Emile’s dark eyes turned sad. “Did your troubles with Jack have anything to do with that?”
India sighed. “Yes. I can’t deny that. I was terribly hurt when he thought I’d okayed that clip of Nadia’s death.”
“Would it help if I told you I gave him hell? He came to see me when I was still so banged up. I set him straight.” He pulled out a pack of Marlboros, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and exhaled. “He got all kind of moody after I let him have it. I said you’d fought with the network and got fired for it.”
India picked at a fingernail. “Did he say anything?”
“Not much, but I saw him the other day and he seems his old self.”
She looked up. “Well, that’s good. I didn’t like to leave it like that.”
“Why don’t you call him, India? I know he’d like to see you.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Sleeping dogs, and all that.”
Emile brightened. “That’s a new saying for me. What does it mean?”
India laughed. “To add to your American idioms? I shortened it. The saying is, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ In other words, don’t rock the boat. And that’s another one for you.”
“I know that one.”
She looked down at her hand again. “Don’t stir up something that’s best left alone.”
“I always thought you and Jack would get together.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen.” She looked up, let her eyes travel over Emile. “You look great. All over your injuries?”
“Pretty much. I had several weeks of therapy and now I’m working with a trainer. The leg’s as good as new, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Shoulder barks every now and then.”
She laughed. “Same old Emile and I’m glad. I’ve worried about you. Now. I have to get up to the apartment and pack up a few things. Not much. I never really had time to get settled. I’m going to be based in New York for a while and I’ve bought a condo. I have to get organized.”
“I hope you come back.”
“You’re sweet. Now, I’ll give you a hug and say au revoir. We’ll meet again, I know it. Come see me in New York. I have an extra bedroom. I’ll put you up for as long as you can stay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She stood and leaned across the table to give him a kiss, then turned and walked away.
He called after her. “And I still think you should call Jack.”
She waggled her fingers at him over her shoulder and kept walking.
CHAPTER FORTY
September, American Airlines, en route to Vienna
AS INDIA WORKED on her laptop she felt her seatmate’s eyes on her. She looked up and smiled briefly, long enough to note the super-smartly-dressed young man was looking at the Vogue spread then back at her.
“You’re in the magazine, non?” He consulted the page. “On page three-hundred-eighteen.” He held the heavy book up. “Mon Dieu, the September issue of the magazine is getting too formidable to hold up in the hands. Madame Wintour must be stopped before it breaks someone’s arms.”
“You’d have a hard time convincing her of that. Those hundreds of gorgeous ads are her babies.” She glanced down to see her own likeness on the page the man examined, the one in the sleek white gown the stylist at Vogue had insisted she wear. It really was a gorgeous dress. India hadn’t wanted any glamour shots. Wanted to be featured for her journalism career, but finally consented to one gown and one designer suit, to make her look serious. “Yes. That’s me. I’m surprised to see a man reading a woman’s fashion magazine.”
The man grinned, an expression that crinkled up his dark eyes. “Oh, I’m in the, what you call the rag business—the business manager for Madame Près. This is my homework.” He turned a page. “Tell me, did you really go to a terrorist camp? I wouldn’t think those savages would allow that. J’aurai une attaque de panique.”
India blotted out all but the cozy dinner with Nahzi in the firelight, with the twangy stringed music in the background. “Those jihadist groups love publicity. They recruit with it. I was quite welcome.” And that will be my story from now on. I mustn’t let that night take away my courage.
“I am Olivier Laurent, by the way” He held out his hand.
“Enchanté. I am India Fox. What takes you to Vienna, Monsieur?”
“The OPEC fêtes include some fashion presentations. I must meet with our Vienna store personnel and arrange some private showings for the ministers’ wives. Oil men’s wives are excellent customers for French couture. A break from those dreary blacks they shroud themselves in.” He laughed. “You want to interview the oil ministers? Mademoiselle, you’d find out more by listening to the wives. Do you speak Arabic, by any chance? Ma grandmère était algerienne, so I do. The things I hear! After one of these showings I can tell you what the price of a barrel of crude will be tomorrow.” He brought out a small case and selected a vellum card. “En tout cas, here is an invitation to my showing. You must come. The dresses are beautiful.”
