by Judith Gould
Abdullah was lying naked facedown on one of the couches, his eyes half-shut. Kneeling on the floor beside him, her breasts and hips draped only by diaphanous pink silk scarves, was a beautiful young Arab woman.
She saw Najib before Abdullah did. Her expert kneading fingers stopped in mid-massage and Abdullah's eyes opened all the way. He nodded to Najib and then twisted around to look at the girl. 'Wait outside until I call for you,' he said.
She obeyed at once, rising fluidly and running gracefully toward an arched doorway leading out to the gardens, her bare feet slapping softly against the marble.
Najib watched her, feeling an exquisite ache in his loins. He had forgotten how beautiful Arab girls could be. Then he turned to Abdullah. His half-uncle was rearranging himself into a sitting position. 'It looks like you know how to live, halfuncle.'
Abdullah grunted. 'The house belongs to a businessman who is vacationing in Paris with his family, and the girl comes with the place.' He shrugged. 'At least the guards are mine.'
Najib made the usual show of respect and Abdullah motioned him to a facing couch. It was low and soft, and as he sank back he couldn't help comparing it to the hard high couches he'd gotten used to in America.
Abdullah clapped his hands once, and a serving girl materialized, flat-footed and modest, brass tray in hand. She placed it on a low table, poured two cups of savoury fresh mint tea, and handed one to Abdullah and one to Najib. She placed a flaky golden pastry shaped like a gazelle's horn on each of two plates and handed them each one. Then she hurried away, her scarves floating.
'This tea is good,' Najib said, sipping from his tiny handleless cup. 'What I missed most in America was the tea and the pastries.'
Abdullah picked up a gazelle-horn pastry and bit delicately into it. He smacked his lips. 'These are filled with almond paste. Try yours.'
'I had better not. Otherwise I will get fat.'
Abdullah finished his pastry without speaking and then licked his fingers, one by one.
'I gather you have new instructions for me?' Najib asked, bluntly bringing the subject around to what was foremost in his mind.
'I have.' Abdullah nodded. 'But first, an update on the subject I believe is closest to your heart.'
'Schmarya Boralevi! The Jew my grandfather nursed back to health so many years ago—'
'—and who was the leader of the settlement which attacked us when your sister Iffat was killed.' Abdullah nodded again.
Najib sat up straighter. 'What about him?' he asked softly.
'It seems he has been making quite a name for himself, and currently holds a high leadership position in the Israeli Ministry of Defence. Of course, his having helped create the modern Israeli army in 1948 out of such diverse groups as the Palmach, the Haganah, the Irgun, and the Stern factions has not hindered his career any. Neither have his friendships with Ben-Gurion, Dayan, and Meir. Many political analysts have gone so far as to speculate that he is next in line to become Israel's minister of defence.'
'I see.' Najib paused thoughtfully. 'I take that to mean he no longer lives at . . . What was the name of that kibbutz?'
'Ein Shmona.' Abdullah shook his head. 'My intelligence sources report that he spends most of his time in Jerusalem now. His daughter, the former film star, and his son-in-law and grandchildren still spend some time there, but even they live most of the time in Tel Aviv.'
Najib was silent for a moment. 'And Ein Shmona ... it is thriving more than ever.' It was a glum statement, not a question.
Abdullah nodded. 'You would not even recognize it. There is a population of nearly 60,000 people, and its irrigated farmlands stretch out in all directions. In fact, it's hard to think of it any longer as a kibbutz. It has become a full-fledged town.'
'In other words, it will be more difficult than ever for me to seek vengeance.'
'Have no fear. I have people watching the entire family. Vengeance will avail itself in due time. Suspecting that you would be anxious to keep track of them, I have been keeping a current active file on them all.' He picked up three sheets of single-spaced typed paper from the low table and handed them to Najib, who quickly scanned the pages on Schmarya Boralevi, his daughter, and his son-in-law.
His face furrowed in a frown. 'It seems the longer we wait, the more powerful and untouchable they all become. I should have avenged myself four years ago.'
