Spy Dance

by Allan Topol

  The croupier dealt the cards facedown—two for the other players who were a unit for purposes of the hand, and two for David, who held the bank. David glanced at his cards. A four and five—la grande—a natural. The best hand you could get. He flipped the cards over, as did his opponents with a three and a two. David had won as banker, and the entire $16,000 remained in the bank. This process was repeated two more times with David prevailing. Now there was $64,000 in the bank.

  Under house rules, David now had the option of pulling $32,000 out of the bank and making it a very profitable night regardless of what happened, which was how he usually played. But tonight the German was glaring at him across the table; the Frenchman was cursing; and the American looked puzzled as he continued to draw thousand-dollar bills out of his pocket. David had an instinctive feeling in his gut that he could keep riding this wave a little longer. In a move that he would later consider soundly aggressive or unduly reckless, he left the entire $64,000 in the bank.

  That move was met with whispers around the room. People who weren’t playing at other tables suddenly gathered at the chemin de fer table to watch the excitement. The brunette stopped playing blackjack and moved up behind David. Bruno Wolk remained seated, listening for the croupier’s call of the numbers.

  The bank was split among the other three players, with the German picking up half and the other two players splitting the remainder.

  After two cards were dealt to each side facedown, the player side asked for another card. Dealt faceup, it was a seven. David looked at his cards. He had an ace and a five, totaling six. He would have preferred standing and not having to draw another card, which was likely to push him further away from the optimum total of nine, but that wasn’t an option under the rules of the game. The croupier slipped a card faceup out of the shoe. David held his breath and looked down. It was a two. He breathed a sigh of relief. David didn’t have to wait to see his opponents’ cards. The Frenchman’s angry pounding of a fist on the table told him the result.

  Now the bank went to $128,000. David looked down at the huge pile of chips in the center of the table. He closed his eyes for an instant, trying to decide what to do. Let it all ride one more time, he decided, as a ripple of tension spread through his body.

  Before the other three parties had a chance to split up the new bank, the German shouted, “Banco” from across the table, which meant he would bet the entire $128,000 against David.

  All the other games in the room stopped as the patrons lined up two and three deep around the chemin de fer table. A heavy tension hung over the room, as the croupier dealt each player two cards.

  David peeked at his cards. They were a two and a three. Ugh, he thought, not a great hand.

  The German took another card. It was dealt faceup—a four.

  Now David had a choice, one of the few times a player ever did. He could stick with his five, or he could draw another card. Possible calculations and percentages ran through his brain as he also recalled and counted mentally the cards that had been played so far from the shoe since they had been shuffled. The brunette was leaning in close to him, looking over his shoulder, but he had no idea she was there. All he could see was the cards. He finally decided that the odds, by a narrow amount, favored drawing another card.

  “Card, please,” he said to the croupier.

  The room was deathly still.

  Faceup, the croupier slipped a card out of the shoe. It was a four. David took a deep breath. The worst he could do was tie if the German’s cards totaled nine as well. The German was feeling bullish as he turned over his two down cards—a nine and a five, which with the four gave him a hand worth eight points. The only thing that could beat him was a nine. Finally, he thought he had David nailed.

  David was totally deadpan when he flipped over his cards. Shouts went up in the crowd.

  David had enough. Any more would be letting greed push his luck. He decided to cash his chips. As he collected them, he heard the Frenchman say to a friend who had come over to the table, “Tonight was a bad idea. I should have put all of my money into that long-term contract for Saudi crude.”

  “That may be pretty risky, too,” his friend said.

  “Nope. A sure thing. You can take it to the bank.”

  David thought back to what Bruno had said at dinner. Balls were in play in Saudi Arabia. It didn’t surprise him to learn there was a French involvement. Whenever there was money to be made in the Middle East, the French were always involved.

  He found Bruno and his friend sipping Armagnac at a small table in a corner of a the room. David joined them, and a waiter hustled over with a bottle of 1918 Armagnac.

