Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  'Oh, for God's sake, Daliah,' he retorted. 'Do you have to be so smug and sanctimonious?'

  'I'm not being either of those things.' She was silent for a moment. 'And calling me names isn't going to get either of us anywhere.'

  'All right, all right,' he said finally, and from the testy resignation in his voice she could tell he was fighting to keep himself under control. Jerome was worse than most people when he was backed into a corner. 'Look, you rushed off so fast you never gave me a chance to explain who the backers were.'

  'Does it make any difference? You told me it was Arabs. That tells me all I need to know.'

  'Daliah, it's the Almoayyed brothers,' he said, aggrieved and struggling to be patient.

  'So?'

  'So? They're accepted everywhere! I mean, they even race their horses at Ascot, and they are always welcome in the Royal Enclosure! Queen Elizabeth even invited them to Windsor Castle.'

  'I know who they are,' she said wearily.

  And who didn't? she asked herself gloomily. The flamboyant Almoayyed brothers—Ali, Mohammed, Abdlatif, and Saeed—had appeared practically out of nowhere during the oil boom of 1973, and had taken the world by storm. It was said that their family, the ruling family of one of the six United Arab Emirates, was among the most powerful in the Persian Gulf. Lately, the four brothers, who were inseparable, had become as famous for their impressive string of thoroughbred horses as for their multibillions. Recently, Desert Star, their prize horse, had won both the Kentucky Derby and the Ascot Group 1 Gold Cup.

  Jerome's voice dropped to a confidential tone, but he couldn't keep the excitement out of it. 'Well, the Almoayyed brothers don't know it yet, but B. Lawrence Craik expressed interest that he might be willing to back the film, and I put feelers out to Gio Monti too.'

  She was genuinely surprised. This was more news, yet. Jerome had certainly been keeping busy.

  The recently knighted Sir B. Lawrence Craik owned Timberlake Studios in London, where many independent producers shot their soundstage footage and had their films processed; he was also sole owner of Craik Films, a family-held company which financed, produced, and released ten middle-of-the-market pictures a year.

  Gio Monti, on the other hand, was much more famous and flamboyant. He was the undisputed King of Cinecitta, Rome's answer to Hollywood. As well-known for the B movies that had made him a multimillionaire as for his his years of living in sin with and subsequently marrying Daniela Zanini, Italy's big-breasted bombshell, he was, now that his fortune was secure, trying to branch out into important first-rate films. And, more important, he was willing to exchange financial backing for sweetheart distribution deals.

  'So you see, I've got Craik and Monti on the sidelines, and the Almoayyed brothers in the middle,' Jerome explained with mounting excitement. 'If I have to, I can play them against each other.'

  'That's playing with fire, and you know it,' Daliah said.

  'I'm doing it for you.'

  'Jerome, you're full of shit, you know that? If you were doing it for me, you'd drop the Almoayyed brothers completely.'

  'Listen, all I'm asking is to talk it over with you in person. That isn't asking for so much, is it?'

  'It's asking for a great deal, Jerome.'

  'So I'm asking for a great deal. Okay. I know it's a great deal.' He paused. 'Are you still planning to fly to Israel for your brother's wedding?'

  'That's right. I'm flying over six days from now.'

  'You'll be at Inge's until then?'

  'I'm heading back to the City the day before I take off.'

  'Tell you what. Why don't you change your flight and stop off in Paris? Just for a day? That way we can meet and discuss all this.'

  'I don't want to stop off in Paris. If you're so anxious to meet, then you come over here.'

  There was a long pause. 'All right,' he growled. 'I'll see what I can do. But it'll depend on whether or not I can sew up the Red Satin distribution deals by then. But I'll try.'

  Perhaps he tried; then again, perhaps he did not. She couldn't be sure. The way things worked out, the Red Satin deals kept him busy for the next two days; the two days after that he spent in London trying to entice Sir B. Lawrence Craik, who was lukewarm to the size of the projected budget. Then it was on to Rome, where Gio Monti listened to his proposal and decided to think it over before coming to a decision. Finally, deciding that a bird in the hand was certainly worth a flock in the bush, he flew to Saudi Arabia, and back into the good graces of the Almoayyed brothers.

