by Allan Topol
The word “bed” made him think of home. He looked out of the car window. They were passing through a lower-income area on the way to the suburb where he lived in a palace with his two wives and eight children. He didn’t want to think about the fights that awaited him there.
Even less did he want to think about his financial situation. After this trip—and particularly the unfortunate run of luck he’d had in Las Vegas he would have no choice but to approach his uncle, the king, for an increase in his allowance. The last time he had to do this—six months ago—the old miser had made him beg and grovel before giving him the money he needed, running on at the mouth with lectures about the middle class and poor people and their lower standard of living and the declining price of oil, as if he cared about any of that. This time he couldn’t even be assured of success. In at least two other cases, the king had refused to cover gambling debts of his nephews. What was the world coming to?
The car was slowing to a stop. He turned on the intercom that connected him with the front seat. “Rasheed, why are we stopping here?” he barked.
“The road is blocked. It looks like road construction. A detour.”
“They’re crazy. Those people. They keep repaving the same roads,” he muttered.
The main highway was deserted. A sign on a wooden barricade indicated they should turn right onto a small back road, into an area of open desert, and the driver took that turn slowly and cautiously because of the length of the car.
The back road was poorly paved, and he drove at a crawl. The car was bouncing. The prince cursed in the backseat.
Suddenly, without any warning, three masked men clutching AK-47s jumped up on either side of the road. They sprayed bullets through the glass windows of the front seat of the car, killing the driver and Rasheed before the bodyguard could get off a single shot.
In the back of the car, the prince flung himself on the floor, hoping to hide. But that was pointless. They knew very well that he was there. He was the reason for the attack.
The rear car door opened, and they pulled him from the backseat shaking, wetting himself and pleading with them. “I’ll give you money. My uncle is the king.”
“Money,” one of the men shouted.
“That’s the abomination that drives this country. The answer is Islam. There is our guide, not your money. The House of Saud has lost its way. We won’t stop until their rule has ended. Take that message with you to the next world.”
He prayed that he could die a quick and painless death like Rasheed and the driver, but these were Nasser’s people. They had already killed twenty members of the royal family—a fact that had been kept out of the press.
“Please,” he begged. “I’ll do anything.”
But they ignored his words. They tossed him down roughly on the sand on his back—spread-eagled. They drove four stakes into the ground and tied each of his arms and legs to one. With a large knife, one of the men hacked away at his genitalia, then cut off each of his limbs.
They shouted, “Nasser is doing justice. God is great.”
Then they turned and walked away, letting him die a slow, exceedingly painful death.
Chapter 7
David’s had an aisle seat in business class. With only ten minutes until takeoff, the window seat next to him was still empty. On the assumption that there would be a Renault meeting, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out his presentation. He had worked hard on his French over the years, but it was still far from perfect. He wanted to sound smooth tomorrow.
Two minutes before departure, a dark-complexioned woman with a large white hat, tortoiseshell sunglasses and a black Chanel bag slipped into the window seat. She was dressed casually but smartly in a white skirt, blue-and-white striped blouse and navy blue blazer that was unbuttoned to reveal her full figure. Chic was the word that popped into his mind. She looked as if she were in the Côte d’Azur, rather than Tel Aviv. About forty years old, he guessed. She wasn’t beautiful, but she exuded a sensuality that excited David. His gaze moved to her left hand. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She gave him a cursory hello, barely glancing at him. Then she settled into her seat and began reading a copy of Le Monde.
When the airplane doors closed, he looked around the cabin warily. Israeli security was good, but terrorists had grown more sophisticated. Was there an assassin on the plane to complete the job that had been botched in London, or was someone marking him for killers in Paris? And if so, who? He had no way of telling. For all he knew, it was the woman sitting next to him.
As he studied her out of the corner of his eye, while pretending to work on his presentation, he became more persuaded that she was the one. There was just something about her that bothered him. Could they be so crude as to resort to the honey pot? The oldest trick in the book. Did they think he was so gullible? But maybe he was becoming paranoid.
He waited until the plane had leveled off at thirty-five thousand feet, and they each had had a glass of champagne, before he began talking to her.
“Are you going to Paris for a vacation?” he asked her in Hebrew.
She put down the newspaper. “I live in Nice. I’m just changing planes at Charles De Gaulle.”
“So you were visiting Israel as a tourist?”
“I’m sorry, my Hebrew’s not so good.”
He repeated the question in French, happy for a chance to practice. She replied, “I have a brother in Jerusalem. He’s a doctor.”
“Has he lived there long?”
“My parents originally moved from Morocco to Nice in 1948. My brother was a Zionist, and he moved to Israel after the ‘67 war.”
“And you?”
She laughed. “I was in love with a Frenchmen at the time. Or so I thought. By the time I realized that wasn’t the case, I owned two boutiques in Nice. That Zionist business never meant much to me. Besides, I didn’t feel like moving again.”
“How long were you in Israel on this trip?”
“Why do I feel as if I’m being interrogated? Are you a policeman?”
