Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Well,” she said, looking up. “Here he comes, so let’s both of us move in a little closer and see if we like what we see.”

  As Marc pulled the Lamborghini into the parking lot of the Wilshire Country Club, he was suddenly grateful Alex had insisted that they pick up the VW from Edwards Automotive after lunch and not before. The lot was like a dozen new car showrooms rolled into one. Mercedes dominated, with Lincolns and Cadillacs close behind. Sports cars were sprinkled liberally throughout. Marc could identify the Porsches and Corvettes, but several other sleek-looking ones were beyond him. Ferraris? Maseratis? Jaguars? He wasn’t even sure he knew all the names.

  As he pulled into a parking space he took a deep breath. When he had called Alex the previous evening to arrange for the exchange of cars, Alex had insisted on lunch and named the place. After Marc hung up and told Mary and Valerie about it, his tone was awestruck enough that Mary had chided him a little for being so intimidated.

  “Come on, Mary,” he had said, “this is one of the most exclusive country clubs in California. A membership costs twentyfive thousand dollars and monthly dues run just over a thousand a month. Wouldn’t that make you a little nervous?”

  Valerie had looked up from the puzzle she was helping Matt and Brett put together. “He does that quite a lot, doesn’t he?”

  “Who? Does what?”

  “Alex. He likes to tell you how much things cost, doesn’t he?”

  Marc, a little to his surprise, had jumped to Alex’s defense. “Why do you say that?”

  She shrugged. “You know how much his car cost. He told you about his yacht and what he paid for it. Now the country club.”

  “Well, it’s not like you think. It’s just that he—I don’t know. It’s just not like that.”

  He shut off the engine of the Lamborghini with some regret. This would be his last time with it. After this, driving the Volkswagen would be like going from piloting high-performance jet aircraft to driving go-carts at the Kiddie Track. He gave one last look around, caressed the upholstery, then opened the door.

  “Hello.”

  He looked up in surprise and climbed out. “Hi, Jackie. I didn’t know you were coming.”

  She was dressed in a light grey suit, white silk blouse with a ruffle at the throat, and matching gray hose and high-heel pumps. With her dark black hair and green eyes, she was stunning. Marc noticed the guard watching them with open admiration.

  “I wasn’t,” she responded, “but Alex wanted me with him to check some things downtown, so he invited me along.” She tipped her head slightly to one side. “Do you mind?”

  “Mind? Between driving up in the Lamborghini and you coming out to meet me, the security guard just violated every commandment ever made about coveting.”

  She glanced quickly at the man, then laughed, a warm and delightful sound. She slipped her arm through his. “Then let’s make him think you’re the luckiest man in the club today.”

  As he took another sip of his Perrier water with a dash of lime, Marc kept his face impassive. The stuff was awful. Flat bitterness with strong carbonation. The lime was the only redeeming quality to the whole drink. Well, maybe the ice too.

  There had been no drinks listed on the menu. When the waiter—a young man in black coat and bow tie—had asked about their drinks, Jackie had said water was fine for her, but Alex had ordered the Perrier water. Feeling suddenly awkward, Marc had simply nodded. “That’s fine for me too.” He had barely stifled a shudder at the first sip, and now, with lunch cleared away, he was still nursing two thirds of his glass.

  The other thing Marc had noticed about the menu was that there were no prices listed. Too gauche, he decided. A person shouldn’t be here in the first place if cost mattered.

  “The other day you mentioned you teach at the Claremont Colleges,” Alex said, bringing Marc back to the present. “Is that in the college of business?”

  “No. I’m in the Near Eastern Studies department.”

  “Oh!” Alex seemed surprised. “I guess I assumed you were in business after seeing you at the lecture at UCLA.”

  “No, I just started an MBA for fun.”

  Jackie wrinkled her nose. “Fun? I could suggest half a million better ways to find relaxation.”

  “Hmmmm,” Alex mused. “Near Eastern Studies. What does that include?”

  “Oh, a variety of things. I teach classes in Islamic culture and religion, Near Eastern geography and history, that sort of thing. I also teach beginning and advanced Arabic.”

