“Well, Paul, in the interest of helping you rejoice some more, I thought I’d tell you just how much pleasure your little sister brought to me. I’ve got to tell you that in all my life I never got more pleasure from anybody. My first look at Karen brought me pleasure, just watching her walk across campus, just looking at those jiggling tits and that tight little ass and imagining the fun I was going to have with them.’ “
“Stop it, Croydon!”
“You don’t want to miss this, Paulie. ‘Then when I had her tied up in the backseat of the car with her mouth taped shut, I have to say she went on being a real source of pleasure. Just looking at her in the rearview mirror was enjoyable, and from time to time I would stop the car and lean into the back to run my hands over her body. I don’t think she liked it much, but I enjoyed it enough for the both of us.’”
“You’re a son of a bitch.”
“And you’re an asshole. You should have let the state put me out of everybody’s misery. Failing that, you should have let go of the hate and sent the new William Croydon off to rejoin society. There’s a lot more to the letter, and I remember it perfectly.” He tilted his head, resumed quoting from memory. “’Tell me something, Paul. Did you ever fool around with Karen yourself? I bet you did. I can picture her when she was maybe eleven, twelve years old, with her little titties just beginning to bud out, and you’d have been seventeen or eighteen yourself, so how could you stay away from her? She’s sleeping and you walk into her room and sit on the edge of her bed.’” He grinned. “I always liked that part. And there’s lots more. You enjoying your revenge, Paulie? Is it as sweet as they say it is?”
Mary Higgins Clark
Mary Higgins Clark is a phenomenon, certainly, and one who has earned her status on the world’s best-seller lists by dint of hard work. In the very best sense, she is the novelist-as-Everywoman, and her devoted readers identify not only with her imperilled heroines but with the author herself. The romantic suspense tradition, after all, is a great one, with roots stretching back to the delicious Gothic excesses of Ann Radcliffe and racing forward to the modern era as heralded by Daphne du Maurier.
Clark’s books and stories, however, are firmly contemporary. Shunning moats and manor houses, she reminds us time and again of the many sorts of courage women exemplify in the lives they lead today—as professionals, as wives, mothers, stalwart friends. Add sudden death to the mixture, along with villainy and betrayal, plus a surprise twist or two, and you have the ingredients for another best seller. It may look easy to pull this off, keeping fans hooked, turning pages into the small hours of the morning, but it’s not. There have been, and are, many imitators, convinced that they can use the same ingredients to cook up their own best sellers, but they just can’t match the priceless recipe.
Power Play
So fair a brow to be so troubled, Henry thought as he looked across the table at Sunday. She had just returned from Washington and to his anxious eye seemed thoroughly exhausted. She’d changed into a caftan for dinner and her complexion seemed deadly pale against the shimmering blue-green silk. Her hair, the colour of winter wheat, was loose around her neck and her eyes, usually so sparkling, were clouded and sleepy.
For the last weeks she’d fought her heart out to line up enough votes in Congress to pass a law guaranteeing both breakfast and lunch to needy schoolchildren. She’d succeeded but at the price of bruising exhaustion.
Henry well understood the feeling. During his eight years as president of the United States he’d often been thoroughly weary—not only in body but in spirit.
“You’re not exactly famished, are you, love?” he asked tenderly. “Poor Yves is so proud of the Dover sole. You’d swear he’d caught it himself.”
Sunday smiled and for a moment the fatigue was lifted from her expression. “Knowing Yves, he probably did exactly that.” Then she said ruefully, “Oh, Henry, you know how it is. I’ve twisted so many arms that I don’t think I have a friend left on Capitol Hill.”
“You have one on Pennsylvania Avenue,” Henry told her. “Des called me this afternoon.”
Desmond Ogilvey, the current president of the United States, was Henry’s successor in office.
Sunday looked at him, astonished. “What did he say? People in his own party were the ones who fought me the hardest.”
“Not all his people,” Henry corrected. “Des wanted that bill as much as you did. He loves it that you’re the one who got it through. He said that he was reminded of what Ben-Gurion said about Golda Meir: ‘She’s the only man in my cabinet.’”
“That was very nice of Des.”
“Yes, it was, but he also mentioned that you looked mighty tired the last time he saw you and I was happy to be able to tell him that we’re off for a vacation. Just the two of us—no Secret Service. How does that sound?”
Sims, the butler for the Britland family for the past thirty-odd years, was pouring wine into Sunday’s glass. Henry could see his conspiratorial nod of approval.
“Oh, Henry, I’d love that.” Sunday sighed. “But how can you manage it? We can’t go two feet without you being surrounded.”
“After fourteen months of marriage, you still don’t know everything about me, sweetheart.” Henry was beginning to enjoy himself thoroughly. The last fourteen months were still a miracle to him. On his final night in the White House he’d given a reception for the incoming members of Congress, one of whom was Sunday. Thirty-one years old, a public defender, she’d won the seat of the incumbent congressman in Jersey City in a stunning upset.
