Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  She shut her eyes. It had been so easy to hate and want to hurt him while he had been a stranger. Why couldn't he have stayed one? It would have been so much simpler and less painful. But with the unburdening of his heart and his quiet explanations, she had felt him evolving more and more into a real person of dimensions, one with feelings as intense as hers, one alive with passions and tortured with recriminations—a man teetering at the edge of two worlds.

  Why couldn't he have stayed the heartless stranger he had been? And he loves me. He told me he loves me . . .

  I do love you! she almost cried aloud. I need you and want you! But she bit it back. Another part of her mind, the part dominated by common sense and learned behaviour, held her in check. She sat rigid and silent, the conflicts roaring and pounding and thrashing.

  'Daliah . . .'he said softly.

  And she looked up, no longer listless, but in lively confusion. She shook her head. 'It cannot be. Please—don't make this any harder than it already is,' she sighed. 'Whatever we may feel ... it doesn't matter.'

  He stared at her, his bleak face ageing in front of her eyes. 'How can you say such a thing?' he whispered.

  'I only know what must be and what must never be.' She looked into his face and saw him flinch, saw the muscles below his skin sag, and such pain came into his eyes that she felt as if she had struck him.

  Swiftly she looked away, unable to face the hurt.

  'Oh, Daliah, are we forever going to be trapped in a cage of someone else's making? Will you not wake up and joyfully take what is rightfully ours?'

  'Ours?' Despite herself, she sounded quite calm. 'We came from opposing worlds!'

  His face became earnest, and she knew that within himself he had grappled with this problem already, and had worked it out for himself.

  But for her it was no use. She had not come to terms with it, nor did she think she ever could. The gulf between them was too great. She was Jewish. Israeli. And whether or not she practised her faith, and whether or not she spent time in Israel anymore, being Israeli was still a state of mind.

  'Please,'she begged softly, 'just go. For both our sakes . . .' She swallowed and shut her eyes for an instant. 'Forget about me and . . . and don't come back.'

  'Daliah. Listen to me!' He sat on the arm of her chair and put a hand on her shoulder.

  She drew away. 'Najib—' She halted suddenly, cursing herself for saying his first name. For even thinking of him in such intimate terms. What is happening to me?

  He hadn't missed it. The sound of her soft voice intoning his name—two syllables that had jumped unbidden off her tongue—only proved to him that she felt the same way he felt, but was trying to evade him. Her not allowing herself the pleasures of her heart—that, more than her struggle to turn him down, tormented him. Would she live her life like this? Unhappy? Afraid? He couldn't bear to think that she would.

  'Just listen a little longer,' he begged. 'It won't take long . . .'He swallowed, then continued. 'I understand the way you feel. Your being held hostage, no future to think of— perhaps that is why you will not allow yourself to be happy. But I'll get us out of this.' He lowered his voice to a forceful whisper. 'Don't you understand? I've been working on your escape . . .'

  Despite her surge of excitement, whispers of suspicion lingered. She looked at him doubtfully. 'Escape?' she repeated absently. Then, when it sank in, she breathed in sharply. She blinked and gave her head a little shake. 'You're going to help me to escape?'

  'Yes,' he said.

  She sat in perfect stillness.

  'Why?' she asked at last. 'Why do you want to do this?'

  'Because I love you. Also because . . .'

  'Yes?' She was staring at him.

  '. . . because it will redeem me from what I have helped cause,' he said softly. His expression was nakedly unguarded.

  That touched something within her, for she laid a gentle hand on his cheek.

  For the time being, that touch was more than he had hoped for. It made him feel instantly, immoderately happy.

  Then, afraid that his continued presence would only cause her more anguish, he got up, hurriedly dressed, and left.

  But not before brushing her lips with his. And feeling hers respond.

  She watched him walk to the door. 'Najib. . . '

  He stopped and turned around slowly.

  She took a deep breath. 'If only . . .' she began, and then sighed painfully. 'Go,' she whispered, shutting her eyes as though in immense pain. 'Go.'

  The Najah, Najib's sleek, Italian-built yacht, had taken two and a half days to reach Oman, and dropped anchor off Khaluf in the Arabian Sea. Captain Delcroix immediately telephoned Najib for further instructions, and to report that the helicopter was tuned up, fuelled, and ready to fly.