  “Really?” Jackie said. She reached in her purse and brought out a long envelope. “Write me something in Arabic. I always thought their writing was so mysterious and so beautiful.”

  Marc felt inside the pocket of his jacket and brought out a felt-tip pen. “Well, actually, I’ve been playing with some Arabic calligraphy lately. I’m not very good yet, but…“ He lapsed into silence and went to work on the envelope. Jackie pulled her chair around a little closer to watch him as he worked.

  “The Islamic faith prohibits the representation of the human figure in art, and so calligraphy was developed as one of the alternatives. I think it’s one of the most beautiful of art forms.”

  Long, flowing lines were starting to appear on the paper, curling, jutting up sharply, only to flow back in on themselves.

  “That is beautiful,” Jackie said, more impressed than she had intended to be. “I mean really beautiful. What does it say?”

  Marc finished, capped the pen, and pushed the envelope toward her. “That’s what is known as the Shahada—the profession of faith for a Muslim. It says, ‘There is no God but Allah. Mohammed is his messenger.’”

  She handed it to Alex, who studied it with interest. “That really is remarkable, Marc.”

  “Only because you don’t know Arabic. This is crude and poorly done. I have a framed picture in my office with the Shahada done fifteen different ways, each one its own work of art. What they do is really incredible.”

  “How about Saudi Arabia?” Alex asked casually. “Have you ever been there?”

  “No, unfortunately. I’ve studied a great deal about it, but it’s nearly impossible to get in there without a sponsor.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.” Alex leaned forward. “Say, if you’re an expert on the Arabs, let me ask you a question.”

  “Okay.”

  “A couple of weeks ago, I met a Saudi delegation in Washington, D.C. It was led by the crown prince himself. What a charismatic man he is.”

  “Really?” Marc was impressed. He knew enough about the Saudi royal family to know that not just everyone met the designated successor to the throne.

  Alex shrugged, somehow conveying the impression that he had not meant to drop names. “They were here working on some business deal. I happened to be in town, and a friend at the State Department invited me to sit in. I may get a little piece of the action. In fact, it may turn out that I get a chance to go over there.”

  “Really! I’d love to go there. Saudi Arabia is the heart of the Islamic civilization. That’s where it all began.”

  “Well, actually, I’m a bit intimidated by it all. I understand they are very strict about their religion.”

  “Absolutely. There are places where they still stone a person for committing adultery.”

  “Well,” Alex grinned, “that’s not all that bad, considering the whole place is sand.”

  Jackie and Marc both laughed aloud. “Good line,” Marc said. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

  They fell silent as the waiter cleared the table. Finally Marc turned back to Alex. “You said you had a question.”

  “Yes. If this business deal with the Saudis starts to shape up, I’d like to get a gift for the crown prince. I understand that is appropriate.”

  “Most appropriate. Gift-giving is very much a part of their culture.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “There is a famous story about King Abdul Aziz ibn-Saud, the first king of
modern Saudi Arabia. One day a visitor presented the king with a magnificent gray Arabian stallion. The king was delighted. Such a gift called for a return gift of thanks. He called for the great leather-bound book in which he kept a record of all gifts given to his visitors. Next to the man’s name, he started to write ‘three hundred riyals.’ This was considerably more than the horse was worth. But as he wrote, the nib of the pen snagged on the paper, then flipped loose, showering three ink blobs across the line. The Arabic zero is a dot, so…”

  “So he added zeros?” Alex asked.

  Marc nodded. “Instead of writing ‘three hundred riyals,’ it now read ‘three hundred thousand riyals.’ His advisor, noting what had happened, pointed out the problem. The king looked closely at the ledger. ‘Pay it immediately,’ he said, ‘for I will not have it be said that the hand of King Abdul Aziz is more generous than his heart.”’

  Jackie’s jaw dropped. “So he paid it?”

  “Without hesitation.”

  “Jackie,” Alex said with a frown, “let’s be sure we type everything to the Saudis. No nibbed pens.”

