Florence of Arabia Page 9

  Dominique Delame-Noir was head of the Onzieme Bureau, which undertook France's more sensitive foreign operations. He was also the author of a monumental account of the 1922 Middle East peace settlement, written from the French point of view, entitled We Will take the Lebanon and Syria, and You Can Keep the Jews and the Palestinians. He spoke three dialects of Arabic, also Pashtun and Kurdish: he would apologize—perhaps overdramatically—for his Farsi. He also published poetry in Arabic. Le Soir's critic called it "an attempt to fuse the obtuse mysticism of Gibran with the hypercaffeinated, wall-eyed nihilism of Sartre." Whatever.

  "Of course." Delame-Noir said to Maliq with the air of a rising soufflé, "the dialectic that was in place in the early eighteenth century, between Rafiq and the imam of Muk, this is not something we would want to see in the new Matar?"

  Maliq countered with an opacity of expression intended to signal that his brain was so occupied weighing the nuances and permutations that he had no neurons to waste on trivial facial muscles. In truth, he didn't know what the hell Delame-Noir was talking about..Just get to the part where I become emir.

  "Nor." Delame-Noir droned, "would anyone welcome a return to the period of 1825 to '34! The discordant interregnum of Ali bin Hawalli, and the consequent retrenchment of the Mohab, followed by the nouvelle hejira of the Bahim Habb?"

  Delame-Noir smiled serenely and arched an eyebrow by way of highlighting the Cartesian brilliance of this historical perspective. Maliq yearned to be in one of his Formula One cars, vibrating with speed down the hot asphalt Straightaway at one quarter the speed of sound, past adulatory crowds screaming with all their might. "Maliq! Maliq the Magnificent!" Enough of this— enough.

  "1 am aware of all this you say," he said, putting down his Sevres china coffee cup on a table that had been made for one of Louis XV's mistresses. "But I have come to discuss the future of Matar, not the past"

  Delame-Noir touched him on the sleeve with the tip of his fingers. "But exactly!"

  Maliq stared.

  "How well you appreciate the historicity of the situation, perhaps alone among the contemporary umara. And how interesting to contemplate the parallel facing the present emir—your brother—and his and your great-great-great-uncle, Mustafa bin—"

  “Yes, yes, yes, Mustafa." Maliq groaned. "The parallel leaps out at one like a Sirhan adder. But what about the bank accounts?"

  "Ah," Delame-Noir purred, aiming a long linger toward the twenty-two foot ceiling, where fresco putti flitted. "Your apprehension is total. For you, Maliq bin-Kash al-Haz. this is not a matter of mere political opportunity—no. no— but of duty. Consanguinity in perfect harmony with duty, within the gyrody-namic of historicity."

  What was this old fool talking about? At least he seemed to be concluding this stream of elegant drivel.

  "No. no, this we do not see every day. Bravo, mon prince. I salute you."

  "The bank accounts." Maliq tried again.

  "Yemeni," Delame-Noir said. "It's all fixed."

  "What about the American woman. Farfaf—however you pronounce it— Flor-ents."

  Delame-Noir was keenly interested in the American woman but for the time being was resolved, wise old spv master that he was. to keep certain details to himself, such as the fact that he had inserted one of his people, the talented Annabelle. into Gazzy's Um-beseir harem.

  "We are of course keeping a close eye on her," Delame-Noir said, his speech now plain and to the point, stripped of rococo curlicues and acanthus leaves. "She is making a big success with her television station. Your brother is making very much money. He seems very content, I must say."

  "My brother is a debauched toad."

  "The question is how to restore Matar to its true greatness. Now, I think it would be a very good idea for you to begin the cultivating of the mullahs. I think you should start spending more time in the mosques."

  "The mosques'?" Maliq snorted. "I'm a race-car driver."

  "And a brilliant one. Twenty times the champion!"

  "Twenty-one."

  "Exactly. But is this any reason not to have a religious conviction? Surely this—along with the Yemeni bank accounts—would make them see you in a new light?"

  Maliq sighed. "My reputation isn't very religious."

