by Allan Topol
“I know what it means. I’m not a fool,” she shouted, pounding her fist hard on the desk. Who the hell does Khalid think he is? I’ll smash his balls.
Suddenly she had an idea. “How much would you want to have your people disregard this order and stay to defend me?”
He was breathing deeply now. His hand was shaking so much he could barely hold the phone. Outside, a car and driver were waiting to take him to Dubai and freedom. Don’t be greedy, he told himself. With the money he now had in the bank, he’d be a fool to do what she was asking.
“I’m very sorry, madame, that’s not an option.”
She wasn’t surprised to hear his reply. When she hung up the phone, she began thinking. What was Khalid up to? If he wanted to kill her or oust her himself, he’d send people to do that once the Global guards were gone. Instead, he’d set up an elaborate plan to let someone else come in and pull her out. Who? Why?
She closed her eyes, put her head in her hands and leaned forward on the desk, racking her brain for an answer. Suddenly, it hit her like a sledgehammer pounding on her chest. David Ben Aaron. Greg Nielsen. The man who had conveniently disappeared after he developed the plan of attack for her. She realized now that she had made a blunder of epic proportions. Victor had been right. She should never have gotten David into the plan, regardless of what Khalid said. She should have persuaded the Saudi colonel to work with her even without David. What struck her now was that if David and Khalid had been so close five years ago that Khalid recognized him by his limp and knew the information David had, then there was always the risk that David and Khalid would join forces against her. The three of them were caught up in a vicious circle. She was coming out on the losing end, and she should have realized that from the beginning.
She grabbed a bunch of her hair in her hand, wanting to tear it out. She was so furious at herself. Then she began thinking again. From Victor’s dossier and everything David had done with her so far, she knew one thing: he was always the solo player, always acting alone. That’s how he would come for her, by himself. Somehow he’d plan to get her out of Saudi Arabia and back to Israel, to stand trial for the murder of that Israeli kid. She reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a Beretta. With the gun in her hand, she crossed into the bathroom and located a small but extremely sharp switchblade knife she always kept in her cosmetic kit. After slipping that into the pocket of her jeans, she returned to the desk, laid the gun down close to her right hand and waited.
An hour later, Madame Blanc heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching helicopter. Very good, David, she thought. Neat and clean. No one on the ground to observe what happens. She peeked out of a tiny opening in the curtains. From pictures she had seen, she immediately recognized Daphna behind the controls. And there he was in the back of the chopper. All alone. Of course, he wouldn’t want help. The solo player. Anxious to gain revenge. Well, come on, David, she thought. I’m ready for you.
Chapter 20
Daphna landed the helicopter in the middle of a white circle in the center of the Hyatt roof. David jumped out and walked over to the three-foot-high metal railing that ran around the perimeter of the roof. He wanted to see what the situation was forty-eight floors below, in front of the hotel. All was quiet there. Several blocks away in each direction there were celebrations of the fall of the House of Saud, with people blasting car horns, and women walking freely in the streets with other women. He was relieved that there didn’t seem to be any violence.
As he and Daphna walked down the inside staircase that led to the penthouse floor, each had a pistol in a shoulder holster under a jacket. David also carried a black leather bag that held two tear gas canisters, a gun for firing them and gas masks. He had gotten all of the weapons at the American base, courtesy of General McCallister, who was following Margaret Joyner’s instructions to give David what he wanted.
Before opening the door that led to the forty-eighth floor, David grabbed Daphna by the arm. With a stern look and an even sterner voice, he said to her, “Now, let’s go over this one more time. You speak good Arabic. Your job is to wheel the room service table to the door, make your statement in Arabic and once she opens the door, you run back to the helicopter and wait for me. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m not kidding, Daphna. I really mean it. If anything goes wrong in that suite, it’s going to happen to me alone. Khalid radioed us the name and location of the base. You get your ass in the chopper and fly to that base. He’ll get you back to Israel.”