  Marc chuckled at that. “Let me give you another example.” Then suddenly he shook his head. “No, I’m doing all the talking, and I’m not really answering your question.”

  “Yes. Yes, you are,” Alex insisted. “Go on.”

  “Well,” Marc said hesitantly, but when they both nodded, he gave in. “All right. Just one more, to show how much understanding their culture and choosing a suitable gift can help.”

  “Near the end of World War II, America and Great Britain had come to realize that this little desert kingdom had become a pivotal power in the politics of the world. Both Churchill and Roosevelt started to woo the Saudis. As you know, America won out, and while there are probably many reasons why this was so, a good part of it revolved around the fact that Ibn-Saud liked President Roosevelt and did not like or trust Churchill.”

  “Now you’re talking my language,” Alex said enthusiastically. “This is leverage you’re talking about, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what made the difference between the two?”

  “Two things. First, though the Islamic religion has no specific ban on tobacco, it does forbid liquor. The sect of Islam that dominates Saudi Arabia is strongly fundamentalist, and so they don’t just forbid liquor, it is strictly outlawed. King Abdul Aziz neither smoked nor drank. As you know, President Roosevelt was a chain smoker, but he knew the king’s code and didn’t want to smoke around him. One night, after a long meeting, they went directly to dinner. Roosevelt was so desperate for a smoke, he sent the king on a separate elevator to the dining room. Roosevelt hit the emergency stop button on his elevator and hurriedly smoked two cigarettes before going on, blaming a stuck elevator for his delay. He also had no alcohol served at the dinner.”

  Alex was watching this young professor with great interest. Besides being more and more impressed with his abilities, he found himself taking a real liking to him. That didn’t happen very often with the men he brought on board for projects.

  “When it was over,” Marc was saying, “Roosevelt presented the king with a DC-3 as a gift.”

  “You mean an airplane!”

  “Yes. It was a huge success with Ibn-Saud. He was the first to own one in all of Saudi Arabia.”

  Alex grimaced. “I wasn’t thinking of something quite that elaborate.”

  Marc smiled. “Let me finish the story. Three days later the king met with Winston Churchill. None of this self-sacrificing attitude for him. Right off he told the king that abstaining from alcohol and tobacco might be part of the Saudi religion, but he, Churchill, considered smoking cigars and drinking alcohol as a sacred rite in and of itself. He proceeded to puff on his cigars and sip whiskey throughout their meetings.

  “In his memoirs, Churchill makes it all sound hilariously funny. And while the king was a man of the world, and didn’t expect others to observe his standards, Churchill’s cavalier attitude set the relationship off to a bad start. Churchill had also heard about Roosevelt’s gift, so in a grandiose, off-the-cuff gesture, he told the king that the first Rolls Royce off the assembly line after the war would be his.”

  “Hmmm,” Alex mused. “Airplanes, Rolls Royces? You are really starting to discourage me.”

  “Ah, but here’s the point of the story. One would think a Rolls Royce would be a pretty impressive gift. But when it finally arrived, it had the steering wheel on the right side, like all British-made automobiles. When the king went to get in, he saw that this would leave him sitting on the left-hand side of his driver. In Saudi culture, the left hand is the inferior hand. One doesn’t even eat with it. And the left-hand position is definitely the inferior position. For the king to be on the left of a servant was unthinkable. So he gave it away.”

  “You’re kidding! He gave a Rolls Royce away?”

  “That’s right. And America, not Britain, became the Saudi choice for an alliance.” Marc paused, suddenly a trifle embarrassed by his long speech. “So you are absolutely right to be concerned about what you give the prince.”

  Alex was sober. “That’s unbelievable. The whole of history changed by the choice of a gift.”

  “Well, as I said, there were many other factors too.”

  Alex ignored that, watching Marc closely. “Would you ever consider doing me a favor?” he finally asked.

  “After what you have done for me on my car, are you kidding? What do you need?”

