“And just how can we do that?”
“By relying on one of the most basic desires of human nature.”
“Which is?”
Alex grinned. “The desire to possess something that’s forbidden or out of reach. What do we regard as the most glamorous commodities in the world? Diamonds, emeralds, gold . . . Anything that’s rare and hard to find. Why do works of art become instantly more valuable when the artist dies? Because we know that the canvases in existence are all there will ever be.”
Caitlin felt a sudden quickening, caught up in his enthusiasm in spite of herself. “You’re saying that because we have only a thirteen-month supply—”
“Ten years.”
“What?”
“We’re going to ration that perfume as if it were the only water left on a dehydrated planet.” Alex leaned toward her, his expression alive with vitality. “We’ll sell it through only a few chosen shops in the world. They’ll all be willing to cut throats to get a supply.” He paused. “At a thousand dollars an ounce.”
Caitlin’s eyes widened in shock. “It will never work.”
“We have to up the price to maintain the mystique,” Alex said. “Trust me. It will work. With all the publicity about the Black Medina’s destruction of Vasaro, no one is going to believe this is an artificial ploy to gouge money. The perfume is rare and will be irreplaceable for a number of years.”
“Ten?”
“Jacques estimates seven for the new growth needed for the ingredients, but I thought we’d give the public another three years to get the mystique of Vasaro firmly established in their minds before we lower the price to gain a larger market. By that time every woman in the world will feel that the most desired luxury in the world is owning a bottle of Vasaro.”
Caitlin stared at him in amazement. “You’ve got it all planned.”
He smiled. “You wouldn’t let me do anything else while I was lying in bed.” His brow knit in concentration. “We’ll run the commercials with Chelsea extensively after the launch but shift the focus to the rarity of both the statue and the perfume. After the launch we’ll show the commercials sparingly and only in the most prestigious time slots. I think it would be a good idea to arrange for an ounce of perfume to be given from one head of state to another. Perhaps from the highest-ranking woman in France to, say, Queen Elizabeth. Why are you laughing?”
“Because I suddenly find myself sorry for Queen Elizabeth.” Caitlin’s eyes twinkled. “What if the poor woman decides she doesn’t want to be involved with my perfume in any way—even acknowledging its receipt as a gift?”
Alex grinned. “We’ll just find out what she wants and give it to her.”
“You really mean to go through with the launch?” she asked soberly.
“Of course. In fact, I’ve called the advertising agency and pushed it up to December the tenth. Since we’re selling a concept instead of the actual perfume, there’s no reason that we can’t—”
“If Ledford accommodates you by appearing on cue.”
“He’ll be here. It will happen, Caitlin. The healing of Vasaro, the launch, everything. I’ll make it happen. Do you believe me?”
She was beginning to believe him. Hope was growing, pushing down roots. “I think I’m afraid to believe you.”
“You’ve got to believe me. You need Vasaro and you need your perfume. They’re both a part of you.”
“You said that before.”
“Because from almost the first moment we met I thought of you and Vasaro and your perfume as one. I remember I read something once that . . .” He looked away from her and quoted:
Who is this that cometh up from the desert like a
column of smoke,
breathing of myrrh and frankincense,
and of every perfume the merchant knows.
How delicious is your love, more delicious than wine!
How fragrant your perfumes,
more fragrant than all other spices!
The rarest essences are yours:
nard and saffron,
calamus and cinnamon,
with all the incense-bearing trees;
myrrh and aloes,
with all the sublest odors.
Fountain that makes the gardens fertile,
well of living water,
streams flowing down from Lebanon
Awake, north wind,
come, wind of the south!
Breathe over my garden,
to spread its sweet smell around.
Caitlin stared at him, stunned. What had he just said to her? His expression was as guarded as usual, and yet she had an idea a more personal meaning lay beneath those beautiful words. “The Song of Solomon.”
“It was underlined in the Bible I took from your perfumery that night.”
She tore her gaze away from him and laughed shakily. “You said your head was crammed with trivia.”
His reply came with an odd awkwardness after the eloquence of the biblical words that had gone before. “It’s you and Vasaro. That’s not trivia, Caitlin.”
“No?” Whatever it was, the words had affected her too deeply. She had to think about them and what they might mean to her. She turned away from him and jammed her hands into the pockets of her coat. “All this walking has made me hungry. Let’s see if we can find a café that’s open early.”
“In a moment. It’s almost time . . .”
“Time for what? It’s not—”
The song of the muezzin broke the stillness, high and sweet, calling the faithful to prayer. The rosy light of dawn shone through the mists wreathing the slender minarets and domes of the ancient city like the warm flush on the cheeks of a veiled odalisque.
Caitlin listened, entranced. Alex was right. She felt as she had when she heard the larks at home at Vasaro.
Home.
She had told herself she had no home.
But Alex said she herself was Vasaro.
The muezzin’s song ended. Caitlin drew a deep breath and turned toward Alex. “Lovely. A perfect ending to—”
He shook his head. “Not an ending. A beginning.” He took her arm and began to walk toward the other end of the bridge. “That’s why I brought you here. To show you there are still beginnings.”