“I understand.”
He wasn’t convinced that she did. So he tried once more. “And the only point of you having that pistol is if someone tries to stop you from lifting off. You got that?”
“I got it.”
“Then repeat it.”
She did, all the while thinking to herself, There’s no way I’m going to leave you alone down here.
David opened the door slowly and peered out at a penthouse floor, deserted except for two of Khalid’s men, who had been expecting them. One of them pointed silently to a closet off the corridor which held a white waitress’ uniform as well as a room service table with a bottle of Dom Perignon, some caviar and various breads and crackers.
Daphna changed into the uniform, then rolled the table slowly down the corridor. She tried to smile, to look pleasant like a waitress might, but she was gripping the sides of the table so hard that her knuckles were white, and she was wetting the clean white cloth with the perspiration on her palms. When she got to the door of Madame Blanc’s suite, she rang the small white bell. Then David pushed her to one side of the door frame. He was on the other side, so that they wouldn’t be hit if Madame Blanc decided to open fire through the wooden door. David was gripping his pistol tightly. The bag with the tear gas equipment rested on the thick brown carpet at his feet.
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice answered through the door.
David signaled to Daphna to answer but not to move closer to the door. “It’s room service, complimentary champagne and caviar.”
“Isn’t that thoughtful. The door’s unlocked. You can bring it right in.”
Now David looked at Daphna and pointed up to the roof. His message was clear: get out of here now. He watched her walk across the corridor and down about ten yards. He waited until she opened the door to the inside staircase and disappeared behind it before he turned the knob on the door to the suite.
He opened it a crack. He waited and then kicked it open with his foot, still hiding behind the door frame. From inside, there wasn’t a sound. He glanced around the edge of the door and peered into the living room of the suite. He saw a huge desk which held a computer and piles of papers, but he didn’t see Madame Blanc.
He was now very wary. This isn’t what happens when room service makes a delivery. She had to be expecting something. Probably hiding in one of the bedrooms in the back and planning to ambush him. He took a look at the bag with the tear gas equipment, thought for a minute about using it, but rejected that option. He’d deal with her on his own. A louvered closet ran along the side wall that went to the rear bedrooms. Gripping his pistol, he made his way slowly and quietly on the toes of his feet alongside the closet. Suddenly, he heard a sound, just a tiny rustling in the closet, a few yards ahead of him, but it was unmistakable. He heard it.
Without waiting an instant, he raced across the room and dove behind a sofa, just in the nick of time. She came out of the closet firing at him, but the bullets went into the sofa or sailed over his head. She was out in the open now. He was totally in control. He’d wait a moment longer, until she used all of her bullets or until she moved toward the side of the sofa to get a clear shot. He’d tackle her and take her then.
Meantime, Daphna had crept back into the corridor as soon as he was in the suite. Once she heard the sound of shots being fired, she ran inside the suite with the gun in her right hand. Glancing over the edge of the sofa from his position, David spotted Daphna as soon
as she entered the suite. He screamed, “No. Daphna, get out fast.”
He was too late.
While Daphna was looking to her left, Madame Blanc circled up behind her from the other side. Using the gun in her right hand, the Frenchwoman delivered a powerful chop to Daphna’s right arm above the wrist, which knocked the gun from Daphna’s hand. At the same time, Madame Blanc got behind the stunned Daphna with a powerful left arm around her neck and throat. Then she raised her own gun and held it hard against the side of Daphna’s head.
“Okay, devoted stepfather,” she called to David in a cruel, sinister voice, “if you even move from behind that sofa until you see the helicopter taking off through the window of this suite, I’ll blow her brains out and fly that MD 500 myself.” A feeling of victory lit up her face. “And don’t think I can’t.”
“It’s low on fuel,” David called from behind the sofa.
“I’m sure it is. That’s why once I’m in the air you’re going to call your friend Khalid and find out where I can refuel.”
