Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (163 page)

'Just do it!' the voice snarled. 'And come alone. If we see
policemen, she'll be killed.'

'How do I—Hello!
Hello!'
Desperately Dani rattled the
cradle, but the connection was broken.

With shaking hands he replaced the receiver and turned to
Dov Cohen.

'I don't know,' the big man said dubiously with a shrug. 'It
could well be a crank.'

Dani's face burned angrily. 'Don't you think we should be
collecting the money alrea—'

'No. We wait.' Dov Cohen's expression was grim and his
eyes flinty. 'You can't hand over a million dollars to any Abe,
Dave, or Moishe who calls. If they're for real, they'll call back.
When they do, they'll have to prove they've got Daliah, and
that she's alive. Otherwise, it's a no go.'

'Hello. This is Dani ben Yaacov speaking.'

'You're the ones looking for Daliah Boralevi?' a stranger's
voice asked.

Dani could feel a steel band constricting his chest. 'Yes,' he
said tightly. 'Do you have any information?'

'I know where she is.'

Dani's hands tightened on the receiver. 'Can you tell me
where?'

'They've got her.'

'They? Who is "they"?'

The voice turned whispery. 'You know, the green men. The
ones in the UFO. They've taken her away to their planet.'

He heard the crackle and click as the connection was
broken.

The caller had hung up.

'Damn!' Dani shut his eyes and flung the receiver into the
cradle.

Dov Cohen stretched out his hands, palms up, and looked
beseechingly up at the ceiling. 'God help us,' he muttered. 'This should never have been publicized. It was begging to
hear from all the crazies.'

'Hello. This is Dani ben Yaacov speaking.'

'I saw the press conference on television,' a woman's voice
gushed with barely suppressed excitement. 'Is this the right
number to call?'

'Yes, do you have any information?'

'I have to talk to Tamara. I won't tell it to anyone else.'

'I'm sorry, but she isn't available. Can I take your informa
tion?'

'No! I will only tell her.'

He sighed and looked questioningly across the room.
Tamara nodded.

'Hello,' she said pleasantly. 'This is Tamara.'

The gushing voice turned into a shrill, thunderous shriek.
'Just because you're rich and famous you can beg for help on
TV! Well, what about us regular people? When my daughter
was sick and I had no money, the doctors didn't give me the
time of day, and she died! I hope Daliah dies too! If she doesn't,
I'm going to kill her myself!'

Tamara dropped the receiver and shrank back in wide-eyed
horror. The room was spinning wildly around her.

'Darling, darling.' Dani was at her side, cradling her head
and rocking her back and forth. 'Forget it, darling, try to
forget. . .'

'Oh, Dani, Dani,' she moaned. Suddenly she felt over
whelmingly tired and defeated. 'How can people be so awful?' She looked searchingly up at him. 'Maybe Mr. Cohen is right.
Maybe it's best if we let the Shin Bet answer the calls.' She shuddered and clung to him. 'Let's go to bed, Dani. It's been
a long day.'

He nodded and pulled her to her feet. 'Too long,' he sighed,
holding her tightly. His cheeks tensed. 'I have a feeling that
the only thing the news conference has accomplished has been
to open Pandora's box.'

The water sluiced off him as Najib pulled himself out of the swimming pool and threw himself down on the umbrella-shaded chaise. The heat already felt as if the sun had sucked all the oxygen from the air, even though it was not yet nine-
thirty in the morning. He was filled with a pantherlike tense
ness and a need to flex his muscles, and yet he was weary; he
felt heady with the excitement of outmanoeuvring Abdullah
and causing his downfall, and yet he felt curiously remote from
Abdullah already. He was as thrilled as a chess player who has
made a series of moves, each one so brilliant in and of itself,
that he believes them good enough to determine the final outcome of the game. The battle for which he was preparing still loomed distantly, and there were many problems to work out
before the first salvo was fired.

One of them in particular seemed insurmountable.