  Time had a habit of slipping through one's fingers. By the time the sixth day rolled around, he was still in Riyadh.

  And Daliah planned on leaving the Cape in the wee hours of the following morning.

  Inge was already up by the time Daliah was set to leave. She had a thermos of hot coffee waiting. 'For the drive,' she said.

  'You're a jewel, you know that?' Daliah said fondly, stooping to give the tiny figure in the quilted bathrobe a warm hug.

  Inge shrugged and followed her outside to the gravel car park up front. Happy pranced ecstatically at her side.

  Despite her jacket, Daliah shivered. It was still dark out, and chilly. The damp sea fog hung in the air, and the porch lanterns to either side of the front door gave off little halos of fuzzy light. The air smelled of salt. On the other side of the big sand dunes, the breakers made crashing noises as they spent themselves upon the beach.

  'I'm going to miss you,' Daliah said when they reached the car. She unlocked the door and opened it a few inches so that the little overhead lamp inside could click on and give them some more light. She turned to Inge and smiled. 'As soon as I'm back, I'll try to come up and visit for a few more days.'

  Inge looked pleased. 'I would like that.' Her eyes glinted moistly in the weak light, and she pulled the driver's door wider open so that Daliah could get in. 'I hope you have a good flight.'

  'Oh, I'm sure I will. Patsy's secretary made all the arrangements, and she even bought the seat next to mine. That way I won't have anyone beside me, and I'll be able to enjoy complete privacy.'

  'That is good.' Inge nodded and fussed with the zipper on Daliah's jacket. 'I worry about you all the time, you know. You are very famous, and there are a lot of crazy people out there. Every time I pick up a newspaper or turn on the TV, all I hear about are murders and violence.'

  'Don't worry so much,' Daliah said with a smile. 'I'm very well-insulated from the rest of humanity. I don't even have to sit in airport waiting rooms anymore. As soon as I get to an airport, I'm always whisked away to the VIP lounges. No matter where I go, there are always special airline representatives who take good care of me.'

  'Besides which,' she added, 'I know how to take care of myself. All Israeli girls do. During my military training I learned hand-to-hand combat.' Playfully she flattened her hands and took a classic fighting stance.

  Inge looked up at her without amusement. She shook her head. 'I still worry,' she insisted stubbornly.

  'That's all I need,' Daliah laughed. 'Two mothers.'

  'Well, one mother and maybe a grandmother. Of sorts.'

  'What do you mean, "grandmother of sorts"?' Daliah embraced Inge again and kissed both her cheeks. 'I've always considered you my real grandmother,' she said huskily. 'You know that.'

  'I know.' Inge smiled, got up on tiptoe, and kissed Daliah on both cheeks.

  Daliah kissed her back. 'I promise that next time I'll try to stay even longer. Maybe I'll even spend two whole weeks.'

  Inge nodded and let go of her. 'We will see. I know you are very busy, and even a day or two is enough to satisfy me. When you get old, you would be surprised how far a little visit can go.' She tilted her head to one side. 'You will give your mother my love?'

  'I will,' Daliah promised as Happy trotted over to her. She squatted down and he licked her face. She grabbed hold of him and gave him an affectionate squeeze. 'You take good care of Inge, Happy, hear?'

  Daliah slid into the car and looked up at Inge. 'T
hanks again for the hospitality. And don't look at me like that.' She slammed the door shut, rolled down the window, and switched on the engine. She raised her voice so she could be heard above the roar of the motor. 'I'll be fine.'

  'It's not that, Daliah. You know, you still didn't tell me anything about your date. You went out two times with him, and you still didn't tell me a thing.'

  'What's there to tell?' Daliah shrugged. 'He was very nice, we talked about lots of unimportant things, and we never went to bed, if that's what you're getting at.'

  'I didn't mean it that way at all, Daliah,' Inge said severely. 'I don't know why you young people can only think about sex.'

  Which was, Daliah thought, the perfect exit line.

