CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
IN THE HOTEL room mirror India fastened one of Olivier’s chunky jeweled necklaces and surveyed the effect. The sheer black mousseline dress tucked under and accented the bosom, wrapping snugly around the derriere, then falling enticingly, to gently flare at the hem to a small train. Her long blonde hair brushed her shoulders. She looked good to herself.
The invitation to the closing dinner had come as a surprise, but another effort by whom? Earnhardt, Ham, or maybe Racquel? Funny. Seemed that she didn’t know who was running her life these days. She’d make the most of it, though. This was the final night of the Jubilee, so the atmosphere would be relaxed, men’s tongues perhaps looser, congratulating themselves on decisions made that would domino throughout the world.
She’d met Racquel this morning in the coffee shop, a little disappointed it wasn’t some clandestine assignation down a dark alley with deep dark secrets to reveal. What she’d picked up from the OPEC ladies was mostly gossip. Racquel agreed as she questioned India. But an overheard item here, a rumor there—patterns formed, then a picture. The woman whose husband told her to go light on the spending—that might be something. The kid brought home from Harvard? Who knows? Into drugs? That could be useful.
The two chatted about Olivier, Vienna, clothes, skiing in the Austrian Alps, Racquel’s modeling gigs in the fashion capitals, India’s broadcasting. They talked very little about Racquel’s role in the CIA, so India assumed reticence about those connections were normal.
And that had been India’s first foray into international espionage. The two shook hands, parted friends. Maybe they’d run into each other again. They’d try to keep track of one another.
Eyes followed the model’s graceful sashay across the hotel lobby and out into the street. India had a momentary flash of Nadia crossing the hotel lobby toward her in Beirut. She shook her head and the image vanished in a wisp of memory.
Racquel also had not mentioned the dinner tonight, so she wasn’t responsible for the invitation to the closing Jubilee dinner. She’d just go, find out for herself.
A last minute look around the room. She was mostly packed, leaving Vienna for New York tomorrow, making a stopover in Paris for a few days. She needed a distraction and Paris was filled with those.
***
INDIA JOINED THE crush at the entry hall to the opulent Great Gallery of the Schönbrunn Palace. Showing her invitation, she was given a table number, then wondered who she would be sitting with. Was there a Press table? She hoped she’d run into one of the women she’d helped at Olivier’s show. With a tiny camera in her evening bag, she’d get a picture for him if she could. Glancing at the seating card she stopped—puzzled, surprised. Her low table number indicated the front of the hall, close to the dais where the speeches would be made. The round tables were slowly filling, the women in gowns, the men either in dress thobes or black tie.
The luminous impact of the grand room was almost physical. As she picked her way toward her table, she consulted the back of her program for details of the famous hall—the floor-to-ceiling arched windows, elaborate white and gold plaster decoration curled and framed the frescoed walls and ceiling, extolled as the finest Rococo interior in existence. Two huge chandeliers, each lit with seventy electric candles, cast a brilliance over the forty-meter long room. India tipped her head back to the principal fresco above, by the Italian Gregorio Guglielmi, depicting sumptuously-dressed Empress Maria Theresa and her consort Franz Stephan on their gilded thrones, surrounded by monarchial virtues of grace, beneficence, kindness, and the like. Around the edges, allegorical figures cavorted, proclaiming the extent of the Hapsburg crown lands. The lush colors looked as if they’d been painted yesterday.
“You’re going to trip over someone if you don’t watch where you’re going.”
She whirled. Jack? “Jack. I didn’t expect to see you here.” She looked him over. “Not your sort of ‘do’, I’d guess. A black tie? Or even ‘a tie’, period. And evening clothes? My, my. The earth has shifted on its axis.”
“It’s only one of my many disguises.” A slow up-and-down look took in her dress. “You look very nice. But you always do. Do you know where you’re sitting?”
“I have no idea. Just up there toward the front. I thought I’d be put behind a pillar or something.”
