CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Park Hotel, next day
A UNIFORMED GUARD stood attention at the special elevators to the presidential suites. The desk clerk had informed her that the Park hotel maintained seven such high octane accommodations. The city was often the site of serious international confabs. The guard acknowledged India and allowed her onto the opulent elevator, where another uniformed man rode up to the Assad Presidential Suite with her. With the unrest roiling the Middle East countries, she thought, the Assads seemed to be taking the instability seriously, with all these guards. His country is in the crosshairs, but he still spends money like a sultan.
India acknowledged the sentry standing outside the Assad’s door and again gave her name. He turned, knocked on the door and it swung open. A silent, black abaya-clad woman gave India a slight nod and gestured for her to follow.
Asma al-Assad sat at a breakfast table in front of French doors open to the warm autumn breeze and a small terrace. An array of the elaborate Austrian pastries on silver trays, along with a rainbow of fresh fruits in heavy crystal bowls, all laid out on a crisp white linen cloth. Silver utensils, Meissen porcelain plates and cups waited beside an elaborately-scrolled silver coffee urn. The woman, elegant in a pale gray dress and pearls, uncrossed long legs, set down her coffee cup and rose to greet India. “Do come in, Miss Fox, or I understand it’s India. May I call you that?”
“Of course.”
“Call me Asma. Please sit down with me. Have you breakfasted? Please have something.”
“No thank you. I’m fine. I don’t want to take too much of your time. I know you have plans for today. I would like to set up my camera, if you’d allow me. My network would be pleased to have our talk for viewers to see. It will only take a moment.”
“Oh, I’m not sure…”
“If at any time you become uncomfortable, I’ll turn it off. And I will run the video for you to see. Your husband as well, if you like.”
“In that case, of course.”
“Would you like to be sitting at the table, or perhaps we could be seated in those chairs over there. The light is in back of you where you are. I can manage that, but the light on your face would be better.”
“Oh, then yes. Over there. Yes.”
India pinned a small microphone to Asma Assad’s dress, then to her own.
After a brief rundown of the questions she’d ask the woman, she turned to the camera. “This is India Fox. I am in Vienna at the Jubilee celebration of the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries. Or OPEC. I am fortunate today to interview the First Lady of Syria, Asma al Assad. She and her husband President Bashar al-Assad are guests of the OPEC countries for this meeting that surely will discuss the future of the oil industry that will affect economies all over the world. Mrs. Assad is English-born and educated, the daughter of Syrian parents. She met her husband in London where he was studying ophthalmology. She herself graduated from King’s College in London, one of the world’s leading research and teaching universities, studying computer science as well as French literature. She speaks English, Arabic, French and Spanish. She has worked for Deutsche Bank as an economic analyst and J.P. Morgan before her marriage to the President of Syria and is now that country’s very active First Lady.” She turned to Asma, “Good morning, Mrs. Assad.”
“Good morning, India. My, you found out all those things about me.”
India smiled in acknowledgement. “Mrs. Assad, as First Lady, what do you find is your role in today’s Syria?”
“As you know, Syria is a Muslim nation. I myself am Sunni Muslim, but Syria is a secular country. All religions are welcome there. My husband abolished the veil for women at the universities. Fewer women are adopting them, you know.”
“Women are coming into the work force, are they not?”
“We welcome talent in Syria. I myself was a career woman before my children arrived. I am working to encourage women to do so and also to raise the incomes of the population as a whole. I am elevating the opportunities for women. Women are being educated at a higher rate than any other country in the Middle East. They earn as much as men in many professions. I am very proud of that.”
“You are active in many social programs as well.”
“Yes, I work with the Syrian Trust for Development. We are working to abolish all poverty in our country and we have made strides, but it takes time. Bashar is very dedicated to raising living standards for all Syrians.”
As the two women chatted, India decided to up the ante just a trifle. “Mrs. Assad, you have been criticized in certain quarters for being too fashionable, perhaps too chic? You wear French couture. This does not always sit well in the Middle East. Does this talk bother you?”
Will I get that by her husband? I think I phrased that rather nicely.
She saw the woman’s face tense for a second, then she laughed. “I am necessarily in the public eye. I suppose that raises some eyebrows that my dresses are nice.” She unselfconsciously fingered the pearls at her throat. “I can’t let it bother me. There are always people to criticize. I have more important things to think about.”
“Very well-said.” She decided that was enough of that. “You have three young children you and your husband adore.”
“Yes. They’re six, eight and nine. They attend Montessori schools. We try to take them with us when we travel. But this trip they were just beginning the school year, so we left them in Damascus.”
India told Mrs. Assad that the network would add file pictures of the children and their home life and that she would be welcome to add any that she thought that the audience would enjoy.
After more minutes of discussing the palace routine of the presidential family, India signed off.
“Thank you Mrs. Assad. You have been generous with your time for us.” She turned to the camera. “Syria is a complicated country, an intermingling of religions, ethnicities, customs, beliefs, and values left behind by all the civilizations that have passed through in thousands of years. The al-Assads are now charged with governing a Syria evolving in the twenty-first century. Thanks for listening. This is India Fox for World Broadcast News in Vienna.”
