The Eight

by Katherine Neville

  They’d rearranged the restaurant so there were five long rows of tables stretching from where we stood to the far side, perhaps a hundred feet away. Around the center floor was a raised U-shaped terrazzo with brass railings overlooking the main floor, where loftier dignitaries had been seated. Even from here the array of power was impressive. Here were not only the oil ministers, but the rulers as well, of every OPEC nation. Uniforms with gold braid, embroidered robes with leopard pillbox hats, white robes, and charcoal business suits all mingled together in a colorful mélange.

  Our surly door guard relieved my soldier of his weapon and gestured to the marble terrace a few feet above the crowd. The soldier marched before me between the long rows of white-clothed tables to the short staircase at center. As we crossed I could see the horrified expression on Kamel’s face from thirty paces. I went up to the table, the soldier clicked his heels, and Kamel rose to his feet.

  “Mademoiselle Velis!” said Kamel. He turned to the soldier. “Thank you for bringing our esteemed associate to our table, Officer. Was she lost?” He was looking at me from the corner of his eye as if I’d soon have some explaining to do.

  “In the pine forest, Minister,” said the soldier. “An unfortunate mishap involving a dog. We understood she was expected at your table.…” He glanced at the table, completely filled with men, where no place was set for me.

  “You’ve done quite well, Officer,” Kamel said. “You may return to your post. Your swift action will not be forgotten.” The soldier clicked again and departed.

  Kamel was waving his hand for a passing waiter and asked him to set up another place setting. He remained standing until the chair arrived, then we took our seats. Kamel was introducing me around.

  “Minister Yamini,” he said, indicating the plump, pink, angelic-faced Saudi OPEC minister to my right, who nodded politely and half rose. “Mademoiselle Velis is the American expert who created the brilliant computer system and the analyses I spoke of at this afternoon’s meeting,” he added. Minister Yamini raised an eyebrow to show he was impressed.

  “You already know Minister Belaid, I believe,” Kamel went on as Abdel-salaam Belaid, who’d signed my contract, rose with a twinkle in his eye and pressed my hand. His walnut complexion and smooth skin, his silvery temples and shiny balding head, reminded me of an elegant mafia capo.

  Minister Belaid turned to his right to speak to his table companion, who was busily engaged in conversation with his other neighbor. The two men broke off to look at him, and I turned green as I recognized them.

  “Mademoiselle Catherine Velis, our computer expert,” said Belaid in his whispering voice. The long sad face of the president of Algeria, Houari Boumédienne, looked once at me, then back at his chief minister, as if wondering what the hell I was doing there. Belaid shrugged his shoulders with a noncommittal smile.

  “Enchanté,” said the president.

  “King Faisal of Saudi Arabia,” continued Belaid, indicating the intense, hawklike man who peered at me from beneath his white headdress. He did not smile but merely nodded once in my direction.

  I picked up the wineglass before me and took a healthy slug. How in God’s name was I going to tell Kamel what was going on—and how was I going to get out of here to rescue Lily? With table companions like these, I could hardly excuse myself, even to go to the bathroom.

  Just then there was a sudden commotion down on the main floor a few feet below us. Everyone turned to see what was going on. The floor was crowded—there must have been six hundred men filling the room. All were seated except the waiters, who were scurrying about setting forth the baskets of bread, plates of crudités, and refills of water and wine. But a tall, dark man had entered, dressed in a long white robe. His handsome face was a dark mask of passion as he moved down the long row of tables, swinging a riding crop. The waiters, cowering in clusters, were making no move to stop him. I stared in disbelief as I watched him flick the crop at tables on either side as he passed, sweeping the wine bottles in fury to the floor. All the diners sat in silence as he moved along the rows, bottles crashing to his right and left.

  With a sigh, Boumédienne rose from our table and spoke quickly to the majordomo, who’d hurried to his side. Then Algeria’s sad-eyed president left and descended to the floor, where he waited for the handsome man to reach him in his swift strides down the rows.

  “Who is that guy?” I whispered to Kamel.