  “Could you help me choose the gift? Give it some thought, then tell me what to get the prince? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Terrific!” He lifted a hand, and the waiter moved toward them instantly. “You just made this a very profitable luncheon for me.”

  “Oh no,” Marc said swiftly. “This one’s on me.”

  Alex shook his head firmly. “No way. I invited you to lunch, remember.” He turned to Jackie. “Do you want anything else?”

  “No, thank you. The lunch was lovely.”

  “I think that’s it, then,” he said to the waiter. “We’re ready for the check.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young man disappeared.

  “Alex, I mean it,” Marc persisted. “I’ve had that incredible car for almost a week. You got my car fixed for nothing. Please, let me buy lunch.” He pulled his wallet out.

  Alex was both pleased and amused, but he finally shrugged. “If you insist.”

  In a moment the waiter was back, carrying a small tray with the bill on it. He started to hand it to Alex, but Marc quickly slid his American Express card onto the tray. The waiter turned slowly, stared first at the card in disbelief, then at Marc with such a look of contemptuous scorn that Marc visibly flinched, his face flushing almost instantly.

  Alex burst out laughing. He reached across, took Marc’s card, and tossed it back to him, then signed the bill with a quick flourish.

  “Thank you, sir.” The boy retreated, shooting Marc one last look of total disbelief.

  “I’m sorry,” Alex said, fighting back another round of laughter.

  Marc was blushing. “What’s the matter?”

  “Did you see that look?” Alex said to Jackie. “You would have thought Marc was offering to pay in wampum or sea shells or something.”

  “Don’t they take American Express?” Marc persisted.

  “They don’t take anything!” Jackie laughed.

  Alex leaned across the table and patted Marc’s arm. “I’m sorry for that, Marc. Here in the club they don’t take any money. Not even if you purchase golf balls in the pro shop. You just sign. For everything. Then they put it on the monthly bill. I really do apologize. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I’ve never tried paying before. I wasn’t sure what the waiter would do.”

  “It was good of you to offer, anyway,” Jackie said, sensing Marc’s humiliation.

  Marc managed a thin smile, but inwardly he was deriding himself. The Lamborghini and lunch at the Wils
hire Country Club and Jackie’s arm through his as they passed the guard had temporarily dazzled him. When the toad is the guest of the peacock, he told himself, it would be well if the toad remembered who is the toad and who is the peacock. A few minutes later, as they walked out into the sunshine, Alex stopped and peered at his watch. “It’s two thirty already. Listen, Marc. I’ve got to stop at the law office. Would you mind if Jackie rides out to the shop with you to pick up your car. Could you do that, Jackie?”

  “That’s fine with me. I was just going back to the office anyway. I’ll leave your car at the warehouse.”

  “Great.” He turned to Marc. “It’s been a delightful lunch. Your knowledge of the Saudis was an added bonus.”

  “I’ll get that information on the gift to you right away.”

  “Super. Just put the bill in with it.”

  Marc shook his head firmly. “No way. This is my way of saying thanks for the car.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I planned to find a consultant to help me on this. I wasn’t suggesting you do it for nothing.”

  “Am I going to have to pull out my American Express card?” Marc asked, dead sober.

  Alex chuckled. “Okay, okay. Thanks.”

  “Thank you for lunch.”

  “Let’s do it again.” He started away, then suddenly turned back. “Say, Marc?”

  “What?”

  “If I get into this Saudi deal very big, I might need a consultant with some expertise in dealing with Arabs. Would you consider that?”

  Marc was completely caught off guard. “I…I’ve never done any consulting. The Saudis aren’t really my area of specialty.”

  Alex turned to Jackie. “What do you think, Miss Ashby?”

  “Based on what we saw today, I think he would be terrific.”

  “I agree. Are you busy between Christmas and New Years?”

  “Well, no. I…”

  “Great. We’re taking the yacht on a cruise to Baja, California. The weather in Mexico is great this time of year. We’ll do a little deep-sea fishing, play a lot, work a little—just enough so we can take it as a tax write-off. Anyway, will you join us? I’ll be ready for some real help on the Arabs by then.”