  Delame-Noir pretended to be thinking it over, when he had actually planned every word of this conversation, every comma. He looked up at the ceiling as if searching for the answer. "You know the saying—it's originally French, but the English stole it, along with even thing else—'There are no atheists in foxholes'?"

  "Yes?" Maliq lied.

  "Is it not also true that there are no atheists in the cockpit of a Formula One in flames, going four hundred kilometers per hour?" Delame-Noir smiled.

  "What are you proposing?" Maliq said with the annoyance of the slow learner. "That I burst into flames and crash?"

  A look of pain played across Delame-Noir's face. "Not at all, mon prince!" 'The smile returned with a sly upturn at the corner of the mouth. "I was thinking that we could assist with certain technical details. Or perhaps your own technical crew is already proficient with certain, shall we say, special effects?"

  Maliq didn't like the insinuation, hut Delame-Noir's scheme was now apparent, and he rather liked it.

  “The Prince Maliq is safe!" TV Matar's news announcer Fatima Sham told viewers. "He is alive and safe! God he praised!"

  Florence was watching the broadcast from the control booth with George and hobby and Rick. She still hadn't gotten accustomed lo hearing "God be praised" from the mouths of TV news announcers. It didn't ring right lo the American

  ear. The chairman of the Federal Reserve today said that he was culling the prime rate by a half point. God he praised!

  Renard winced, too. PR types lend as a rule lo be godless, unless there's money to be made, in which case they can become very pious indeed But George had been adamant about having the anchors and reporters drop in the occasional "Allahu akhar" on the grounds that it "gives us Arab Street cred." A little street cred was probably a good idea, given the babe quotient in TV Matar's announcers. They were all women, and dazzlingly good-looking, and utterly Westernized.

  In this particular instance. Florence thought "God be praised" might be appropriate. This war the Matar 500 had its most dramatic finish ever. Prince Maliq’s car—in the lead, as usual—had suddenly begun spewing black smoke. But rather than pull over, the prince had bravely kept going the two remaining laps. After he finished first, his car's rear end burst into flames. He slowed to a stop and leaped out. blackened with soot. The fire-rescue team hosed him down with chemical foam. Standing there, black and foamy, he was a strange but triumphant sight. George declared that he looked like "a blackamoor Pillsbury doughboy."

  Fatima, the news announcer, was reporting that Prince Maliq had gone straight from the racetrack lo the mosque, "where he gave thanks for his miraculous escape."

  "I suppose I'd do the same." George said, "though you wouldn't find me driving one of those things in the first place."

  Bobby was intently watching the interview with Maliq on the monitor. It had been taped before the start of the race. Maliq was telling the reporter how "really great God is."

  'He's awful religious all of a sudden." Bobby said.

  "Maybe he found God." George said. "It happens. People are always finding God in the desert. He doesn't have much competition out here. No one finds God on Madison Avenue."

  "I found God on K Street." Rick said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The day I got the sultan of Brunei account. I walked out onto the street, and the whole heavenly choir was singing. My whole body was vibrating. It was a total religious experience. Fiffy-thousand-dollar monthly retainer. I felt exalted."

  "You know. Rick," George said, "every time 1 think about going into the private sector, you open your mouth, and my drab, colorless existence and niggardly paycheck suddenly seem noble."

  "That car he drives." Bobby said, still watc
hing the monitors, now replaying in slow motion Maliq's accident, "its French-built"

  "The prince is a major Francophile," George said. "Spends a lot of time in Paris. He was just there. They all go there to shop. Everyone goes to Paris except poor old George, stuck in this hole, working for Queen Cruela for slave wages."

  “Why doesn't poor old George go shop at the duty-free." Florence said, typing at her computer terminal. "Amazing bargains."

  "I spent all my money on those slot machines at Infidel land. They're rigged. I'm telling you. This entire region is corrupt"

  "Why don't you write a long cable lo Charlie Duckett about it?"

  "Say what you will about him, he didn't chain me to a desk the way you do. At least in Washington. I had a life."

