Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (162 page)

Tamara kept up her dignified monologue, making sure
every last reporter got to ask a question. She spoke to them
as though they were friends. The hysteria which had crept into
her voice upstairs was completely gone.

By God, Dani thought wonderingly, she's playing a role! Creating the character as she improvises the script.

'What advice would I give her if she watches this broadcast?'
Tamara paused, waited for two inaudible drumbeats, and with
flawless theatrical timing grinned and said, 'If you can't think
of any other way to get free then kick 'em where it really
hurts!' She gave a little nod of a bow. 'Thank you, ladies and
gentlemen.'

There was absolute silence.

Lowering her head, Tamara stepped back from the micro
phones, hooked her arms swiftly through Dani's and
Schmarya's, and together they made a hasty but dignified exit.

Once they were indoors, Dani shook his head in disbelief. He stared at his wife. She had been magnificent. Instead of
presenting the usual teary-eyed, sniffling visage of a worried
mother, Tamara had seemed as strong as the proverbial rock.
And yet there hadn't been a person out there who couldn't
see that beneath the veneer of wan humour and dignity, the
fear and worry were all-consuming.

Through sheer acting, she had brought it off.

Her star quality had shone through.

Only after they got upstairs did the veneer crack. It was as
though the press conference had removed any vestige of hope
that the kidnapping was only a nightmare. Tamara sank into a chair and wept.

Chapter 17

The Almoayyed palace was equipped with all the latest in
telecommunications technology, and television programmes
from around the world could be snatched from the airwaves
via the satellite dish perched atop one of the outbuildings.

Ever since his arrival, Najib had made it a point to catch
the news broadcasts several times each day, and depending on
the time of day, he watched the German, Israeli, American,
British, and Saudi reports. He knew it would be only a matter
of time before Daliah's kidnapping would be reported, and
when it was, he wanted to know immediately—and exactly—
what was being said about it.

In truth, he had been both relieved and disappointed when,
two days after the event, there had still been no word of it.
Surely, he thought, she must have been reported missing
already. A person of her public stature could not disappear
into thin air without a hue and cry. The authorities had to be
out scouring Israel for her. Of course, they could be searching
clandestinely, and since no one had stepped forward to claim responsibility, and no ransom had yet been demanded, per
haps a quiet, unpublicized search was preferable.

In a way, he himself preferred the lack of news. At least
this way Abdullah was not going to be pressured into making
any rash, regrettable decisions.

But now all that suddenly changed.

Although Najib had been prepared for it to happen sooner
or later, the announcement of Daliah's kidnapping, when it
came, gave him a shock. The story broke first on one of the
American networks.

One moment, the New York CBS-TV News lead-in had filled the screen, and the next, the picture abruptly switched to the anchor desk and the camera came in for a tight close-up of the handsome, boyish-faced anchorman.

'Good evening,' the professional clipped voice began. 'This
is the CBS evening news, Norb Severt reporting. Is it more
terrorism, or is it private criminal elements at work? That is
the puzzle facing Israeli police as the presumed kidnapping of
actress Daliah Boralevi—'

It was as if Najib had been zapped. His face went rigid and
he could feel the hair at the nape of his neck standing out.
There was something so surreal about hearing the news of her kidnapping—especially with her being held at the other end of
the palace—that he missed most of the first portion of the
broadcast. It seemed to rush in one ear and back out the other
without making any sense.

'Miss Boralevi's mother, the film star Tamara, broke her
customary silence to the press and pleaded for help on her
daughter's behalf.'

The videotape of the Tel Aviv press conference was blurry
and slightly jumpy. Najib sat forward, his eyes glued to the
screen. The film showed the former film queen, flanked by
two men, being hurried toward a cluster of microphones. The
next picture was a close-up of her face in front of the microphones. He noticed just the faintest shadows under her eyes,
and her hair wasn't as dazzling as it had been during her movie
days, but other than that, she looked much the same. More
mature, of course, but there was no denying her beauty. She
wasn't smiling, but a kind of radiance lit her face from within.
Her voice was deceptively gentle and controlled.