  'Stay anchored there until you receive further notice from me personally,' Najib instructed him.

  As he slowly replaced the receiver, Najib's lips were compressed into a thin, grim line. Slowly but surely, the logistics were all falling into place. Allah willing, the press conference would have no serious repercussions as far as Abdullah was concerned. It was time to have Daliah's Polaroid delivered.

  Chapter 19

  Six hours later, Abdullah returned from Tripoli and summoned Najib and Khalid to the majlis. As they approached, he held his hand out imperiously.

  Was the gesture more arrogant this time? Najib wondered. Or had it always been that disdainful?

  He took the dry calloused hand in his, raised it perfunctorily to his lips, and embraced his half-uncle.

  'Najib, my half-nephew.' Abdullah's eyes glittered with feverish excitement.

  'Half-uncle.' Najib pulled away and held Abdullah's gaze. 'I trust from the sound of your voice that things went satisfactorily in Tripoli?'

  Abdullah smiled, but his voice was reproving. 'You should know better than to hazard guesses. Things are not always as they appear.'

  'Indeed,' Najib allowed, 'often they are not.' He felt the beginnings of anger stirring within him, but he hid it well. Anger, as well as a myriad of other emotions and truths, could be superbly disguised with the expansive, flowery use of Arabic. But what rankled was the way his half-uncle always toyed with him. If Najib said the sky was blue, Abdullah was bound to say it was green. What he wanted to know was why. Why did Abdullah keep needling him? Ever since he could remember, Abdullah's choice of words and tone reflected an undisguised contempt for him.

  He stepped aside so that Abdullah could greet Khalid. As he watched them, Najib felt that something had changed. There was something different in Abdullah's bearing. He was more self-assured. His chest was puffed out further. He seemed to hold his head higher. They were not great changes, and much too subtle to notice unless one had known Abdullah for a long time; but he knew Abdullah well—far too well, he often thought. And there was a change.

  'Things went well. Very well indeed.' Abdullah allowed himself a smile and clasped his hands in front of him.

  Then Najib knew what it was that bothered him. Abdullah seemed younger and more excited than he had before Tripoli. The trip had seemingly rejuvenated him, had given him a burst of vitality and impetus. Even his green fatigues were different. They were no longer soft and they no longer sagged; they were more tightly tailored—starched stiff as cardboard, pressed, and creased. Qaddafi's influence, no doubt.

  'Muammar and I found much common ground,' Abdullah continued. 'And we had several highly inspirational discussions.' He looked from Najib to Khalid. 'I want you both to see what he has given me.' Smiling like a smug magician, he raised a hand and clicked his fingers once.

  From somewhere in the shadows behind him, two big men suddenly appeared and advanced soundlessly. They took up positions to either side of him. Both were armed and looked eminently capable, and beneath their headcloths, both had eyes hidden behind black wraparound sunglasses. And both, Najib noted, had that peculiarly expressionless robot air about them that he had noticed in other elite fighting forces. Zombies. For
all practical purposes, that was what they were: Abdullah's zombies.

  He felt a chill, sharp as a breath of arctic wind.

  'Let me introduce Colonel Qaddafi's gift to me. Surour and Ghazi. My Praetorian guards.' Abdullah seemed to swell with pride as he looked from Khalid to Najib. 'Muammar fears that there are elements around me who might wish to do me harm.' He smiled at Najib. 'The possibility exists, do you not think?'

  Najib nodded. 'There is always a possibility,' he said moderately, while inside him a sudden alertness started shrieking and shrilling: He suspects! He knows! You've fallen in love with Daliah Boralevi and told her you'd help her escape. And somehow he's found out!

  'Surour and Ghazi are sworn to protect me, and they will never leave my side. They will travel with me, eat with me, bathe with me, and sleep with me. One of them will always be awake, at my side, so I can sleep without fear.' Abdullah's eyes narrowed. 'They will do anything I ask of them. Anything! Let me demonstrate.' Excitedly Abdullah gestured for the four of them to follow him to a French card table set up in front of the windows. On it was an ordinary butcher-block carving board. Four ice picks and a felt pen were lined up on it.