  Bobby stood and put on his jacket.

  "Where are you going?" Florence said.

  "Gonna go see if I can find God."

  "Give Him my regards." Renard said.

  Florence watched him go. George watched Florence watching him go. "Are we developing a crush?" George murmured.

  Florence blushed.

  "Rather a nice package. I admit, but really. Firenze, not your type. I'm sure the sex would be earthmoving and volcanic, but what would you talk about afterward? Alabama versus Auburn? How to crush someone's windpipe? Blowing up a car? Tapping telephones?"

  "If you don't have anything to do, I'll find something for you to do."

  "Why—why—did I let you drag me off to this macabre place?"

  "Rick." Florence said, "can we run next week's episode of Chop-Chop?"

  Rick dialed it up onto one of the monitors. The three of them watched. In last week's episode, Princess Mahnaz was unjustly accused of adultery by her husband, the evil prince Wakmal. She had found out that Wakmal was secretly supporting a terrorist cell aimed at deposing his good brother, the king of Ambalah. Wakmal had thrown her in jail and was planning to cut off her head. Mahnaz's first cousin, the dashing young Tafas, had smuggled a message of hope to her in prison inside a chocolate bar, telling her that he and his commandos were planning to rescue her. But Wakmal had gotten wind of the escape plan and. unbeknownst to Tafas, had laid a trap. Chop-Chop Square was TV Matar's number one show, getting huge ratings. The Wasabis were not amused.

  FLORENCE PEERED THROUGH the fish-eye peephole on her apartment door. When she saw it was Bobby, she flipped the safety catch back on the pistol and opened the door. She was in her silk pajamas, as it was past two in the morning.

  He looked sheepish, flushed. "Sorry to bother you. ma'am." "Ma'am" al this hour? Can I—would you like something to drink?" she said.

  "It's not a social call." I le seemed nervous. "Are you all right, Bobby?" "I screwed up, I'm afraid."

  "Let's have a drink anyway." She poured bourbon into two glasses and gave one to him.

  "1 went to the racetrack." Bobby said. "I wanted to take a closer look at the prince's car. All that smoke. I don't know if you noticed, but it seemed kinda even on both sides. Anyhow. I found his car. and sure 'nuff, it was rigged with smoke makers."

  "We knew he cheats, right? He's won every race."

  "Wasn't that got my attention. It was all that yakety-Yak about God being wonderful, runnin' off to the mosque. His car bein' French-made. You have to look at the whole picture. I did some checkin’, Two weeks ago, he went to Paris, and while he was there, he paid a visit to the Onzieme Bureau."

  Florence knew about the Onzieme. "He did? You know this?"

  "Yeah. So I thought it would be worth checkin' out the car." Bobby looked into his untouched glass of bourbon. "It didn't go so well."

  "What happened?"

  "Had a little accident. Someone got killed. I didn't honestly have a lot of choice in the matter. They opened up on me first." He looked at her, and there was innocence to it. "I'm not—I don't—" He fidgeted. "I'm not one to kill non-combatants, y’ understand."

  "Go on."

  "I was lookin' inside the car, and suddenly, someone's shootin' at me. Like I say, there wasn't anything else I could do. I'm sorry about this. I truly am. I recognize that it complicates things. On the other hand, what I found out was probably worth findin' out."

  They sat for a moment in silence.

  "It could have been a burglary." Florence said.

  "Not really."

  "Industrial spying."

  "I don't think so."

  "It could have been a relative—of one of the race-car drivers over the years who was killed racing against Maliq. They were breaking into the garage in order to sabotage his car. Revenge. What better motive is there in this part of the world?"

  Bobby looked at Florence. He nodded thoughtfully. "That's all plausible, but there's two problems. First, that wouldn't go very far in a Matari court: second, it's worth even less if the other guv was to identify me."

  "The other guy?"

  "There was another guy. He got away. My second screw up. I'm not doin' all that great tonight. Point is. I've got to go now." "Go?"

  "Well, yeah. I've gone from the asset to liability column. I feel bad about this."

