Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (137 page)

Daliah didn't say anything.

'Believe me, you could do worse in a relationship,' Patsy
continued. 'He's good-looking, hardworking, and honest as
they come. That's rare in any relationship, and even rarer in
this cut-throat business. What more could you ask for?'

'Someone who understands where I come from and where
I'm going. Someone who takes
me
into account, and not just so many dollars and so many thousands of feet of film.'

'There isn't anyone else in your life, is there?'

Daliah shook her head. 'No,' she said miserably.

'Then that proves it,' Patsy said triumphantly. 'You still love
him. Now, take my advice and pick up the phone and call
him. He's really quite reasonable, you know. He told me he's
willing to forgive you your . . . your tantrum, if you will—'

'Now, wait a minute, Patsy,' Daliah growled. 'This isn't
exactly something I want to be forgiven for.' She leaned for
ward and narrowed her eyes into dangerous green slits. 'What
kind of song and dance did Jerome give you, anyway?'

'None at all.' Patsy puffed nonchalantly on her cigar. 'Oh, he said that you'd had a little spat, sure. But he assured me
that it really wasn't anything serious.'

Daliah's voice cut in, sharp as a newly honed knife. 'Did he
tell you what it was about?'

'Well, he did say it had something to do with financing the
picture.'

'That's right,' Daliah nodded. 'He wants to take Arab money, and I refuse to let myself be tainted by it.'

'Arab, schmarab.' Patsy waved her cigar expansively. 'This
is business, dollcake, so try to keep this and your highfalutin
personal standards separate. In this business, it's your pro
fessionalism that counts, and no one cares where money's
been, only where it's going. Besides, this movie of Jerome's
is going to be a classic.'

'Then it will have to be a classic without me.' Daliah raised
her chin resolutely. 'I will not be in an Arab-backed film. This
discussion is closed.' She sat back, folded her arms in front of
her, and looked at Patsy coldly. 'I would have thought that
you, of all people, would have understood that. Or have you
forgotten you're Jewish?' she added softly.

Patsy bristled. 'Just because you were born in Israel doesn't
give you the right to be any more Jewish than me!' she said hotly. 'You sabras haven't exactly cornered the market on
Judaism, you know.'

'I never said that; you just did. But I've grown up closer to
the Arab problem than you have. It was my brother they blew
up with a bomb, not yours.'

Patsy's voice was soothing. 'I know all that, dollcake—'

Daliah bristled. 'And for God's sake, stop calling me "dollcake"!' she shouted angrily. 'I'm
not
your dollcake . . .
My name happens to be Daliah.' She tossed her head in that
peculiar way that indicated she was very upset.

Patsy stared at her. She knew when she'd gone too far, and she started to back down. 'Daliah, then,' she said quickly, and
urged, 'Daliah, please try to be reasonable—'

'No,
you
try to be reasonable,' Daliah snapped. 'Go home
and think about what I've just told you. For once, try to put yourself in my shoes. Better yet, take a couple of months off
and go live in Israel. Then, when you come back,
then
you can
tell me what I should or should not do for my faith.'

'Then why aren't you there now?' Patsy countered sharply.
'If memory serves me correctly, you've been living the cushy life in this country for years now. If you're so pro-Israel, why
don't you go back and live there full-time? Or aren't you really
cut out for the tough life?'

'Why am I not there?' Daliah said softly, more to herself
than to Patsy. Her eyes took on a distant look. 'You know,
that's a very good question.' She nodded slowly to herself. 'It
gives
me
something to think about as well.' She rose to her feet. 'Please, go home, Patsy,' she said wearily. 'Go back to
bed. I've still got a lot of packing to do.'

'Daliah—'

'The case is closed,' Daliah said coldly. 'Or must I remind
you that as my agent, you're supposed to be supportive of me,
and working exclusively for
me!
I don't recall your ever having
been hired to represent Jerome St.-Tessier.'

Patsy stared at her. 'I
...
I can see that you're upset,' she
said quickly.'Tell you what, doll . . .Daliah. I think I'd better
let you sleep on this.' She bent over to retrieve her shoes and
struggled to get them on over her swollen feet. She attempted
a smile, but it came off ghastly. 'Whaddya say we talk again in a couple of days, after we've both simmered down?'

When Patsy disappeared as abruptly as she'd arrived,
Daliah almost had to smile. She knew good and well why Patsy
had left in such a hurry. It all came down to the lowest common
denominator—dollars and cents. Patsy's commission on two
and a half million dollars would come to a respectable quarter
of a million, and Jerome or no, Patsy knew where her priorities
lay. She wasn't about to sacrifice the goose that was laying
her golden eggs—and certainly not over any arguments about
religion or politics.

