by Judith Gould
He punched the flashing button, switched on the scrambler, and lifted the receiver to his ear. 'Yes?' he answered curtly.
'I've got news,' a familiar Brooklynese voice said.
He felt the sudden dizzying rush of adrenaline and quickly looked out into the bedroom to make sure none of the servants was about; the special scrambler system he had had hooked up would keep anyone who happened to pick up an extension elsewhere in the apartment from listening in. All an eavesdropper would hear was garbled gibberish. 'Is your scrambler activated?' he asked softly.
'Yeah.'
'What is the news, then?'
'Daliah Boralevi's moved out of the Bond Street loft. She lives on Central Park West now.'
'And?'
'She drove off this afternoon. One of my men followed her. She's gone to a motel on Cape Cod.'
Najib was suddenly angry. 'You call that news?' he snapped. He took a deep breath and fought to keep his anger under control. 'I thought your instructions were to let me know of any special travel or vacation arrangements. Especially overseas.'
'That's why I called.' The voice at the other end of the phone sounded hurt. 'She's flyin' to Israel in a week.'
Najib was suddenly alert. 'Israel, did you say?' Surprise edged his voice.
'That's right. She's goin' there for her brother's weddin'. It seems it'll be a big family occasion. I . . . I've got her travel timetable, if you're interested.'
'I am,' Najib said. He listened for a little while, and although the man at the other end of the line could not see him, he nodded from time to time. 'How did you get news of this?' he asked.
'From her agent's secretary. She's pretty much of a dog, but you'd be surprised how that type will tell a man anything if he pushes the right buttons.'
Najib was immediately on guard. 'What did you tell her?'
'Nothin', actually.' The man laughed coarsely. 'I didn't have to. The broad thinks I'm a reporter for one of those scandal rags.'
'Good.' Najib nodded again. 'If anything else should come up, give me a call and keep me posted. I trust you received last month's cheque for your services?'
'Yeah, I did.'
'This month you will get a bonus.'
And with that, Najib hung up.
That had been several hours ago, and he had called his dinner hosts and apologized profusely for cancelling at the last minute. Then he had come up here to the media room on the third floor of the quadruplex, and watched the videotapes. He had spent nearly two hours deep in thought, wrestling with the pros and cons of vengeance.
What surprised him most was that now, with the time for vengeance at hand, he felt peculiarly remote from it all. He had always thought that when the time came he would feel heady with triumph. For decades the thought of vengeance alone had kept him going, had fuelled his ambitions and dictated his every action. But now? Now he wasn't quite sure how he really felt about it anymore. The past suddenly seemed far away, part of another person's lifetime entirely, as distant as the elusive features of Iffat whenever he tried to conjure them up.
Strange, how the passing of time played games with one's mind. Things that had once seemed important faded to inconsequence, while other matters of new import moved forward to take their place. There was a time when he had believed that revenge would be with him always and motivate his every action, but that had not been the case. His perspective had changed. It was his empire, social position, and power which mattered most to him now. And yet he was locked into his vow of vengeance and his oath to Abdullah, and knew he was neatly and inextricably trapped.
As though on cue, the telephone shrilled again. He glanced at the control panel built into the couch. It was his private line again, the same line his detective had called on. He raised the receiver to his ear and activated the scrambler. 'Yes?'
'Allah Akbar,' a distant voice greeted curtly. 'God is great.' Abdullah's voice echoed above the rushing static of the long-distance lines, the scrambler distorting his voice even further.
Najib suddenly felt icy fingers stealing over him. Abdullah calling him so quickly after he had spoken to the detective was surely no coincidence.
'You do not sound pleased to hear from me,' Abdullah said reproachfully after a long pause.
'It is always a pleasure to hear from you, half-uncle,' Najib replied automatically. 'What can I do for you?'
'I was surprised you had not contacted me already. I had the feeling you had news to tell me.'
Najib stared at the silent, flickering bank of video screens. Now he was certain what Abdullah was getting at. Somehow, through spies or otherwise, he had already learned about the detective's call. 'Y-yes,' he said slowly. 'In fact, I was about to call you.'