'Vengeance is like wine,' said Abdullah, 'it improves with age. For the time being, there are far more important things to accomplish which your personal vendettas must not get in the way of. When the time comes, it will be so much sweeter.' He held Najib's gaze. 'Your grades were excellent, and I am pleased. Now that your education is completed, it is time for you to start your legitimate business. I trust the Harvard business courses have prepared you well.'
'Yes.'
'Good. Have you decided what kind of business you would be best suited for?'
'To begin with, I was thinking of starting an import-export firm, which would be based in New York but have branch offices in London, Hong Kong, Stuttgart, and here.'
'Excellent!' Abdullah smiled, steepled his fingers, and placed them against his lips. 'That would certainly open up a conduit between the capitalist West and our Palestinian Freedom Army. Also, it will be a way for us to disburse funds to our sympathizers in Europe. There are groups of youths in Italy and Germany who champion our cause and could use some help. While you were gone, we trained four Germans and two Italians in terrorist tactics. Two were women.' He paused and brought the subject back to the business at hand. 'How much money do you think an import-export firm would require?'
'I am not sure yet. I will have to do some more calculations first, but I should know within a week.'
'Good. Remember to overestimate rather than underestimate. It is said that many businesses go bankrupt during the first year because they are undercapitalized. Now, to another matter.' Abdullah sipped his tea delicately. He was silent for a moment, staring over his cup, past Najib and out through one of the arched doors to the gardens. When he spoke, his face was expressionless, but his voice was gentle. 'Two weeks from tomorrow you are to attend a wedding.'
'Western or Arab?' Najib smiled. 'I have to know so I can decide how to dress.'
Abdullah did not return his smile. 'Arab, I would suppose. Of course, that depends on the bridegroom.'
'And who is the lucky man? Anyone I would know?'
'The lucky man, as you so aptly put it, Najib, is you.'
'Me!' Najib stared across at him, his eyes wide in disbelief. 'Surely you are joking!'
Abdullah shook his head. 'I have never been more serious in my entire life.'
From Abdullah's tone Najib suddenly knew that it had already been arranged. The only thing left to do was exchange vows. 'I think you have gone too far.'
Abdullah's voice left no room for argument. 'You will do as you are told!'
Shakily Najib got to his feet and clenched his fists at his side. He was fighting to keep control. 'Now, unless you have more unpleasant surprises in store for me,' he said angrily, 'I think it is time for me to leave! Do not bother to show me out. I know the way.' He headed across the room, but before he could reach the curtained doorway one of the guards slipped through and blocked his way.
'You have not yet been dismissed,' Abdullah said mildly from the couch.
Najib stared at the guard. His semi-automatic made it difficult to argue. Wearily he retraced his steps to the couch. He remained standing and looked down at Abdullah, his eyes flashing. 'Do all your dealings have to be done from the other end of a gun?'
'Only when obedience is questionable.' Abdullah gestured to the couch. 'Sit down!' he barked sharply.
'All right,' Najib said wearily, and sat back down. He sighed deeply. 'Tell me about her.'
'There is not much to tell. Her name is Yasmin Fazir, and she is quite beautiful, if you like the independent Western type of woman. Her father is a very wealthy Lebanese banker, and her mother's side of the family
is highly respected and also quite wealthy. They are carpet merchants in Damascus.'
'Then what's wrong with her? Beautiful, rich daughters aren't generally passed out to poor young men like alms to a beggar. Is she crippled? Does she wear braces on her teeth?'
'She is cursed with none of those things,' Abdullah said irritably. 'And you forget, with your education you are not exactly a beggar. You have become quite an eligible young bachelor.'
'Then give me one good reason why I should marry her.'
'Her father is willing to put up one hundred thousand dollars for you to get your start in business,' Abdullah said quietly, watching Najib's reaction. 'That is one good reason.'
Najib whistled softly. 'He must want to get rid of her pretty badly.'
'You could do much worse,' Abdullah said sharply. 'Remember, you will need a beautiful wife if our plan is to succeed.'