  With a wide white grin and a cheerful wave of her hand, she gunned the motor and the car leapt out of the car park on to the main road. At this early hour there was no traffic. Faster, faster! The needle on the speedometer swept inexorably to the right, and the view out the side windows blurred as the tires gobbled up the leaping white divider lines. Faster, faster, faster. Hurry, hurry, hurry!

  Chapter 7

  The giant jet engines changed pitch, the wheel hydraulics whined, and the plane seemed to slow to a halt and hang there in midair. For one gut-wrenching moment Daliah felt stricken with terror. She hated flying, and on the other side of the square of Perspex, the Mediterranean looked so near that she had the sensation the belly of the jet was floating on the water and that if the plane didn't gain some more speed right away, it was going to sink to the bottom of the sea like a giant bomb. She felt one ear pop, and then the other. She swallowed hard a couple of times and licked her lips. Then she grimaced. Her mouth felt dehydrated and stale, as full of cotton as though she'd spent a night drinking. Pressurized cabins never failed to do that to her.

  She strained against the seat belt and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Once again, she was conscious of a prickly rash. Her mound had started itching again, and it took more willpower than she would have liked to admit not to reach down and scratch it surreptitiously. The hair which Jerome had always insisted on shaving was growing back in.

  And that was another thing, she thought, her lips tightening, her mind happily clutching any thought but that of flying. From now on, she would let her pubic hair grow and blossom into an extravagant, luxuriant bush. Even if she had to set it in curlers and coif it, she was going to have the pubic bush to end all pubic bushes.

  Fuck Jerome's perversities. That hair was hers, and hers alone, and she would keep it that way. If nothing else, keeping her mound unshaved would symbolize a measure of newfound independence, of not needing men, and certainly not men like Jerome.

  Her eyes flickered to the window again. Impossible as it seemed, the plane was still descending; the water seemed close enough for her to touch the tops of the waves. Then, mercifully, the grey concrete runway rushed to meet the plane, the wheels bounced twice, then held. She let out a deep sigh of relief. Israel. She was back at long last.

  And quite suddenly, for no apparent reason, she had the peculiar sensation of time compressing, that she'd really left here only yesterday and was returning a bare day later. But of course, that was silly. Even the plane belied that illusion. She'd left on a battered old DC-3 and was returning by sleek jumbo jet. A lot of years had sped by in between.

  He could see that they were all in position, scattered at strategic intervals throughout Ben-Gurion Airport. As he passed the familiar faces while hurrying to keep pace with the handsome young El Al VIP representative, Khalid Khazzan's eyes did not so much as give a flicker of recognition, nor did they seem to notice him. They were there merely as backups, and nothing about any of them could tie them all together. If one fell, he or she wouldn't be taking the rest of them down too. Striding through the busy terminal, Khalid could feel the VIP representative's occasional sidelong glances, but he felt no undue cause for alarm. They were merely curious appraisals, he thought; all first-class passengers probably got them.

  But something was bothering the VIP representative; something did not sit right, and kept gnawing elusively at his mind. There's something about that man that seems curiously familiar, Elie Levin couldn't help thinking. I could swear I've seen his face before, somewhere. But where? And why can't I place him?

  Elie's dark eyes slid sideways again. The businessman had a slightly olive complexion; perhaps he was of Italian, Arab, or Jewish descent, though it was difficult to guess. Especially with Americans, which the man's passport proclaimed him to be. But he was definitely a business man, and a successful one at that, judging from his self-assured swagger, first-class ticket, and well-tailored brand-new suit.

  Now that he thought about it, Elie realized that everything the man was wearing or carrying was brand-new: his gleaming shoes, his shirt, even the moulded grey Samsonite briefcase which had ridden through the X-ray machine with total innocence. It was almost as if everything he had on had just been unwrapped.

  Is that what bothers me about him? Elie asked himself. Because everything is too new?

  Elie laughed to himself. This surely proved that his job was starting to get to him. The airport's elaborate security precautions and his own antiterrorist training were beginning to spook him, he decided. It made him look constantly over his shoulders and eye everyone with suspicion. He was starting to see ghosts everywhere. His mother always did say he had a vivid imagination.