Done like a true agent, Daliah thought. She shook her head
and sighed to herself. That was the one thing about agents.
You could trust them to do cartwheels, light firecrackers, or
sell their mothers if that was what it took for them to get their commissions. And that was exactly what Patsy had just done.
She had backed down only because her commission was in jeopardy, not because of any ideals about Israel or Judaism.

Chapter 4

The sun had slid below the Palisades of New Jersey two hours earlier, and the large half-million-dollar media room was dim,
with the electronically controlled champagne-coloured raw-
silk curtains closed across the glittering expanse of Manhattan.
Najib al-Ameer never ceased to be dazzled by the view, and
this was one of the very few times he could remember that
he'd been in New York and shut out the shimmering backdrop
of city lights. He was watching the videotape of
To Have and
To Hold,
one of Daliah Boralevi's earliest films, on the big
Sony projection TV, and other than the three concurrently
running tapes on the three built-in regular televisions beside
it, he didn't want anything, least of all the expensive view, to
tempt his hawklike eyes from the screens for even a moment.

One of the smaller televisions showed a videotape compiled
of black-and-white close-ups from all of Tamara's old movies.

On the set right beneath that one, a succession of news
photo stills, videotaped interviews, and news footage showed
image after image of Dani ben Yaacov.

The third and lowermost set endlessly repeated the few
times Schmarya Boralevi had ever been photographed or
filmed. Most of these images were grainy and blurry, having
been shot by distant telephoto lenses.

The multiple images fuelled Najib's hatred. Fanned his wan
ing thirst for vengeance sworn long, long ago.

He stared at the screens in the intense silence.

The push of a button on the gold-plated control panel built
into the bone-coloured leather couch on which he sat had cast the soundproofed media room into a hushed, unearthly quiet.
He did not need sound. The images were enough.

Daliah, dominating his vision on the big screen. Her beauty
was almost magical. Those extraordinary cheekbones and
fathomless eyes, which she had inherited from her famous
mother, and the determined, aggressive cast of her jaw, as
well as that proud way she had of holding her head high, which
obviously came from her father.

Tamara, queen of the thirties, possessed of an unnatural,
haunting beauty with her candy-floss white angel's hair. And
those eyes, those famous pale eyes which, coupled with her extraordinarily high Slavic cheekbones, had made her the
most fabulous face of them all.

Dani, her husband, former ambassador to Germany and
Great Britain, his handsomely rugged features and smooth
demeanour a casting agent's dream for the part. And
rumoured to be involved in Mossad activities. Handsome,
powerful, and dangerous, a disquieting combination.

And finally, the old man. Camera-shy. So unassuming and
casual that he could have been mistaken for a lone tourist wherever he went. The man his own grandfather had once
saved from certain death. Who for a time had visited the oasis
regularly and brought them gifts and won their friendship.
Who was leader of that accursed infidel community which had
raided his village and killed his sister.

His sister. Iffat.

He attempted to conjure up a mental image of her, but try as he might, too many intervening years had passed, and she
remained but an elusive, faceless blur. With each passing year,
she had faded more and more from his memory until she was
but a recollection without a face.

And all because of those Jews. If they hadn't killed her, she
would be alive today.

His face was drawn. His jaw muscles quivered tensely.

The past twenty-one years had been extremely kind to Najib
al-Ameer: the handsome son of the oasis had turned into a
sleek, imposing man with an inborn regal bearing that left no
doubt of his commanding presence or the extraordinary
wealth he had accumulated. His face was craggy and proud,
with liquid black eyes which missed nothing, and his olive skin
was smooth and as yet unlined, thanks to the comforts and
care his fortune had helped provide. His one sign of ageing
was his thick hair; the black was greying at the temples now.
He wore it swept back in the same style as the Shah of Iran;
his silk lounging pyjamas and matching dressing gown, as well
as his socks and slippers, from Sulka, custom-made, would
likewise not have been out of place gracing a Pahlavi. Nor
would his fortune. The most recent estimate of his personal
wealth hovered, incredibly, somewhere between the fourand
five-hundred-million dollar mark and, more important, he
actually controlled billions more, thanks to his uncanny busi
ness acumen, his strong ties to his Arab friends, the power
Abdullah held over the influential leaders of Islam, and the
rich oil reserves hidden beneath the sands of the Middle East.