Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (167 page)

'Why?' she asked at last. 'Why do you want to do this?'

'Because I love you. Also because . . .'

'Yes?' She was staring at him.

'. . . because it will redeem me from what I have helped
cause,' he said softly. His expression was nakedly unguarded.

That touched something within her, for she laid a gentle
hand on his cheek.

For the time being, that touch was more than he had hoped
for. It made him feel instantly, immoderately happy.

Then, afraid that his continued presence would only cause
her more anguish, he got up, hurriedly dressed, and left.

But not before brushing her lips with his. And feeling hers
respond.

She watched him walk to the door. 'Najib. . .
'

He stopped and turned around slowly.

She took a deep breath. 'If only . . .' she began, and then sighed painfully. 'Go,' she whispered, shutting her eyes as
though in immense pain. 'Go.'

The
Najah,
Najib's sleek, Italian-built yacht, had taken two
and a half days to reach Oman, and dropped anchor off Khal
uf
in the Arabian Sea. Captain Delcroix immediately telephoned
Najib for further instructions, and to report that the helicopter
was tuned up, fuelled, and ready to fly.

'Stay anchored there until you receive further notice from
me personally,' Najib instructed him.

As he slowly replaced the receiver, Najib's lips were com
pressed into a thin, grim line. Slowly but surely, the logistics
were all falling into place. Allah willing, the press conference
would have no serious repercussions as far as Abdullah was
concerned.
It was time to have Daliah's Polaroid delivered.

Chapter 19

Six hours later, Abdullah returned from Tripoli and sum
moned Najib and Khalid to the
majlis.
As they approached,
he held his hand out imperiously.

Was the gesture more arrogant this time? Najib wondered.
Or had it always been that disdainful?

He took the dry calloused hand in his, raised it perfunctorily
to his lips, and embraced his half-uncle.

'Najib, my half-nephew.' Abdullah's eyes glittered with
feverish excitement.

'Half-uncle.' Najib pulled away and held Abdullah's gaze.
'I trust from the sound of your voice that things went satisfac
torily in Tripoli?'

Abdullah smiled, but his voice was reproving. 'You should
know better than to hazard guesses. Things are not always as
they appear.'

'Indeed,' Najib allowed, 'often they are not.' He felt the
beginnings of anger stirring within him, but he hid it well.
Anger, as well as a myriad of other emotions and truths, could
be superbly disguised with the expansive, flowery use of Ara
bic. But what rankled was the way his half-uncle always toyed with him. If Najib said the sky was blue, Abdullah was bound
to say it was green. What he wanted to know was
why
. Why did
Abdullah keep needling him? Ever since he could remember, Abdullah's choice of words and tone reflected an undisguised
contempt for him.

He stepped aside so that Abdullah could greet Khalid. As he watched them, Najib felt that something had changed.
There was something different in Abdullah's bearing. He was
more self-assured. His chest was puffed out further. He
seemed to hold his head higher. They were not great changes,
and much too subtle to notice unless one had known Abdullah
for a long time; but he knew Abdullah well—far too well, he
often thought. And there
was
a change.

'Things went well. Very well indeed.' Abdullah allowed
himself a smile and clasped his hands in front of him.

Then Najib knew what it was that bothered him. Abdullah
seemed younger and more excited than he had before Tripoli.
The trip had seemingly rejuvenated him, had given him a burst
of vitality and impetus. Even his green fatigues were different.
They were no longer soft and they no longer sagged; they were
more tightly tailored—starched stiff as cardboard, pressed,
and creased. Qaddafi's influence, no doubt.

'Muammar and I found much common ground,' Abdullah
continued. 'And we had several highly inspirational discussions.' He looked from Najib to Khalid. 'I want you both to
see what he has given me.' Smiling like a smug magician, he
raised a hand and clicked his fingers once.

From somewhere in the shadows behind him, two big men suddenly appeared and advanced soundlessly. They took up
positions to either side of him. Both were armed and looked eminently capable, and beneath their headcloths, both had
eyes hidden behind black wraparound sunglasses. And both,
Najib noted, had that peculiarly expressionless robot air about
them that he had noticed in other elite fighting forces. Zombies. For all practical purposes, that was what they were:
Abdullah's zombies.