India took the engraved card. “Why, thank you very much. I’d love to.”
The pilot announced the descent into Vienna and India began to collect her things.
Olivier handed her his business card and smiled. “Any man would be delighted to talk to you. If you have no luck with the ministers, I will buy you an aperitif and we will talk d’autres choses charmants.
India laughed, delighted with her new friend, who was being an unexpected bit of luck. “Vous etes très galant, Monsieur. I’ll remember that. Olivier.”
She turned to the plane’s window. The pilot was taking them over the sprawling baroque Schönbrunn Palace and the Danube River, pearl-like in the gathering evening.
Olivier leaned over her shoulder to catch sight of the city. “The airline is even playing a Strauss waltz for us.”
“That’s such a nice touch. I didn’t expect to be so thrilled to be here.”
“Is this your first visit to Vienna?”
“Oh, no. I went to high school in Switzerland.” The thought flashed through her mind. Those years were probably the happiest she’d ever been. “We all loved coming to romantic Vienna on those theater trips. I fell hard for an Austrian boy here…Dieter something. Ah well. That was a century ago. I fell in love very quickly then.”
“Ah, Cherie, didn’t we all.”
IT WAS FULLY dark by the time India got to the Park Hotel. The lobby was a sea of oil men and their wives checking in, western style business suits, the flowing robes, thobes, dishdashes, abayas from the Middle East. When she checked in at the desk the man took her credit card, then said, “You have a message Miss Fox.” He handed her a rich cream envelope with her name in calligraphy.
A flurry of activity at the main door caught her attention. Then the distinctive profile of Bashar al-Assad appeared, accompanied by his wife Asma. His large entourage swept through the lobby across the black and white tile floor. India turned to the desk clerk. “Syria isn’t a member of OPEC. Bashar al-Assad is here? Are heads-of-state of other oil-producing nations attending as well?”
“Oh yes, Madame. It is the Jubilee, of course. There are several oil state leaders staying with us. The Schloss Schönbrunn is very close. Many activities will be held there. The King of Bahrain and his entourage just checked in an hour ago. You are here at an exciting time.” He lowered his voice. “The oil nations guests like to have a…um…relaxing visit when they are away from their more…ah…restrictive countries. The city will be very festive, you know.”
India smiled at the man. “I understand.” I sure do. The champagne will flow. All that money knows how to play. And shop. Olivier Laurent should do very well with his dresses.
In the elevator going up to her room she read the formal invitation inviting her to the opening reception for the OPEC ministers, tomorrow evening at the Schönbrunn Palace in the Orangery.
India inspected the contents of the envelope on the way to the elevator. Hm. Been here less than an hour
and two invitations. I expect this one was Ham’s work. Or Clausen’s. I’m supposed to poke around on my own. Good. This will make it easier. It’ll give me a chance to buttonhole a few people. See if I can set something up with an oil sheik or two, to give something to Ham, since he’s hired me.
India stepped into the velvet-flocked walls, crystal-sconced Park elevator. Plus I can meet Clausen’s CIA Vienna man. I wonder how I do that? Will he jump out in front of me from a lobby potted palm? Appear on my balcony in a black cape. Be serious, India. This isn’t a Bond movie.
She shivered in anticipation as she caught her image in the ornate, ormolu elevator mirror. But. Maybe this is going to be fun. Being a spy.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE SCHÖNBRUNN Palace Orangery’s twelve crystal chandeliers glittered down on the crowd of OPEC oil ministers and a few leaders of the world’s petroleum rich countries. Guests from the Arab Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries, or AOPEC had been invited to share in the Jubilee festivities. There was a heady mix of Middle Eastern formal thobes and dishdashas as well as the evening dress and gowns of other nations. Most of the women in attendance were in very expensive western couture. India, in a plum-colored silk suit, showed her invitation at the door and was issued a blue tag—her name and World Broadcast News TV in smaller letters. As she moved into the crowd she noted a few others with blue tags, none she recognized.