  But why then, he asked himself, are my hands so clammy? Why do I feel those ripples of static raising the hairs at the nape of my neck?'

  Because you've got an overactive imagination, he answered himself.

  Elie Levin would have no time to regret ignoring the warning bells that jangled in his mind. A group of tourists was headed their way, strategically blocking their path. He and the businessman had to skirt them, brushing the wall with their shoulders.

  And another thing, Elie thought suddenly. When the businessman had walked through the finely tuned metal detector, possibly the most finely tuned metal detector in the world, nothing had set it off. Not even loose change, a stainless watch, or a bunch of keys.

  Then, in front of him, another obstacle loomed in his path. A woman he didn't recognize, wearing a blue El Al uniform, stood smiling professionally beside a door marked authorized personnel only. They would have to squeeze past her in order to get around the horde of tourists.

  Just as he and the businessman reached her, the woman's gracious smile widened and she pushed down on the door handle. The door yawned wide in front of him.

  Elie was trapped, sandwiched neatly between the half-open door in front of him and the businessman behind him.

  Quicker than the eye could catch it, the businessman elbowed him savagely and thrust him expertly sideways into the dark little room. Elie's breath was knocked out of him. He let out a grunt and doubled over. The door shut with a snap of finality.

  A moment later, the overhead fluorescents flickered on.

  'Khalid!' Recognition suddenly dawned on Elie. In that split second he knew where he had seen that face before: countless times, but never clean-shaven. In all the blurry photographs, the terrorist had been bearded, dressed in army fatigues and the traditional Arab headgear.

  But it was too late. That split-second recognition, and that one fearfully whispered name, were the last things Elie Levin ever experienced. Khalid's blurring palm, expertly chopping his throat, cut off any further sound, and then a powerful elbow scissored around his neck. Elie's eyes widened, and he wanted to scream his terror. But then his bones crackled and snapped, and he slid, limp as a rag doll, lifelessly to the floor.

  Death had been instantaneous.

  Three minutes later, dressed in Elie's spotless uniform, Khalid stepped casually back out into the terminal, adjusted his tie, and remembered just in time to unpin Elie's name tag. He slipped it into his pocket and strode confidently toward the arrivals section.

  He glanced up at the overhead monitors and smiled with satisfaction. Trust the Isra
elis, he thought. Flight 1002 from New York had put down right on the button.

  Daliah was the first passenger off the plane, and she was gratified to see that, just as Patsy's secretary had arranged, a VIP representative was waiting at the door. She favoured him with a warm, grateful smile.

  He smiled pleasantly enough back at her, but she was aware of curiously cool, appraising eyes. 'If you'll give me your passport and baggage claims, Miss Boralevi,' he said, 'we can skip the usual formalities.'

  She nodded, dug into her bag, and handed over her ticket folder and Israeli passport in the thin Mark Cross leather sheath with gold corners, a Christmas present from Jerome, and yet another reminder of him she would have to pack away and hide. The VIP representative was the model of efficiency; she had to hurry to keep pace with him as he marched her swiftly past the backed-up line of passengers from an Athens flight. He flashed her open passport to an official behind the counter and then guided her through the noisy terminal, making a beeline for the exits.

  The big terminal was crowded with arriving and departing passengers. Daliah glanced round. The signs in Hebrew brought a lump to her throat. Home. Home at long last.

  The sliding exit doors were approaching, and she fell back from the VIP representative.

  'Wait!' Her voice stopped him.

  He was sliding her passport and the ticket folder with the stapled-on luggage claims inside his jacket pocket.

  'What about my luggage?' she asked. 'And I need my passport!'

  His smile was cemented in place. 'I'll have the baggage delivered to you by special courier within the hour,' he said reasonably. 'The same goes for your passport. Our first consideration is you. We have to be very security-conscious, and you, Miss Boralevi, are a very important national treasure. El Al does not like highly visible celebrities, especially one such as yourself who hails from a prominent family, to be unnecessarily exposed to possible danger in public areas.' His smile never left his face, that unsettling scimitar smile which held no warmth. Also, there was something about the way he looked at her, something mocking and unpleasant.