Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 172 Lies
“Those are our people.”

Prince Mursad and several other princes sat in the VIP room of the racecourse. The heavy curtains blocked out the noise and sunlight outside. He exhaled a puff of cigar smoke and slowly began to speak.

He was referring to the steward who had just reported on the king's condition.

The other princes looked puzzled and surprised, but it was the young Fawaz who finally raised the question: "Isn't doing this helping the Sudri faction stabilize the current situation?"

“Who told you I was helping them?” Prince Mursed asked, somewhat puzzled.

Although Fawaz was somewhat puzzled, he chose to keep quiet.

Prince Mursad analyzed: "The key to stabilizing the situation now lies not with us, nor with the Sudri faction led by Muhammad, but with whether His Majesty the King can survive."

But for a normal person, being shot in a vital area by a pistol at such close range would almost certainly result in death.

Muhammad's attempt to suppress news of King Shams's medical treatment was simply to buy time for a smooth transition of power to the Sudri faction.

Who could be attacked? It was the King of Shuangzhi! The entire nation, and indeed the entire Arab world, was watching this. How long could he keep it a secret? The truth would eventually come out!

Prince Mursed stubbed out his cigar and looked at everyone present: "All I did was add fuel to the fire. Now the Sudri faction has blocked the news and is claiming to other princes that His Majesty the King is out of danger, but what happens next?"
They tell one lie, and they have to tell a hundred more to cover it up. They can deceive people for a while, but not forever.

A week? Two weeks? Can they keep everyone from seeing the king forever? The church will be the first to object then!

As he spoke, he turned his gaze to Prince Finum of the Sheikh family, the leader of the Medina school of thought, who nodded slightly upon hearing this.

At this point, the other princes also realized Mursed's plan.

Muhammad is currently keeping the king's information under wraps for the sake of national stability, but as time goes on, the nature of the situation changes in the eyes of other tribes and families.

The thirty-six princes (princes) of the founding king had equal rights of succession, and if other princesses gave birth to sons, these princes would also have the same right of succession.

Therefore, in theory, no matter how small the tribe or family, except for the Sheikh family, they all have the possibility of sitting on the throne.

But once they realize that the Sudris want to usurp power and lock the crown inside their own doors forever, these tribes will spontaneously side with the conservatives.

At this point, another prince couldn't help but ask, "But Mohammed is the Minister of Defense, and he nominally controls the army..."

“He can’t move.” Prince Talal shook his head and interrupted, “The officers at all levels in the army come from various tribes. Do you expect them to shoot their own relatives?”

Moreover, the majority of the nation's army is currently in his son's hands, fighting desperately against the Zionites on the plains of Galilee. Are they really going to stop fighting and withdraw the army?

“Moreover, we also have a large number of tribal personal guards and national guards in our hands,” Prince Mursad continued with a smile. “If Muhammad wants to use force, he had better think twice about whether he can bear the consequences of the destruction of the entire country.”

The Twin Clan originated from a tribal alliance, and their tradition of private soldiers is deeply rooted. Smaller tribes typically maintain dozens of private soldiers, while larger tribes can have thousands.

Although the royal family hoped to dismantle the private army system of various tribes through military and political reforms, the time frame was simply too short.

Shuangzhi still maintains a force of tens of thousands of soldiers across all the tribes, large and small, in the country.

Of course, these personal guards were no match for the army; on the battlefield, they would have been in trouble even if they had just filled in the gaps.

But if you give them a skin, an official identity, and a respectable uniform, then the nature of the situation is completely different.

Like the Shamar tribe, their personal guards have another name in Shuangzhi – the National Guard.

They are commonly known as police officers.

The military is like the sharpest sword, invincible when wielded, while the National Guard is like sand; though no match for the sword, they are ubiquitous in this country.

Prince Mursad smiled: "The Sudri faction has indeed eroded most of the power in Parliament over the years, but they have forgotten one thing: the core of the dual-power structure is 'royal family rule,' and the various government departments are tools for the execution and distribution of royal power."

We (the princes) are the embodiment of power! Our positions are the manifestation of power, not its source!

His words immediately drew nods of approval from the princes present, who were in high spirits.

Yes, so what if the Sudri faction controls domestic affairs?
These princes are the core of state power, above all laws and rules!

Although the Sudri faction currently controls the national army and almost all powerful and coercive departments in the capital and local governments, including administration, internal affairs, finance, and foreign affairs, the conservatives still retain legitimacy, tradition, and grassroots influence.

They also have the support of a majority of conservative religious scholars on the religious council, a majority of seats in the cabinet, and vast oil wealth.

"What we need to do now is to use the parliamentary system to question every decree issued by Muhammad and delay every policy he wants to promote!"

Prince Mursad stood up: "Drag it out until they can't keep up their lies, until everyone sees through their delusion of breaking the 'brother-to-brother' succession system and their true colors of betraying tradition!"

"By then, the Sudri faction will be isolated, and we will easily possess overwhelming power to put everything back on track!"

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Galilee region, Shuangzhi front line.

