Leon Uris (64 page)

Gideon was rocky and weary from months of frustration. He went to the bottle again.

‘I’ll tell you what your Ben-Gurion fears,’ Ibrahim pressed. ‘He fears Israel will end up as a Levantine nation doing things just as we do them.’

‘Oh no,’ Gideon snarled, ‘it won’t happen, because peace is a value to us. Love is a value to us.’ He bolted out of the chair and paced, almost like a caged man. ‘I came here to Zurich believing that one iota of truth, of reason, might penetrate those locked vaults you carry around in your heads.’ He leaned over the desk close to Ibrahim’s face. ‘What kind of perverse society, religion, culture ... what kind of human being ... is it that can generate such volcanic hatred ... that knows only hatred, that breeds only hatred, that exists for hatred? So, let your son die. Be proud, Haj Ibrahim!’

They stood shaking, two gladiators on the brink. ‘Go on,’ Gideon dared, ‘pull your dagger. That’s all you know.’

Ibrahim turned away. ‘I don’t know if we will ever see each other again. I did not want this to happen.’ Then he walked to Gideon and threw up his arms. ‘Can’t you see, I am beaten!’ he cried in anguish. ‘If I cross the border into Israel, my heart will be dead.’

‘I know ... I know, Ibrahim,’ Gideon whispered.

‘Gideon, my brother, I am beaten.’ He wept.

Gideon held him tightly, then fell into the desk chair and hid his face in his arms on the desk.

‘If it had been up to you and me, Gideon, we would have made peace, wouldn’t we?’

Gideon shook his head no. ‘Only if you didn’t have your hands on our water valve.’

There was a desperate silence.

‘Only Allah can give me peace now,’ Ibrahim grunted.

Gideon heard the library door close. The Haj was gone forever.

T
HOSE OUTDOOR UMBRELLAED TABLES,
so colorfully arrayed along the quays of the Limmat River, broke camp under the steady march of increasing cold. Although Ibrahim could no longer afford his daily respite of coffee, he remained welcome at the café. Franz still greeted him as a respected guest, found him a quiet corner table, and supplied him with coffee, sweets, and an occasional bowl of soup when the weather outside was particularly foul.

‘Haj Ibrahim.’

‘Yes, Franz.’

‘There is a telephone call for you in the manager’s office.’

‘For me?’

‘It is a lady. She asked to speak to me and she said, are you the gentleman who serves an Arab gentleman every day? She said she was an old friend whom you met in Damascus.’

‘Where do I take the call?’

Franz ushered him into a speck of an office and left discreetly.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. Is this Haj Ibrahim?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know who this is?’ Ursula’s voice inquired.

‘It is a warm voice in a very cold place,’ he replied.

‘I am sorry I had to reach you in such a mysterious manner. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Yes.’

‘There is something extremely important I have to discuss with you. Can you meet me?’

Ibrahim became cautious. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Do you know the Bahnhofstrasse?’

‘Only to look into store windows at things I cannot afford.’

‘That’s the street. Near the Baur au Lac Hotel you will find a shop called Madame Hildegard’s, which sells beaded and tapestry purses. I am calling from there. Can you come soon and make certain you are not being followed?’

Ibrahim did not answer.

‘I know what you must be thinking. I can assure you that you will be safe. I have kept many rendezvous here over the years. Hildegard is a close personal friend. We have done each other many favors ... without questions.’

‘All right, I will be there shortly,’ Ibrahim said after another pause.

‘Use the trade entrance. Hildegard has a small showroom in the back for special clients. She will be alerted for your ring.’

The Bahnhofstrasse, one of the world’s pricier shopping avenues, wore an elegant uniform of nearly matched, almost perfect nineteenth-century buildings. The shops therein contained a king’s hoard of treasured merchandise.

Ibrahim found Madame Hildegard’s and after a final hedging of suspicion pushed his finger on the doorbell. The door opened. He imagined the woman before him to be close to fifty years, but she was scented, beautifully bloused, elegantly coiffured, and obviously well traveled in the top echelons.

‘Ursula is waiting,’ she said and led him to the private showroom door. He entered and looked about. A small sitting room for the elite. Ursula stood in shadows wearing a hat with a veil.

‘This is where Hildegard shows the bags with the jeweled clasps.’

‘Is that you, Ursula?’