  Abdullah's eyes searched Najib's, and then Khalid's. 'Long ago, you both swore allegiance to me,' he murmured. 'Do you remember?'

  Najib nodded and swallowed. He was starting to feel peculiarly queasy. How well he remembered that afternoon in the mountains of Syria when his wrist had been sliced open and his blood had merged with Abdullah's. Ever since, he had been in his half-uncle's clutches. How could he forget?

  Abdullah picked up the felt pen and uncapped it with a flourish. 'I want each of you to hold out your right hand, palmup.'

  Surour and Ghazi didn't hesitate. They pulled back their sleeves and held out their hands. Najib exchanged glances with Khalid, but Khalid's expression was guarded and unreadable. Slowly they both extended their hands also.

  One by one, Abdullah felt their hands with his fingers and carefully marked an X at a certain spot on the palm of each.

  'Notice how carefully I have marked those X's,' he pointed out. 'If your hands were to be X-rayed, you would discover that in the precise centre, where the two lines of the X cross each other, there is a small boneless spot. A mere hollow of flesh.'

  Najib felt himself reeling. Mere flesh? What did he mean by 'boneless' and 'mere flesh'? And what in all damnation were those grisly picks doing out?

  Seemingly unaware of Najib's horror, Abdullah picked up the ice picks by their thin long points and passed one to each man. When he was handed his, Najib almost dropped it. He glanced at Khalid. Khalid had been Abdullah's second-in-command for as long as he could remember, and he had always proved himself fearless. But like many a fearless man, the sight of his own blood—even the prospect of a hypodermic needle piercing his skin—was enough to send him into a dead faint. Najib noticed that Khalid was now hanging on by sheer willpower. His swarthy skin had turned pasty yellow, and his eyes seemed to roll up and flicker in their sockets. Another moment, Najib thought, and Khalid would be out cold on the floor.

  'I want to demonstrate just how dedicated Surour and Ghazi are to me,' Abdullah said. 'Then perhaps you will understand just how well they will guard me.' He nodded at the nearest man. 'Ghazi, you are first. Place your hand, palm-up, on the cutting board. Then stab the pick through the precise centre of the X and impale your hand.'

  Najib stared at Ghazi. If the big Libyan felt any emotion, he did not show it. He bent over the table, laid his hand, palm-up, on the cutting board, and poised the pick six inches above it. For an instant the long thin shaft of steel caught the light and gleamed. It wasn't even quivering. His hands were perfectly still.

  Then, with the speed of lightning, and without as much as a gasp of pain, he slammed it down through his hand.

  Najib turned swiftly away, but even though he didn't look, he could hear it. Abdullah either hadn't marked the X properly or Ghazi hadn't taken the time to line up the point exactly: the snapping crunch of breaking bone was unmistakable.

  Najib thought he might vomit.

  'I want you to look closely,' Abdullah said, a satisfied note in his voice. 'See what Ghazi has done to himself with not a moment's hesitation! Now do you understand his devotion? I give him but the word, and his life shall be mine!'

  Allah be merciful! And to think I helped that madman all these years!

  'I said—look!' Abdullah hissed so fiercely that Najib could feel the sour spray of spittle on his face.

  He forced himself to turn around and stare at that impaled hand with its wriggling fingers. His eyes kept trying to slide away, but somehow he held his gaze on that hand.

  'Shukkram, Ghazi,' Abdullah said. 'That is enough.'

  Najib watched in morbid fascination as Ghazi grasped the handle of the pick and, in one swift movement, and once again completely devoid of any emotion, pulled the pick free. A thin spray of blood squirted up and fell back like a silent red fountain. Then the spray stopped and the blood leaked out thickly, as if from a stigmata.

  The cutting board was a shiny pool of gleaming blood.

  Abdullah handed Ghazi a damask napkin, and the big Libyan wrapped it around his hand and stepped back.

  'Surour,' Abdullah said. 'You are next.'

  Najib turned away. He could not bear witness to this self-mutilation any longer. It was sick. No, it was worse than that. It was insane.

  'Half-uncle, please,' Najib said weakly. 'Enough is enough. We get your point.'