He felt a chill, sharp as a breath of arctic wind.

'Let me introduce Colonel Qaddafi's gift to me. Surour and Ghazi. My Praetorian guards.' Abdullah seemed to swell with
pride as he looked from Khalid to Najib. 'Muammar fears that there are elements around me who might wish to do me harm.'
He smiled at Najib. 'The possibility exists, do you not think?'

Najib nodded. 'There is always a possibility,' he said moder
ately, while inside him a sudden alertness started shrieking
and shrilling:
He suspects! He knows! You've fallen in love
with Daliah Boralevi and told her you'd help her escape. And
somehow he's found out!

'Surour and Ghazi are sworn to protect me, and they will
never leave my side. They will travel with me, eat with me,
bathe with me, and sleep with me. One of them will always be
awake, at my side, so I can sleep without fear.' Abdullah's eyes
narrowed. 'They will do anything I ask of them.
Anything!
Let
me demonstrate.' Excitedly Abdullah gestured for the four of
them to follow him to a French card table set up in front of
the windows. On it was an ordinary butcher-block carving
board. Four ice picks and a felt pen were lined up on it.

Abdullah's eyes searched Najib's, and then Khalid's. 'Long
ago, you both swore allegiance to me,' he murmured. 'Do you
remember?'

Najib nodded and swallowed. He was starting to feel peculi
arly queasy. How well he remembered that afternoon in the
mountains of Syria when his wrist had been sliced open and
his blood had merged with Abdullah's. Ever since, he had
been in his half-uncle's clutches. How could he forget?

Abdullah picked up the felt pen and uncapped it with a
flourish. 'I want each of you to hold out your right hand, palm
up.'

Surour and Ghazi didn't hesitate. They pulled back their
sleeves and held out their hands. Najib exchanged glances with
Khalid, but Khalid's expression was guarded and unreadable.
Slowly they both extended their hands also.

One by one, Abdullah felt their hands with his fingers and
carefully marked an X at a certain spot on the palm of each.

'Notice how carefully I have marked those X's,' he pointed
out. 'If your hands were to be X-rayed, you would discover
that in the precise centre, where the two lines of the X cross each other, there is a small boneless spot. A mere hollow of
flesh.'

Najib felt himself reeling.
Mere flesh? What did he mean by
'boneless' and 'mere flesh'? And what in all damnation were
those grisly picks doing out?

Seemingly unaware of Najib's horror, Abdullah picked up
the ice picks by their thin long points and passed one to each
man. When he was handed his, Najib almost dropped it. He
glanced at Khalid. Khalid had been Abdullah's second-in-
command for as long as he could remember, and he had always
proved himself fearless. But like many a fearless man, the
sight of his own blood—even the prospect of a hypodermic
needle piercing his skin—was enough to send him into a dead faint. Najib noticed that Khalid was now hanging on by sheer willpower. His swarthy skin had turned pasty yellow, and his
eyes seemed to roll up and flicker in their sockets. Another
moment, Najib thought, and Khalid would be out cold on the
floor.

'I want to demonstrate just how dedicated Surour and Ghazi
are to me,' Abdullah said. 'Then perhaps you will understand
just how well they will guard me.' He nodded at the nearest man. 'Ghazi, you are first. Place your hand, palm-up, on the
cutting board. Then stab the pick through the precise centre
of the X and impale your hand.'

Najib stared at Ghazi. If the big Libyan felt any emotion,
he did not show it. He bent over the table, laid his hand, palm-
up, on the cutting board, and poised the pick six inches above
it. For an instant the long thin shaft of steel caught the light and gleamed. It wasn't even quivering. His hands were per
fectly still.

Then, with the speed of lightning, and without as much as
a gasp of pain, he slammed it down through his hand.

Najib turned swiftly away, but even though he didn't look, he could hear it. Abdullah either hadn't marked the X prop
erly or Ghazi hadn't taken the time to line up the point exactly:
the snapping crunch of breaking bone was unmistakable.

Najib thought he might vomit.

'I want you to look closely,' Abdullah said, a satisfied note in his voice. 'See what Ghazi has done to himself with not a
moment's hesitation! Now do you understand his devotion? I
give him but the word, and his life shall be mine!'

Allah be merciful! And to think I helped that madman all
these years!