“I’m with our mutual Syrian friend. Assad apparently isn’t holding your visit with him against me.” He took her card and his face changed. “You’re sitting with the Assads? How did you manage that?”
India was stunned. “What? I don’t know. I wonder if Asma…oh good God, Jack, he remembered who I am. I can’t sit there. If his wife got me invited…the woman has no idea what a disaster that would be. What can I do?”
He studied her for a moment then grinned. “Maybe if you can manage to be real sweet to him, he’ll forgive you. I daresay it’s safe to say he can’t throw you in jail.”
“Very funny.”
At the table, they looked for their name cards. India prayed she’d sit as far away from the Syrian president as possible in the ten place table. But, Asma had seated India to his right. For a brief moment her stomach dropped.
But then her head took over. What’s the matter with you? You’re a professional! What a coup. What a chance. Don’t muck it up, India. He can only ignore you. Remember, you had a nice chat with his wife. He loves her it seems. You liked her. From the pictures I saw he adores his children. Forget for the evening he’s a, what did Ham call him? A thug. A thug that looks like Nesssie, the Loch Ness monster.
As India smiled to herself, the Assad party arrived, all in western formal dress. Asma Assad greeted her like an old friend. “India. I’m so happy you could come. One of our guests felt ill and,” she lowered her voice, “I thought if you could talk with Bashar, you could tell him that I should do the Vogue magazine interview. Convince him it would be a helpful thing for our charities to be known outside our country. We do need international donations to do all we want. I’m sure you’ll convince him.”
Assad gave India a tight, wintry smile as he lowered himself, a wave of his finger signaling everyone to take their seats. She slipped into gilt chair beside him. Well, this won’t be the first grouch I’ve had to tease a smile out of. I think I won’t thank him for letting me out of his prison in one piece.
A ten-piece orchestra played Mozart, waiters wove through the tables pouring champagne, as well as Perrier for the observant Muslims.
As the dinner progressed, over a delicate sea scallop mousse, then a beef Wellington, and finally for dessert the famous Austrian torte.
Talk around the table was general and India tried to think of a way to approach conversing with the gloomy Syrian presence beside her. Just jump in. Get your feet wet.
“Mr. President,” she began, making her voice penitent. He turned. “I feel we got off to a bad start, which is my fault. I was presumptuous and taking advantage of your hospitality.”
“Yes.”
“I so much enjoyed talking to your charming wife. Have you had an opportunity to view the video that I sent over? I do hope you approve. I think it came off very well.”
Frost curled around the edges of his words. “I was not happy with your reference to my wife’s…‘extravagance.’ ”
“I brought up what is commonly said about her fashionable Western dress. People will wonder if any criticism bothers her. She is a very active first lady, with charities and ambitious plans. Women in the Middle East are not usually so in the limelight.”
Assad’s eyes drilled into hers. “She replied perfectly.” He relented an inch, his voice edgy. “On the whole, I admit you were sympathetic. Asma wishes it so I give my approval to your video.”
“Thank you. It will probably run sometime next week on World Broadcast News. You’ll be informed.”
“I understood you had severed your relationship with the network.”
India’s eyebrow shot up. How would he know that?
“I also
understand you were in my country several weeks ago. You were not to come back. That was made clear to you?”
Uh oh. “In Syria? Mr. President, I never knew where I was on that assignment. I was given a story to do. I was in the mountains somewhere, I thought perhaps in eastern Lebanon. That’s all I know. I certainly after my…’visit’ to your… facility…I had no intention of ever violating your…wishes.”
“These rag-tag traitors you met with are gathering to cause me trouble. You knew this?”
“Mr. President, there are so many nuances to political factions in the Middle East, I never got the feeling this group was making trouble for you in particular. They are looking for change. Yes. You were not singled out.”
Bashar Assad gave a mirthless laugh, an odd raspy sort of chuckle, displaying very small, even teeth under his black moustache. “The next time you plan to visit my country, I request you go through official channels.”
