by Judith Gould
Najib stared at him, amazed. It was as if by standing up to Abdullah, he had somehow managed to defuse his half-uncle's temper. It was something he would have to remember.
Silently he sat back down.
'I did not send for you to argue with you,' Abdullah said wearily. 'There are too many important things to discuss.'
'Nor did I come here in order to waste time,' Najib countered flatly. 'You know I have a business empire to run. I cannot wait around forever until you decide to return from Libya or whatever. Time is money, and I do not intend to waste either. Now that you have the woman, either finish her off immediately and get it over with, or let her go. There is no need to pull the wings off the insect when killing it swiftly and cleanly is safer for all concerned.'
Abdullah gave him an oblique look. 'I hope you do not think I went through all the trouble of capturing her only to kill her? That could easily have been done at the airport. Or even more easily abroad.'
Najib frowned. Then what is it that you want?'
'Money, for one thing.'
'Why get greedy? You know that we have millions at our disposal.'
'More millions will not hurt,' Abdullah pointed out practically. 'However, financial gain is not my real aim.'
'What is?' Najib asked economically. He lifted the glass to his lips, but only ice cubes remained. He sucked one into his mouth and kept it there, letting it melt slowly.
Abdullah rose to his feet and paced the flokati. 'Twelve of our men are currently being held in Israeli prisons. Three men are jailed in Greece because of that airline hijacking. I want their unconditional release.' He ticked that point off on one finger. 'I also want to gain the release of all Al Fatah, Fedayeen, and PLO prisoners.' He ticked those three points off on his hand also. 'And then, of course, there is a small matter of fifty or sixty million dollars, to be distributed among the refugees in the camps.' He folded his thumb down. 'That is what I want.' He splayed his fingers. 'Five things.'
Najib could only stare. His mind was reeling. Abdullah's mad ambition was even greater than he had imagined. He swallowed the half-melted ice cube. 'The Israelis won't stand for it,' he said quietly. 'They have steadfastly refused to deal with any and all ransom demands in the past.'
'Ransom!' Abdullah snorted. 'You make us sound like common kidnappers.'
Najib let his silence speak for itself.
'In the past,' Abdullah said, 'we have never had a hostage of her calibre. Just think of the pressure we can exert through holding her.' He clenched his hand and shook it. 'She is one of the most famous women in the world; there will be an outcry from millions of fans worldwide. Half the governments of the Western world will pressure Israel to relent. I would not even be surprised if they debated her fate in the United Nations.' His black eyes glittered like coal. 'And then, my half-nephew, just think! Think of the vast, limitless power which shall be mine if I gain the release of the prisoners! Even Arafat will not have a single supporter left, nor will the leaders of any of his splinter groups. They will all join me! Me!' He pounded his chest with his fist. 'I will be the most powerful leader in all of Islam!'
He's mad. This proves it beyond any remnant of a doubt.
Abdullah continued his pacing, working himself into a frenzied excitement.
'Have you given any consideration to where we are?' Najib asked him softly.
'What do you mean?' Abdullah was so caught up in his vision of grandeur that he barely gave him a glance.
'We happen to be in Saudi Arabia,' Najib reminded him unnecessarily, 'and the Saudis enjoy excellent relations with the United States. They depend upon America for oil dollars, technical know-how, and military hardware. At the moment, negotiations for an entire new fleet of American fighter planes are in progress. The Saudis will not do anything to jeopardize that. They would hand us over on a platter to the Americans if the sale of the fighter jets hangs in the balance.'
'You worry too much,' Abdullah said with a negligent grunt. But he had stopped his pacing.
A sudden revelation came to Najib. 'The Saudis ... I take it they do not know you are here?'
Abdullah's lips drew back in a chill smile. He continued his pacing. 'Why should they? What they do not know will not hurt them. There are many ways to cross the border undetected.'
Najib leaned his head back and shut his eyes for a moment. He was almost too dumbstruck to think. Abdullah's madness-hatched plot could easily bring outright war to the entire Middle East. As if there were not enough sparks to set off the powderkeg, now Abdullah was adding more. It went beyond madness. Wearily he opened his eyes and sat forward. 'And if what you propose should work,' he said carefully, 'what happens to the Boralevi woman then?'
