“Jackie, that’s enough,” Alex said quietly.
She whirled on him. “No, it’s not enough!” she cried. “Ardith is terrified.” Suddenly there were tears in her eyes, and she brushed at them quickly. “And so am I.” She turned back to Marc. “The doctor says he’s got to get out from under the stress. It’s killing him.”
Marc looked at her, then at Alex, who was looking at the floor. Finally his head came up to meet Marc’s gaze, and Marc saw something in Alex’s eyes he had never seen before. Alex was pleading. “Marc, I…I understand about your family. But I need you. I can’t give it to Derek. You know that. And Jackie and I can’t do it alone.”
Now it was Marc that looked at the floor.
“You can set your own hours. Take what time you need. I know you won’t neglect the work.” He paused. “But I won’t try to deceive you. These next three to four weeks are going to be unbelievably hard.”
Marc’s head finally came up. “I know.”
Jackie’s lips parted, and the tears welled up again in her eyes. “Does that mean yes?” she asked softly.
Marc nodded, his eyes sorrowful.
Alex was up and to him in an instant. “Do you really mean that?” he said, his voice husky.
Marc stood slowly to face him. “Yes,” he finally murmured. He looked down, realizing that Alex was pumping his hand.
As they came out on the porch ten minutes later, Alex reached in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “Would it offend you if I gave you back your company car?”
There was a brief laugh, tinged with some sadness. “No.”
“We parked it around the corner.” He pointed. “We didn’t know if you’d open fire on us if you saw it out front.”
“There’s no way we can postpone the Switzerland trip?”
Alex shook his head. “No. We’ve got to tie Gerritt up once and for all. I’d go, but the Jakarta people will be here tomorrow, and—”
“I know,” Marc sighed, then turned to Jackie. “I’ll see you at the airport at nine.”
Alex stuck out his hand. “Marc, I—” As Marc gripped it, Alex’s voice faltered. Suddenly he pulled Marc to him and embraced him. “I won’t forget this.”
He pulled free and turned to Jackie. “Well,” he said gruffly, “let’s you and me be going.”
Jackie nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”
They watched him go down the walk and get in the Lamborghini. Then Jackie turned to Marc, her dark eyes moist. “Thank you.”
“You knew I didn’t stand a chance, didn’t you?” It was said sadly, almost wistfully.
“I did,” she whispered, “because I know what kind of man you are.” She went up on tiptoes, reached up and pulled his head down, and kissed him hard on the lips. Then she averted her head, turned, and ran down the sidewalk to the car.
Valerie had just rounded the corner with the boys when she saw Alex come down the walk and get in his car. She stopped. “They’re just going,” she said to Brett, pulling him and Matt back so the shrubbery hid them from view. Puzzled that Alex was alone, she moved forward enough to see the front of Marc’s house.
A moment later she stumbled back, grabbed Brett by the shoulders, and turned him around. “We’ll go around the block the other way.”
Brett looked up at her sharply. “What’s the matter, Valerie?”
She shook her head, groping blindly for Matt’s hand. “We’re going to walk around the block the other way, that’s all.”
“Brett, you and Matt go watch TV for a few minutes. I need to talk to Valerie. Then we’ll have root beer floats.”
“I want root beer floats now,” Matt cried plaintively.
Brett looked up at Valerie, who was staring out the living room window, not seeing. He grabbed Matt’s hand. “Come on. We’ll watch that video again.”
Marc moved behind Valerie and put his arms around her.
She jerked away from him, still keeping her back to him. “I knew you would.”
Her voice was caustic and sharp and rocked him back. “You knew I would what?”
“You’re going back, aren’t you?”
“Val, will you listen?”
“I’m listening.”
He talked quietly for several minutes, trying as much to convince himself as to convince her. Throughout, she stood at the window, not turning.
“So you leave for Switzerland in the morning?”
“Yes,” he answered, barely audible.
“I’ll tell Mother.” She started away from him, toward the door.