India smiled her most charming. “I will do that, sir.”
“Asma tells me that you had a pleasant experience with this Vogue magazine. She wants to do the story with them. I am reluctant. As you say, as my wife, she can be subjected to criticism.”
“They will treat her with the utmost tact. She will not have to do anything she doesn’t wish. On the contrary, her charitable work will be highlighted, I’m sure. The magazine is aware that your wife is the First Lady of an important country. You shouldn’t have any concerns.” India took a chance. “I live in New York now. I could be present, if it would make her more comfortable.”
Assad’ eyes rested on her, his face expressionless. Had she gone too far? Did it matter? Not much.
“I think that wouldn’t be necessary.”
India shrugged. “No. Not necessary. Your wife will be well taken care of. It was just an idea, since you seem undecided.”
There was a long silence. The flat head was rotated to the woman next to him. A waiter appeared, offering more champagne. With relief India turned to the Syrian man seated on her other side and smiled, asking him in Arabic if had a chance to enjoy Vienna’s charms. Over her shoulder Assad sighed. “Very well. I will give my consent.”
India chanced a glance across the table at Jack, seated next to Asma. He winked back at her.
India felt the chill had passed. When she turned to him again, Bashar Assad opened up when India brought up his children, the charities his wife ran, anything she thought a normal man might respond to. Assad even looked down her dress several times. He has some blood running through his veins after all.
“Did you know,” Assad commented, “this is the very same room that your President John Kennedy met with Khrushchev? That was nineteen-sixty-one. I remember because it was the year I was born and my father mentioned I should remember it.”
“No. I didn’t. Thank you for telling me. That was an historic meeting. Khrushchev didn’t bury us after all, it seems.”
A shadow crossed the Syrian’s face. “Krushchev was a fool.”
How am I supposed to take that, I wonder?
When the evening broke up, Jack walked beside India. “I see you survived. You even made Assad smile once or twice.” He took her arm and guided her around a group. “You were going to call me, but you didn’t.”
“No. I wanted to wait a while.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I needed some time to think. I was sure I’d never see you again. Maybe I needed to…to reassess what to do.”
“And? Have you decided what to do?”
“No.”
Jack was quiet until they reached the exit. “Are you going right back to New York?”
“Not directly. I thought I’d stop in Paris for a few days on the way back. You?”
“I have to take a run over to London. I might not stay in Beirut. I think things are going to blow. All over the Middle East.” He seemed distracted a moment, then stopped. “Hey? Have you ever seen the Spanish Riding School? Seen the horses perform?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Would you like to? I could pick you up in the morning and we could take a run out there. Seems a shame to be in Vienna and not take that in.”
It’s a peace offering. It would be nice. “I’d love it. My plane’s not until six.”
When they stepped outside, the night was still and cool.
“It’s a mild night. How about I walk you back to the hotel?” Jack said.
“The air feels good. Yes. Let’s.” India picked up a handful of her gown to free the small train so it wouldn’t catch on her satin sandals.
Jack shook his head. “Why women want to hobble themselves like that. I wonder you’d fancy a dress like that.”
“Jack Spear, fashion expert. How would you know what I’d fancy?”
“True enough.”
In the distance the giant Ferris wheel of Salter Park, fairy lights glittering round and round against the glowing city sky. India glanced at Jack. Did he remember the Beirut Ferris wheel and the insinuating comment he’d made to her? “You look like a lady who’s just been up to some mischief.” Particularly outrageous since she, in fact, had just had a wild interlude going around in the boxy, swaying car with Marcus Shawn the visiting CIA man at the embassy. Still, that didn’t alter the fact that it was a snarky thing to say.
Jack had a tiny smile that looked like he was trying to make a thought go away. It hit India that this with Jack, whatever it was, had been going on far too long. Enough of this, will he? Won’t he? Garbage. He kissed me in the bazaar in Aleppo, and that wasn’t a brotherly kiss. I out-and-out invited him into bed when he we came back from Damascus to his place. And he said I was just being grateful. Or something gallant like that, and he’d make love to me when I wasn’t all gratefully thanking him for getting me out of Assad’s prison. Or something like that.