She unhooked her microphone. “And thank you, Asma. I’ll send this to you before it airs.”
“Before you go, tell me about your Vogue experience. I haven’t quite decided to do it. As you said, I do get criticism for my clothes, so I suppose I’ll hear about that, too, but I can also get my efforts for my country out there. There’s huge readership for Western magazines in my part of the world.”
“Oh, certainly do it. The people who will work with you are very good at what they do. I didn’t want to do the big fashion thing either, and they understood.” She grinned. “But they can certainly make you look good.”
Asma al-Assad rose, and held out her hand. “I’m glad I did this with you. And thank you for your advice about the magazine. I will persuade Bashar that it is a good thing. He may grumble, but I will do it.”
As India rode down in the elevator she thought about the woman she had just interviewed. Tall, elegant, beautiful. How would all the Middle East unrest affect her and her icy husband? She thought about the cries and echoes she had heard in the bleak Syrian prison where she’d been held after she had annoyed him with her questions. Asma al-Assad had made her country sound modern, progressive, but that dark building and her stony-faced interrogator still haunted her.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE DOZEN GILDED Rococo mirrors transfixed India as she stepped into the red, white and gold Mirror Room of the Schönbrunn Palace. She spun with delight as she saw herself reflected over and over, endlessly, getting smaller and smaller into a blurry infinity. Olivier Laurent, the Frenchman she’d met on the plane had invited her to help him with the fashion show he’d arranged for the OPEC wives by the French couture house, Madame Près. She’d been amused with Laurent’s note, remembering she was looking for news from the Jubilee:
You can work with t
he jewelry in the collection, cajoling the oil women to buy all the gowns and all the jewels and at the same time you will be listening furtivement to discover the price of tomorrow morning’s barrel of oil on the spot market. How can you resist? You will love the room. The mirrors have been positioned so they reflect one another, creating the illusion of a corridor. My gowns will seem everywhere into infinity. It will be fantastique. Mozart gave his first concert here for the Empress Maria Theresa. He was four years old. After his piano recital he jumped into her arms and gave her a kiss.
Avec admiration,
Olivier
“The red carpet is where the models will walk.”
India turned. Olivier Laurent called from the doorway that led to the next room where a flurry of activity signaled the bustle of a high fashion performance in preparation. “Come, I’ll show you what you can do.”
The “backstage” room was filled with the willowy models in styling chairs with makeup people and hairdressers lining eyes, and lips, brushing, combing, twisting, twirling brown hair, blonde, black, red. Racks of furs, gowns, dresses, suits of rich fabrics—satins, brocades, fine wools, chiffons were tagged with the accessories and shoes to go with each.
A string quartet was warming up in the Mirror Room. A buffet groaned under an array of the mouthwatering chocolates and pastries of Vienna. A small bar sat nearby with soft drinks, plus champagne for the daring among the wives.
Olivier led India over to a table laid out with the expensive designer jewelry. “After the promenade of the models wearing the clothes, I thought this would be the perfect place for you to eavesdrop. You can pick up a necklace and take it everywhere. The ladies will be over there in that area, choosing the clothes they want to try on. You can be suggesting this and that, but overhearing the gossip. Do not let them know you speak Arabic. They will not even notice you, for the most part. They are accustomed to people hovering about.” He spread his arms dramatically. “See, I have thought of everything.”
“Olivier, this is brilliant. I was trying to think of a way to be inconspicuously listening.”
Laurent stopped abruptly and looked India over. She wore a pale gray light wool suit with a softly draped collar, gray stockings, and gray suede Manolo pumps embedded with tiny pearls over the cap toes. “Cherie, vous etes tres chic. Would you like to be on my runway for a few gowns?”
“Olivier, I’d do it. It would be fun. But I’m working, remember?”
“Ah, oui. Have some champagne then.” He motioned to a waiter. “It calms the models. They expect it en tout cas.”
“Are the Middle eastern women unhappy with a man around while they’re choosing clothes?”
“Not really. I’m like a servant to them. These women are pretty worldly. They shop everywhere. It’s only when they get back to their own countries that they have to behave.”
As the afternoon progressed, one after another beautiful dress, gown, coat was shown down the red carpet. The Mirror Room’s red velvet draperies and swag, the gliding models, all glittered in the huge gilded mirrors, endlessly reflected in a dizzying panorama of colors.
The fashion show drew to a close and Olivier went out in front of the curtain and invited any ladies interested in the clothes to come back and try them on. He’d brought several sizes of each, but he told India anything could be ordered. There was a surge toward the dressing area, the excited chatter of women ready to buy. And savor the confections at the buffet. The cakes, tarts and bonbons disappeared with alarming speed. So did the champagne.
India slipped in and out of groups of chattering women, flattering, smiling, convincing, assuring, selling the fabulously expensive wares to women to whom money was an abstraction. Olivier had been right, They hardly noticed her unless it was to get her opinion about this look, that fit. She tallied up in her mind which husband was unhappy with that minister; what wife whispered that her husband had told her about being more frugal because things were tightening up in oil production. What sheik was kicking a lazy nephew out of his cabinet, which prince was bringing his wastrel son home from Harvard for getting involved with a drug crowd. One sheik apparently was furious about the betrayal of a brother-in-law.