Henry had flirted with her and had been both amused and chagrined when she reproached him. Then when she turned down his invitation to dine with him because she was taking her parents to dinner, he’d known that the beautiful young woman with the candid blue eyes was the one he’d been searching for. They were married six weeks later and he happily saw himself removed from People magazine’s choice as the number-one eligible bachelor in the United States, having swept all categories: looks, intelligence, charm, humour, position, and wealth.
Now when Congress was in session, Henry spent most weekdays at Drumdoe, their country estate in New Jersey, writing his memoirs.
But not for the next several weeks, he thought. “Sims and I have it all planned,” he announced triumphantly. “We will go in disguise and incognito. The passports are ready.”
“Passports! Where are we going, for heaven’s sake?”
“For heaven’s sake, indeed. You are going to the Middle East. We will board a cruise ship in Bombay—“
“You mean Mumbai,” Sunday interrupted. “The Indian government changed Bombay back to its original name. As former president I’m sure you must have heard that.”
“Do be quiet, darling,” Henry said with dignity. “Remember, a little knowledge is dangerous. Now if I may continue: We sail from Mumbai through the Indian Ocean, to the sea of Arabia, on to the Red Sea, and finally through the Mediterranean. Along the way we will stop at Jordan, Egypt, and Ahman, disembark in Piraeus, and fly home from there. How does that sound?”
“It sounds glorious, but just a few questions: Why go on a cruise ship when you own a yacht?” Sunday paused. “Oh. I see. The recognition factor?”
“Exactly. Which brings me to show you why it won’t be a problem for us personally.” Henry stood up. “Since you obviously are not going to eat another morsel, come along. You might enjoy having a look at your new persona.”
Three days later Harry and Sandra Potter checked into the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai, formerly Bombay. To the casual observer they seemed an ordinary couple, the kind who never received a second glance.
She had short dark hair and round tinted glasses. Her slacks suit, the sort favoured by women whose mothers had grown up wearing sweater sets, was stodgy beige in colour and rectangular in shape; it succeeded in adding twenty pounds to her appearance as well as crying out to be matched with the sensible oxfords she was also wearing.
Her husband, gray haired wit
h a wispy Vandyke, obviously favoured an equally conservative look. His poplin pants were topped with a sombre brown jacket and heavily starched shirt. Even his brown-and-beige-striped bow tie managed to look prim. The panel of the old television show ‘What’s My Line?’ would have pegged him instantly as a teacher.
A courteous attendant led them to their room in the old section of the hotel overlooking the bay. As Henry had explained to Sunday, “I always had a suite when I stayed at the Taj, but the rooms adjacent to the suites are very nice. My father and mother put the valet and personal maid in them, and we don’t want to stand out.”
They went up in the elevator to the sixth floor, then followed the attendant down a half flight to a corridor. Sunday heard Henry murmur “Uh-oh” under his breath as they turned the corner and saw four armed soldiers standing at attention outside one of the doors. A man in civilian clothes was striding up and down the corridor. His watchful glance settled on them, studied them intently, then dismissed them with a flicker of his eyelids.
“Must be someone very important staying here,” Henry said to the attendant. The slight Boston accent he had affected did not conceal the deference in his voice.
“A visiting government official,” the attendant whispered, then looked flustered as though he had said too much. He led them to the door next to the guarded suite, opened it, and stepped aside to let them enter.
The luggage arrived as he was leaving. The instant they were alone, Henry covered the room in long strides and double-locked the door. “We’ve had our first acid test,” he whispered. “That has to be Hasna Ibn Saata in there.”
Sunday pulled off the black wig that was making her scalp vaguely itchy. Her blond hair tumbled on her shoulders. “Who is he and why the acid test?” She realised she was whispering.
Henry looked around and put a warning finger to his lips. He went over to the television, turned it on, and put his lips to her ear. “I don’t think this room is bugged, but we might as well take precautions. Saata is the confidant and advisor of the sultan of Ahman, which is our first stop on the trip. The hidden city of the silver stone is a must-see.
“The sultan and I became close friends when we were at Harvard and he took me there almost twenty-five years ago. It has a rich history and its warren of hidden caves and secret passages played a major role in the ancient history of Ahman. That’s the part of the country where I learned to ride a camel and got pretty good at speaking Arabic.”
“Can you still speak it?”
“Not much opportunity to brush up, I’m afraid. I can understand it fine, but I’d have to make myself understood in pidgin Arabic now.
“While on those trips together,” Henry continued, “Hasna would often come over to brief the sultan on internal affairs in Ahman. That plainclothesman was Hasna’s chief of security, al Hez.”
“He really looked us over,” Sunday whispered back.
“I know he did, and I’m sure he didn’t recognise us. He’s always been a cheeky sort, but he saved Hasna’s life years ago and of course can do no harm as far as the sultan is concerned. I only wish we could stop in on Mac while we’re in his kingdom.”
“Mac?”
“That’s the sultan’s nickname. At Harvard he was crown prince, and we all knew that before too long he’d be one of the last absolute monarchs alive. His full name is Muhammad Abdul a Faisam, but he loved McDonald’s burgers so much that one of the guys started calling him Mac. He got such a kick out of it that the name caught on. I doubt many people are using it now.”
“Didn’t he make a state visit when you were president?”
