Florence of Arabia (29 page)

"I didn't ask you to give her a bath.
Fetish
."

"My stupidity is a boundless as the Nafta Desert, oh lord. Forgive me." Maliq made a growling noise.

"In the meantime, will you not admit the Frenchman, sire?" "What does he
want?"

"1 don't know. Imam." The introduction of the
oubliette
had altered
Fetish
's posture: his spine was now bent in perma
nent bowing. "Five minutes. Do y
ou understand,
Fetish
?" "Thou art truly benevolent."

Delame-Noir was ushered in. "The imam is indulgent to see me on such short notice."

"We are
very
busy
-, mons
ieur. What is it you wish to see
us about?"

"We have mad
e an intercept of the Americans’
communications, sire. I thought you would want to have it from my lips, personally, rather than over the telephone."

“Ye
s?"

"It is very sensitive." 'Ye
s. yes, yes. So?"

Delame-Noir lowered his voice. "I gather my lord yesterday had a telephone conversation with Prince Bawad, the Wasabi foreign minister'.''"

"How do you know that? What if I did? I'm the ruler of
Matar
."

In fact, the French had a tap on Maliq's phone, thanks to
Fetish
. But best to pretend
that
it
was the dreadful Americans.

"I am not criticizing. Imam. But it would appear that the Am
ericans were listening in
on this conversation. They are very technically, well— They are clever at this, at least. The vicissitudes of modernity.
Always
someone is listen
ing. As for me. I understand, it is none of my business. But
now, because of what
we have learned, it becomes in a way
my business. You grasp the essence of mv discomfort?"

"Concerning what?"

"We have
the recordi
ng of the conversation, thanks t
o the American eavesdroppers. I gather
Prince Bawad was very—how to say
it?—authoritarian with
you?"

"I can hold my own with
Prince
Bawad." Maliq said stiffly.

"Of course you can. To me, it seems very rude the way he treated
you. Very imperious, very bossy,
Calling you—forgive me. Great Imam, for I am only quoting, eh?—the son of a kitchen slave, a cheater at automobile racing, and saying
that
if you don't do exactly as the Wasabis say—what were his words, exactly?—'we will remove you from the throne like a rotten fig." A strange
figure of speech. I agree. H
e is not so adept at the diplomacy, the prince, for a diplomat"

"Bawad is a toad. From now on. I
deal only with Tallulah."

Delame-Noir shrugged as only a Frenchman can. "Yes. but Bawad is King Tallulah's nephew, and they are very close. I don't think that the prince would have said these things to you if his uncle the king did not approve."

"What of it?" Maliq said impatiently.

"M
on imam,
the point is that the Americans are in possession of a tape recording of this conversation. And my conclusion is
that
if you execute the sheika L
aila. the Americans may use this as a pretext to become involved directly. Florence has stirred up much publicity in the United States. In the world."

"And what are the Americans going to do? Not buy oil? Bah."

"Perhaps they will leak the tape of Bawad ordering you to kill her. And how is that going to look if it's played? Making it seem as though you are just a puppet of the Wasabis. Who wants this? The Wasabis,
perhaps they don't care. But we, F
rance, as your allies and true friends, this we do not want." Delame-Noir smiled. "We want a
strung
imam in Matar. An
independent
imam! Not one who must ask permission from the House of Hamooj every time he wants to go to the bathroom. Of course, it goes without saying that you may
always
depend on France."

Maliq threw up his hands. "What am I supposed to do? They want this sheika dead. And they want the Florence creature even more, and they blame me—me!—for not ca
tching her. Florence tricked us,
you realize. I asked her to m
ake a tape, just as you told me, and she tricked us,
the slut-bitch. It plays once and—
poof,
nothing, gone like a djinni."

"Th
is was my own stupidity. Great Lord." Delame-Noir said soothingly. "You played your part with brilliance and subtlety, and we—no.
I
alone myself—let you down by not anticipating that they would resort to this CIA trick. I curse myself. I will not sleep tonight for—"

"You're overdoing. Dominique."

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"What am I supposed to do now? You say the Americans will use this tape of the conversation between me and Bawad?" "I fear they might, yes."

"Why don't I call in the American ambassador and tell him his country belter start building windmills to keep them warm this w inter?"

"But my lord, is it wise to inform the Americans that you know about this? We have them exactly where we want them."

"We do?"

"But yes. Instead of making threats to the Americans, you say to them. 'Look, my hamburger-eating friends, we know the sheika works for the CIA.'"

"She does?"

