Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  An unholy look changed his face completely, turning his black eyes to mercury, so silvery that she could see herself reflected in them. Without warning, one of his hands clamped around the back of her head and thrust it forward to meet his, and the other unerringly found a breast through the thick cloth. He squeezed it cruelly.

  The pain tore through her and tears formed in the corners of her eyes, but she refused him the satisfaction of crying out. Then his savage lips forced themselves hungrily upon hers.

  It was as if someone had thrown a switch. She went stiff as a marble statue; even her lips seemed to have turned suddenly to stone. But her eyes were alight. They seemed to burn with hell's own fury.

  He squeezed her even more cruelly, still staring into her face. She had gone pale, and moisture beads stood out on her forehead, but the taunting expression in her eyes refused to die.

  Savagely he shoved her away. His voice was ugly but touched with a grudging respect. 'You make a lousy whore,' he said.

  Her taunting expression changed to one of wild triumph.

  Hamid and Monika escorted Daliah upstairs, still in a daze of confusion; if she hadn't known it to be impossible, she would have said that Najib al-Ameer had been attracted to her. Why else would he have stared at her so intensely, and then forced himself on her the way he had? But she decided that that had not been desire, but hate—undiluted hate. That was why he had tried to hurt her.

  Vaguely she was aware of endless enormous halls and giant pieces of modern sculpture. Finally Hamid opened a massive door.

  'You can thank that Arab capitalist for this,' Monika growled. 'I don't know why he should have a soft spot for you. If it were up to me, I would lock you in a dark cellar.'

  Daliah didn't know what she meant by that until she'd been shoved inside a room and the door slammed and locked from the outside. She stared around her in disbelief at the palatial pink suite.

  Why not a dark cellar?

  Why this gilded prison?

  Chapter 13

  Every city in Europe has its one world-famous café where local inhabitants and tourists alike are drawn, and the tables and chairs spill out onto the pavements, where one can sit and watch the world parading by. They are places where one goes both to see and to be seen, where life is unhurried and newspapers can be read over leisurely cups of coffee or cool drinks nursed, where the intellectuals gather and spend hours arguing the important topics of the day. In Tel Aviv, such is the Kassit Café on Dizengoff Street.

  Schmarya had chosen it specifically because it was so public and obvious a place; he suspected, correctly, that no one in his right mind would expect murky business to be conducted so out in the open. The few people who might possibly have recognized the secretive man he was with would no doubt think that the two of them had run into each other by chance on the street and had decided to sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee together before parting again.

  Chaim Golan was the head of the Mossad, Israel's world-envied secret service.

  An unassuming man, Golan could have been mistaken for anyone's favourite grandfather: behind his dark sunglasses his twinkling eyes were bright blue, the laugh lines around them ran deep and crinkled constantly, and his eyebrows were snowy white. He had a merry Karl Malden bulb of a sunburned nose, and unruly thick white hair. Few people would have suspected the ice water that ran in his veins, or the streak of stubborn toughness that lay just underneath his twinkling countenance. For behind the façade he was all raw guts and pure steel.

  Now Chaim Golan's eyes, hidden behind black glasses, twinkled and crinkled in deceptive grandfatherly humour. 'Look at them,' he said gruffly. He gestured at the crowds passing by—the euphoric shoppers, sweethearts walking hand in hand, friends who had run into each other and were stopping to chat. 'Like children they go about. Without a care in the world. Like this was Paris or Rome, they act. Always showing off their purchases, always seeing stars in each other's eyes.' He shook his head slowly. 'Do they have any idea, these merrymakers, that at this very instant a bomb could go off and blow them all away? Poof! Like that.' He had stopped smiling, but his naturally curved lips seemed unaware of that.

  'Of course they know that.' Schmarya nodded. 'It's always there, in the back of their thoughts, hidden just below their laughter. That is why they are so carefree—because they know this moment of joy might be their last.'

  Golan turned to Schmarya and looked over his glasses with respect. 'The trouble with the two of us,' he said, 'is we're jaded.' He sighed deeply. 'Both of us, we have lived through too much. Seen more tragedy than any human being ought to be exposed to.'