'No, there have been no demands yet,' Tamara was saying
carefully, enunciating each word clearly. 'We're worried sick,
all of us. We're also saddened for the family of Elie Levin.'

Abruptly the picture changed to a black-and-white still of a
clean-cut man in his early thirties, and the anchorman's voice-
over explained, 'Elie Levin was the El Al VIP employee
scheduled to meet Miss Boralevi's flight.'

The picture then changed to a black-and-white police photo
of a sprawled body.

'According to Israeli police, the autopsy shows that Mr.
Levin suffered a broken neck. Apparently one of Miss
Boralevi's abductors then met her at the gate. Here in New York, Patsy Lipschitz, Miss Boralevi's agent, perhaps best
summed up the anger and frustration of the friends and fami
lies of all kidnap victims.'

The face of a huge Shelley Winters lookalike, with the same
brownish-blonde tight curls, filled the screen.
'I
t's an outrage,
you know? One moment the world's fine and the sun's shining,
and the next you don't know what the hell's going on!'

The camera switched back to the anchorman. 'To repeat, at
the head of the news tonight, Daliah Boralevi, world-famous
screen star, is presumed kidnapped in Israel
...
In other
world events, the military government in—'

Najib pointed the remote control at the television set and
flicked the Off button.

For once, he felt curiously ambivalent, as though not quite
certain what to think. Good, bad; he had no inkling what
effect the broadcast would have. On the one hand, the press
conference had been a brilliant concept. He didn't doubt that
summer tourists who had been at Ben-Gurion Airport the day
Daliah had been kidnapped were going to start remembering
little things they had seen and given no heed, and connect
them with the kidnapping. The police were soon going to start
getting definite leads. In that way, the press conference had
probably been a very smart move.

On the other hand, he was afraid that it could have dire
consequences for Daliah. It was just possible that the news
might frighten Abdullah into moving her to another spot—a
place perhaps even Najib himself wouldn't know of. Or his
half-uncle might work himself up into one of his famous rages
and order her killed on the spot.

But worst of all, the press conference could easily throw a
wrench into his own plan for Daliah's escape.

He stood in the centre of the room, his face stony, his hands
on his hips.

For once, he just didn't know what to think.

Some twelve hundred miles northwest, the telephones were
starting to ring.

'I strongly advise against answering the phones yourselves,'
Dov Cohen of the Shin Bet had told them emphatically. He
was a big man of about forty, with shoulders too wide for his
suit jacket, and a face of chiselled granite. There was some
thing eminently comforting about his massive size and intelli
gent eyes. 'Our men are trained to handle situations such as
this. While I can understand your wanting to—'

'Please, Mr. Cohen,' Tamara had interrupted smoothly, rising fluidly from the wing chair.
'
It's important to us that we do
something.'

He gave her a long look. 'You'll wish you hadn't,' he warned
her. 'There's no telling the kind of creeps who are liable to
call. Just in case you change your mind, I'll leave two men on
duty here, and another shift will take over in the morning.
Meanwhile, I'll stay on a few more hours myself.'

'Thank you.' Tamara tried to smile, and watched him sit
down and slide a pair of headphones over his ears. Just then the telephone shrilled. 'Wait!' she called out. She raced to the
extension just as Dani pressed the Record button to activate
the tape deck of the main line. Holding his hand on the vibrat
ing receiver, he nodded across the room to her. She nodded
back and they both lifted their receivers in unison.

'Hello,' Dani said, forcing his voice to sound normal. 'This
is Dani ben Yaacov speaking.'

'I'm calling you about the ransom,' a rough voice growled.

Dani's heart seemed to check, miss a beat, and then race
furiously. He caught Tamara's eye. She was staring across the
room at him.

'Who are you?' he asked tightly.

'Never mind who I am!' The voice was threatening. 'Just
listen carefully. I want one million US dollars in twenties. Got
that?'

'Yes.' Dani gripped the receiver with both hands.

'Put the money in a suitcase and take it to the General Post Office. Just inside the Jaffa Road entrance there's a rubbish
bin. You can't miss it. Put the suitcase in the bin and leave.
You have until noon tomorrow!'

'How do we know she's—'