  “Claudia, meet David,” Bruno said, “This young man’s the mathematical genius I was telling you about. He has a photographic memory for numbers and cards. Anything mathematical.”

  David blushed. “I’m not so young.”

  “So how much did we win tonight, partner?” Bruno asked.

  “Enough to cover dinner, I’m pleased to report, but not the Armagnac.”

  * * *

  Less than 200 miles away, Jacqueline Blanc thought with contempt, Americans are such fools. Like small children, they can be manipulated by catering to their egos, to do what you want. So she carefully orchestrated their second meeting. This time in Zurich, a month after they had met in Madrid.

  For the venue, she selected the Dolder Grand. From the moment he checked in, he would sense the history in the old stone walls of the hotel. Great men of the world, including Winston Churchill and Albert Einstein, had frequently stayed at this majestic hotel, nestled in a forest high above the lake. He would read the historical plaques and feel like one of them.

  She had told him to order dinner from room service, and when the côte de veau arrived, it wasn’t accompanied by the pleasant St. Emilion he had ordered, but by an incredible 1982 Châteaux Margaux that she had arranged. Also on the tray was a bottle of fifty-year-old Remy Martin.

  Let him ponder his situation while he ate. She was literally holding out the golden ring to him. Did he dare to take it? Still, she didn’t delude herself with atmospherics. There were issues of substance as well. In Madrid, he had raised serious operational problems.

  At ten minutes before midnight, as she had promised, she tapped lightly on the inside door leading to the adjacent suite. Quickly, he moved to unbolt it. Looking prototypically French, with her dyed black hair tied up tightly in a bun in the back, and dressed in a blue-and-orange plaid suit by Givenchy, she greeted him with a nod. She could have been going to the opera.

  As she glanced around the suite, she saw the remnants of dinner pushed into a corner. Very little wine remained in the bottle.

  “They took care of you adequately ?” she asked.

  “I appreciate your planning.”

  In her hand she held two Cohibas. She flipped one to him. The other she lit for herself, puffed deeply, then walked over to the bar and poured a solid measure of cognac in a snifter.

  “You had a good flight from Paris?” he said.

  Small talk was over as far as she was concerned. It was time for business now. Brusquely she asked, “Have you had a chance to think about the operation I’m planning for Saudi Arabia?”

  “I haven’t thought about anything else.”

  “I need to know now. Are you in or out?”

  “I have some serious questions about what you’re planning to do.” There was hesitation in his voice, tinged with fear.

  “This isn’t a morality exercise.”

  “No, I mean operational issues. The ones I raised with you in Madrid.”

  “I have more details in place now. You want me to run through them with you?”

  “Yes, they’re important to me. I don’t want to be part of an operation that’s going to fail.”

  She looked at him with contempt. What kind of fool did he think she was? “Nor do I,” she replied in a cold tone that cut through him.

  For the next fifteen minutes,
he listened in silence while she reviewed the newest details of the operation. At the end, she said, “So are you in or out?”

  “There are still plenty of loose ends,” he said, and he proceeded to tick them off for her.

  She shrugged. “Life always has risks. I need an answer tonight.”

  She could tell he was hesitating, as he rolled the unlit cigar around in his mouth, thinking. She didn’t want to push him too hard for fear he’d fall the wrong way. Like a predator held at bay, she walked over to the window and looked out into the thick mist rising from the lake in the city below, enveloping the hotel, which resembled a gray stone medieval fortress. She had spent the last forty years studying men like him. She knew what was running through his mind. He wanted the reward. Were the risks too great? Could he rationalize what she was asking him to do.

  She opened the window halfway, puffed again on the cigar and blew the smoke toward the night air outside.

  He looked past her through the open window toward the fog outside—so thick you could cut it with a knife. What he would be doing, if he took her offer, was in the best interests of the United States. As for the financial reward he would receive, $60 million was a great deal of money. No question about it. But he deserved it. Every cent. He was entitled to it.