“There’s nowhere you can go,” he said, stalling for time, hoping she would make a slip.
She squeezed her arm tighter against Daphna’s throat. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I have plenty of friends in this part of the world.” Then she gave a sadistic laugh. “And don’t worry about Daphna. I’ll either send her home first class on a commercial airliner, or I’ll send her body, or all of its pieces, back to the kibbutz in a wooden box. I haven’t decided yet.”
“You won’t get away with this,” he said.
But she didn’t even hear his words. “And after that, I’ll send somebody to kill you. Sometime. Someplace. You’ll never know where or when, but I’ll do it.”
From behind the edge of the sofa, he watched in horror as she made Daphna, looking terrified and abashed, still in the vise of her left arm and with a gun against her temple, walk with her outside of the suite and up the stairs to the roof and the waiting helicopter.
David waited until he heard the metal door to the staircase slam before he made his move. He jumped up and ran to the doorway of the suite, where he scooped up the black leather case with the tear gas equipment. He was unzipping it as he climbed the stairs. By the time he reached the top step, and the door to the roof, he had one canister into the tear gas gun and he snapped on a gas mask. He waited behind the door until he heard the engine of the helicopter start. Then he kicked open the door, took aim and fired into the open side door of the chopper.
The tear gas canister erupted in the confined space of the helicopter. Madame Blanc and Daphna, both started coughing violently. Instinctively, they went for fresh air, Daphna in her white waitress uniform, rolling out of the helicopter onto the ground, and Madame Blanc stumbling out blinded, clutching and waving her gun erratically. David immediately went for the gun in her hand, but it slipped away from both of them, fell to the concrete floor of the roof and careened toward one side.
David went down on his hands and knees chasing it, but Madame Blanc had recovered enough of her sight to kick it away. At the same time, she grabbed the knife in the pocket of her jeans and snapped it open. Once he scrambled to his feet, she came at him with the knife extended in her right hand, its stiletto-like blade gleaming in the bright sunlight. Tears were still running down her face from the gas. Her hair, which had been tied up in a bun, had come loose and was falling over her face. Her eyes had a crazed, mad dog look. This man had ruined everything for her, and she was determined to get even.
Terrified, he backed up as much as he could, until he felt the metal of the black parapet against his buttocks. With nowhere else to go, he stood his ground, raised his hands to shoulder level, waiting for her thrust, hoping to grab the knife.
She gave an animal-like scream, “I’ll kill you. You bastard.” Then she lunged at him. Mustering all of his strength, with both hands he grabbed her right arm and held it tightly, blocking her thrust. She kicked him hard in the crotch. As the pain shot through his body, he felt his hold on her knife arm weakening. Finally she broke free and raised the knife high. “Now you’re mine,” she screamed and lunged at him. At the last second, he ducked down to the ground, on all fours, like a blocker in a football game. Off balance, she flew over his back and over the railing. She gave a bloodcurdling scream as she hurtled toward the ground, forty-eight stories below.
Tearing off his gas mask, he watched her head hit the hard cement of the driveway in front of the hotel. Her skull and body smashed into a bloody pulp. In the fresh air, Daphna had recovered enough from the tear gas to witness the end of David’s struggle. She ran over and hugged him. As she tried to look down at the ground below, he turned her head away. “No,” he said. “It’s too horrible.”
“I was so frightened for you, and it was all my fault. If I had only listened to you and—”
He clamped a hand over her mouth and kissed her on the forehead.
Pulling the cell phone out of his pocket, he called Khalid to tell him what had happened. “I’m afraid there’s a mess on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.”
“Then I think you better get out of town. Let me deal with it. We’ll say it was an accident. She was up there with binoculars looking at the city, got too close to the edge and lost her balance.”
David now gave a nervous laugh as the tension ebbed from his body “Which is at least partially true. She did lose her balance.”
“Where do you want to go now?”
“To your base for refueling as we planned. Then back to the American airbase at Dhahran to see Sagit.