"No. but
you tell
the
Americans
that
you
think
she does, and this w
ill make t
hem very nervous. You tell them
that
she has confessed to even thing.
You
say, "And now the W
asabis, they
are being very severe. They want
me to chop off her head.
You
would think
they
are
French!
H
a! But I
have
decided that I'm not going to chop off her head. I'm going to give her to you—with
the
head intact.
Do
you know
why, my
American friends?
Precisely
to show the Wasabis that I
am my
own imam, my own person, that I d
on't take orders from anybody. And now here is what y
ou Americans are going to do for
me
in exchange, first, I want to start hearing y
ou say nice things about
me
in
the United
Nations. Second. I want y
ou to stop saying all these terrible things about how
France
was very naughty to h
elp me become emir. And third, I
want you to send your people—your Delia
Force
commandos, who are very good—into Amo-Amas and remove this
Florence
woman of yours. Dead or alive, it's no matter for
me,
but it's time for her to go. I am not looking to make the next Joan of Arc. But if you don't come and
get
her, I
will deal with it very soon. And
finally;
if
you
don't help me with these t
hings, you Americans are going t
o have
a
very cold winter, yes?'"

"H
mm."
Maliq
said. "Do you think they'll go along with it?"

"My dear imam, y
ou must understand—the A
mericans are idealistic t
o the
point
where
they
must lower their thermostat
t
wo
degrees.
Then
they become very practical."

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

Florence and B
obby
were in the middle of shooting an
other
"Osama"
—
the
name they
had given Florence's videotapes—when they heard an electronic chirping. It startled them, since the phone had been turned off, and cell phones as a rule do not ring when they are in the off mode. And now this one was ringing.

Florence moved toward it. Bobby said. "Couple of gram
s of C4 can make for a pretty
bad headache."

He took the phone from her and walked to a far corner of room. Florence watched him. He took a breath, held the phone at arm's length
and pressed the TALK button. H
e exhaled and held the receiver a foot from his ear.

"Salaam."
He listened, his ey
es darting sideways nervously. "I'll giv
e her the message." he said wit
h an edge in his voice, "if I see her."

Florence mouthed:
Who?

Bobby mouthed back:
Uncle Sam.

She held out her hand. Bobby cupped his over the receiver and whispered. "Keep it short." He gave her the phone and began gathering up their things. She recognized by now the rhythms of another hasty departure.

"Well, well." Florence said into the phone.

"Young lady. do y
ou have any idea what sort of problems you're creating back here?"

"Didn't you tell me at our
first meeting, 'If you can't solv
e a problem, make it larger'?"

"I didn't tell you to make it
this
large. We’l
l talk about it when you get home. The last thing we need is for you to be captured." "First get Laila out."

Uncl
e Sam sighed. "What did you have in mind? An amphibious assault on the palace, or
Black Hawk Down: The Sequel?
Have you been outside lately? There are more Wasabi troops in
Matar
than there are citizens."

"It's not a request."

There was a pause. "I'll do what I can."

"Not good enough."

"It will just have to be."

Bobby motioned to Florence:
Finish up.

"Oh-one-four-f
ive hours," Uncle Sam said. "That's one-forty-five
a.m
. I'll have the water taxi on station, the usual place. Is Omar Sharif there? Put him on."

Florence
numbly handed the phone to Bobby, H
e listened, grunted a few "yeah"s and hung up.

"Somethin' wron
g here," Bobby said. "Come on, t
ime to go."

"Did you tell him about us?"

"What about us?"

"That we're sleeping together?"

"I... might have. Come on, that doesn't matter right now." "Why would you have told him that?" "Because he asked."

"When did you tell him we were sleeping together?"
"After
we started sleepin' together. Flo, we gotta go." "Why would you tell him?"

" 'Cause he asked me if you were a
dyke.
The rumors, h
e didn't
know what to believe. He was try
in' to get you to leave the country, and you wouldn't, so he-"

"Assumed
I
was a lesbian. So is that why you slept with me? Is this part of your mission? Sexual preference observation officer?" "Of course not. Goddammit, Flo."

"Don't you goddammit.
I
f
anyone gets to goddammit, it's me." "Flo, we gotta go. I got a bad feeling about that c
all." "I thought we were being e
xfiltrated by submarine." "Maybe. Will you just get your stuff, girl?"

In a huff. Florence gathered her things, consisting at this point of her pistol, cell phones and hated, smelly
ab
aaya.

They got in the car. Instead of driving off. Bobby circled around to the front and parked two blocks away, facing the front of their little house.

"What are we doing?"

E
liminatin' possibilities." Bobby was slumped low in the driver's seat, watching the hou
se through small binoculars. H
is right hand rested on the bull of the pistol lucked into his waistband, beneath the folds of his
thobe.

A quarter hour later, a sedan approached the house from the far side, slowed and stopped. Four men got out. They wore the distinctive black and blue
thobes
of
mukfelleen.
They carried pistols instead of standard-issue whips. Bobby peered intently through his binoculars.