'As long as she is a bargaining tool, we will keep her alive,' Abdullah said flatly. 'Once our use for her is over, we will kill her.'
'Even if—and I repeat, if, since it's such a long shot—the prisoners should be released?'
Abdullah blinked. 'I do not see why that should make any difference.'
'But if her release is part of a deal—'
'Deal!' Abdullah scoffed, his voice hard and knifelike. 'You have grown too soft, half-nephew. One doesn't deal with one's enemies. I see now that it will do you good to stay with us for a while. It will make a man out of you all over again.'
Najib flushed, but chose to ignore the insult. There were more important things to do than spend the time fighting. For one thing, he had to give himself leeway; he must not be trapped here. He, too, could all too easily become Abdullah's prisoner; all it would take was his half-uncle's displeasure. Anything was possible: Abdullah had lost all sense of reality.
'It sounds like this is a lengthy proposition,' Najib said. 'I cannot stay here for such a long period of time, you know that. Without me constantly staying on top of things, my entire business empire could collapse.' He paused, frowned, and drummed his fingertips on the arms of his chair. 'But with the jet, I suppose I could juggle my schedule and commute between here and New York.'
Abdullah's lips also turned down into a frown. After a while he nodded. 'Then juggle things,' he said with finality. 'But be here when I return from Tripoli. I have something important I need to talk over with both you and Khalid.'
'Can we not discuss it tomorrow, after Khalid and the woman arrive?'
Abdullah shook his head. 'There will not be enough time tomorrow. Also, much of what I will propose depends upon my meetings with Colonel Qaddafi.'
'Very well,' Najib said with resignation. 'I shall be here when you return.'
'I hope so.' Abdullah gave him a half-smile. 'I guarantee that what I will propose to you will shake the world to its very foundations.'
Chapter 10
Soft giggles and ghostly whispers roused her from her sleep, while rough-skinned hands propped her up into a sitting position.
Opening her eyes, Daliah shrank back in horror. She struggled with her bonds, but the ropes around her wrists held tight.
In the light of an upheld kerosene lamp, three apparitions in black robes seemed to be dancing devilishly around her. Gnarled fingertips touched her tentatively, and muffled voices chattered and giggled. Elongated witchlike shadows twisted and writhed monstrously on the drooping walls of the tent.
A sudden chill dread came over her, and her eyes darted around as she turned to keep up with all three of the ghostly figures. They were robed in black from head to toe, and only their glowing eyes were visible. They were eyes without faces, like doctors masked for surgery or burglars dressed for break-ins.
One of the masked heads leaned in close to her. She could hear the sounds of breathing and smell the sour odour of sweat. The eyes in front of hers were dark and luminous and surprisingly gentle.
She let out a deep breath and began to shake with relief. These were no nightmarish ghosts or masked bandits, she realized. They were merely flesh-and-blood bedouin women, and the reason they had looked so threatening was that veils covered the lower halves of their faces—veils decora
ted with colourful embroidery and hung with rows of clinking gold coins, symbols of their husbands' wealth.
She was almost faint with relief.
Unexpectedly, the woman beside her reached out and ran her hand gently through Daliah's hair, fingering its fine, silky texture. The other two giggled and sighed and fussed at her feet: they had caught sight of her pearly toenail polish and were examining her toenails closely, feeling the lacquer and exclaiming aloud with delight. That was when she first realized that her feet were sticking out from under a heavy scratchy blanket. Night had fallen and the temperature had plunged, but someone had been thoughtful enough to cover her while she had been asleep.
'We have brought you water,' the woman who had fingered her hair told her in Arabic. 'You must be thirsty. Fadya!' She clicked her fingers and gestured to one of the other women. 'Myeh!'
The woman tore herself away from Daliah's toes and sprang into action. She knelt beside Daliah and held up a goatskin bladder, the nozzle just an inch from Daliah's lips. 'Min Fedlak,' she said. 'Please.'
Daliah made a face. She could smell the bladder: it reeked sourly of decayed filth, and in the light of the lantern she could see that the nozzle was encrusted with dirt. For an instant she felt a wave of revulsion, but managed to stifle the onslaught of nausea before it could grab hold of her completely. Throwing up was the last thing on earth she needed. Her body had no more moisture it could spare.