'I hope so. I do not like to think that you are getting soft after all these years.'
'How did you hear?'
'I have my sources,' Abdullah replied vaguely. He paused and asked pointedly, 'You have not changed your mind?'
'N-no. Of course not.'
'I am pleased to hear that. I do not care for men who disregard their blood oaths. I believe you have not forgotten what happens to those who desert me?' He left the implied threat dangling, and then the telephone went dead in Najib's hand. Without looking at the control panel, he slowly put the receiver down. He stared blankly at the television sets.
On the screens, the faces he had familiarized himself with so often seemed to be mocking him.
Najib al-Ameer, the man whose very name was synonymous with wealth, who could cause tremors on Wall Street, the man who entertained presidents and prime ministers aboard his four-deck yacht, whose power was such that a single nod of his head could cause international repercussions, had broken out in a cold sweat. He had more than just a healthy respect for Abdullah.
More and more, his involvement with his half-uncle frightened him.
Chapter 5
She was car-weary and bleary-eyed by the time she hit the Cape. She had driven straight through, stopping only once, and that was to fill up at Groton; on impulse she made a second stop a few miles from Inge's at an all-night convenience store located between Truro and North Truro along Route 6. She grabbed two bottles of Moët out of the cooler and waited for the clerk to tear himself away from a portable typewriter he was pecking away at behind the counter. She smiled automatically when he got up, and pushed the bottles toward him.
He rang them up and looked at her. 'That'll be—' The words suddenly failed him as realization dawned on his face. 'Jesus H. Christ!' he exclaimed softly under his breath. 'You're Daliah Boralevi, the actress!'
Daliah nodded. 'That's right.' She tossed her head, shaking her hair back over her shoulder.
'Well, I'll be goddamned.' He shook his head in disbelief. 'I just watched the rerun of To Have and To Hold on the Sunday-night movie. Must've been the tenth time I've seen it. The crash scene at the end never fails to choke me up.' He seemed awkward for a moment. 'You know, that shot of you getting whiplashed as your car crashes through the police barricades? It's something else.'
'You really saw it ten times?'
'At least.' He grinned disarmingly. 'The first time was right after it came out, but to tell you the truth, I lost count after the seventh.' He chuckled to himself. 'You wouldn't believe the crush I used to have on you. Remember your swimsuit poster?'
She nodded.
'Well, I bought one and hung it up in the fraternity house. The girl I was going with at the time didn't appreciate it one bit.'
She smiled at him. He would have been in a fraternity, she thought. He had the big build and squeaky-clean look of a campus jock. 'You're a quarterback for Harvard,' she guessed.
He shook his head. 'I was a fullback at Brown. Then my kneecap got smashed, and bye-bye team, my brilliant career in sports was over.' He snapped his fingers. 'Just like that.' Then he shrugged and smiled. 'Since all I really wanted to do besides play ball was write novels, I found myself looking around campus one day and wondering what the hell I was doing there. That
's why I'm here now, pecking away on a dead-end job. I dropped out to write the great American novel.'
She eyed him more closely. He didn't look like a writer or a shop clerk—whatever they were supposed to look like. With his thick curly blond hair, toothpaste-ad teeth, and freckled tan he could have been a California surfer gone three thousand miles astray.
'You staying here on the Cape?' he asked.
She nodded.
'I tell you what. I get off in about forty-five minutes. What do you say you step down off the pedestal and hobnob with us common folk? I know the greatest little dive the tourists haven't discovered yet where the lobsters weigh three pounds each.'
'I'm sorry, but I've been on the road for half a day.' She shook her head. 'It sounds tempting, though.'
'Tomorrow, maybe?'