  Abdullah ignored him. 'Surour!' he commanded. 'Impale your hand.'

  Surour's pick flashed, but without the sickening crunch of bone.

  Then it was Khalid's turn.

  Shaking and white-faced, Khalid poised the pick above his palm. Then, before he could bring it down, he swayed on his feet, his eyes rolled inside their sockets, his eyelids fluttered like butterflies, and he dropped the pick as he fainted dead away.

  Abdullah turned to Najib triumphantly. 'Now perhaps you can see why I need my personal guards. Obviously, the men about me cannot be relied upon.' With his boot he rolled Khalid over in disgust. 'He has the heart of a chicken and the courage of a woman!' he spat contemptuously. 'How can I count on him to protect me in times of danger?'

  Najib's head was spinning out of control and he was weak-kneed from horror. He felt he should point out to Abdullah how devoted Khalid had always been, and how often he had put his life on the line, but his mouth was dry and bilious. It was all he could do to nod dumbly.

  'And now,' Abdullah said with a little taunting smile, 'it is your turn, Najib.'

  Najib went stone cold and time seemed to screech to a stop. He stared at Abdullah and then at the butcher block. Ghazi and Surour's blood was already coagulating, becoming a pool of thick red gelatin.

  'Najib?' Abdullah's voice was deceptively mild.

  Najib stared at him, then down at his palm. Slowly he raised his hand to his eyes. He stared at his palm. The X was smearing from the sudden sweat he had broken out in, and what was left of the mark seemed to pulsate and throb, becoming bigger and smaller, bigger and smaller, as though coming closer and receding again. As though it were a beating heart.

  Sweat was beginning to drip down his forehead too, and his lips were twisted into a moist grimace. He stared at that pulsating X with such concentration that the tears stood out in his eyes and a silver thread of saliva drooled out of the corner of his lips.

  'Well?' Abdullah said softly. He placed a hand on Najib's forearm and forced his hand down on the bloodied board. He looked into Najib's eyes.

  Najib took a deep breath and held it. He poised the point of the pick an inch above the centre of the X. He was shaking so hard that the point kept wavering back and forth.

  He couldn't. He just couldn't!

  But he knew he had to. If he didn't, Allah alone knew what Abdullah might do to him. Have him assassinated? And then what would happen to Daliah?

  She would be at the mercy of that merciless madman, wi
th no one in the world to turn to for help. If he refused to impale his hand, he might very well be signing her death warrant.

  'Must I doubt your allegiance?' Abdullah's voice turned hard.

  The sweat was pouring off Najib in a sheet now, dripping down on the butcher block, glistening on the blood. Gritting his teeth, he clutched the ice pick with all his might and let out a grunt. In a single surge of blinding strength, and imagining her face, her eyes—those hypnotic green striated jewels—he let out a scream that came out 'Aaah!' and with all his might slammed the pick down through the air, through his hand, and into the thick block of wood underneath it.

  The pain was like a burst of lightning as the ice pick's silvery steel shaft punched through his flesh. Abruptly he let go and stared at his impaled hand in horror. The handle quivered back and forth and . . . and he could even move his fingers. He wiggled them, then clenched them halfway. A sense of ridiculous triumph filled him to bursting. He had managed to do it. Because of Daliah, he had been able to, and he felt a savage joy. Surprisingly, there was very little blood.

  'Very good.' Abdullah nodded, his eyes gleaming. 'That is enough,' he said gently. 'Pull it back out.'

  For some reason, it seemed to take more effort to pull the pick out than it had taken to plunge it in. Grabbing hold of the shaft, Najib squeezed his eyes shut and in a massive single pull yanked it out of his hand.

  The blood spurted now, raining all around in thick droplets.

  Abdullah handed him another heavy damask napkin. With his left hand, Najib gave it a shake to unfold it, and wrapped it tenderly around his injured hand.

  Abdullah smiled suddenly. 'Now that that is done,' he said with all the politeness of a Beverly Hills hostess, 'let us transfer to the dining room. The food should have been prepared by now.'

  As though, Najib thought weakly, his stomach churning, any of us has an appetite left after this.

  He held up his injured hand. 'I will be back momentarily to join you in the dining room. First, I want to wash this.'