  Finally, she heard the voice behind her say in a firm, measured tone. “Count me in.”

  Trying hard to conceal her excitement, she turned slowly and said, “Then I can depend on you to deliver Washington on this, as we discussed?”

  “Affirmative.”

  But for emphasis, and to make certain there was no ambiguity, she rephrased the question. “Are you telling me that the U.S. government won’t intervene, that they’ll sit on the sidelines?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “And how do you intend to achieve this result?”

  “That, Madame Blanc, is my responsibility.” he said irritably.

  Clearly she had pushed him to the limit. That’s the way she liked dealing with men.

  “However, the question of timing is critical,” he added. “Schedule the attack for October 6. That’s exactly one month before the date of Waltham’s reelection, which is all he cares about. That close to November 6, there’s less chance of American military intervention. The last thing he’d want is American casualties and the arrival of body bags being shown on the evening news.”

  She paused to sip some cognac, thinking about what he had just said. He was right, of course. He had good political instincts. She would follow his recommendation.

  Satisfied, she handed him two three-by-five white cards with several paragraphs of printing.

  “They describe,” she explained, “the account I’ve opened in your name at Credit Suisse on the Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich. You sign one card now and give it to me. I’ll see that it’s delivered to the bank. The other one’s for you. My suggestion is that you memorize the account number and bank regulations. Then destroy the card.”

  He picked up a pen from the hotel desk and stared for a long minute at the two bank cards. He was aware of the risks in what he was doing, but accepting the money didn’t bother him. He believed that what he was doing was right and that he deserved it. With a flourish, he signed one card and returned it to her.

  “Tomorrow morning,” she said, “the first installment, of fifteen million dollars, will be deposited into the account. Identical payments will be made on the first day of October, November and December, when the operation will be over. On my books the payments will be shown to Henri Napoleon, which will be your code name should you need to communicate with me.” She handed him a small piece of paper with a Paris telephone number. “This is for any urgent communications, although for your sake, I hope that you will never have to use it. Is all that clear enough?”

  He nodded.

  “Good, then we’re finished,” she said curtly. With that, she placed her cigar in an ashtray, took a final sip of cognac, let it roll around in her mouth before swallowing and headed toward the connecting door to the adjacent suite.

  “You don’t have to leave now,” he said.

  She sneered at him. “If you want some female company, mon chere, call the concierge. This is Europe, my friend. Even at this hour I’m sure that he’ll be able to supply as many girls as you’d like. As for me, I prefer much younger men. They’re more dependable. Their pricks rise on demand. That’s the way I like it.”

  Embarrassed, he said, “That’s not what I meant.”

  “With me, monsieur, you have only one task to perform. Since you’ve already been paid a substantial amount, I’d urge you to make sure that task is performed as promised. If not...,” she paused for emphasis and rolled her hand into a fist, “well, I wouldn’t like to think about what will happen.”

  The woman’s a monster, he thought.

  As she crossed through the connecting door, she summed up the situation to herself. First, Khalid and now the American. She needed one more piece to fall into place, the elusive Greg Nielsen, and then her plan couldn’t fail. The prize of at least $500 million a year would be hers for the foreseeable future. She would give Victor a little more time to bring Nielsen around. If he couldn’t do it his way, then she would turn up the pressure on Nielsen herself.

  * * *

  David took a circuitous route back to Israel: a train to Milan, Al Italia to Athens and Al El to Israel. He didn’t want to leave a trail that could be followed back to Lausanne or Montreaux.

  It was almost four in the afternoon when he walked into the High-Tech Center of the kibbutz. Surprisingly, the usually dour Batya had a smile on her face. He thought she was almost excited as she handed him a fax that had arrived from Tokyo and another from Paris.