Private First Class Basil was shoveling meat scraper bits from a machine gun in the trench—the remains of the previous Zion machine gunner. The abandoned armored vehicle wreckage around the farm proved they had recently been through a fierce battle.

Bassim's hands were covered with cracked rashes; they itched when the wind blew and were both itchy and painful when they came into contact with water.

This is a skin disease caused by acclimatization issues, which is very common in Shuangzhi's troops. Some soldiers have even developed trench foot due to rainy weather.

Bassim casually rubbed the gun oil on the back of his hand. The gun oil provided by the United States was petroleum jelly, which not only prevented equipment from rusting but also protected the skin.

"Would you like one?"

His comrade Ranim crouched down and came to his side, smiling as he offered him a cigarette.

Bassim glanced at it, shook his head and refused, "Let's be careful, the Zion snipers are hiding somewhere, the smoke will be their indicator!"

Although he only officially stepped onto the battlefield three weeks ago, he can already be considered a veteran.

"Don't be so nervous," Ranim chuckled. "The artillery battalion just bombed the area ahead, and even the field mice are hiding in the ground now!"

Just as Barshim was about to say something, the sound of airplane engines came from the sky!
"Damn it, an air raid!"

Ranim quickly threw the cigarette into the mud under his feet and stomped it out.

Although Bassim was also on edge due to the heat, he listened carefully for a while and said, "No, this doesn't sound like the Mirage III."

He couldn't be mistaken; he heard the sound of the Phantom III flying overhead more than ten times a day, and even more when the weather was nice.

"It looks like a transport plane?"

Immediately afterwards, small pieces of paper drifted down from the sky, and a few landed near them.

Ranim picked up a card, on which was written an Arabic phrase: “The King is dead.”

Ranim was illiterate.

But he did understand the hand-drawn picture below: a person wearing a crown and a white robe was lying on the ground, surrounded by a group of people. The red and green layout was very striking.

Ranim was so shocked that his mouth dropped open.

He then handed the leaflet to Bassim, who frowned upon seeing it.

"This is fake, it must be a trick by those Zionians!"

Bassim tore the leaflet to shreds, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it a few times: "They're trying to demoralize us with these tactics!"

Ranim swallowed hard. "But why would they draw this?"

"what?"

"It's His Majesty..."

"Alright!" Bassim interrupted him. "Let's not discuss this anymore, unless you want to get yourself into trouble!"

Just then, the squad's radio crackled to life. Bassim answered, and on the other end of the headset was Ulima from the company. Ulima's voice was immediately serious: "The Zionians are sending us flyers."

“Yes,” Bassim replied, glancing at the debris at his feet. “We received it too.”

“This is an enemy trick,” Ulima said. “Once discovered, destroy it immediately!”

Bassim wanted to ask something, but he held back.

Ulima concluded by saying, "Remember, as long as Lieutenant General Amir doesn't give the order, the sky won't fall!"

"Yes!"

Behind Bassim, Ranim was stuffing a flyer into his pocket.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

When Lu Lin learned of the assassination of King Shams, he simply put down the telegram in silence.

Being shot in the chest at close range and severely wounded, leaving one unconscious, carries a very slim chance of survival.

It seems he's about to lose his uncle.

When this thought arose in his heart, Lu Lin felt a faint sadness.

But he quickly regained his composure.

Muslims are forbidden from drinking alcohol, and it seems that the only way to express mourning is through prayer. But Lu Lin is a fake Muslim, and apart from smoking, he can't find a way to relieve his inner distress.

“His Majesty is the guardian of the two holy sites and is under the protection of Allah. He will surely be able to turn the tide,” Ibrahim reassured his commander.

Lu Lin glanced at him.

Ibrahim shrugged: "I know what you want to say. It's a pity I'm not your fiancée, so you'll have to make do."

When are you planning to get married?

He was trying to distract Lu Lin by changing the subject.

"Maybe, probably after the war." Lu Lin took a drag of his cigarette. "His Majesty originally said he would be the officiant at the wedding."

He usually doesn't make such promises, but now he's too lazy to care.

Ibrahim was silenced and could only keep the commander company while he smoked.

Several hours later, Tamiya strode into the headquarters: "Lieutenant General! Ibrahim! He just came from the battlefield!"

Then he coughed from the smoke in the room: "Are you smoking camel dung? It's so thick smoke!"

"What's wrong?" Lu Lin had already composed himself.

Ibrahim slammed Zion's leaflets in front of the two men. "Look," he said, "Zion's transport planes are flying all over Galilee, dropping these things everywhere. Even the Allied forces have received quite a few."

Lu Lin picked up the flyer and clicked his tongue, saying, "Not bad."

Ibrahim frowned and said, "How come the Zionians know the news faster than we do? What are those guys back home doing?"

The efficiency of combining drawing and printing with airdropping leaflets is exceptionally high.

"Mossad... Could it be that they knew about the assassination beforehand? Or perhaps they were the ones who carried it out?!"

The more Taimiye thought about it, the more sense it made. He asked Lu Lin, "Why don't we just pin the assassination on Mossad? It might even boost morale!"

