Read Online The Artificial Mirage by T. Warwick - Free Book Online

wasn’t the only one who thought living in Abqaiq was a stupid idea. If it were ever bombed, the whole town would be vaporized. Ultimately, it was the boredom of commuting through the flat desert that never changed except for the blinding autumn fog and the occasional camel crossing that convinced him to rent a place during the week. The SSOC compound with its renowned golf course and squash courts had a number of vacant furnished apartments, but they were reserved solely for Chinese nationals and Saudis. Renting an apartment in Abqaiq had been difficult, because there were few buildings that allowed single men. Finally, an Egyptian supervisor took pity on him and his predicament and found him an Egyptian realtor who was willing to overlook his nationality and rent him an apartment. If he had been listed as American, the police would evict him. Americans had to live on compounds, but there were no compounds in Abqaiq, apart from the SSOC compound.
    The last bombing attack in Abqaiq had happened more than ten years ago. He’d heard the stories of how a group of kids high on meth had rammed their way through the gate in a truck. The security guards had scattered and run. The only reason the car bomb hadn’t gone off was because they had detonated it under a water pipe instead of an oil pipe. He remembered the guys who had seen the report on TV the night before and had driven up warily from Bahrain and Al Khobar the next morning. What they found was that nothing was different. In the morning, the security guards were scrutinizing IDs and parking permits, but there was nothing different about work that day. A few days later, each team received a live sheep and set about slaughtering it and draining its blood and cooking it next to one of the pipelines beneath the moonlight and the refinery floodlights.
    Cameron approached the main entrance to the SSOC Abqaiq compound and flicked on his AR car tag that allowed him access strictly for work-related tasks. “Where’s Harold?” he asked the Saudi guard.
    “Harold?” His expression became perturbed by the non-routine inquiry. “Open trunk,” he commanded.
    Cameron waited as he examined the trunk and played the predictable charade of examining the underside of the car with a mirror on an extendable aluminum pole. The cases were in bags, and he made no attempt to open them. When he was finished, he stood by Cameron’s open window and indicated the small guard station building behind him. “Harold inside,” he said.
    “Hallelujah,” Harold boomed as he entered the office.
    “Hi, Harold.”
    Harold finished off his triple espresso with a long swig. “Come with me,” he said.
    “Sure.”
    He led him out the back entrance of the small guard station and out of the piercing AC cold. “Here,” he said deliberately. It was a brown manila envelope of Bahraini dinars—lots of them. Cameron counted them without emotion. “OK,” he said when he was finished.
    “Let’s go,” Harold said as he slapped Cameron firmly on the back. They walked back through the short hallway with its rows of bright white LEDs on the ceiling and walls, back out the front entrance, and into Cameron’s car. Immediately, Harold engaged the SSOC police escort system with a wave of his AR ring and a quick entry of the daily code in midair onto the AR projection. Cameron frowned as the car began its slow-motion process of turning around.
    “Bahrain!” Harold shouted jovially as he slapped Cameron on the back a second time.
    “Yup. You better believe it.”
    They passed through a guard station with a checkpoint that Cameron had never crossed. Harold put the window down, and the guard waved them through. One of the five Saudi guards made a gesture for them to stop. Harold slowed the car down to an amble, expecting to be waved through. But they signaled him to stop. He could see they were being unusually thorough as they checked the car next to him. He recognized it as the procedure they followed when