  "It couldn't be helped. But you can't just leave." she said. She realized that she had been leaning closer to him. He seemed aware of this lad as well and looked awkward.

  "It wouldn't do your operation much good if they arrested me. This is a pretty liberal place by some Middle Fast standards, but he is the brother of the emir, and someone just killed one of his people while pokin' about his garage."

  Florence considered, her mind racing. "But how's it going to look if you just disappear?"

  "I think I can accomplish that part in such a way that it doesn't look suspicious." "How?"

  "Do you want to know or need to know?" "Both."

  Bobby looked at her. "I have someone at Immigration. He'll backdate my departure so that the record will show I left the country yesterday." "Oh. Well, But how we you leaving, then?"

  "Thought I might do some fishing. There's lot of fish in these waters, you know." I le stood to leave. "Look. I'll be back as soon as I can, all right? You hang in there, Flo, hear?"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  News of the killing in Maliq's garage ran on page one above the fold in Al Matar. It was also duly reported on TV Matar. Florence had no choice in the mutter. Matar was uniquely peaceful among the countries of the region, and this murder, of one of the servants of a crown prince—on the day of his miraculous escape from death!—smacked of mischief. The police were said to be pursuing leads.

  Florence found out what she could while appearing not to take too great an interest. Meanwhile, she put off having to face Laila for as long as she could, faking a cold. She decided for the time being not to tell George and Rick what had happened, in the event that they were hauled in and questioned. She felt very alone.

  There was another development: Maliq announced that he was giving up professional racing and was pursuing a new passion—religion. He declared that the killing of his servant Abu Tash was nothing less than "assassination" undertaken by "the enemies of Islam." This left a good many people in Matar, even among the more conservative religious element, scratching their heads. It was unclear why a shooting in a garage was religiously motivated, but whatever. Moreover, Maliq asserted, the real target had been he. An advertisement appeared in Al Matar, offering a reward of five hundred thousand baba

  ($100,000 US. for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the "assassin."

  "Where's Attila?" George asked a few days alter Bobby had disappeared. "I haven't seen him. Is he out blowing up bridges?"

  "He went back to Washington." Florence said as casually as she could. "You remember, he left the day before the race."

  "No, he didn't."

  "Yes, George, he did."

  "Firenze. what are you talking about? He watched it with us right here in the control room."

  "No. George, you're mistaken. He went home the day before." Rick chimed in. "No. he was here. I remember."

  Florence looked a
t the two of them. "George. Rick, listen to me. Bobby went home the day before the race. Do you understand'!'"

  They stared at Florence. Finally. George whispered, "Oh, God."

  "Keep smiling." Florence said. There were technicians present.

  "I knew this was going to happen."

  "We're not going to discuss it now, George."

  "And we're left to clean up after him? Typical CIA—"

  "It was an accident, George." Florence said. She was trying so hard to make her expression look normal that it fell like a bad face-lift.

  "Accident my—"

  "George, please shut up. We'll discuss it at the appropriate time. Meanwhile, in the event you're asked questions, all you know is that he went home on some family matter. The day before the race. Don't say any more about it."

  "They'll know."

  "No, they won't. It's all been taken care of, Just concentrate on your work." "You might have told us." George said, sounding wounded. "I was trying to protect you."

  "Well, thank you. I feel so much safer." George stomped off'. "Sorry, Rick."

  "It's the Middle Fast." I le shrugged. "What can you expect. But look, if they start pulling out my fingernails, you might as well know right now: I'll tell them everything."

  "I'll bear that in mind."

  A moment later, he said, "Do they. ..do that sort of thing around here?"

  "No. It's one of the most progressive countries in the region. The land where duty-free was born."

  The doors to the control room opened. Laila entered, followed by four fierce-looking men. "Florence, where have you been hiding? Are you better? You look a bit peaked."

  "Just a cold." Florence regarded Laila's entourage, who had taken up stations ten feet away.

  Laila tracked her gaze and explained. "Gazzy's orders. Because of the killing in the garage. Everyone is acting completely gaga."