India felt an underlying unease among the women about the growing unrest in the area, but nothing India could pin down. Was any of it relevant? That wasn’t what she would decide. She would just be a messenger on this trip. Plus she had lined up an interview with an important sheik tomorrow. Ham would be happy with that and her video with Asma Assad. For her first foray into international intrigue, not a bad beginning. Growing up in embassies, India was accustomed to hearing about jealousies, double-crosses, scandals. It seemed to be the same everywhere.
But she still hadn’t made any kind of contact with the CIA operative in Vienna. Did it matter? She had been given a number, the name Racquel, in case she needed anything. Did she? Not so far.
A woman tugged at her arm. “Pretty for me?” she gestured along the bodice of a brocade gown. India nodded and went through the necklaces on the table, selecting a heavily jeweled choker. She fastened it around the woman’s neck and stood back, feigning delight with the effect. The woman smiled and held out the necklace. “I must purchase it.” She giggled. “Oh, my husband will be so angry with me.”
God, this is hard work. How do sales people do this day after day? I’ll have to remember to be extra nice when I buy something. “Madame,” she cooed, “these earrings are stunning. You must try them on with that red dress over there.”
One of the models in a gold lamé gown, a dark-haired lissome beauty, approached India, holding an elaborate gold and amethyst necklace. “Could you help me with this? It’s got a tricky clasp?”
“Sure.” India reached for the necklace. “You’re American?”
“Models go everywhere now. Saw your write-up in Vogue. Loved it. Exciting.”
India laughed. “Their makeup people are magicians. I wish I always looked that good.” She closed the gold clasp. “This is wonderful, with the dress.”
The girl turned, adjusting it. “Doesn’t it though. Just keep helping me. I’m Racquel, the person you’re supposed to call if you need anything. Do you?”
India startled. “You’re my contact?”
“Don’t look surprised. Keep messing with the dress. Adjusting the neckline, maybe. I’m selling it to the woman talking to Olivier. It’ll look ghastly on her. Yes, Earnhardt sends me on these listening gigs. I’m sort of like wall paper.” She grinned. “I’m kind of moonlighting. Like you.” She turned around and spoke over her shoulder. “How is that pleat in the back.”
“Um…it’s a little caught up at the hem.” She knelt to fuss with the folds of the gown.
“I can meet you at eight in the coffee shop at the hotel if you have anything urgent to relay. I’ll email Earnhardt that I’ll be in touch. Gotta go. Three other women want this dress.”
Raquel glided off, the lamé gown swallowed up in the crowd of eager buyers.
India sat back on her heels. What was I just saying? Some moustache-twirling spy type jumping out at me from a potted palm. Raquel didn’t quite do that, but almost. Interesting. An international model as spy.
India slipped in and out of groups of chattering guests, flattering, smiling, convincing, assuring, selling the fabulously expensive wares to women to whom price tags meant nothing. They asked her opinion about this look, that fit. She was startled at first to find them snapping their fingers to get her attention, then squelched the surprise. She was a servant here.
Some of these oilmen had other wives at home, but these women were principal wives and they knew it. In another hour India tallied up in her mind which woman was annoyed at a second wife, which husband was unhappy with that minister. A bother-in-law had taken a bribe a little too large even for the Middle East.
The beginning rumbles in the Middle East were not much on the oil wives’ minds in this room of lavish clothes. They were in the relative peace of Vienna. This was a celebratory tri
p and the shopping was out-of-this-world-fabulous.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
AFTER THE LAST oil wife had departed, with satisfied smiles at Olivier, the Frenchman and India collapsed onto the red velvet Louis XVI chairs. He refilled her champagne glass. “Well, Madame Près should be très contente. Orders over deux million. That ought to keep her atelier going for another year. Have another chocolat, Cherie.”
India bit into an éclair and sighed. “That’s the best éclair I’ve had in my life.” She licked her fingers. “Is business that bad?”
“It has, as you say, been better. It is du monde, a world economy. If the house bubble in the U.S. bursts, or the price of a barrel of oil goes down, France tightens its ceinture.” He drained his glass. “Did you get what you came for, Cherie?” He held up a many-layered confection, then popped it into his mouth and sighed, “Don’t miss the torte. If I die tomorrow my life has been worthwhile.”
“Yes, I think I got material I can use. Nothing earth-shaking, but a mood. Thanks for thinking of me.”
He swept his arm around the confusion of his crew packing up. “I wish I had you every time. I think you sold several very expensive gowns. Let me repay you. You must take one. That one over there would be perfect with your blonde hair. Cut down to there. Beautiful décolletage.”
“Olivier, that’s absurd. It’s way too lavish.”
“Pfft. I insist. Try it on.”
“I won’t try that dress, but I will try that black one. I didn’t bring a fancy dress and I’m invited to the closing OPEC banquet tomorrow night. I can’t be too flashy. I’m working, remember.”
“Get some pictures of the Arab ladies in my dresses if you can.”
I Am India Fox Page 21