'I am sorry, but I do not quite follow your reasoning.'
Abdullah gestured irritably. 'A wife is necessary for entertaining. . .to add gloss and respectability to your image. Yasmin will serve those purposes quite well. As far as her family is concerned, their uses are multifold. Her father is a generous supporter of our cause. And as for her mother's family, you might want to consider exporting their carpets overseas. We shall have to wait and see. Meanwhile, you will meet Yasmin tomorrow. You and your parents are invited to the Fazirs' for dinner. They are Westernized, so you can wear what you like. I was going to make it for this evening, but Yasmin, like so many of the silly Western women she idolizes, insists on holding a job. She flies often between here and Europe.'
'You make her sound like a bird.'
'Be serious!' Abdullah said sharply. 'This is no laughing matter. There is much money at stake.'
'It appears to me that my entire life is at stake,' Najib reminded him.
'What is at stake is the future of the Palestinian Freedom Army! That is far more important than your life.'
Najib sighed. 'It does not sound like you are leaving me much choice.'
Abdullah smiled coldly in reply and got to his feet. Najib rose also. 'She'd better not be a dog,' he growled morosely as Abdullah put his arm around his shoulder and walked him to the doorway.
As it turned out, he was in for a surprise. Yasmin Fazir was quite beautiful, and he recognized her at once. She was the petite MEA stewardess with the swept up hair and the tiny mole above her upper lip.
She was beautiful and she was rich and she looked like a lady. But there was one thing he knew she was not. And that was a virgin.
Consequently, her father deposited ten times more in Najib's bank account than the originally agreed-upon one hundred thousand dollars.
Yasmin was, after all, damaged goods.
BOOK THREE
DALIAH
1977-1978
ISRAEL'S BEST-KNOWN EXPORT
WAS KIBBUTZ-RAISED,
BUT SHE'S NO VEGETABLE
Actress Daliah Boralevi pops vitamin pills like they're going out of style, and her idea of a rush is B12 injections. 'I've got more needle tracks than a junkie,' she confides. 'Sometimes I look like a pincushion. I mean, just look.'' Unselfconsciously she hikes up the little something designer Yves St. Laurent ran up for her, gives a tug at her tiger-print panties, and displays the needle tracks. 'I always tell the doctor, "There . . ." ' She points to a tiny spot.' "You can only stick me there, in those two square inches." I don't want holes punched all over me.'
The way her life has been moving along lately, it's small wonder she needs vitamin boosts. During a single week recently she finished location shooting in Ireland, zipped to Paris to be fitted for a new fall wardrobe, and flew to New York, where she signed on for the next Woody Allen movie and popped in on Liza Minnelli's party. She shot a commercial for Maybelline, managed an entire day at home for herself, participated in preliminary discussions with Avon regarding a possible perfume line bearing her name, and packed her bags to go to Cannes for the film festival where . . .
—cover story, People Magazine
Chapter 1
Nine-twenty-two in the morning.
The first day of the two-week film festival.
As happened every year at this time, Cannes was swept up in an orgy of madness. The lobby of the Carlton Hotel was a shantytown of trade-fair booths, with giant overhead banners advertising films, and showcard posters on easels creating a maze, while outside the flags of all nations flapped along the Croisette and thousands of people crowded the sidewalks. Standstill traffic was backed up on the broad palm-lined Corniche for miles, furious horns blaring a symphony of Manhattanish frustrations. The celluloid peddlers were in town, and for the next two weeks Cannes would be a marketplace of high-stakes selling, buying, bartering, and financing. The air was balmy and the sky a perfect powder blue with a regatta of fluffy clouds headed for Italy racing across it.
On the breakfast terrace of the Carlton Hotel, Daliah was cornered by a whirring, clicking swarm of cameras that was steadily advancing on her like some hundred-eyed beast. The lunging microphones waving at the end of tentacle arms were coming so near that another inch and she feared the enamel would be scraped off her front teeth. Behind the expensive Rolleis and Leicas and Nikons and shouldered video cams, the photographers and reporters were one impatient, inhuman mass.