  “Muammar Khaddafi. Of Libya,” Kamel said quietly. “He made a speech at the conference today about how the followers of al-Islam should not drink. I see he means to follow his words with actions. He’s quite mad. They say he’s hired assassins in Europe to attack prominent OPEC ministers.”

  “I know,” said the cherubic Yamini, dimpling with a smile. “My name is very high on the list.” It didn’t seem to concern him much. He helped himself to a stick of celery and munched it complacently.

  “But why?” I whispered to Kamel. “Just because they drink?”

  “Because we insist upon making the embargo economic rather than political,” he replied. Lowering his voice, he said through clenched teeth, “Now that we have a moment, just what is going on? Where have you been? Sharrif has turned this country upside down looking for you. Though he’ll hardly arrest you here, you’re in serious trouble.”

  “I know,” I whispered back, looking down on the floor, where Boumédienne was speaking quietly with Khaddafi, his long sad face lowered so I couldn’t read its expression. The diners were picking up the wine bottles and handing them, dripping, to waiters, who surreptitiously replaced them with fresh ones.

  “I’ve got to speak with you alone,” I went on. “Your Persian pal has got my friend. Half an hour ago I was swimming down the coast. There’s a wet dog in my duffel bag—and something more that might interest you. I have to get out of here.…”

  “Good Lord,” said Kamel softly. “You mean you actually have them? Here?” He looked around at the other diners, camouflaging his panic with a smile.

  “So you are in the Game,” I whispered, smiling myself.

  “Why do you think I brought you here?” Kamel whispered back. “It cost me bloody hell trying to explain when you disappeared just before the conference.”

  “We can discuss that later. For now, I’ve got to get out of here and rescue Lily.”

  “Leave it to me—we’ll do something. Where is she?”

  “La Madrague,” I said under my breath.

  Kamel gaped at me, but just then Houari Boumédienne returned to the table and resumed his seat. Everyone smiled in his direction, and King Faisal spoke in English.

  “Our Colonel Khaddafi is not the sort of fool he looks,” he said, his large, liquid falcon’s eyes trained on the president of Algeria. “You remember at the conference of unaligned nations, when someone complained of Castro’s presence—what he said?” The king turned to Yamini, his minister, to my right. “Colonel Khaddafi said that if any country was barred from Third World participation by virtue of receiving money from the two superpowers, then we should all pack our bags and go home. He finished by reading a list of the financial and arms arrangements of half the countries present—quite accurate, I might add. I should not write him off as a religious zealot. Not at all.”

  Boumédienne was looking at me now. He was a man of mystery. No one knew his age, his background, or even his birthplace. Since his success spearheading the revolution ten years before, and the subsequent “coup militaire” that left him president of the country, he’d brought Algeria to the forefront of OPEC and made her the Switzerland of the Third World.

  “Mademoiselle Velis,” he said, addressing me directly for the first time, “in your work for the ministry, have you ever made the acquaintance of Colonel Khaddafi?”

  “Never,” I said.

  “That’s odd,” said Boumédienne. “For he noticed you at our table as we were speaking below, and said something that seemed to indicate otherwise.”

  I felt Kamel stiffen besi
de me. He gripped my arm forcefully beneath the table. “Really?” he said casually. “And what was that, Mr. President?”

  “Just a case of mistaken identity, I suppose,” said the president in an offhand way, turning his large dark eyes on Kamel. “He asked if she was the one.”

  “The one?” said Minister Belaid, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I suppose,” said the president casually, “he meant the one who’d prepared these computer projections we’ve heard so much about from Kamel Kader.” Then he turned away.

  I started to speak to Kamel under my breath, but he shook his head and turned to his boss, Belaid. “Catherine and I should like the opportunity to review the figures before they’re presented tomorrow. Is it possible we could excuse ourselves from the banquet? Otherwise, I fear we’ll be up all night working.”

  Belaid did not believe a word of this, as was clear from his expression. “I’d like a word with you first,” he said, rising and drawing Kamel aside. I got up, too, toying idly with my napkin. Yamini leaned forward.