The long hall of the Orangery was lined on either wall by a series of arched windows, alternately tall and slightly smaller, under the white vaulted ceiling. Niches between the windows held up-lit ornate urns filled with dramatic arrangements of roses, chrysanthemums, ferns, asters and other autumn flowers that gave the hall an underlying fragrance. The Orangery had originally been a winter home to the palace’s orange trees, and there were at intervals large urns filled with the globe-shaped glossy green trees.
A waiter appeared at her shoulder with a tray of champagne flutes, disappearing fast in this gathering of supposed “non-drinkers.” Several photographers circulated among the crowd, recording photos for newspapers in the oil world and beyond. She nodded to a few people she vaguely recognized, then saw the Assads enter the hall.
What am I going to do about that? I thought I’d never see the man again. Deep breath, India. Mustn’t waste an opportunity. Do I have the guts to ask him for an interview? Well, why not? If he remembers me, he can always say no. He can’t throw me in jail here. I hope.
She moved over to the cluster of people around the Syrian president. She inched closer as each person left and quickly found herself in front of Assad and his wife.
India smiled directly at Asma Assad, then, “Good evening, Mr. President and Mrs. Assad. How nice to see you again, sir. I wonder if you would be able to find the time for a short interview for my television network, World Broadcast News. I promise I would not take much of your time.”
Assad looked down at her, his eyes blank for a moment, and then recognition crept in. The eyes became cold. “Is it…Miss Fox? I think I do not have the time. ” He turned away.
Asma Assad interrupted. “Bashar, I recognize this lady. This is India Fox. I recognize her as the woman featured in an article in this month’s Vogue magazine that I told you wants to feature me. What is that experience like, Miss Fox? May we talk together? Assure Bashar that it is a very good thing to do?”
Assad looked into the distance, frowned, “I don’t think…”
A voice came over India’s shoulder, “Come on, Bashar. Let Miss Fox and Asma have a sit-down. Good public relations. A lot of people read that magazine. Good for business for Syria.”
India stood very still. The familiar voice. Of course Jack Spear would be here. Why not? Reuters would want a story.
Assad shrugged and moved away, his voice icy. “Do as you wish.”
India smiled at the Syrian First Lady. “I’m thrilled that we will talk. Here is my card. May I set up an appointment with your secretary?”
“Yes. I was going shopping tomorrow, but I can spare a half an hour. I will tell her to expect your call. My husband has meetings in the morning and will be gone about nine thirty. Around ten would good for me. We’re at the Park Hotel.” She turned to a group that appeared at her shoulder.
“I am…yes, that will be fine.” A hand on her shoulder turned her around. She shrugged it off. “Hello, Jack. I don’t know why I’m surprised to see you. But of course you’d cover this.”
“But I’m a little surprised to see you here. I’d heard you weren’t with WBN anymore.”
“I wasn’t for a while. I was…terminated. A…difference of opinion. But management changed and asked me back.” She gave him a small, cool smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She turned quickly and pushed her way through the crowd toward the entrance doors. She didn’t look back.
The big hall had become hot with the crush of people and with a rush of relief India stepped into the crisp Austrian September evening. She took a deep breath to calm herself.
I couldn’t help it. I could not stand and talk with Jack Spear. A pang of irritation stabbed in her chest. Really kind of nervy for him to step in for me with Asma Assad. “Really.” A late arriving couple glanced at her. She smiled and nodded to them, “Guten habend.”
Oh stuff it, India. You shouldn’t complain about that. I should have gotten a sheik, but she’ll do just fine.