  “Good news,” she said. “The Toyota people will come here on November 15 for a visit, and Renault wants you back in Paris for a follow-up meeting next week.”

  Batya didn’t feel the need to apologize for reading messages addressed to him. They were a single unit on the kibbutz and in the High-Tech Center. Privacy meant nothing.

  “When you got back from Paris the last time, I told you that you were too pessimistic,” she said. “Your first meeting with them didn’t go as badly as you thought.”

  He looked at the fax from Renault. They wanted him in Paris for a meeting next Wednesday morning at nine o’clock. All he could think about was Maria Clermont and her death. Was he being set up again? Or was this a genuine expression of business interest on the part of Renault—unrelated to his own past or what had happened when he was with Maria. He wanted to believe that this was just a good business development. He could see signs that pointed to this conclusion. The last time, he had traveled to Paris at kibbutz expense and stayed at a small fleabag hotel on the Left Bank, close to Daphna so they could have dinner. This time Renault had reserved a room for him at the Bristol. The Toyota fax was even better. Four executives would be coming from the Japanese automaker. They had to be close to signing.

  As he left Batya, David had almost convinced himself that the contents of both of these messages were good news. He had worked hard to develop this new software package. Ford was a wonderful customer, but the kibbutz needed a second one.

  By the time he reached his office and prepared to assemble the other members of the team to convey the news, he had rejected all of his attempts at rationalization. He had learned long ago that when unusual events occur at the same time, it usually isn’t coincidence, but manipulation by sinister forces. Kourosh’s death, which had involved a trip to Rome, the assassination attempts on him in Paris and London, and now this unexpected summons to Paris on short notice. Then there was the Frenchman’s comment in the casino the other night about an anticipated sharp increase in the price of Saudi crude.

  Somehow these were related. He didn’t think Renault was involved, but whoever was responsible knew somebody at Renault who would cooperate with them to lure him to Paris.

  If some type of Saudi oil conspiracy was b
eing developed, perhaps that would be his Trojan horse, his way of getting at Nasser, to repay him for Yael’s death. He’d have to be patient, as Bruno had advised, but patience never came easy for David.

  * * *

  As the super-long white Lincoln stretch limo pulled away from the airport in Riyadh, the Saudi prince was alone in the backseat, dressed in a long white cotton thobe and traditional headdress. His Savile Row clothes were packed in the four suitcases in the trunk. Up front next to the driver sat the prince’s bodyguard, nervously gripping his machine gun. In recent weeks there had been terrorist attacks on members of the royal family, but the prince wasn’t worried. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Though it was almost midnight, he wasn’t trying to sleep after the long trip from Los Angeles. He was replaying in his mind how much he had enjoyed the last week. His friends liked London, but he much preferred Los Angeles, even though the whole city was run by the filthy Zionists. Since the Sultan of Brunei had taken over the Beverly Hills Hotel, it existed as an oasis in this Zionist world. And what an oasis. He and the six other men with him plus their four bodyguards had taken over an entire floor to ensure privacy. Except for the twenty-four hours they spent in Las Vegas, which had been such a financial disaster he didn’t want to think about it, they had hardly ever left the hotel. And there was no need to. Any food they wanted—Russian beluga caviar, the finest steaks, the best chocolates—were brought up to the floor on demand. He gained so much weight. He must be up to two hundred and forty pounds now.

  There had been bottles and bottles of cold Dom Perignon night and day and Lafite Rothschild—another Zionist—with the steaks. The cocaine had been pure white. The finest he had ever used, and he considered himself a connoisseur.

  Best of all were the girls. Every morning at ten that woman—what was her name?—Veronica—would show up with pictures of nude girls. All they had to do was pick as many as they wanted. At twenty thousand dollars for each twenty-four hours, those girls would stay as long as they wanted and do anything that he and his friends wanted, although, he was having trouble getting hard these days, which after all could happen to men after they’d reached the age of forty. And the girls seemed happy to watch television with him in bed.