‘Forgive me for not greeting you more warmly. You will realize in a moment that I have been ill.’ She stepped forward and slipped into a brocaded easy chair but was still shadowed. Ibrahim approached and took the chair opposite her. Through the veil he could distinguish a face gone pasty. ‘I have been on drugs,’ she said, startling him with her candor. ‘I am not the Ursula you knew in Damascus.’

‘But I would still like to make love to you,’ Ibrahim said.

She pecked out a laugh. ‘You are gallant.’

‘It is not a lie,’ Ibrahim said.

‘Can we speak now?’

‘Yes, please tell me why you called.’

‘Fawzi Kabir plans to have you murdered.’

‘I cannot say that comes as news, but tell me more.’

‘Prince Ali Rahman, the Saudi, owns Kabir, you know.’

‘So I have heard.’

‘When the conference first opened, they discussed the possibility of assassinating the three of you. Anyhow, Kabir talked the prince out of it. It was considered too dangerous here in Switzerland. With Sheik Taji and Charles Maan now gone, they have taken a second look. You are extremely annoying to them. They are certain they can get away with it now.’

‘How do they intend to do me in?’

‘They have been following your moves. At both your rooming house and at your lady friend Frau Dorfmann’s, you must turn into and walk down very narrow lanes. It has been observed that on numerous occasions you leave Frau Dorfmann in the middle of the night. They plan to jump you in one of these lanes—’

‘Knife?’

‘No, they are wary about making a mess in the streets. The Swiss hold too much of their money. Kabir has one particular bodyguard who does the dirty jobs. He’s an Iranian by the name of Sultan. They call him the Persian. He’s a former heavyweight wrestler close to three hundred pounds, very mean, very well conditioned. He will jump you, put a choke hold on while a second bodyguard knocks you unconscious with a club. They will carry you off in a waiting car to Kabir’s boathouse at his villa. There they will finish you off, take you to the middle of the lake, and dump you. It is planned as an unexplained disappearance.’

Ibrahim grunted and patted his moustache, then laughed heartily. ‘It is not often that a man hears of his murder in such vivid detail. I am armed with a good pistol. I take it the Persian’s skin does not stop bullets.’

‘Believe me, Kabir and Rahman have far too many resources for you to cope with. They’ll get you, one way or the other.’

‘The one way they will never get me is by my running out of Zurich. I thank you most deeply for your warning. Now I must think.’

Ursula’s hand reached out beyond the shadows and grasped his. ‘If you want vengeance, so do I,’ she said.

‘Tell me why, Ursula.’

‘Oh God, it’s a long story. Of course, you have a right to know. Look, Ibrahim, I got myself involved with Kabir knowingly, but I was very young. Despite my profession after the war, I was also quite naïve. I overlooked one hideous thing after another until ... I did nothing really to stop it ... the money, the gifts seemed too easy. Well, let us say, too easy for a whore to give up. Anyhow, I learned that I still have a line I cannot cross. There are still things in this world that disgust me.’

‘That is good to be able to hold such beliefs.’

‘Kabir is the devil’s father. The grossness of his perversions has become more and more detestable. What can I say? Male prostitutes, female prostitutes, he pays them enough for them to allow themselves to be debased. Even what he makes them do with animals, including pigs, dogs, horses ... all right, weird is weird but ...’ She stopped for a moment, terribly uncomfortable, then began again with trembling voice. ‘When we are back in Damascus ... It’s the children! I’ve seen virgin boys and girls, nine and ten years old, all but butchered. You want to see what he has done, I show you!’

She lifted her veil and put her face into the light. It was a ghastly chalk color. Her eyes were numbed. There was a deep purple blotch on one cheek. ‘Take a good look, my Haj, that is a cigarette burn. There are scars on my body as well. But the real scars are on the inside. He began to fear I would leave him. After all, I arrange most of his fun. I was physically forced to receive shots of heroin. As you can see, I have become an addict.’

‘My God, I didn’t know I could still be shocked,’ Ibrahim said softly.

‘I have a chance of getting well if I can get away from him. There are clinics. I am not too far gone. Well, Ibrahim, do you want your revenge or not?’

‘Do you have a plan, Ursula?’

‘I do.’

‘Then you also have a partner.’