In the Middle East, if you pin all the assassinations of high-ranking officials on Mossad, there will certainly be some wrongdoings. But if you go through each case one by one, there will definitely be omissions.

"That's not the point right now,"

Ibrahim gave a wry smile: "His Majesty Shams has been assassinated, and the United States has suffered the Watergate scandal. The Sudri faction has lost two major backers in succession, and it is now uncertain whether they can stabilize the situation in the rear."

Given the unstable situation ahead, how should we fight?

Power struggles inevitably lead to chaotic and inefficient decision-making, the interception and misappropriation of resources, and in severe cases, even the collapse of morale.

Not to mention they are now part of an Arab coalition, united in victory, but things will be different if problems arise.

The situation at the front is already extremely difficult. Continuing the attack may result in the annihilation of the entire army, while retreating may preserve the full fighting strength, but all the gains will be wiped out, and the reputation accumulated by Shuangzhi will plummet.

Taimiye tossed this thorny issue to Lu Lin: "You decide."

Lu Lin stared silently at the leaflets Zion was handing out that read "The King is Dead."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

"Name?"

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"age?"

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In the interrogation room, Ziad was being questioned, but he seemed to have lost the ability to communicate with others. The image of King Shams pushing him away when he was being shot kept flashing through his mind.

He only wanted to ask one question: Why?
Why would the man he resented give his life for him?
But the answer, along with those closed eyes, has sunk into silence forever.

Sitting opposite him was a well-dressed man with gold-rimmed glasses, exuding the calmness and poise of a Western elite.

Aziz—that was indeed the man's name—was sent to interrogate this key figure in the shooting incident as the second chief secretary to Prince Mohammed, who succeeded Ibrahim.

Aziz leaned forward and asked again, "Why were you carrying a gun on the day of the ceremony? What was your purpose in approaching the King?"

After the shooting, everyone present was thoroughly searched, and a handgun was found on Ziad alone.

Moreover, it's the same model as the Assassin.

Ziad raised his head, and he seemed to react slightly, his dry lips moving slightly: "Someone instructed me to do this."

Aziz nodded upon hearing this. "Who is it?"

"do not know."

Can you describe his features?

"I didn't realize that I wasn't meeting the same person every time."

Aziz took a stack of photos from his briefcase, spread them on the table, and gestured for him to identify them.

Ziad looked them over one by one, and finally shook his head: "No. They're all different."

Faced with this clueless answer, Aziz adjusted his glasses, his intuition telling him that the young man might not actually be lying.

As an assassin, he was ridiculously clumsy—he had countless opportunities to pull the trigger, but he never did.

As for his motive for carrying the gun, Aziz could roughly guess that it must be related to his brother who died a violent death.

Ultimately, he was nothing more than a pathetic fool manipulated by hatred and lies.

Seeing the other person's distraught appearance, Aziz felt there was no need to continue the interrogation, but before leaving, he still asked, "Do you hate your father?"

Ziad paused for a moment, then slowly shook his head: "I don't know."

"Now you should know."

Aziz placed a heavy book on the table and then pushed it in front of him—the very book used in yesterday's ceremony.

“Open it and take a look,” Aziz said.

Ziad opened the first page, where he saw the words written in beautiful handwriting: "Welcome home, Ziad."

This was followed by a long string of blessings, somewhat clumsy in wording, with a kind of uninhibited, self-absorbed enthusiasm, which was characteristic of King Shams.

"Generally speaking, the person chosen to hold the scripture in the ceremony is someone the king considers closest to him."

So it was all planned in advance.

He thought of King Shams smiling and waving at him from below the stage; he thought of the other party's sincere repentance before God; he thought of the other party pushing him away at the end. Countless images struck him instantly.

Ziyad looked at the words on it and suddenly burst into tears.

"Dad is busy, but Dad loves you."

Looking at the young man whose psychological defenses had completely collapsed, Aziz quietly got up and left the interrogation room without a sound.

Aziz got into the car and instructed the driver, "Back to the palace."

He put away the fountain pen he always carried with him.

The few lines in the Quran that were just mentioned were actually written by him.

Did King Shams really love his adopted son?

Perhaps there really is love, but that's no longer important. Besides, for Aziz, it was just a trivial matter.

The car drove into the new palace, and Aziz went straight to the administration office to report.

He knocked on the door, and then a voice from inside said, "Come in."

The old prince sat in the center of the room, surrounded by various matters, large and small. He looked up at Aziz and asked, "How is it going?"

Aziz gave a brief report on the interrogation results, adding, "We found an investigation report on the 'TV station attack' in Ziad's room, which should have been a tool used by the mastermind to recruit him. But it can be basically concluded that the boy himself knows nothing about the mastermind."

He then asked, "Your Highness, what should we do with him?"

"Release him," Prince Muhammad replied.

Aziz hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but didn't. Even if the assassination attempt failed, it was still an attempted assassination, and the target was the king!
Considering that the other party is the son of the King of Shams and that he has been deceived, he should at least be confined for life.

Prince Muhammad noticed Aziz's question and said slowly, "Don't rush, let's wait and see."

Even such insignificant people may one day prove invaluable to us.

(End of this chapter)