“Val!” he cried, shaken by the implacability in her. She stopped, and he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently. “Val, I can’t just walk away from him now.”
“I know. That’s exactly the point.”
“You won’t even try to understand?”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze, just continued to stare at his chest.
“Valerie, can’t we talk about it?”
“I thought we had talked about it Friday night.”
“You know I meant what I said, but there are new factors now I didn’t know about before.”
“I see.” She slipped the engagement ring off and held it out to him. “There are new factors for me too.”
He gaped at it blankly. “You’re not serious?”
“You don’t want a wife. You want a babysitter. And as much as I love your boys, I need more than that, Marc.” She set the ring on the lamp table and walked out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The LaRoche Hotel on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica downtown Los Angeles, is a stunning architectural achievement. Circular towers cluster together, thirty-five stories of mirrored glass reflecting the soaring skyscrapers surrounding it. Inside, the five-story central nave captures and recaptures the circular motif. Curves, ellipses, parabolas, spirals, arches, cambers, bends—all are dazzling to the eye but yet curiously restful. The Gallery—a miniature mall—along with restaurants and cocktail lounges fill the first five levels of the hotel complex. The main lobby itself is like a gigantic atrium, with fountains, lakes, trees, and shrubbery.
As Marc walked swiftly through the main lobby with General Amani and Sheik Ahmed al Hazzan, vice-Minister of Defense, they drew curious looks from the people. Amani was in uniform, which looked much like American Air Force dress. Hazzan wore a business suit but also had the red-and-white checked headdress. But Marc hardly noticed the attention they drew. His eyes lifted to the spectacular architecture towering above them, and he thought of Valerie with a sharp pang. This would be perfect for a honeymoon.
He shook the thought away in self-derision. Before that happened, they would have to move beyond the point of nodding politely to each other at church. She had not been to the house since that night two weeks before when she had given back the ring.
General Amani noted the frown as they stopped at the elevators and punched a button. “Worried?”
Marc pulled out of his thoughts. “About tonight?”
Amani nodded, and Marc saw the sudden interest in Hazzan’s eyes. “No. You have prepared well. We have prepared well. All will go as planned.” He paused for a fraction of a second. “Insh’ allah.”
Amani laughed in delight. “Do you even think like an Arab?”
Marc just grinned without answering.
Each bank of elevators in the LaRoche ascends up through the central enclosure and emerges at about the sixth floor to glide the rest of the way on the outside of the main towers. All but the back wall of the elevator is glass, providing a dizzying view of the city lights spread out below as far as the eye can see. Both Amani and Hazzan commented quietly on that view as they rose to the thirty-first floor. But Marc was back with his thoughts of Valerie.
Insh’ allah. God willing. Many Westerners accused the Arabs of fatalism, for this was their standard injunction for any event, and the customary response to whatever befell them—be it blessing or curse. But it was more than simply fatalism; it wa
s a form of a prayer, an invocation on any undertaking. I am going to get through to Valerie, he thought, insh’ allah.
Even her mother, Mary, couldn’t penetrate the stone wall of silence and hurt she kept between them. At first, Mary had been distinctly cool at the news that Marc had gone back on his decision with Barclay. But she had thawed when she saw the efforts he was making, in spite of a staggering schedule, to spend time with his sons.
He frowned again. If Mary had said anything to Valerie to that effect, it had made little difference.
The doors opened, and the three of them moved to the La Jolla Suite. Marc took a deep breath. Amani and Hazzan were the last ones in from the airport. They were about to launch into the final negotiating session, and there would be no trial runs.
The La Jolla Suite occupied the entire top floor of one of the outer glass towers, providing a sweeping two hundred seventy degree view of the city of Santa Monica and beyond that, Los Angeles. The suite was like a large house, with nearly twenty-six hundred feet of floor space. It had a large parlor, a dining room, a library, five bedrooms with walk-in closets and full baths, a wet bar, and serving pantries. It was the finest accommodation in the hotel and ran just over thirteen hundred dollars a night. Marc knew because he had helped Jackie make the arrangements. He had felt extravagent, staying on the eighteenth floor in one of the San Simeon Suites for a hundred and eighty-five dollars a night, until he saw what they were paying for the Saudi suite.