  'And yet, neither you nor I am prepared when something happens.' Schmarya frowned and was silent for a moment. 'When it does, we are as surprised and shocked as the rest of them.'

  'True, true.' Golan nodded, patted his pockets, and came up with a cigar. He stuck it in his mouth, and patted himself down for matches. 'Now, to the subject on your mind. So far, we have dug up nothing. It is as if she disappeared into thin air, your Daliah.' He smiled slightly. 'But we both know better.'

  Schmarya grunted. 'The borders?'

  'As far as we know, no one has tried to take her across. That does not rule out the possibility, of course, that she could have been smuggled across one of them before we doubled our manpower and cracked down on every outgoing vehicle.' He found his matches, scratched one, and lit his cigar.

  'Any word on the street?'

  Again Golan shook his head. 'None.'

  'Then what about word from our informers across the borders? You did approach them, didn't you?'

  Golan looked disgusted. 'Of course we did. But so far . . . bupkes.' He pointed with his cigar. 'I can tell you one thing. Amateurs these people aren't, that's for sure. A bloodhound couldn't sniff the trail they've left.'

  'Nothing? Not even about the murdered airline employee?'

  'Bupkes. The trouble with crimes committed in public terminals like the airport is that potential witnesses have all flown the coop before we could track them down to question.'

  Schmarya frowned and toyed with his coffee cup. It was half-empty, and had grown cold. He heaved a noisy sigh. 'So what do we do?' he asked at last.

  'Time. These things take time.' Golan nodded compassionately. 'With no clues, unless we hear from the kidnappers it will be virtually impossible to find her. We can trace her only if they contact us. Otherwise . . .'He shrugged expressively, not needing to put the unspoken into words.

  Schmarya felt a sudden surge of helpless anger. 'This is my granddaughter we're talking about!' he said forcefully. 'Israel's most famous celebrity!'

  'Believe me, my friend, I understand the way you feel,' Golan commiserated. 'The more the victim is loved, like your Dahliah, the more the family suffers. For their sake, the best thing you can do is make a show of a strong front. Also, my friend, remember that the lack of communication isn't necessarily all bad.'

  'Not all bad!' Schmarya exclaimed so explosively that the people at the surrounding tables turned to stare. Shocked at his own outburst, he dropped his voice to a near-whisper. 'I want to kill whoever it is that's responsible for this!' he hissed. 'I could murder them in cold blood!'

  'So why am I here?'

  Schmarya frowned and toyed with the cup. His fingers were trembling so badly that he nearly knocked it over. He looked up, his eyes sunken with pain. There has got to be some way we can push them into playing their hand!'

  'Well, my friend,' Golan asked conversationally, 'how are you at press conferences these days?'

  Schmarya was glum. 'I'm okay, but my daughter's terrific. A pro.'

  'That's it, then. You just be there, and Tamara, let her do all the talking.'

  Schmarya swallowed. 'A press conference? You think that could maybe smoke them out?'

  'It might encourage them to make a move; then again, it might not. Who can predict? Obviously they are in no hurry to get in touch with you, otherwise they would have leaked word of what they've done. To the p
ress, somebody. But if you announce what happened . . .' He nodded. 'Yes, why not? After all, so far no one has claimed responsibility, and this might get them to do so. Also, it will encourage anyone to come forward who might have seen something.'

  'What do we say?'

  Golan puckered his merry lips and considered. 'Whatever comes from the heart.'

  'And then we wait.'

  'And then we wait.' Golan sat back, his expression deceptively cheerful. 'Remember, at least we have every reason to hope that she is still very much unharmed and very much alive. And that, my friend, is more than the families of most kidnap victims can say. I keep asking myself, why did they kidnap her? These crimes are not done for the thrill. There has to be a reason.'

  Schmarya nodded bitterly. 'Day and night, I have been asking myself that same question.'

  'And?'

  Schmarya shrugged. 'I've come to the conclusion that they'll want a special ransom. And not money, either, I'm afraid.'

  'That could be.' Golan sat back, and puffed on his cigar. 'That is sound reasoning, I think. Especially since . . .' He cleared his throat. 'Since there's you and Dani to consider.'