  “It’s been a pleasure having you at my table, regardless how brief a time,” he assured me with a dimpled smile.

  Belaid was standing near the wall whispering to Kamel as waiters rushed by bearing platters of steaming food. As I approached, he said, “Mademoiselle, we thank you for all you’ve accomplished in our behalf. Don’t keep Kamel Kader up too late.” He went back to the table.

  “Can we split now?” I whispered to Kamel.

  “Yes, at once,” he said, taking me by the arm and hurrying me down the stairs. “Abdelsalaam received a message from the secret police that they’re looking for you. They said you escaped arrest at La Madrague. He learned of it during dinner. He places you in my trust rather than turning you in at once. I hope you understand the position you put me in if you disappear again.”

  “For God’s sake,” I hissed at him as we plowed our way among the tables, “you know why I went to the desert. And you know where we’re going now! It’s I who should ask the questions here. Why didn’t you tell me you were involved in the Game? Is Belaid a player, too? How about Therese? And what about that Muslim crusader from Libya who said he knew me—what was that all about?”

  “I only wish I knew,” said Kamel grimly. He tossed a nod to the guard, who bowed as we passed. “We’ll take my car to La Madrague. You must tell me everything that’s happened so we can help your friend.”

  We got into his car in the dimly lighted parking lot. He turned to me in the darkness so only the glint of his yellow eyes reflected the glow of the street lamps. I filled him in quickly on Lily’s plight, then asked him about Minnie Renselaas.

  “I have known Mokhfi Mokhtar since childhood,” he said. “She chose my father for a mission—to form an alliance with El-Marad and penetrate white territory, the mission that resulted in his death. Therese worked for my father. Now, though she works at the Poste Centrale, she actually serves Mokhfi Mokhtar, as do her children.”

  “Her children?” I said, trying to visualize the flamboyant switchboard operator as a mother.

  “Valerie and Michel,” said Kamel. “You’ve met the boy Michel, I believe. He calls himself Wahad.…”

  So Wahad was Therese’s child! The plot was as thick as pea soup—and since I no longer believed in coincidences, I tucked in the back of my mind the information that Valerie was also the name of a housemaid who worked in the employ of Harry Rad. But I had bigger fish to fry than singling out the pawns.

  “I don’t get it,” I interrupted. “If your father was sent on this mission and he failed—that means the white team got whatever pieces he was after, right? So when does the Game ever end? When someone collects all the pieces?”

  “Sometimes I think this game will never be over,” said Kamel bitterly, starting the car and pulling out down the long road that led past high walls of cactus on the way out of Sidi-Fredj. “But your friend’s life will be, if we don’t reach La Madrague soon.”

  “Are you enough of a big cheese to waltz in and demand they give her back?”

  Kamel smiled coldly in the reflection of the dashboard lights. We were pulling up to the roadblock Lily and I had seen coming the other way. He flipped his pass out the window, and the guard motioned him by.

  “The only thing El-Marad would rather have than your friend,” he said calmly, “is what you claim you have in that duffel bag. And I’m not referring to the dog. Do you think it a fair trade?”

  “You mean give him the pieces in exchange for Lily?” I said, aghast. Then I realized that was probably the only way we’d get in and out of there alive. “Couldn’t we just give him one of the pieces?” I suggested.

  Kamel laughed, then reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Once he knows you have them,” he said, “El-Marad will sweep us from the board.”

  Why hadn’t we brought a bunch of soldiers with us, or even some OPEC delegates? I could’ve used that fanatical Khaddafi with his riding crop right about now, sweeping down on his enemies like a one-man Mongol horde. But instead I had the charming Kamel, going to his death with perfect composure and dignity, just as his father might have done ten years before.

  Instead of stopping the car before the lighted pub, where our rental car still sat, Kamel proceeded down the port through the one short block of deserted town. He stopped at the end, where a flight of steps ran up the steep cliff that sheltered the tiny curve of inlet. There wasn’t a soul in sight, and the wind had come up, driving scudding clouds across the broad surface of the moon. We got out, and Kamel pointed to the top of the cliff, where a small but lovely house sat among the ice plants that toppled over the rocky slope. On the sea side, the cliff sheared off and dropped a hundred feet to the water below.