Alex broke away from the small group clustered around a table when he saw the three enter, and he came over, smiling broadly. “General, good to see you again.” They shook hands warmly. “I hope your six o’clock has been clear.”
It was jet jockey slang, and Amani warmed to it noticeably. To have an enemy in the six o’clock position puts him looking right down your tail pipe, the most vulnerable position a fighter pilot can face. The general nodded and smiled. “And yours as well.”
Marc half turned. “Alex, may I present Sheik Ahmed al Hazzan, the honorable vice-Minister of Defense. Sheik, this is Alexander Barclay, president of Barclay Enterprises.”
Again there were the formal bows, a quick shaking of hands, then Alex took the two men in tow and moved them over to where General Taylor Canning, Russell Whitaker of the State Department, and the crown prince were standing. Marc stepped back, moving to the window, out of the way and yet where Alex could beckon to him.
There were nearly thirty people in the dining room and the parlor, almost half of them Saudis. Some, including the prince, were in flowing robes and headdresses, some in business suits. A good share of the Saudis were part of the royal body guard, and as Marc studied them, he decided he would rather not find out how efficient they were at their jobs.
Quinn Gerritt was off in one corner conversing with a major and a colonel in Saudi air force uniforms. State Department personnel in suits mingled with the Arabs, and Marc recognized a face or two from the reception in Washington. There were no women present. This was to be a business session, and not even Jackie would be allowed to participate. Nor was Derek here. Alex had booked him a suite alongside Marc’s and Jackie’s, but he would be called only if absolutely necessary.
A waiter brought a tray of hors d’oeuvres and soft drinks, and Marc helped himself, knowing the social hour would continue for some time before the prince gave the signal to move to the next phase. Then the work would begin. It would be bone-crunching, head-to-head, nerve-banging work—all done, of course, with the finest of manners and courtesy. When it came to the fine art of negotiating, the Saudis were some of the best in the world.
He turned to the window, took a sip of his Seven-Up, and fell back to thinking about Valerie.
The Israelis were in the Laguna Suite on the thirtieth floor, directly below the La Jolla Suite. Nathan and his team had spent many nights in the hotel in the past two weeks. The result of all that was a large bank of tape recorders and listening devices along one wall. Every room booked by Alex Barclay had tiny, almost invisible microphones. The man whom Gondor had given Nathan was one of the best, and the Israelis were confident their surveillance devices could survive even a professional security sweep. In addition, every phone was tapped through the main circuitry downstairs.
The hotel staff thought of the group in the Laguna Suite as a group of well-heeled European businessmen. They were quiet, well-mannered, and ate all of their meals in the finest of the hotel’s restaurants.
Yehuda Gor was at the console with a pair of headphones on. The reels on three banks of tape recorders were turning slowly off to one side. Nathan and Yossi were at a table playing a desultory game of gin rummy. Gondor was asleep in the nearest bedroom, and Yitzhak and two other men in the one next to that. They had maintained the surveillance around the clock and took turns sleeping. Yaacov was on the couch, reading a book.
“Nathan,” Yehuda called softly. “I think they are preparing to start work.”
Nathan nodded, slipped into the bedroom, and a moment later reappeared with Gondor.
“Yes,” Yehuda confirmed. “The prince has suggested they move the chairs into a circle. I think the social time is over.”
Gondor grunted, sat down, and picked up another set of headphones as the others came around to listen.
Nearly two hours later, Valerie got out of her car and handed the parking attendant her keys. As he drove away, she turned and saw the signs pointing to the main lobby.
Ardith was waiting for her near the reception desk and came quickly over. “Thank you for coming.”