  Schmarya looked up sharply. 'What are you trying to get at?'

  Golan shrugged. 'Maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree, and then again, maybe not. But it could very well be that they plan to use her as some sort of leverage against one of you. Maybe both of you. Need I remind you that you and Dani hold important, highly sensitive posts within the government? That you're both at the highest decision-making level in the cabinet?'

  Schmarya stared at him. The very same fears had gnawed at him, only he had been afraid to voice them aloud, as if that might have given them extra credence somehow. But now that Chaim had brought it up, he could no longer avoid the issue. 'So, keeping that in mind, how do you suggest we proceed?

  'The only way we can, under the circumstances. Everything we have been doing, we continue to do. We turn the country upside down. Leave no stone unturned.' Golan sighed. 'We wait. We hope. We pray.'

  'And what do we do when the kidnappers get in touch?'

  Golan looked surprised. 'Why, we do what we always do in these cases. You know the procedure. We try to stall them. We negotiate. Try to bring the price down, if there is one, and meanwhile search high and low for her. Try to free her before their demands can be met—or at any rate, before we have to tell them they can't be met.'

  'Yes, Chaim, but what if . . .' Schmarya paused and tightened his lips. 'What if she isn't being held here, in Israel?'

  Golan put his finger on the nose piece of his glasses and slid them down an inch. He stared at Schmarya narrowly. 'If you're asking me what we do if she's held outside Israel, the answer, which already you know, is that we can't mount a rescue attempt without prior government approval.' He stared over his glasses. 'Lawfully, at least. You know that as well as I, so why ask?'

  'Chaim.' Schmarya quickly glanced over both his shoulders, then sat forward and hunched over the tiny table. His voice dropped to a murmur. 'Look, what I’m saying is completely off the record, all right?' He waited for Golan's nod, and then continued. 'We both know that there are certain men in our armed forces who willingly go beyond the call of duty. Israelis who don't listen to all the dissenting voices and the namby-pambies our government's become filled with. You know the men of whom I speak.'

  Golan slid the glasses back up and neither nodded, nor shook his head, nor spoke.

  'All I’m asking is, should the situation come down to it, can I count on you to help mount a rescue attempt? By at least getting me in touch with the men who would be willing to do it. Unofficially, of course.'

  'You're suggesting we might take matters into our own hands?'

  'If it comes down to that, yes.' Schmarya spread his hands helplessly. 'For my granddaughter,' he added quietly, 'I would do anything. Even commit murder.'

  'These thoughts I would keep to myself if I were you,' Golan warned.

  Schmarya was undeterred. 'But what if she is in Libya? Or Jordan? Or worse, even somewhere slightly friendlier? How can we guarantee that there'll be an outright rescue attempt if it's a country our government's trying to talk peace with?'

  'It's politics you're talking now, Schmarya.' Golan downed the remainder of his coffee and rose from his bentwood chair. 'That question, I can't answer. You know that. It's purely hypothetical. We'll have to wait until the time comes, and God willing, it won't. But if it should, then we'll discuss it. Go, get things set up for the press conference. Meanwhile, I will forget we ever discussed this. And you I advise to do the same.'

  Schmarya smiled weakly. 'Fair enough. And thank you, Chaim. I know you didn't have to come. Toda raba.'

  'B'vakasha, Schmarya. If you hear anything, you let me know.'

  'You'll be the first,' Schmarya promised. 'L'hitra'ot.'

  Golan gave a half-wave. 'L'hitra'ot.'

  Schmarya watched him leave and melt into the passing crowds. Then, spying a passing waiter, he raised his hand to attract his attention. 'Waiter!' he called. 'Ha'hesbon!'