The Persian hulk flicked on the lights inside the boathouse and made a check through. It was clear. He took his master from Ursula and helped him stagger in. Kabir was spongy-brained from earlier drugs. He was taken to the emperor’s couch while Ursula fiddled with the light panels and started some music.

‘When are they coming?’ Kabir slurred. ‘Look at this damned couch. I paid ten thousand dollars for those Swiss dogs to repair it. Look, it does not either go up or down or turn,’ he said, banging on a console of buttons.

‘They still have some work to do on the cables,’ she said.

‘They are all thieves.’

‘Do not fret, my dear. You won’t need the couch for this exhibition.’

‘What do they do? You promised me something crazy unique.’

‘They will be along soon and you will see for yourself. It is like nothing that has ever taken place here. This couple is original beyond description.’ Ursula nodded to the Persian that she had things in hand and for him to take up his guard post.

When Sultan hesitated, she felt a pang of queasy fear. ‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘I am hungry,’ the Persian said on cue. Ursula had depended on the Persian’s appetite. He did not fail and she was relieved.

‘It will only be a two-person show tonight,’ she said. ‘I did not assign a chef.’

‘But I am starving,’ the Persian insisted.

‘Why don’t I fix you up a plate from the kitchen? I will bring it to your station.’

Sultan broke into a great grin, revealing a mouth patched with gold. He moved his massive frame down a short corridor to where the big speedboat and a half-dozen sailboats were docked under a roof. The guardroom was small but contained the latest security innovation. Cameras covered all the rooms of the boathouse. Their pictures could be viewed on a half-dozen screens. Sultan was able to observe his dozing master as well as Ursula in the kitchen.

She prepared a tray of four heaping plates to fill his bottomless stomach. It was very spicy food, spicy enough to completely disguise the sprinkling of cyanide she managed with her back blocking the camera’s view. She set the tray before him. ‘This should hold you for a while.’

‘Ursula,’ the Persian whispered, seeking a confidence, ‘what do you have going tonight?’

‘It’s like nothing you have ever witnessed,’ she assured him. ‘Keep your eye on the screen.’

He chomped down a baby lamb chop, and another. ‘You won’t leave me out of it,’ Sultan said with a wink.

‘If the Effendi passes out, as he usually does, it will be no problem to include you in some sport. Leave it to me, Sultan. Don’t I always see to it you are taken care of?’

‘Ursula, you are a true friend.’

She smiled and left and walked to the main mirrored room and quickly turned up the music just in time to drown out a horrendous shriek from the guard post. She dared look into the corridor to see a wide-eyed, murderously angry Sultan lurch toward her. He screamed, grasped his throat, sank to his knees, crawled, reached out... fell flat. She approached him with terrified caution. A half minute agonizingly ticked off. He twitched, then remained still.

Ursula quietly closed the door.

‘What was that noise?’ Kabir grumbled from the couch.

‘I did not hear anything, darling.’

‘I thought it might be our act.’

They will be along soon. Why don’t we have some H together. Something to set us dreaming, and when your eyes open again, everything will be ready.’

‘You are good to me, Ursula, so good.’

She opened a leather kit with a velvet lining holding ‘his’ and ‘hers’ needles. His had been filled earlier with Dilaudid, enough to keep him under until Ibrahim arrived. She expertly plunged the needle into his arm and sleep followed quickly.

The ‘funeral march’ from Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony inundated the boathouse. Lights had been set to twirl in a billion sparklets. Ursula broke an ammonia capsule under Fawzi Kabir’s nose. He groaned to consciousness, then clamped his eyes closed against the lights of whirling luminescence. He tried to cover his ears to shut out the music but he could not move his hands. They were handcuffed behind his back.

‘Ursula!’ he screamed.

‘I am here,’ she said from the foot of the couch. ‘Are you all awake now, dear?’

‘My hands are cuffed!’

‘That is part of the game. Trust me.’

He tried to wiggle but to no avail, for his feet were also bound. ‘I do not like this! Turn me loose!’

‘But you will ruin everything. The players are here now. There are three altogether. You are one and I am one. Surprised?’

Kabir panted and broke into an instant sweat as sound and light continued to blare at him. He felt a hand on his naked back. ‘And I am the other,’ a voice said.

Kabir twisted his thick neck in order to see, but he was too obese to turn himself around.

‘Guess,’ the voice said.

‘I don’t like this business!’ he cried.