Outwardly he smiled. Inwardly he cursed himself for being so clumsy and rusty in tradecraft. He reached over and shook her hand. “David Ben Aaron.”
“I’m Gina,” she replied, smiling as if she liked him. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Gina what?” he wanted to ask. But he didn’t, of course.
“Now it’s my turn for interrogation,” she said devilishly. “What do you do in Israel?”
“I live on a kibbutz.”
“That’s not the callused hand of a farmer I just shook.”
He laughed. “Computers are my field. It’s the new high-tech age.”
As they continued their conversation over lunch, he found that Gina was a fascinating woman. She was obviously intelligent, well read and knowledgeable about art and fashion. She was a serious photographer who had exhibited in Cannes. “And, no, I don’t do weddings or bar mitzvahs,” she said, smiling as her mouth turned up softly. She had traveled extensively, and she had distinct views on political issues concerning Israel, the Middle East and Europe. She tore into the current Israeli government for being too soft in the peace process and the French government for giving away the country’s independence to a bunch of “German-dominated-cone headed EC bureaucrats in Brussels.” She was witty, and she made him laugh.
Without pressing, she asked him what he did on the kibbutz, and he described the high-tech operation in very general terms. He told her about life in Moscow and the breakdown of law and order with the rise of the Russian mobsters. “The stupidest people in the world are the Jews who refuse to get out of there,” she said in her typically blunt way.
As the flight attendants cleared the luncheon trays, he decided that he hadn’t enjoyed talking to a woman so much since Yael’s death. Besides everything else, he found Gina physically attractive in a sensual, erotic way. As she spoke, from time to time she gently touched his hand, occasionally pausing to rest hers on top of his. He liked her so much that he
almost forgot she might be part of a hit squad trying to assassinate him.
Reality set in when the pilot announced they would be landing in another thirty minutes. Fun’s over, he thought grimly. Now the war begins.
She went to the lavatory, taking her Chanel bag with her. While she was gone, he developed a game plan.
“When’s your plane for Nice?” he asked on her return. In the air wafted the aroma of the perfume she had just added.
She glanced at her watch. “In about two hours. Why?”
“Well, I have a crazy idea. My meeting’s not until tomorrow. You think those boutiques of yours will survive one more day without you? I’d love to have dinner with you tonight in Paris.”
A twinkle appeared in her eye. “Dinner would be wonderful. But I don’t have a place to stay in Paris.”
He smiled. “The rooms in the Bristol are large. They could easily put in a cot for you.”
“And you don’t snore?”
“Never have.”
“It’s a deal then.”
She bit too easily, he thought. He wasn’t that charming and attractive. She must be thinking that he had just fallen into the trap they had set for him. That was good. That’s what he wanted her to think. If they made their move soon after his arrival, he could use her as a shield. At best, it would buy him time and complicate their task.
In Charles De Gaulle Airport, as he walked next to Gina, his eyes constantly swept from side to side. At passport control, she shoved her passport under the glass window before he could see the name. It was clearly a French passport. That much he saw.
Outside the terminal, he looked around warily. No one seemed to be waiting for him. With Gina still next to him, he worked his way to the front of the cab line, then refused the next two cabs, letting them take people behind him, telling her that the third cab in line, a gray Citroën, was larger and would be more comfortable.
On the long ride into Paris he kept looking behind and around the cab, half-expecting a car to pull up alongside and begin shooting. But if Gina was one of them, they wouldn’t do that. Unless of course, she was expendable as well.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“The scenery,” he said, trying not to be so obvious.
They arrived at the Bristol without incident. As soon as he gave his name to the clerk at the reception desk, the assistant manager, with a name tag that said Gilles, bolted out from a room behind the desk and introduced himself with great fanfare. “The Renault people welcome you to Paris, Monsieur Ben Aaron,” he said. “I’ve selected a special suite for you, just as they requested.”
David told Gina to wait in the lobby while he inspected the suite. It was huge, with a separate living room and double glass doors that opened to a balcony overlooking the hotel’s center courtyard below. A large basket of fruit and cheese rested on the coffee table in the living room.
“One of the finest rooms in the hotel monsieur,” said Gilles.
“I don’t like it,” David said crisply.
Gilles couldn’t believe his ears. No one had ever declined 618 before. “What’s wrong?” he asked, acting personally offended.
“I like to face the street if you don’t mind.”
“But, monsieur, it’s so much noise. I thought...”
“Don’t think. Show me another room.”
David accepted the fourth room Gilles showed him. 210. A small room on the second floor, overlooking the rue St. Honore.
Gina had watched with amusement when he returned time after time with the increasingly flustered Gilles for different room keys.
“You devastated that man,” she said when the porter deposited their bags in 210 along with the basket of fruit and cheese.
“You get the closet on the right,” he said, dodging her comment.
Moments later, as he was hanging up his suit, and Gina was in the bathroom, the telephone rang. Nervously he picked it up on the second ring.
“Is this Greg Nielsen?” a man’s voice asked in French.
“You must have the wrong room,” he replied, trying hard not to disclose the tension in his voice. He could feel perspiration beginning to form under his arms.