  Chapter 14

  Restlessly Daliah prowled from one room to the next. Everything about the rooms was engraved in her mind, and she feared that if she managed to get out of this alive, she would never be able to forget this place for as long as she lived. She knew the dimensions by heart. Not counting the sixteen-foot-square foyer alcove, the living room of her prison measured twenty-one moderate steps in width, and in length thirty; in other words, it was thirty-eight feet wide by forty-six feet long. The bedroom was another thirty-eight by twenty-four feet. And the two enormous marble-sheathed bathrooms—one clearly 'his' and one 'hers'—both equipped with beauty-parlour chairs, carved marble pedestal sinks in the shapes of shells, and whirlpool tubs set with mosaic tiles, would each have made respectable studio apartments in New York City. There were two walk-in closets, seventy-six running feet of closet space in all, and a forty-six-foot length of floor-to-ceiling sliding glass windows—but despite all that glass, as a prison it was highly effective. The electronically controlled steel security shutters were down and locked into place, making escape impossible; the electronic controls for them had been disconnected. So had all eleven telephones, including the two in each bathroom, one mounted above the sink and the other built right into the side of the Jacuzzi.

  As she stalked about like a caged tiger, the richness of everything only succeeded in making her crosser and crosser. She felt like she'd stumbled onto some stupid set and was trapped in a ludicrous skit. What kind of a prison was this, anyway, with its tons of veined pink marble, acres of quilted pink-suede-upholstered walls, and soft pink silk fabrics? It was farcical. Ridiculous. An Alice-in-Wonderland prison that succeeded in unnerving her more than any tiny six-by-six-foot cell ever could, because of its unexpected luxury.

  Abruptly bored with her pacing, she threw herself down into a pink suede couch, sinking slowly deeper and deeper into the overstuffed, down-filled cushions. How much longer were they going to keep her here, anyway? Two days had now passed since she had been brought here, and she knew every corner and bibelot. Once again, for the twenty-fourth time in the space of one hour, she glanced over at the desktop clock. That was another thing about being imprisoned. Although time had become academic, she was constantly aware of its passing and leaving her behind. No matter where she looked, clocks ticking away were all around her. Curiously, her captors hadn't tried to confuse her about the passage of time, something she'd once read all kidnappers tended to do, and she wondered whether she should infer anything significant from that. She wondered, too, if putting the clocks away, out of sight, would make any difference psychologically, and decided it really wouldn't. Every eight hours, she would know exactly what the time was, since they brought her her meals so regularly that she could have set the clocks by them: each meal was dictated by the beginning of a new guard shift and thereby spaced eight hours apart. Breakfast was brought promptly at eight a.m., lunch at 4 p.m., and dinner at midnight. It
played havoc with her sleep and general functions. But she guessed that it had nothing to do with her discomfort: it was simply more convenient that way. From the quality of the cooking, she guessed that the cook—as well as the other servants—was not currently in residence.

  From listening at the door, she knew that there were at least two guards stationed outside her door at all times. She also gathered that two more guards were stationed below her shuttered windows at all times. Sometimes, if she opened the sliding glass panels, she could hear voices below her windows, and could catch the smell of pungent cigarette smoke drifting in through the hairline cracks between the metal slats. Three people took turns bringing her the trays of food and checking up on her every now and then: two men, Ahmed and Haluk, and the German girl, Monika.

  Monika was the cruellest because she was the most truculent and hate-filled of them all. For some reason, Daliah suspected the German girl resented her; whatever the reason, she made that fact painfully clear in as many little ways as she could. When there was soup, she made a point of having spilled most of it on the way; the same went for coffee. Or she would carry a food tray so that the plate was positioned just right for her thumb to poke into the main course. Once, sliding her cold, bleak eyes in one of her sidelong glances, Monika had muttered, 'I didn't spit or piss in it. Not this time.' Her lips had scarcely moved, but the vitriol was potent.

  Daliah pretended to be unfazed by the German. She knew better than to argue with her. Monika, she knew, was spoiling for a fight, and it was important that she do everything to prevent one. Each time Monika baited her, she forced herself to remember the first rule of hand-to-hand combat. It seemed a million years since she'd worn her olive-green uniform and done her stint in the Israeli army, but her combat instructor's lessons stayed with her. 'If your adversary is armed and you're not,' the burly sergeant had barked, 'avoiding confrontation may be your most effective combat tactic.' At the time, she'd never thought that the lesson would sometime serve her well.