She surprised herself by actually considering his offer. Normally, it would have been unthinkable. A star just didn't mingle with her fans; it was begging for trouble. The world was full of crazies. But he did seem genuinely nice, and he was good to look at, in that surfer kind of way. With a tan like that, a good square chin, and big wide baby-blues, he couldn't be all bad. Besides, other than Inge, she really knew no one up here. It occurred to her that having a man around might not be such a bad idea after all. Just possibly, the best way to get over Jerome might be to fight fire with fire.
She smiled. 'I’ll think about it.'
A smile wrinkled his eyes. 'I'll give you a call.'
What the hell, she thought, and nodded. 'I'm staying at the Sou'westerner Motel. It's listed. Just ask for me.'
He grinned. 'By the way, my name's Clyde. Clyde Woolery.' He extended his hand across the counter and she shook it. His grip was strong and firm.
She watched as he stuffed the two green bottles into a brown paper bag and slid a piece of cardboard between them so they wouldn't knock against each other. He handed it to her and smiled.
'I haven't paid you for the bubbly yet.' She looked at the cash register. 'How much do I owe you?'
He laughed and flapped a hand. 'Forget it. I'll ring it up as a mistake. When inventory time rolls around, it'll be listed under breakage. It's no skin off my back.'
She indicated the bag by hoisting it a few inches. 'Many thanks, Clyde Woolery. I owe you.'
He shrugged. 'It's nothing. I'll call you tomorrow afternoon sometime.'
'Okay.' She waggled her fingers. 'Bye-bye.'
As she walked back outside to her car, the night air felt cool and smelled tangy with salt, and in the distance she could hear the muted crashing of the surf. It felt good to be away from the rat race. A week away from it all would work wonders.
She placed the bag on the front seat beside her and glanced one last time at the store as she started the engine. Behind the well-lit expanse of plate glass, she could see that Clyde was already bent over his little Smith Corona, and that made her feel good. Maybe she really would go out with him, even if it was only for drinks. After all, he wasn't ogling her from the door like she was some sort of creature set down by a UFO, which was usually the case when she was recognized. Nor, thank God, had he been silly enough to ask for her autograph.
He looked up then and waved to her. She waved back, put the car in reverse, and backed out neatly with a showy squeal of the tyres.
She grinned devilishly to herself. What the hell, it was her vacation. She might as well enjoy herself.
She looked both ways. There wasn't a headlight or taillight as far as the eye could see. Then she slammed her foot down on the accelerator and took off as though a man with a checkered flag was waiting two miles down the road at the motel.
Daliah nosed the rented Cutlass into the car park just as the bright white moon broke through the clouds and plated the weathered motel cottages in its silver glow. The motel was modest, the individual units grey-shingled and sagging, but it more than made up for its size and sad state of disrepair by occupying eight full acres of prime oceanfront land.
The moment she pulled in, she could see Inge lifting the checkered print curtain and peering out the window. Within seconds the front door of the manager's cabin was thrown wide and Inge came flying out, a huge golden retriever bounding alongside her. Daliah had to smile. Despite her age, Inge could still move like a whippet when she wanted, and seemed taller and much younger than she was, her snow-white hair braided and coiled in a crown of concentric circles atop her head like links of sausages at the butcher's in her native Germany. She wore a loose cotton print housedress and low white canvas sneakers.
The instant Daliah ducked out of the car, Inge flung herself at her, throwing her arms around her in a stranglehold.
Inge's energy was in contradiction to her age. She was the antithesis of an eighty-four-year-old. Those who met her were instantly thrown off guard and tended to forget at once her advanced years and her diminutive size. There was a robust, energetic spark of life and an inner glow to her that most people a fraction of her age did not possess. Her face was lined and creased with a network of fine wrinkles, but her skin glowed with a rich, healthy pink sheen and her eyes were still porcelain white, the irises the same cheerful bright cornflower blue they had always been. They could have been the eyes of a child. She was quick of both foot and mind, with a salty, witty retort to anyone's comments ready on her tongue, yet her feistiness was tempered with a warm sense of humour and a loving heart. Clearly, neither age nor the fact that she had lived on three continents and had had to start life over twice from scratch could put as much as a dent in Inge's indomitability. She was more than just a survivor; no matter where she was, she seemed to be able to adapt magnificently.