* * *
Victor sat in his office with his eyes glued to the television set and CNN. Hour after hour they showed scenes of Khalid’s military victory, of crowds celebrating in Riyadh and the hesitant and uncertain reactions of Arab and world leaders. But no one dared to send forces to challenge the victorious Khalid, Victor observed with pleasure. As he watched and listened to Saudi oil production figures, he constantly calculated and recalculated how much his five percent cut of Madame Blanc’s profits would be. She had estimated that the deal was worth five hundred million a year for several years. That meant his five percent would be twenty-five million a year, but the figures he was hearing made her estimate seem low. Each time he recalculated, his return got larger. He now thought it was closer to fifty million a year. That was some serious money. Definitely not chump change.
If he had that kind of money, Françoise would come crawling to him with her gorgeous golden bush. He’d buy a mansion in Cannes and drive a Rolls Silver Cloud. Maybe even buy a yacht with a helicopter, like her highness, Madame Blanc. Ah, those will be the days.
His secretary, a blond in a short black miniskirt, stuck her head into the office.
Annoyed, he barked, “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Foch. A package was hand delivered. The messenger said it was urgent.”
“Then give it to me,” he snapped.
The secretary handed it to him, and he turned back to the television set, tossing the package on the floor at his feet. As the secretary turned around, she raised the second finger on her right hand when he couldn’t see it. Then she quickly departed.
At the next television commercial, Victor looked down at the package on the floor. It was a thick brown folder that would hold letter-size pages without having to fold them. On the front of the envelope were the words “Personal and confidential. To be opened only by Victor Foch.” Also on the cover was a small sticker of a guillotine. The package must be from Madame Blanc, he decided. It had to do with Operation Guillotine. Maybe she was sending him a first installment of money, in cash, and that’s why it was so heavy. Eagerly, he tore the strip across the top back of the envelope that said “open here.” The envelope was padded with bubble wrap on the inside. As he reached in, expecting to find cash, his hand encountered a metal object. What in the world is this? he wondered. He began pulling out the metal object. He had it halfway out when it exploded with a
force so great that it blew him across the room and cut a huge cavity in his chest where his heart had been.
* * *
This time Daphna and David’s landing at the American airbase in Dhahran was nothing like the last one. Approaching the base, David radioed, “Greg Nielsen seeking permission to land.”
“Permission granted, Mr. Nielsen, and your friend’s resting comfortably.”
Once they were on the ground, he cleaned his personal effects out of the helicopter, before it went back to Khalid and the Saudi air force, and he told Daphna to do likewise.
Reaching behind the seat, he pulled out a tan plastic bag.
“What’s that, David?” Daphna asked curiously.
“Oh, just something Sagit left here,” he said, and winked at her.
Playfully, she snatched the bag from his hand and looked inside. Then she blushed. “Oh, my.”
He laughed. “That’s the trouble with you young people. You never think a parent is capable of anything more than watching TV and rocking to sleep.”
Her face was now bright red. “I never said that.”
“Yeah, but you were thinking it.”
Daphna waited in the hospital corridor when he went into Sagit’s room. The patient was awake, but still groggy.
He came over and kissed her gently on the lips.
“David,” she mumbled, smiling broadly. “You’re okay. So glad.”
“And you are, too,” he said, breathing a deep sigh of relief. “It’s all over, and there’s no one to bother us.”
She leaned forward and said anxiously, “Will you leave me and go back to the States?”
“Are you crazy? My life’s with you always. I’ve got big plans for us.”
Her face glowed with contentment. “What plans?”
He reached into the plastic bag and pulled out the orange string bikini he had bought for her in Dubai. Holding it up, each piece in one hand, he said, “Well for starters, you can wear this in Eilat for the next couple of months, which will be a great place to recuperate this time of year. Then in January, you can wear it when we go to Anguilla in the Caribbean for the winter. Spring, it’ll look great on you in St. Tropez, and after that...”