She raked her fingers through her hair and shook her head. Her gleaming raven mane was brushed to either side of her face from a central part and flowed naturally to below her shoulders, where it frizzed out in baroque magnificence like the Madonna's in a Bartolomé Murillo oil. But her exquisite oval face was lively with a decidedly un-Madonna-like spark in her eyes, and a flash of indignation highlighted her features with photogenic animation. She was wearing a dress with a skintight beaded sea-green bodice which had been appliqued with bright, oversize glass jewels. The full scarlet leather skirt with the huge bustle bow matched her loose hand-stitched Tartar boots, the inordinately high heels only adding to her already impressive height.
Although she emanated the very essence of chic and control, she was inwardly fighting to keep herself from exploding. At the moment, Daliah Boralevi was a very angry, very annoyed, and very steamy star.
It had been hard enough for her to agree to the press conference in the first place, harder yet to actually subject herself to it at that hour of the morning, without so much as a crumb of brioche in her stomach. The eye drops she had dripped into her emerald eyes only half an hour earlier had gotten the jet-lag redness out, but had not done a thing for the stinging, and the one demitasse of decaffeinated black coffee she had foolishly allowed herself was now burning in the pit of her stomach. But it was especially hard because Jerome St.-Tessier —may he rot in hell for eternity, the putz, because he should have been here at her side to keep the press reasonably at bay and the conference in some semblance of order—had simply not shown up. No telephone call, no message—nothing. After having kept the press waiting twenty minutes for him to show, she hadn't been able to hold them off a minute longer and she could sense their hostility and impatience growing by the second. Not that she could really blame them. The town was filled with an international army of more famous, beautiful faces to interview and photograph than there was time to do it in. Without Jerome, it was left up to her alone to appease the press and provide fodder for their columns and empty air time, thereby hopefully getting as much free exposure for Red Satin as was humanly possible.
At this thought, another surge of anger coloured her creamy complexion. Whatever the hell Jerome was up to, or wherever he might be trapped, the schmuck should at least have managed to oil his way out of it and been here at her side where he belonged. As both producer and director of Red Satin, he had called the press conference in the first place!
Finally, despite the two last-minute disasters she'd discovered—runs in her green lace stockings, and one of the bright glass jewels missing from her bodice—she had flung her raven mane back, raised her chin, and marched resolutely out to face the
press.
They had set upon her like wolves, revelling in the noisy brashness of newshounds who have flown halfway around the world for the occasion and are only exercising their God-given rights. Their questions were a shouting match she had to struggle through in order to pick out a single voice from among the barrage, the motor drives of the cameras only adding to the general confusion, and the curious onlookers on the terrace, pressing closer to see what the excitement was all about, not helping alleviate the circus atmosphere.
Daliah pointed at the loudest shouter of them all, and the others immediately fell silent to catch her every word.
'Renate Schlaak, Der Spiegel,' the tall, mannish woman called out in a guttural German accent. 'Miss Boralevi, you were born Daliah ben Yaacov. Why, then, are you using the name Boralevi?'
'Determination, I suppose.' Daliah's voice was loud and clear, and she spoke slowly so that her reply could be scribbled down into notepads. 'It was the name of my grandmother, who was an actress in czarist Russia, but she shortened it and simply used "Bora", since it sounded less . . . well, less Jewish, to put it bluntly. It was my mother's name also, but she did away with the surname altogether at the insistence of Oscar Skolnik, who owned IA studios. When I started in show business, I was determined that the name finally be used rather than sweeping it under the carpet. Also, it's a well-known fact that my mother is Tamara ben Yaacov. When I started in show business, I wanted to do it all on my own. If I had gone by the name ben Yaacov, people would have put two and two together and came up with the fact that I'm Tamara's daughter. I didn't want that at the time. I wanted my own talent to speak for itself. Next.' Daliah looked around at the frantically waving hands and pointed to a young curly-haired woman in the back.
