like the matter would be taken care of quickly, but in fact, not even an immediate order from the prince himself would have gotten the young man out of the prison in less than a month. Going through his lawyer would mean using the courts, which might result in an “immediate” order to get the kid released in the next twelve to eighteen months.
    Admittedly far better than the usual grinding wheels of justice, but not exactly fitting the definition of what I would call swift.
    And so I returned to Riyadh, dabbed some gray in my beard and hair, and began spreading the word of Coptic Hinduism. My original plan was to set up shop at As-Sufaat, aka Deira Square, aka Chop-Chop Square, the picturesque plot of concrete and stone where convicts have their heads chopped off. But there didn’t seem to be any police officers in sight when we drove past, and even fewer people to preach to. So instead I headed to Batha, one of the immigrant areas of the city, populated by so many Pakistanis that they call it Little Karachi.
    I found a little patch of grass across from the Pia theater and set up poster and bullhorn. The poster featured the religion’s (naked) patron saints ascending to heaven to join other (naked) saints. This immediately attracted the attention of the dozen or so men already in the triangle. Within moments, the nearby traffic had stopped.
    I’m sure they were more interested in my preaching than the photos, but who’s to say?
    It took the police about ten minutes to arrive, and all of ninety seconds to arrest me. If I’d have known I would last that long, I would have passed a hat—I’m sure I could have gotten a few hundred riyals from the crowd.

(II)
    Those were happy times.
    A little more than twenty-four hours later, I had my back pressed against the chain-link fence in the Saudi prison as three men with grimaces and hard fists walked toward me. They didn’t look like they wanted my autograph.
    The best advice I have ever heard about fighting against overwhelming odds came from a wise old sea daddy whose name escapes me at the moment:
    Run!
    Unfortunately, that option was not open. So the first order of business was to even the odds with a preemptive strike against the most vulnerable goon, a stocky and swarthy Arab whose nose looked as if it had been sliced off and relocated a half inch to the right of its original position.
    I tried to do the same thing for his head. Grabbing his shirt with my left hand, I pulled him forward as my right hand swung with the shiv across his neck. Then I pushed him backward with my knee, dumping him in a heap on the ground.
    The knife was too small to go all the way through his neck. In fact, it barely looked as if he was scratched when he first fell. But then blood began spurting out like the Disney fountain at Epcot, a perfect quartet of jet streams.
    The other two lugs didn’t seem to notice. The nearest lunged with both fists flailing. I ducked, then jerked up quickly, aiming my knife at his belly. But he was faster than he looked. He ducked and I missed his stomach, flying forward.
    The other managed to trip me, and as I hit the ground I lost the shiv. Until now, the rest of the crowd had been feigning disinterest, an admirable survival technique in a confined space like a jail yard. But the knife was too much to resist; a naked female would have gotten less attention. Everyone in the yard dove for the shiv, swarming over myself and my assailants. Unable to spot the blade in the scrum, I crawled for daylight, propelling myself through the squirming crowd on my knees and elbows.
    Somehow I made it to the side of the building, where a pair of jail guards were waiting out the fight. Seeing