“I know that you’re Greg Nielsen,” the caller persisted.
“You’re obviously mistaken. There’s no one in this room by that name. I suggest you talk to the hotel operator.”
“I would urge you not to play games with me, Mr. Nielsen. Be in front of the Bristol at six tomorrow morning. A black Mercedes will pick you up.”
David’s mind was focusing on the accent of the caller. Clearly Parisian, he decided. “What is your name, please? I’ll give it to the hotel operator. Maybe she can leave a message.”
“Did you understand what I said?” The caller sounded annoyed. “Tomorrow at six.”
“And if I’m not there?”
“Certain people in Washington will be very interested in knowing where you are, Mr. Nielsen.”
The phone clicked dead. His hand was moist when he returned it to the cradle.
“Business already?” Gina called from the bathroom.
While he was on the phone, he had forgotten about her. Jesus, that was dumb, he thought. He hoped she hadn’t learned much from listening to his side of the conversation.
“They were just confirming my meeting tomorrow,” he lied. “The rest of today belongs to us. And the night as well. I’m stiff from the long plane ride. Let’s take a walk.”
Before they left the hotel, he called room service and ordered a bottle of salmon pink Billecart champagne.
* * *
By late in the afternoon, the sky had turned gray, the air cool. As they walked along the rue St. Honore, she slipped her arm through his and moved in close. All the while his eyes roved from side to side. He was at red alert, ready to run, or to hit the ground and roll, at the first sign of trouble.
On avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt, at the corner of the Champs Elysées, he asked her to wait while he went into a pharmacy. He bought a package of condoms and a small bottle of chloral. The young woman behind the counter looked at him with amusement, trying to guess what he had in mind. He scowled at the nosy bitch.
Arm in arm, they continued toward the place de la Concorde. Rush-hour traffic was just beginning, the usual furious honking of horns and shouting by impatient drivers. He completed a circle by turning left at avenue de Marigny.
Back at the Bristol, alone in the small glass-enclosed elevator, he put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her close to him and kissed her, waiting for a reaction. He knew how the game was played. If she was a plant, she would lead him on, but ask him to wait until after dinner to make love, telling him it would be better then, and hoping he’d have so much to drink that he’d talk freely but lose interest in sex.
Her kiss was warm and passionate.
He decided to test her another way. He told her he wanted to wash up. When he was in the shower, she’d think she was free to rifle through his briefcase. He’d suddenly jump out and catch her. Then he’d force her to tell him whom she was working for. He remembered all of the tricks of the trade. He’d get her alone in the bathroom. With the sink and tub running, no one could hear her scream. He’d make her talk in a matter of minutes.
Quickly, he undressed and walked into the large shower stall behind the frosted glass door. As a ploy, he turned on the water, waiting for just a minute before he’d jump out and see what she was doing.
From the other side of the door, he heard a rustling noise. Fool, he thought, you’ve trapped yourself inside a shower stall. Searching for a weapon, he grabbed a bar of soap in a hard green Hermes case and kicked open the door, expecting to see her pointing a gun at him.
Instead she was standing totally nude and adjusting a plastic shower cap over her hair.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked.
Naked, she was far more beautiful than he’d ever imagined. Her breasts were round and full, jutting out to gorgeous dark brown nipples. Her
legs, tanned and bronzed, were long and firm, coming together at a triangular thick black mound. His fear gave way to joy and then sexual arousal as she stepped into the shower. I don’t care, he thought. I don’t care who she is. All I know is that I want her, and I want her now.
As she moved in close, he ran his hand over her back, feeling her warmth. Then he held her tightly, wrapping his arms around her, fusing their bodies. He reached down and kissed her soft, moist lips. As she responded eagerly, he slipped his tongue deeply into her mouth while his hands dropped to her buttocks, and he pressed her tight against his erection. All the while the water rushed over their heads and bodies.
He lifted his hand and stroked her breasts, playing with the nipples until they grew hard. Then he sucked on them greedily, first one and then the other, savoring the taste of her body, while his hand slipped between her legs.
She moaned with pleasure as he found the spot and stroked it ever so gently. He looked down into her eyes, and he saw that her desire was every bit as great as his own.
“My turn,” she whispered as she reached down and took his hard cock into her hand. He pushed it away and dropped to his knees, spreading open her folds of skin. With his mouth he found the spot where his fingers had been, and he took her clitoris into his mouth, playing with it with his tongue and sucking it until her whole body shook, and she screamed, “Oh God, yes!”
Only then did he remove his mouth, stand up and hold her tightly.
“I want you inside me,” she cried. “Now, in bed.”
Dripping wet, he picked her up and carried her out to the king-size bed. As soon as he put her down, she raised her legs high. In a matter of seconds, he slipped inside her. Then she wrapped her legs tightly around his hips, forcing him deeper and deeper. She started to thrust her body, and he moved with her, feeling incredible pleasure, on the verge of a crescendo but holding back, wanting it to last. Her movements came faster and faster, and she dug her fingernails into his back.