"1 am pleased that His Majesty is pleased. But no. I
do not seek the sheika's endorsement on behalf of any skin cream or disease or against land mines. We would like to start a satellite television station here in Matar, and have her be in charge of it."
The emir stared. "You do take us by surprise. I thought this was going to be about oil. It usually is, one way or the other. Last week some Americans were here from Texas. So often they are from Texas, or Oklahoma. One yearns to meet Americans from other parts of the country. Where are you from?"
"A part with trees, Majesty."
"1 low very lucky
for vou. Te
levision, you say. The sheika. I
hardly think—"
"With H
is Majesty's permission, I would show him some numbers."
"No, no. The emir does not deal with numbers. There are ministers for that, for every kind of number."
"They are interesting numbers, lord. They suggest that there are vast sums to be made. But I will take them to the
ministers, as H
is Majesty" commands."
"How do y
ou mean, 'vast
-
'.'' The desert is vast. The ocean is vast."
"In the neighborhood of two billion dollars per year, my lord."
"That's not half vast."
Florence handed the emir the single sheet of paper she had prepared. "What sort of programming?" he asked.
"The figures are based on targeting a female audience, my lord." The emir screwed up his face.
"Female?"
"They
are the ones who do the shopping. Who make the purchases."
"I suppose. Who has the t
ime b
ut the women. But there are already
two Arabic channels, Al Jazeera and Al Arabiya. I
will say,
in case you
are
with the CIA,
that I am not in sympathy with either of t
heir political points of view. Every time I turn them on,
there is Osama sitting in front of his cave looking in dire need of a new kidney. But then one can always"—he pressed the button on an imaginary remote control—"see what is on the History Channel. There is always another documentary on Hitler. They r
eally ought to call it the Hit
ler Channel. But why the sheika?"
"Many reasons,
lord. First, she is the sheika,
the first lady of
Matar
, a respected personage of reputation and authority. Second, she has experience in television."
"Yes." the emir said, as if warming to the concept, "she was
very
successful in London. Until she gave it up to marry a raghead!"
Florence smiled noncommittally.
"But a very nice rag. Go on. You have our attention."
"Third, we of course require a Matari partner in this enterprise, since by law. Mataris must own fifty-one percent of any business operating here. These three factors make the sheika a natural person to lead our venture."
"Who is 'we? Who are
you?"
"I am merely a television producer. This project is my concept. With an enterprise of this size, one has backers, investors. But we are prepared to give to you—"
"To the people of Matar, you mean."
"Fi
fty-one percent ownership."
"Um
."
"Shall we say fifty-f
ive percent?"
"My hearing is not what it used to be. The years of shooting gazelle..."
"Sixty percent?"
"I think 1 heard you say seventy."
"Sixty
-five."
"Let us say two thirds, sixty-six. So much easier on the accountants."
"So it is done."
"And
the sheika's role, she would be,
what, ornamental?"
"On the contrarv. It is our hope that she would become very much involved. It was this part that worried me in presenting the plan to His Majesty."
"How so?"
"I fear that we might be, well, taking her away from you. Starting a television station can be a very consuming enterprise. But very fulfilling."
"Ah. Well, that is for her to decide."
"H
is Majestv's reputation as an enlightened man and husband does not do him justice."
"We are
not a backward people. Ms. Farf
aletti. Unlike some in the region. I shal
l present your proposal to the Sheika. I must say, I
have mixed feelings, for is it not written that a man who makes his wife queen ends up washing the dishes himself?"
"But is it not also written, sire, that a man who gives his wife an occupation creates for himself an oasis?"
"I'm not sure what part of scripture we're both quoting, but you may have something there, Ms. Farfa—Florence. No
w, if you will excuse me,
my next audience is upon me. You see that an emir's life is not all fig oil."
"I hardly see how His Majesty manages at all."
CHAPTER
EIGHT
W
ord arrived the next morning a
t the Opulent that the sheika L
aila
wou
ld receive Florence that same d
ay for lea.
Florence felt oddly more nervous about this meeting than sh
e had about the interview with E
mir Gazzir. Perhaps it was
because she had spent so much t
ime going over Bobby's File. She fell she'd been prying indecently into the woman's life. She fell—yes, that was it—guilty. It was one thing to try to pull the wool over the eyes of a
plump born
-lucky p
otentate with the nickname of G
azzy, and another to deceive his long-suffering
wife. All for a good cause. But
still, Florence felt a kinship with the woman. They were both bright women who been swept away by princes to go live in sand castles. Florence's had simply crumbled first.
Bobby's briefing on L
aila was appalling in its detail. It spoke well of the CIA's detail-gathering, but—really.
"N
o, no, I don't want to know that
." she said after Bobby began to explain
the circumstances under which L
aila. at age seventeen, had lost her virginity: on a school trip, in Paris, to a guide at the Louvre. "It's just not relevant, and it's none of my or anyone's business."
"It's all business." Bobbv said.
"You never know what detail's gonna be the one saves you." H
e put the dossier down on he
r desk. "I'd seriously suggest y
ou read this file in its entirety. Ma'am." And with that, he walked out.