'Daliah! Liebchen!' Inge cried, clinging to her as tightly as a Siamese twin. 'I'm so glad you could come! It has been so, so long!'
Not to be outdone, the dog jumped up and was all over them, his huge paws resting on Daliah's shoulders while he happily licked both women's faces with drooly slurps.
Daliah tried to hide her face. 'Down, Happy,' she laughed. 'Down, boy, down!'
Happy obediently let go and sat down next to their feet. He looked up worshipfully, a huge openmouthed grin on his face.
Inge gripped Daliah's forearms. 'Is everything all right?' she asked worriedly. 'You sounded upset over the telephone.'
'It's nothing serious, Inge.'
Inge looked up at her with anxious eyes. 'I can always tell by your voice when things are not quite right.'
'It's nothing earth-shattering,' Daliah assured her. 'Really.'
'It does not have to be earth-shattering. Sometimes things can be just as upsetting that they might as well be.'
'I promise to tell you all about it later.' Daliah gave Inge a kiss on the lips. 'You look marvellous!' she said, drawing back to arm's length. 'Let me look at you! This place really must be the fountain of youth! You haven't aged a day!'
'Daliah, you lie through your teeth,' Inge declared. 'You know I am seventy-nine and look every day of it.' But she looked pleased.
'Now you're the one who's lying through her teeth,' Daliah accused with good-humoured badinage. 'I happen to have it on good authority that you're eighty-four, and that you'll be eighty-five on September 3.'
Inge stuck her nose in the air. 'That just goes to prove you have been snooping around where you have no business snooping.'
'Why should I have to snoop? I've got everyone's birthdate written in my calendar book,' Daliah said. 'My mother gave me the information, and she's never wrong about these things.'
Inge's eyes slid shiftily sideways. 'Daliah, even your mother can get dates mixed up,' she said testily.
Daliah was distracted from retorting by Happy's impatient whine. When she didn't react, he gave two deep barks to get her attention. She looked down at him. His quill tail was sweeping back and forth, creating a curved furrow in the gravel.
'Okay, okay!' she said affectionately. She squatted down in front of him and gave him a big hug. He smelled of dog and perfumed flea powder. 'Have you been taking good care
of Inge?' she asked him softly.
The dog cocked his head to listen and offered her a huge paw. Solemnly she shook it. Then she got up, yanked her giant Vuitton shoulder bag out of the car, and slammed the door shut.
Inge had prudently dropped the subject of age. 'Your usual cabin is available,' she told Daliah as they walked toward the manager's office. 'I make it a point never to rent it out.'
'You know you don't need to do that.'
'Of course I don't need to,' Inge said irritably, 'but I want to. I like to keep it available in case you should visit unexpectedly. I just had it repainted, and sewed some nice new curtains and slipcovers. It's all blue, just the way you like it.'
Daliah looked up and down the row of moonlit cottages. Each one, except for the one she always stayed in, at the farther end, had a car parked in front of it. It wasn't Memorial Day yet, but a lot of tourists had obviously jumped the gun. 'You shouldn't keep it empty just for me, Inge,' she scolded. 'I know you could have rented it. I would be just as happy sleeping on the convertible sofa in the back of the office.'
Inge shrugged. 'What's the difference if I rent every unit or keep one empty for you? I am an old woman, and I don't need the extra money. I've got more than I can ever spend.'
'Nobody has more than she can spend,' Daliah said.
Inge looked at her sternly. 'When you get to be my age, believe me, you do. What is there to buy? Clothes? They are all designed for younger women. Appliances? I have got so many they do not even fit in the kitchen. Jewellery? I never wear any except for what you give me. A new car? I cannot drive anymore, anyway. They wouldn't renew my driver's licence.' Inge opened first the screen door and then the inner door of the manager's cabin.
Daliah followed her inside. She held open the door for Happy, but he wanted to stay outside. He was ecstatically lifting his leg against his favourite yew branch.