'Min Fedlak,' the woman said again, gesturing with the bladder. Water sloshed around inside it. 'Myeh.'
Obediently Daliah opened her mouth. The woman expertly squirted a stream of water into it, without spilling a precious drop. Daliah closed her lips, sloshed the water around in her mouth, and swallowed it slowly. She almost sighed with pleasure. It was warm and silty and tasted stale, but it was water. Wonderful, precious, life-giving water. It tasted better than any expensive bottled water or mountain stream she had ever drunk from.
She opened her mouth for a second squirt, but the woman shook her head and put the bladder down. Swiftly Daliah lowered her eyes. She was suddenly embarrassed by her obvious greed: she knew she should have been grateful for a mouthful, and that she should have waited to see if more would be offered before asking. To bedouins, water was more precious even than gold.
'Shukkran,' she said hoarsely, raising her eyes and thanking the woman.
The nut-brown laugh lines around the woman's eyes crinkled with pleasure at Daliah's use of Arabic.
'Min Fedlak,' Daliah begged in the language she'd learned so long ago and remembered only haltingly. 'Please, kind friend. The ropes hurt me. Could you untie me?'
The woman's voice was soft and sympathetic and muffled by the veil. 'No, no, we cannot do that, Excellency!' she said.
Daliah's eyes were imploring. 'Then can you at least tell me where we are?'
'No, no. So sorry, Excellency, so sorry.' A look of fear grew in the woman's eyes, and she shook her head and made Daliah lie back down, tucking the scratchy blanket gently around her. 'So sorry,' she repeated sincerely. 'We will bring you more water and lamb stew soon. So sorry . . .'
Then the woman scooped up the kerosene lamp, and the three of them backed off as one and scurried to the tent flaps. Lifting them, they slipped soundlessly out into the blackness of the night.
Daliah shivered. She wished she hadn't caught sight of the night. It was completely dark out, and the darkness was of an intensity such as she had never before encountered.
Wearily she let her head drop back down to the goat-hair floor covering. She closed her eyes.
She might as well try to go back to sleep.
Chapter 11
Eighteen hours had passed.
In the Hayarkon Street apartment, the festive decorations were still up; no one had bothered to take them down, and the drooping welcome home daliah! letters were mocking reminders of her absence. They moved with each current of stirred-up air as Dani paced restlessly beneath them.
Tamara, her face grey, sat in a wing chair, crumpled and tearful. Sissi and Ari held hands, sitting white-faced side by side on the floral chintz couch, their faces strained and tortured. Schmarya, having worked himself up into a fury of Biblical proportions, stamped about, his artificial leg thumping heavily on the floor with each second step.
'It's our own damn fault, by God!' the old man was thundering. He brought his fist crashing down on a sideboard, and everyone jumped; their nerves, already worn thin, were so frazzled by tension and lack of sleep that they were all at the snapping point. 'We've become so complacent during the lulls between wars that we're shocked when something like this happens! I tell you, we deserve every bomb and bullet and kidnapping if we don't protect ourselves better! And yet, how can we expect to do that,' he went on, now launching into his favourite subject, 'when the Neturei Karta, damn their Orthodox souls, do not even recognize the State of Israel? I ask you! They want to live here as Jews and have the best of it, but will they live as Israelis? No! They won't even recognize Israel as a sovereign state! How on earth can we expect to survive our enemies' attacks from without if we tear ourselves apart from within?' He shook his head and slammed his fist again and again on the sideboard.
The three strangers in the room, two of them men from the Shin Bet, the General Security Services, Israel's equivalent of the FBI, and the third, a certain Mr. Khan, who, perhaps because of his imperturbability and soft-spoken manner, Ari and Sissi suspected was Mossad, ignored the old man's tirade and calmly continued hooking up the tape recorders to the telephone lines, adding two extensions to listen in on.
