A dimly lit room in an airpot. A few years ago, it had been bustling with people, but it took far too much paperwork to go anywhere. Vacations were the province of those who could afford it, and those who could afford it could also afford to stay in lounges. So the vast rows of uncomfortable seats that used to be lined with passengers now stood empty. Rain torrented against the glass windows, lashing down against the empty runway. Airport staff no longer bothered to light the area and so the illumination only came from two sources. The murky grey light outside and an old airport tv that somebody has left on.
"Reporters for the BBC were recently granted an exclusive interview with the enigmatic British expat, who quickly rose to prominence as one of the most powerful men in the Middle East," declared the voice from the screen, “We join our senior correspondent, Thomas Khatri who is live at the former Henry Islington now ‘Tariq Al-Rashid’s personal palace.”
The room shown on-screen couldn’t be more different from the cold lonely airport. White walls, decorated with intricate green and gold in traditional Middle Eastern fashion. Glittering crystal chandeliers lit the ceiling and floor covered in red rugs. In the center of the room, sitting across from each other were two men, who seemed to exist as a study in contrasts. The one, an Indian Man, dressed impeccably in a Stuart Hughes suit and Oxford loafers. The other, a white man dressed in white robes and a turban. They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and then the interview began.
“Now, you are, without a doubt, one of the most controversial figures of this era,” said the Indian man, who the subtitles explained was named ‘Thomas Katri’. His accent was pure Cambridge. The King himself didn’t speak English as well as Thomas Katri. “How do you respond to your critics who claims that your conversion to Islam was mere political opportunism, a la Constantine the Great?”:
The man across from Thomas, smiled, a sort of cocky half calculated smile, while his eyes had all the nervousness that any Dictators did when encountering Western Journalists, “There’s nothing to respond to,” said Thomas, “I say this as a former UK Citizen, my people, or perhaps I should say former people, have no understanding of what it means to love God. I didn’t either, all those years ago as an officer in the British military. Not until we annexed Iraq.”
“You claim… you heard a voice from God,” said Thomas skeptically “Tell you to reach out your hand and ‘take’ Iraq? But don’t you see how people could have seen this as a convenient excuse for your insubordination. You wanted the whole country for yourself.”
“Of course I wanted the country for myself,” replied Tariq, “You seem to think these two things are incompatible. A lust for power and a love for God. But there’s no necessary link between the two. It’s just a self-portrait. You people crave power and you hate God and so you think that the same goes for everyone else.”
“But, many people would say that hardly justifies treason against Great Britain, against Western Democracy, against everything we stand for, there’s a lot of anger at you in our country because of that.”
“I don’t see any anger,” replied Tariq, “Well…” he paused, “Among people like you, perhaps. The people who still say the word ‘democracy’ without a laugh and a sardonic grin. Yes, you lot hate me. But among ordinary men? No, absolutely not. There are a million young men in Britain who would have done exactly what I’ve done.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” said Thomas mournfully “Which is why I want to move on to the next part of our interview, namely your role in influencing Britain’s youth.”
A bolt of lightning ripped across the sky outside the airport followed by a crack of thunder. A janitor wheeling his cart came across the TV and pulled out the plug, “Damn waste of electricity,” he mumbled under his breath. Not that he should care, it was the airport's money. But he didn’t want to get yelled at by his supervisor. Still, that interview looked interesting. Maybe he should look up Tariq Al-Rashid when he got home.