Beginnings. She had always felt herself part of the enduring beauty patterned by the past. It felt strange to realize she might be forced to create a new future for Vasaro. Strange . . . and exciting.
They walked in silence for a while. “There’s your café.” He gestured to a small shop with a red and white awning on the quay. A stout, gray-haired woman in a man’s tweed jacket was just propping open the front door. “It probably won’t serve bacon and eggs or those croissants you like, but maybe they’ll have—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She started down the steps of the quay. “I just hope they have tea. A little of that Turkish coffee goes a long way.”
Alex’s quiet voice followed her. “Will you let me help you?”
“With Vasaro? I don’t know yet.” She hesitated and then turned and smiled at him. “But I do need help right now.”
He looked at her inquiringly.
“The tablets.”
“I’ll set up the computer today and show you how to use it.”
“That’s not good enough. I want you to work with me on them.”
He went still. “You want to share them?”
“I want us to find the answers together.” Did he know she couldn’t give him a greater gift?
“I . . . thank you.” He took her arm and propelled her toward the door of the café. His voice was slightly thick as he added, “Then let’s get breakfast over with and get the hell to work.”
“It’s all set,” Chelsea said as she came into Marisa’s hospital room. “I’ve arranged for a whole gaggle of doctors and nurses to meet the plane in L.A. on Thursday.” She sat down beside the bed. “They’ll whisk you home and put you in your own bed.”
“I don’t feel well enough
to travel.”
“The hell you don’t. You’ve been playing possum for the last four days.” Chelsea made a face. “You had me scared silly that first day, you little devil. I thought you’d had a relapse.”
Marisa smiled faintly. “Maybe I did.”
Chelsea shook her head. “You were trying to stall me.”
“You can never tell what difference a day will make.”
“Well, the last four haven’t brought any gifts from heaven.”
“You won’t change your mind?”
Chelsea reached out and clasped her hand. “Stop worrying. I told you I wasn’t going to do anything stupid. I’ll simply show up for that conference and do what I do best. Vamp a few diplomats, ask a few questions—”
“Get in big trouble.”
Chelsea laughed. “Brat. I’ll be careful. You just get well.” She got to her feet. “Now get some rest while I go down to the nurses’ station and see if I can lure that nurse you like away from la belle France to sunny California.” She frowned. “What’s her name again?”
“Desirée Larue.”
“That’s right. How could I forget a name like that? She sounds like a porn star.” Chelsea left the room.
Marisa gazed thoughtfully at the door. She had played the only card she had while she was lying helpless in bed, and it was now time to call in reinforcements.
With her left hand she reached for the telephone on the nightstand and, cradling the receiver in the crook of her neck, she dialed the operator. “I need to place a call to Jonathan Andreas in Port Andreas, South Carolina, in the United States. I don’t know the number.”
Caitlin called from the doorway of the study. “Lunch.”
“In a minute,” Alex said, his head bent over the computer.
“Now. You’ve scarcely eaten or slept for two days. Let me do the next pattern.”
“One more run.”
She crossed the room and her hand closed firmly on his shoulder. “I’ll do it. So much for you not taking over.”
“Christ, have I been doing that?”
She laughed. “Don’t look so horrified. I didn’t expect anything else. It’s the nature of the beast.”
“You don’t mind?”
“No.” She frowned sternly. “But I will mind if I have to nurse you again because you’re overdoing it.”
He looked up at her, puzzled. “Why don’t you mind?”
She just smiled and shook her head. “Go eat.”
“One more run. I think we’re coming close.” He typed a command into the computer. “Check the printer.”
She went over to the printer and checked the message. “Still garbage.”
“Damn.” He began to type another command into the computer and then looked up guiltily. “Okay, you take over. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Caitlin shook her head in amusement as she sat down in front of the computer.
Then her smile faded and she eagerly leaned forward as she was drawn into the intricacies of the linear pattern on the screen.
Jonathan stood waiting on the other side of the barrier as Chelsea went through Istanbul customs. He smiled as he saw her, and Chelsea felt a melting tenderness she quickly hid beneath a frown. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked as Jonathan took her overnight bag.
“You didn’t expect me?” He indicated her other suitcases to the two porters he had in tow. “I thought you and Marisa had a rapport.”
“Marisa.” Chelsea shook her head. “Dammit, even from a sickbed she tries to keep me in line. She called you?”
“Two days ago.” Jonathan took her elbow and started through the lobby toward the exit. “We had a nice chat. When I first met her I was conscious only of that air of serenity she exudes, but she’s definitely her mother’s daughter.”
“Which means?”
Jonathan grinned. “She’s stubborn as hell. She handled me with the diplomacy of an ambassador, but she let me know in no uncertain terms that I was to get my ass to Istanbul tout de suite and look after you.”
“I don’t need looking after.”
Jonathan opened the door of the taxi waiting at the curb. “Then you look after me.” He tipped the porters and got into the taxi after her. “Hilton,” he told the driver.
