City Of Elite

City of Elite
Short Story by Heather Choate
Part One

I slipped a .44 magnum into the rim of my panty hose. There were 15 rounds loaded in the clip, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to use them. I’d never shot a gun before— at a human that is.

The teal silk dress fell to my ankles and easily kept my secret. The mid-June air of Dubai blew in hotly through the open window as I strapped on the pearl-white heals and fastened the last bobby-pin into my brunette hair. Looking into the mirror, I was stunning of course, but felt scared out of my Wonderbra, and it showed in my eyes. I smudged on a little more eyeliner to try and hide it. Who would have thought that I, Victoria Juliet Hannagan, just two days after my eighteenth birthday, would become a threat to international security?

Or supposed threat, I should add. The only threatening thing about me was that I knew too much and they knew it, but nothing would be done, yet. Tonight I had to expose them to the world, while I still had a chance.

I made sure the zip drive was still securely fastened to my bra. Jonas had another, just in case. He was supposed to meet me at the staircase and accompany me to the dinner at Benazir’s Palace as my “friend,” of course. No one should suspect that my pre-arranged marriage to his holiness, the Sheikh Mohammed el-Tayyib was in danger. What a sicko he is. By the end of the summer, I was to be his fair-skinned, Western arm-candy. This is a prime example of the politically-based psychotic nonsense that emerged from this place. Hidden in Dubai was the City of Elite, or the City of the Power-hungry deranged, as I like to call it, and I’d had enough. No more will these people, which I’ve lived my whole life with, be allowed to dictate behind closed golden doors what happens to the lives of millions of innocent people in this world.

All of that would be done away with tonight, the only thing to do now, was act natural through the dinner and social hoopla— but acting natural was proving to be the most difficult part. I would have much rather run through the streets with a big sign, “Take down the Elites before they destroy you all!” but that would have landed me in only one place: an unmarked grave as I’m sure my parents would have wanted. I thought I could trust them, at least my Mom, but clearly strings of diamonds around her neck and arms was more important.

The sick thing was, if it weren’t for Jonas, I’d probably be as naïve and brainwashed as the rest of them. Growing up in a place where the cushions were made of dove feathers, the ice cubes imported from Russian glaciers, and the chair your butt sits on dusted three times a day, it’s no wonder these people don’t want to give anything up, especially when it’s been handed down for ten or more generations. “It’s just the way things are dear,” Mother said while combing her hair with an ivory comb (yeah ivory, as in the tusk from a slaughtered elephant), “You can dream Utopia all you want, but there’s nothing you or I can do to change anything. Just be grateful for what you have.”

Running my fingers along the gold-plated brow of my vanity, knowing it would probably be the last time I saw any of this, I knew that none of the “things” I possessed would ever compensate for the cost with which they were bought. I took a deep breath, snatched a couple hundred dollar bills (the last thing I’d take from this place) and folded them into my purse with all my credit cards (unlimited accounts). Unplugging the cell phone with the secure line, I said a little prayer, “Please let this work,” and then plunged out of the room in a whirl of silk and perfume.

Jonas waiting at the base of the stairs, his usual unkempt hair, combed and even sprayed, made my heart trip a bit, but the house maids sneered at his presence in the illustrious palace and that was ok. No one would suspect anything between me and the lowly son of a tutor.

“Wow, Tori,” he held a hand out to me, and though he had put on cologne, he still smelled lightly of the leather-bound books he spent so much time with, “You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” I bobbed my head in the customary fashion. Ugh, that’s going to be a hard one to break. “You look nice yourself. You sure you don’t want to become one of us?”

He lowered his voice, his lips brushing my hair and said, “I’d rather rot in Prince Mohammed el-Tayyib’s sewage tank, thank you very much.”

“I thought you’d say that,” I giggled, but my nervousness made the sound come out a little hysteric.

“Don’t worry,” he squeezed my hand as we stepped out of the foray and into the warm spring air. The native violet hyacinths were blooming and their exotic spicy scent was invigorating, but I was all hyped up on adrenaline and invigorating was the last thing I needed. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Mm-hmm,” was the best I could manage. Other citizens were perusing out of their luxurious homes and mansions, converging together to the waterways like a stream of Prada chiffon, Zejna suits and gemstones. They carefully stepped into the little canvas covered boats that took them upstream to the looming palace of Benazir.



Jonas and I got in our boat too and for a while the only sound was that of the hot wind rustling the plam leaves, the traffic of the city and the low churning of the boat engine. A few turns later and the exhorbant palace was in view. Tonight the bastion was particularly gaudy because it was the 65th birthday of dear Mohammed el-Tayyib’s father and all the crepe paper from China was imported to adorn the illustrious walls and cavalcades.

“You are sure Bryers is the right one for the job?” I said in a low tone as Jonas and I merged into the river of citizens and followed the flow upstream.

“Definitely,” he assured. “He reported on Darfur. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

“Or killed?” I pressed. “That’s what he’s up against. These are the most influential people in the World, they’ll trample his career at best and trample his body at worst. They’re behind every war of the past four decades, they subdue Queens into passivity, blackmail Emperors to civil war, bribe Presidents, they…”

“I know,” Jonas shushed me with a finger to my lips. “That’s why we’re doing this.”

My mouth snapped shut. He’s right. I really ought to be more careful. Who knows how many bugs they have around here and who could be listening? The worst thing I could do is blow it now. I’ve already talked too much, aroused too many suspicions, but fortunately, my biggest flaw was also my biggest asset.

“You’re barely 18 darling,” mother told me, “barely able to vote, and you’re a woman. Who’s going to listen to you?”

“Because I’m a woman?” My chin jut out. “But there are plenty of influential women: Laura Chinchilla, Pratibha Patil, Mother Theresa, and…”

“And the fact is,” she interrupted, “you’re none of those. We may have named you Victoria Juliet after powerful women, but the fact is, the only reason why you or I, have the privilege of living here is because your father reached the multi-billionaire mark at age 28 and had to be recruited into the society because of his influence. It’s a man’s world, dear.”

Yes, and I know about father, I wanted to say but pinched my tongue with my teeth. In 2000 when the U.S. government refused to fund his latest weapons-technology, father sent a discreet amount of funds to Al Qaeda to help send a “message” back to those that refused him. That act alone resulted in the fatalities of 2,974 innocent American lives. And I had all the evidence on this Zip Drive.
The hundreds of Benazir’s Palace windows glowed like the stars of heaven against a fiery desert sunset ahead of us. Picking up my gown a bit, the .44 brushed against my legs, but I didn’t let that startle me.

“We can do this,” Jonas assured me as he helped me out of the boat and onto the stone paved walkway.

“Absolutely.”

It’s not just a man’s world, Mama, and if that is how it’s going to be, then it’s time to stir things up a bit.

*****
© Heather Choate 2010