Her hotel seemed a very lonely place to spend her last night in Vienna. She stopped.
Jack had taken a couple of steps before he realized she wasn’t beside him and turned.
Her gaze was direct, challenging. “I want to know why you get to decide?”
She was in his arms before she had even been aware he’d moved to her. It wasn’t a nice kiss, it was hard and insistent. Heat flared in her and then between them. Departing guests separated around them, looking away from the disconcerting and unseemly sight of this passionate public display.
Shaken by the sudden storm, India and Jack moved apart and began walking. He took her hand.
Silently they walked out of the palace grounds and down the busy Wargramarstrasse toward the hotel. At a side alley he pulled her around the corner for another kiss, as fervent as the first one. India’s spike heeled Manolos teetered on the cobblestones of the alley. She wrapped one leg around his thigh, digging her pelvis into him. Two ginger feral cats watched solemnly as his hands ran down her body.
Slightly wobbly they turned to go back to the main street when two solid shadows loomed and India felt herself slammed against the stone wall of the alley building. A blow made her head snap back and a powerful arm crossed over her throat, choking her. She wrenched her head to the side as she’d been taught at the Farm. There was a grunt of surprise.
As she struggled, traffic noise faded. From somewhere she heard Jack’s guttural curse and heard a soft pop as her attacker slumped against her. Her head began to clear. She could make out Jack and the other attacker grappling, then Jack threw his flattened palm under the man’s chin. There sounded a sharp snap. The thug’s knees buckled as he crumpled to the street. Jack grabbed her hand and with his arm around her waist, pulled them into the main street. India glanced back. Neither man moved.
She staggered, then made herself walk as Jack half dragged her away from the alley entrance. Her head was still fuzzy. “What happened? Who were they?”
Jack’s face was grim. “I don’t know. We need to get out of here. Can you manage that in those shoes? I need you to walk as fast as you can. The hotel isn’t far.”
>
When they came to a street light, Jack’s eyes swept the traffic and expanse around them. Finally he tipped her face up, examined the redness on her neck, smoothed locks of her hair. “Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?”
“No. Why were we attacked?”
“I don’t know and it wasn’t accidental. They were either after me. Or you?”
Before they got to the hotel, India stopped. “Jack? What was that popping sound before the man fell against me? And did you break the other man’s neck? I heard something break.”
“Let’s get you up to your room. No more questions.”
“Are they dead? Should we call the police?”
“Yes, they’re dead. And no police. Try to act normal when we go through the lobby. There will be people from the dinner. You look fine.”
In her room Jack called room service for ice. “…and a bottle of Cristal.” In the bathroom he had India sit on toilet seat while he examined her face under the bright light. “Does this hurt?” He pressed her reddened throat.
“A little, but I turned my head quickly, and got an elbow into his ribs. I think I was able to spike his foot with the heel of my shoe.”
“And where did you learn to do that?”
“Oh? Well, somewhere along the line. I don’t remember. Probably at school. Will I have a black eye?”
“No. You weren’t hit on your face.” He backed up and leaned against the bathroom wall, his arms crossed as he studied her. “Why would they be after you?”
India stood suddenly. “You know Jack, it seems every time I’m with you I end up in a bathroom with you administering some kind of first aid. You,” she said, “obviously are detrimental to my wellbeing.” Miffed at his prying, afraid he was guessing too much, she strode out into the sitting room and dropped onto the sofa.
At the knock on the door, Jack hurried from the bathroom, looked through the peephole glass, and cracked the door against the chain to check out the bellman with the ice and champagne. She saw his hand poised over his pocket.
His gun? But no, it was a tip. The waiter set the bucket and bottle on the bar table and in one motion, wrapped the top with a linen napkin and eased the cork out with a soft pop.
I Am India Fox Page 22