“I was going to stay at the Sheraton.”
“I’ve checked in at the Hilton.”
“Which is why I should stay at the Sheraton.”
Jonathan shook his head. “I want you to be with me.”
“You shouldn’t even be here. I told you—”
“I know what you told me. Things have changed.”
“Not that.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Chelsea.” He took her hand. “I’d have come to Istanbul whether you were here or not. Peter was my friend. He didn’t deserve to be shot down like an animal. Ledford has to be stopped.”
“Ledford should have his nuts cut off, his scummy body coated with gasoline, and thrown into a bonfire.”
Jonathan smiled faintly. “That’s what I said.”
“More diplomatically. You always say things the right way.”
“And you always speak the unvarnished truth. Which is better, truth or diplomacy?”
She smiled reluctantly. “See, you’re doing it again.”
Jonathan’s hand tightened on her own. “No matter how I say them, my words never get through to you, Chelsea.”
“Yes, they do. I just can’t listen to them. The media will—”
“Istanbul isn’t exactly a hotbed of paparazzi. No one will even know we’re here.”
“Every reporter in Europe will be descending on Istanbul next week for the united Europe conference.”
“We can always make adjustments then.”
“Alex and Caitlin are here in Istanbul. Perhaps I can stay with them.”
“I don’t even know where they are. Alex is afraid for Caitlin’s safety and won’t chance a leak. He said he’d contact me at the Hilton.”
Then she had no real excuse not to stay with him. Chelsea felt such a surge of gladness, she was afraid to look at him as she asked, “You’ve made reservations for separate suites?”
Jonathan smiled. “On separate floors.”
Chelsea leaned back on the leather seat. “I suppose it would be safe for a little while.” She added quickly, “But only for a few days.”
Jonathan leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “We’ll talk about it later.”
It was three o’clock in the morning when the break came.
“I’ve got it.” Caitlin looked over her shoulder eagerly at Alex in the chair across the study. “I think this is it.”
He jumped up. “You’re sure?”
“I’m too scared to be sure. Check the printer.” She typed in the command and then held her breath as the computer read the command and then sent the order to print.
Alex stood over the printer as it started to rattle out the message it was receiving.
“Alex?”
He read, “I, Andros of Shardana, salute you and give—”
Caitlin whooped and jumped up from the desk and ran toward the printer. “We did it!”
Alex grinned as he turned to catch her and whirl her in a circle. “You’re damn right we did.”
She wriggled away from him and bent over the printer to read the words spitting from the machine.
“I, Andros of Shardana, salute you and give thanks to the gods there is someone left to read my words. As I sit here I have wondered if the Barbarians would cause the world to perish before they would acquire the knowledge to read this tablet. Battle is an alluring temptress as I, who have yielded to her call, should know, and the Barbarians like it even better than the guardians of the Wind Dancer. They do not fight better, you understand, they merely enjoy it more. Perhaps the Grand Healers of Shardana have had more success than they claim in tempering the violence in our souls. I have often thought our vocation was encouraged more to protect their secrets than to expiate
the violence within us.
“I will write no more at this time. I have given you enough words for your purpose. I am no scholar, and this means of writing is so crude as to drive me mad with frustration. Why have the Barbarians never invented saavzen?”
The printer was silent.
“Saavzen?” Caitlin whispered.
“Did you notice he spoke of the guardians of the Wind Dancer as plural? He was the sole guardian Paradignes entrusted the Wind Dancer to, yet he speaks as if . . .” Alex trailed off, his gaze narrowing on the paper. “He seemed to regard the entire world but Shardana as barbarian. Yet he knew the most civilized cultures on earth at the time, the Greeks, the Trojans, the Egyptians . . .” He turned back to the computer. “Let’s key in the next tablet.”
“No!” As Alex turned to look at her, she shook her head. “It’s more than I thought. I want to think about this.”
“This is what you wanted.”
“Tomorrow.”
His gaze narrowed on her face. “What are you afraid of?”
She wasn’t sure herself, but something in Andros’s words were lifting red flags of alarm. “Tomorrow.”
“Very well.” He turned off the printer. “We’ll do it in the morning. Come to bed.”
She turned off the computer and the lights and followed Alex from the study. At the door she couldn’t resist glancing longingly back at the printer, torn between fear and curiosity.
Who were the Grand Healers of Shardana?
Two hours later Alex felt Caitlin inch carefully away from him and slide out of bed. He had been aware she was lying there awake and that in spite of her apprehensions she had been too excited to sleep. Alex knew how she felt; he had not been able to sleep either. The puzzle they were unraveling was too fascinating and his mind refused to shift into low gear.
Caitlin moved quietly toward the door. He knew she was going to the study to key in the tablets. He was tempted to throw aside the covers and follow.
But it was Caitlin’s puzzle, the one puzzle she had wanted to solve since she was a small child. She should be the one to read the answers first. If he was fortunate, she would want to share them with him later.
Reap the Wind Page 41