A long line of black limousines waited across the drive, transportation to the Orangery for the oil potentates. India pulled a twenty euro bill from her handbag and approached one of the drivers, leaning against the fender of his car smoking a cigarette. India guessed a quick trip to her hotel would be worth twenty euros to him, seeing as how his other riders would be otherwise occupied for a time. He’d probably do it for ten, but she didn’t want to stick around bargaining. She tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder and held up the twenty, “Guten habend, mein Herr. Park Hotel?”
The chauffeur threw down his cigarette and opened the door for her.
INDIA KICKED OFF her shoes and went to the desk in her room. She needed to get some background on Asma al-Assad. The woman had been born and educated in England, of Syrian parents. The young woman met Bashar al-Assad in England when he was an ophthalmology student. Asma was tall, beautiful and Parisian chic. The woman could occasionally be seen in news photos with her husband, but that’s all India knew about her, other than that couple had three small children.
She opened her laptop and went to Google.
Deep into her notes, and hypothesizing questions to ask Asma al-Assad, a dictator’s wife, India missed the soft knock on her door. When she became aware that something had broken her concentration, the knock sounded again.
Her mind swam out of the impending Asma interview.
Then, she knew. She knew it was Jack Spear and despite the nagging pinpoint that she had squelched over and over, she knew he would come. What was there to say?
She rose and walked the twenty miles to the door. She didn’t look through the magnifying eye piece, wiped her hands on her skirt and turned the door handle.
Jack stood, hands in his pockets, his eyes as intent on her as she remembered. “I wasn’t sure you’d let me in.”
She backed away until an arm chair stopped her and said nothing.
“I won’t stay long.”
She nodded
“You’re angry. I don’t blame you. I was wrong and I needed to tell you that.”
She dropped her eyes and studied the pattern on the carpet. “What you thought about me hurt. I’ve worked to forget how much.”
“Nadia and I met three years ago. Liked each other. We had a brief affair. Then we decided it wasn’t that kind of thing. We came out the other side liking each other more than ever.” His voice caught. “We became very close.”
“She was like a sister, you said.”
“Very nearly. When I saw the footage of her…death being shown all over the Internet I got very crazy, I guess.”
India’s hand
came up toward him, but she pulled it back. “I can see that.”
“Emile set me straight. Told me how you’d tried to excise that terrible part of the video. And lost your job because of it.” He moved to stand before her, then reached to put his hands on her shoulders. “Also, I wanted to tell you…I know about your trip to the terrorist camp. All of it. And I am so very, very sorry.”
India felt a knot forming in her throat. I mustn’t cry. I mustn’t. I haven’t and I won’t. That’s too easy. Then he would wrap his arms around me and…and what. I don’t know.
She broke away and walked to the window. Down in the street people were returning from the reception and dinners. What time was it? Her room was quiet, and she could only hear her heart beating. It was important that she say something. She turned. Jack stood as he had been, his expression intense, searching her face for something.
“Jack, I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. Or what I would say to you if I did. But, now I’m glad you came. I’m glad you know about the Nadia segment. That I wasn’t unfeeling. The…other. It doesn’t matter.” She turned back to the window. She felt the air stir and knew he’d come near. His hands turned her as he spoke, “I want to hold you, just for a moment. It will help me if I know you forgive me a little.”
“Jack, just please go. You said you wouldn’t stay long.”
She tensed as he pulled her close, then felt her body drain of all the anguish she’d felt these last months about so many things. She rested her head against the lapel of his suit.
He tipped her chin up. “Will I see you again?”
She nodded.
His smile flashed. “Will you call me?”
Do I want to? Let it go, India. Make life simple for yourself. “I promise.”
He bent and kissed her lightly. She closed her eyes as he brushed her cheek with his fingers. When she opened them, she heard the door close and he was gone.
India felt her knees turn to water and stumbled to the sofa. After some minutes her heart began to ease into a regular rhythm. And then she felt a surge of relief. It would be all right with Jack. She could see him and they could be…something. What, she couldn’t say, but something. And the hurt was gone.
I Am India Fox Page 20