Once started, Schmarya found it difficult to stop. 'How many times have I tried to make those thick-headed fools in the Knesset see that unless we constantly maintain a united—'
'Oh, Father, do shut up!' Tamara cried wretchedly. Her hands were in her lap and she was fidgeting constantly. 'We're nervous enough as it is, without your going on and on! We don't need any lectures now as to what we could and should have done to avoid this! If you go on ranting and raving and slamming your fists around, I'm going to start screaming in a minute!' Suddenly her voice began to crack. 'I don't know why anyone would want to do anything to dear, dear Daliah, and all I know is that she's disappeared and I want her.' She repeated, 'I want her,' and bit down so hard on her lip that she drew blood. Then she clapped her hands over her eyes and began to sob violently. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. 'It's just that . . . if only we'd heard something already, some sort of ransom demand . . . something ... if only we'd heard something' That's what usually happens, isn't it?' She turned her head sideways and directed this last question, instinctively and guilelessly, though she couldn't have said why she had chosen him in particular, at Mr. Kahn.
Sensing that she was speaking to him, he raised his eyes from the wires he was hooking up. 'In usual kidnapping cases, yes, that is what normally happens,' Mr. Khan said with a nod.
'Well, it's been over eighteen hours,' Tamara fretted. 'We should have heard something by now, don't you think? I mean . . . Oh, my God? Suddenly her mouth dropped open and she sat bolt upright, turning in the opposite direction. Her hand shot out and caught Dani in mid-stride. She shook his arm violently. 'Our telephone number's not listed! Perhaps that's it! Oh, good Lord, Dani! They might have tried to call and—'
'Mrs. ben Yaacov.' It was Mr. Khan, still unperturbed and unemotional. 'If your daughter has been kidnapped for ransom, the kidnappers will surely find a way to make their demands known to you. Perhaps they already have your number. Or they can get it from your daughter. Or a message may be delivered by mail.' He shrugged. 'There are countless ways they might go about it. But in case they do not have the number, and call information, this new telephone line has been listed in your name.'
Instead of calming Tamara, his words had the exact opposite effect. 'You keep referring to "usual cases" and say "if she's been kidnapped for ransom"!' Tamara's voice became shrill and piercingly raw. With every passing hour the dignity with which she'd held hers
elf for the first few hours had crumbled away, bit by bit, until she'd become the mass of raw, naked nerves she was now. The emotional toll was showing in her face as well: for once she looked old and caved-in. 'Of course it's a usual kidnapping,' she snapped. 'What else would it be? Someone kidnapped Daliah and is holding her because he wants something.'
'True,' Mr. Khan said. 'But I must caution you, it may not be money.'
'Dani!' She twisted back around in her husband's direction. 'What does he mean by that? Of course it's money. Shouldn't we already be trying to raise it?'
Dani looked at her with compassion. 'Mr. Khan may be right, darling,' he said quietly. 'It's no use raising any money until we know the specific demands.' His features tightened into a hideous expression and he looked away. 'If there are any demands.'
'Dani!' She paused. 'What are you trying to say?'
'This is Israel, darling. Kidnappings for money are extremely rare. Almost unheard-of.'
'You mean,' she said shakily, her voice dropping, 'it might be . . . political?'
'Look, darling, it's past midnight. Let's try to get some sleep. All incoming phone calls will be monitored. Someone from the Shin Bet will be here at all times. If there's a call, they'll wake us up.' He drew closer to her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders. 'All we can do is wait.'
'Wait,' she repeated dully, and sighed. 'Oh, God.' She reached up, seized his wrists, and tilted her head back so that she could look up at him. 'I'm so frightened, Dani. They won't hurt her, will they?' And when he didn't reply, she dug her fingers deeper into his wrists. 'Will they?'
They were constantly on the move, it seemed, and now they were moving on once again.
For breakfast, the women had fed her broken bits of dry, unleavened bread, two meagre strips of tough, dried lamb, three mouthfuls of tepid water, and a tiny cup of bitter hot strong black coffee. Then they had dressed her in bedouin clothes, in a heavy black abbeya, and a veil with only a rectangular meshed eye opening through which she could see out hazily, but no one could see her. She recognized it as the most extreme of the various Muslim women's veils, and any hopes she had entertained to be recognized and freed were dashed the moment she saw the outfit. Even her parents, if they had been standing right in front of her, could not have been faulted for not recognizing her. She had been rendered utterly sexless and shapeless, a walking bundle of faceless rags.