“Yes, he did. He brought his son, the present crown prince, and his eighteen-year-old daughter. Mac’s exactly my age, forty-four, but he married young. His entire kingdom trembles at his glance, but that night his daughter took so long to get ready that they were half an hour late, which simply isn’t done at a state dinner. When Mac apologised to me he said, “Henry, wasn’t it Theodore Roosevelt who said that he could either run the country or run his daughter, Alice, but he couldn’t do both?”
“Sounds like a nice guy.”
“Nice but also formidable and very impressive. Like King Hussein and King Hassan, he’s a direct descendant of Muhammad, which is an extremely honourable state in the Islamic religion. Our CIA guys tell us there are rumours of trouble brewing, but so far no real evidence. With huge oil revenues pouring into the country, that sort of thing is bound to happen. I have a feeling that my friend next door is going around getting support from the neighbouring countries to make sure any rebels won’t find outside support. Now wash your face and put your wig back on. The Potters are going for a walk before dinner.”
Later, when they were settled for the night, Sunday whispered drowsily, “Henry, this is such fun, just being touristy and no one fussing over us. Mumbai is a marvellous city.”
“Another time we’ll see India properly. Now go to sleep. We board the Bel-Mare right after breakfast.”
In the morning when they left their room to check out, the door of the next suite opened and a frail, elderly man came out, accompanied by the man Henry had identified as the chief security officer. Sunday tried to look nonchalant as she passed him, but then acknowledged his courteous nod. He was wearing traditional Arab dress and his fine, chiselled features were enhanced by the white burnoose that covered his head and neck.
I could imagine his face on a coin, she thought.
Henry did not comment until they were in a taxi on the way to the dock. “I was shocked to see Hasna look so frail,” he said. “He’s aged ten years since he was in Washington with Mac two years ago. Things must be worse in Ahman than our guys realise. The strong ties Mac has forged between his country and ours aren’t popular with some of his neighbours.” Then he shook his head. “Wait a minute. This is R and R for you, sweetheart. No political talk.”
And that’s like telling either one of us not to breathe, Sunday thought with amusement. She was enjoying herself thoroughly. Putting on the disguise and travelling without escorts made her feel as though for a very short time she and Henry could be as totally alone in a crowd as they were in their own suite at home.
And after a couple of weeks, we’ll both be anxious to get back in harness, she realised, but for the moment Capitol Hill seemed very far away.
Jack Collins, Henry’s senior Secret Service agent, had been aghast at the plan. “Mr. President, I absolutely have to tell you that it is dangerous, it is foolish, it is reckless.” Then he’d stopped, afraid he’d overstepped himself.
Henry had clasped him on the shoulder. “And it’s also necessary. Come on, Jack. You’ll be glad to have two weeks off, admit it.”
“Not like this, sir. Will we at least know your itinerary?”
“I’m afraid the President has insisted that I leave it here. It’s in a sealed envelope in my desk, which will not be opened unless Sims doesn’t hear from us regularly by either phone or fax.”
Sunday smiled to herself, remembering the shocked expression on Jack Collins’s face when he heard that arrangement.
The cab pulled up to the gangplank of the Bel-Mare. The ocean liner was on a world cruise and they were sailing on the segment from Mumbai to Piraeus.
Nothing in Henry’s demeanour suggested that he was not entirely used to carrying his own tote bag and camera as they made their way up the gangplank with the hundred or so other passengers who were boarding the ship. However, when he saw their accommodations he looked dismayed. “Darling, there must be some mistake. I reserved a first-class cabin.”
“This is a first-class cabin, sir,” the steward said proudly.
When he was gone, Sunday said, “Henry, dear, it’s not trick photography. It is the cabin you reserved. It’s just that on ocean liners there’s an economy of space. Three years ago I went through the Panama Canal with a couple of my college buddies. The three of us were in a cabin half this size.”
“Amazing.” Henry sighed. “Simply amazing. The room
in the Taj Mahal suddenly seems gigantic.” He frowned. “Why do I have a bad feeling about Hasna?” he asked. “I’m glad we’re going to Ahman, and not just for sightseeing. I’m beginning to wonder if things aren’t a lot worse there than we’ve been led to believe.”
“Wouldn’t the sultan have asked for help if he needed it?”
“The Muslim states are not very happy with the United States. He might not have thought it politic. On the other hand, Mac is a strong leader. He’s put down uprisings before. Now, love, let’s unpack and go on deck to watch the ship set sail. Then three days at sea to Ahman.”
Hasna Ibn Saata had not survived for seventy-six years, fifty of them as a confidant to the late sultan and then to his son, the present monarch, without having a sixth sense that, like a security system, sounded an alarm when an intruder entered the premises.
But why now? he pondered as he rested in his suite at the Taj Mahal after his morning meeting with the representative of the prime minister of India. There was no intruder. The guards at his door were his personal force, trusted and caring. Al Hez had taken a bullet for him once. He would do it again if need be, Saata assured himself. Even though he now heads our military, he still insists on personally accompanying me when I leave the country.
Then why the growing certainty that danger was close? It was probably because the fruit juice that room service had delivered when he returned was not sitting well. Vague, smothering pains were beginning to cause discomfort in his chest.
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