Valerie nodded, still not sure what to make of the telephone call and the insistence that she come. “I’ve got a table reserved for us in the Paris Cafe if that’s all right.”
“That’s fine.”
As they walked, Ardith watched Valerie’s eyes lift to stare at the mass of curved lines rising in every direction above them. “Isn’t this an incredible place?” she said.
Valerie nodded and let her eyes drop to take note of the women passing by them or seated around the lobby area. There was no question that she was mingling with the moneyed class. The dresses were expensive, the hair flawless, the jewelry abundant. Valerie was at least grateful she had followed her impulse to wear her camel-colored wool suit and cream-colored silk blouse. And yet as she looked around, she felt the gnawing sense of plainness dogging her heels again. A quick stab of pain hit her as she thought of Marc here in this setting with Jackie.
Ardith reached out and took her hand as they sat at their table. “You look lovely tonight, Valerie.”
Valerie gave her a sharp look, wondering if Ardith had known her thoughts, but the waiter came at that moment to take their order.
When he walked away, Ardith looked up. “I really do appreciate you coming.”
Valerie waited, not sure how to respond to that.
“I took the liberty of booking a room for you.”
That completely knocked her off guard. “You what?”
“It’s late and a long drive back home.”
“I…I can’t do that.”
“Barclay Enterprises is picking up the tab,” Ardith said evenly. “When I told Alex what I wanted to do, he agreed instantly.”
Valerie was nonplussed. “But my mother is expecting me back.”
Ardith shook her head. “I’ve already talked to your mother. She thought it was a wonderful idea.”
Valerie sat back, dazed. “You talked to my mother?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Look, Valerie, at the risk of seeming like a meddling old lady, let me come right to the point. Alex and I owe a debt that needs to be paid.”
“To Marc?” Valerie asked.
“Yes.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
She laughed quickly. “No. And if he finds out we’ve had this little talk, he’ll probably kill me.”
Valerie watched with deepening bafflement as the smile quickly faded and Ardith grew very serious. “Valerie, your mother told me why you gave Marc
the ring back.”
“My mother talks too much,” Valerie said softly.
“Your mother loves you very much.” She paused, studying her hands. “As does Marc Jeppson.”
Valerie gave a little shake of her head, suddenly fighting tears.
Ardith leaned forward. “Do you know how happy Jackie is that you’ve given Marc back your ring?”
“What Jackie feels is not my affair.”
“You saw Jackie kiss Marc that night on the porch, didn’t you?”
Valerie’s head jerked up. She hadn’t even told her mother that.
Ardith smiled kindly. “Jackie told me. I just put two and two together. Let me tell you exactly what happened that night, and why Marc went back on his promise to you. And why Jackie kissed him. Then maybe you’ll understand why I insisted you come here tonight.”
It was nearly midnight when Marc got off the elevator on the eighteenth floor. He was exhausted but exuberant. The session had been a success. The Saudis were still holding out on one or two minor items, but the agreement was made. Alex Barclay had just sewn up his deal.
As he came around the curved hallway toward his room, he stopped dead. Valerie was leaning against the wall next to his door.
“Hello,” she said softly.
“Valerie?” he asked, not believing his eyes.
“I understand there’s a little restaurant downstairs that serves a pretty good hamburger until one o’clock on Friday nights.”
He was still speechless, just staring at her.
“Unless you start to scream, I was thinking of taking you down there and buying one for you.”
Quinn Gerritt got off the elevators and moved purposefully to his suite. He glanced around quickly. At this hour, the corridors were empty. Extracting a card from his shirt pocket, he inserted it into the computerized door lock. The lock clicked softly, and he stepped inside.
Derek Parkin stood almost instantly, leaving his drink sitting on the coffee table. Quinn nodded as he took off his jacket and hung it in the closet. “Did anyone see you come up?”
“No. I’ve been here almost an hour.”
“Good.” He walked to the phone, punched some numbers quickly. “We’re ready.”
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 79