  “El-Marad’s summer home,” Kamel said softly. There were lights on in the house, and as we started our ascent of the rickety wooden stairs, I heard the commotion from within, echoing down the cliff. I could make out Lily’s voice, screaming above the sloshing of the waves.

  “You put one hand on me, you trashy dog assassin,” she yelled, “and it’s the last thing you ever do!”

  Kamel glanced at me in the moonlight with a smile. “Perhaps she doesn’t need our help,” he said.

  “She’s talking to Sharrif,” I told him. “He’s the one who threw her dog in the drink.” Carioca was already making noises inside my bag. I put my hand in and scratched him on the head. “Time to do your stuff, little fluff,” I told him, extracting him from the bag.

  “I think you should go back down and get the car running,” whispered Kamel, handing me the car key. “Let me do the rest.”

  “Not on your life,” I told him, my anger rising at the scuffling sounds I heard coming from the house above. “Let’s take them by surprise.” I put Carioca on the steps, and he bounced up them like a crazy Ping-Pong ball. Kamel and I were right behind him. I held on to the car key.

  The entrance to the house was through the bank of French windows that ran along the sea side. The path leading to them, I observed, was balanced precipitously close to the ledge, separated only by a low rock wall draped with nasturtiums. This might work to our advantage.

  Carioca was already squeaking his little claws across the glass doors as I came around the side and quickly glanced inside to case the joint. Three thugs were leaning against the left wall, their jackets open so you could see their shoulder holsters. The floor was slippery enamel tile in blue and gold. At the center, Lily sat on a chair with Sharrif hovering over her. She leapt up when she heard Carioca’s ruckus, and Sharrif slammed her back down again. It looked like there was a bruise on her cheek. In the far corner of the room sat El-Marad in a pile of cushions. He idly moved a chess piece across the board on the low copper table before him.

  Sharrif had wheeled to the windows, where we stood illuminated by the spotty moonlight. I swallowed hard and put my face up to the glass panes so he could see me.

  “Five of them, three and a half of us,” I whispered to K
amel, who stood silently beside me as Sharrif moved toward the door, gesturing for his cohorts to keep their weapons sheathed. “You take the thugs. I’ll take El-Marad. I believe Carioca has already chosen his poison,” I added as Sharrif opened the door a crack.

  Glancing down at his little arch nemesis, Sharrif said, “You come in—but it stays outside.”

  I shoved Carioca to one side so Kamel and I could enter.

  “You saved him!” cried Lily, beaming at me. Then, sneering at Sharrif, she added, “People who threaten defenseless animals are just trying to cover up their own impotence.…”

  Sharrif was moving toward her as if to strike her again when El-Marad spoke softly from the corner, glancing at me with a sinister smile.

  “Mademoiselle Velis,” he said, “how very fortunate you’ve returned—and with an escort. One would have thought Kamel Kader more intelligent than to bring you to me twice. But now that we’re all here …”

  “Let’s skip the pleasantries,” I said, crossing the room toward him. As I passed Lily, I pressed the car key into her palm and whispered, “The door—now.”

  “You know what we’re here for,” I said to El-Marad as I kept on moving.

  “And you know what I want,” he told me. “Shall we call it a trade?”

  I stopped beside his low table and glanced over my shoulder. Kamel had positioned himself near the thugs and was asking one of them for a light for the cigarette he had cupped in his hands. Lily was at the French windows with Sharrif just behind. She’d crouched down and was tapping on the glass with her long red fingernails as Carioca’s slobbering tongue licked the other side. We were all in position—it was now or never.

  “My friend the minister doesn’t seem to think you’re exactly scrupulous about keeping bargains,” I told the carpet trader. He looked up and started to speak, but I interrupted. “But if it’s the pieces you want,” I said, “here they are!”