He had to get through to Schmarya Boralevi or Dani ben
Yaacov, but he couldn't do it through ordinary channels. Cer
tainly he couldn't simply pick up the phone and dial long dis
tance from the palace; he wouldn't put it past Abdullah to have
all telephone calls, both incoming and outgoing, monitored
or taped. Nor could he fly to Israel without arousing undue
attention. His arrivals and departures anywhere in the world
were invariably reported in the press. Fame had its advan
tages, but it had severe disadvantages too.

He mulled over the problem. He
could,
of course, call them from elsewhere—even from his plane in midair. But since the press conference, Daliah's family was probably being buried
under an avalanche of crank calls, and every call would require careful scrutiny—a process too slow and dangerous to suit him.
He had to cut through all the red tape. What he needed was
something of Daliah's which they would instantly recognize,
irrefutable proof that his was a serious call. Furthermore, since
he couldn't meet them in Israel and he had to speak to one of them in person, whatever he used to lure their attention had
to be something impressive enough to get them to leave Israel
and meet him elsewhere—a remote spot, in Greece perhaps,
or someplace on Cyprus.

If only he had something of hers! A driver's licence or a
passport. .
.
even an identifiable piece of jewellery.

But she had arrived in bedouin clothes, empty-handed, and everything had been taken from her. He couldn't just walk up
to Khalid and ask to borrow a ring of hers, or her passport.

There had to be
something
. . .

And then an idea came to him. Grabbing his towel and
staying as much as possible in the cooling shadows, he made
his way back uphill to the palace and went straight to his
suite. He searched the various closets and drawers for twenty
minutes before he found what he was looking for.

A Polaroid camera.

He would simply take her picture. Then he would summon
his jet, give the picture to Captain Childs, and have him deliver
it personally. Meanwhile, he needed to find some film.

It took another fifteen minutes of searching.

He loaded the camera, tested it, and smiled.

It's strange how everything's working out, he thought. Each
time I run across a problem, the solution pops up. Now, if
only that keeps up . . .

After slipping on a pair of slacks and a shirt, and steeling
himself for a confrontation of fire and ice, he headed straight
to her suite.

Chapter 18

'Where are your robes?'

Najib looked at her and blinked in surprise. Her words and
expressions were absolutely level, normal, and without spite.
There was no fire and no ice, and even her slight frown seemed
absolutely genuine.

'In certain classes of Arab society, the men often wear
Western dress,' he explained, 'and the women even Paris cout
ure. Behind closed doors, of course. I thought you knew that.'

She glanced at his beautifully tailored Sulka shirt, open at
the collar, and his dark Milan-tailored slacks. 'In other words,
the last two times when you wore your sheik get-up . . . that
was for my benefit.'

He smiled slightly. 'Those were no sheik's robes, I'm afraid.
They were very average.'

'I see.' She looked at him doubtfully and then, catching
sight of the peculiarly gentle look in his eyes, she swiftly turned
away in agitation and focused her attention on the expensive
bric-a-brac on a sideboard. She rearranged the circular
Japanese ivory boxes, nine amber glass balls, Indian ivory
goblets, barley-twist candlesticks, and miniature globes.
'1
...
I wish you'd go away now.' Her voice quivered huskily.

His expression was almost loving, but inside, his heartbeats
came in quick succession. He felt the overwhelming need to
try to explain everything to her, to make her understand that
he had no wish to see her come to harm, that he had not
wanted to go through with this mad scheme; that the vow of
vengeance he had sworn so long ago had ceased to be of any
importance to him, and that he, like her, was a prisoner
trapped in the webs of the past. Above all, he felt the surging urge to let her know that somehow, even if he had to move
heaven and hell to achieve it, he was going to get her out of
this mess.

He actually opened his mouth to speak, but the words would
not come, and he was glad they hadn't. They would have
sounded so inadequate in light of what she was going through.

He watched her with a growing sadness as she kept moving
the
objets
around. She was so close—just a few steps away. And yet, they might as well have been light-years apart.

If only she would understand . . .

'I need your help,' he said softly.

She stopped her aimless rearranging and stood stock-still.

'Please, I'm not going to hurt you.' He took a step toward her and then checked himself. If he got too close, he might
frighten or anger her. There were too many barricades
between them as it was; the last thing they needed was
another. 'Please,' he said again in a low voice.