She sought out George, who had recovered somewhat from his stomach distress. "Why do I feel like such a shit readme this?" she asked.
"I guarantee you feel better than I d
o. I don't want to agree with Attila the Hun,
but he's probably got a point. Plus. I'm dying to find out if she lost her virginity in the Louvre."
"I'll let you read it yourself."
THAT AFTERNOON FLORENCE was ushered into the cool terrace of the sheika's apartment at the palace, overlooking an aqua stretch of beach. A hundred yards offshore, fountains shot seawater into the air in a pattern r
oughly approximating the Bin H
az royal crest. It had the practical advantage of cooling the air on the seaward side of the palace, though it left one's skin a bit salty.
L
aila rose to greet her guest. The chairs in this room of the palace. Florence noted, were all of the same height. The sheika was quite beautiful, though this is not an especially rare quality among wives of princes. She was thirty-seven, one of the more innocent facts Florence knew about her from Bobby's briefing. She was taller than her husband, a fact accentuated by the three-inch heels she wore, in contrast to the normally slippered feel of Arab women. She had superb cheekbones, a line nose and peregrine-falcon eyes. She could have been a model—in fact, she had been during a college summer, m
ore to annoy her parents than f
or
the money. She wore a silk pant
suit from Paris and the mer
est while chiffon scarf that set
off her abundant dark hair. Around her neck was the
simplest gold necklace. On her f
inger was an engagement diamond, admittedly a rock at eight carats, along with her wedding band. On a table behind her were two silver-framed photograp
hs. One was of her and Prince H
amdul: the other showed her husband in
full tribal regalia. Florence t
ook in the separation of the two photographs.
"Welcome." The sheika gestured to a chair. Her manner was pleasant and hospitable, with just enough formality to prompt Florence to come to the point without dwelling too long on Matar's climate, natural beauty or the marvel of the sea fountains beyond the terrace.
"T
he emir has
discussed with the sheika the ma
tter on which I have come to Matar?" Florence said.
A smile played across L
aila's face, softening it like a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight in a formal drawing room. Florence blushed.
"The matter on which you have come to
Matar
? Yes, he told me all about it. Would you
care for something other than tea? I
sometimes have a
glass of something around this t
ime."
A servant materialized out of nowhere, just as the emir's had. The sheika nodded, and the servant disappeared, reappearing shortly with phantomlike efficiency, bearing a tray of beaten silver on which were two cut-crystal flutes filled with a bubbly crimson-and-gold liquid.
"Pomegranate juice and champagne," Laila said, handing one to Florence. "A Matari Kir, if you will.
Sahte
yn.
Thank God we have a word for 'Sante' in Arabic. One would have thought otherwise."
The cool, tangy-sweet bubbles went down Florence's throat and fil
led her with a relaxing warmth.
"The custom was to offer our guests fig cordials." Laila said. "Promoting our national industry. But it was so truly disgusting that I discontinued the practice."
"The sheika seems to share the emir's views on figs."
"Why don't we dispense with the third-person nonsense? I've never gotten used to it. I keep looking about the room to see where this person is people are refer
ring to, and it's me. Call me L
aila. If we do this thing you propose, you'll be calling me that soon enough. I suppose. Do you prefer 'Ms. Farfaletti'?"
"Florence,
please."
"As in Firenze?"
"Yes," Florence said, impressed. "My father was a proud Italian. Most are, one way or another."
"And what are you doing here, so far from Florence?"
"The emir did not explain?"
"He said you wanted me to run some kind of Pan-Arab television station aimed
at
women." Laila leaned back in the armchair. "What a proposition. Such offers hardly come along every day. Almost, one might say, too good to be true?"
"We think you're just the person to do it. Really, the only person. It could be
very
exciting."
"Do we?"
The two women stared at each oth
er. There was no hostility in L
aila's gaze, but it was as cool as the Kir in Florence's hand.
“
This project—it is of your own devising?"
"Yes. Of course, one needs backers." The word lay on Florence's tongue like aluminum foil, harsh and unnatural.
"And in the interests of due diligence, who exactly are these backers?"
"They're all described here." Florence reached for her briefcase and took out a folder and handed it to Laila. Laila studied the pages listing the names of the backers, all of whom were fictitious, though actu
al human beings were standing by to play their parts, should L
aila pick up the phone. As
Laila
studied the list. Florence studied her.
"They are in it for the money, one supposes?"
"In an impure world, money is a pure enough motive."
Laila
smiled. "And your associates at the hotel—they are your
staff
'
"Yes. I
thought to bring them in the event that the project met wit
h your approval, so we could get
started. They were eager to see
Matar
. In all honesty, their enthusiasm might have had a bit to do with the duty-free shopping and the pleasures of Infidel Land."
"Duty-free shopping and slot machines."
Laila
said. "Ah. the richness of Matari culture. Your associat
e. Mr. Robert Thibodeaux—Farfale
tti and Thibodeaux; it sounds like an expensive law firm. Now tell me about him."