Lace II (25 page)

Abdullah did not love his nephew. Since the death of his beloved son, Abdullah had loved no one and trusted no one. Abdullah had committed himself to no one and nothing except his country, the cause of his people, and his army. Abdullah’s mother had died when he was born; he felt her death as a wistful lack. The murder of Abdullah’s father provoked in his son only ice-cold anger. The knowledge that his own life was in constant danger left Abdullah feeling that deep involvement with any living person would render him too vulnerable to assassination.

Inside the tent, richly-patterned carpets had been laid on the desert sand and heaped with tasseled cushions. Abdullah’s watchful eyes moved warily from side to side, although he held his head still; arrogantly self-assured, with tawny skin stretched tight over the bone, his winged black eyebrows met above a nose that curved like a falcon over the wide mouth.

Boys in white robes carried huge silver trays into the tent, each one piled with a bed of rice, surrounding a whole lamb which had been roasted over a wood fire and stuffed with a mixture of cinnamon rice, plump raisins, pine nuts, and almonds. Eight men sat cross-legged around each tray, pulling off bits of lamb and dipping them in the silver bowls of yogurt, rolling the rice into small balls with their fingers, always using only the right hand, because the left hand was used for sanitary purposes.

The boys served silver trays of kanafa, sweet cakes filled with white goat’s cheese and served with hot syrup. The harsh wail of a primitive clarinet, the pipe of flutes, the insistent rhythm of the drums started; it was a prelude to the dancing and singing of traditional songs that were quavering ululations
with no pauses, no rhythmic or harmonic variations, only repetitions of the wailing tune pattern.

Across the tent, General Suliman Hakem caught Abdullah’s eye, nodded and quietly moved behind Prince Hassan, ready to escort him forward for the presentation to the Hakem tribe. Gazing at Suliman’s lean, hard face, Abdullah suddenly realized how extraordinary it was that Sheikh Hakem’s son had accompanied Abdullah to the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst. Together, he and Suliman had sat at those long, highly-polished mahogany tables, sparkling with crystal, silver and candelabra, with everybody togged out in full mess kit and the strings of the regimental band sawing through a selection from
Oklahoma!
Suddenly Abdullah was sharply aware of the dichotomy between his Eastern life and his Western life as he remembered bicycling with Suliman from one classroom to the next and drilling endlessly on the parade ground in heavy, black boots. Together, he and Suliman had learned how to handle an infantry platoon. Fully dressed in combat clothes, they had together jumped into rivers, bumped in Land Rovers over mountains at night and hurled themselves out of airplanes by day. Together, they had been acknowledged the best horsemen and the best shots at Sandhurst, which was hardly surprising, as they had both been riding and hunting in the desert for as long as they could remember. Both, at full gallop, could shoot a partridge on the wing, as could most warriors sitting tonight in this sumptuous tent.

The music stopped abruptly when Abdullah stood up and made the ritual speech that asked the Hakem tribe to pledge their lifelong loyalty to his house and his heir. Abdullah then motioned Hassan to stand. As the boy got up, his eyes lost their focus and he tumbled forward onto the antique carpet.

There was an instant cry of alarm. General Suliman pulled the boy upright, but Prince Hassan lolled against him, unconscious and moon-pale. Abdullah’s face was expressionless as he ordered General Suliman to accompany the Prince to the women’s tent.

Sheikh Hakem flung himself at the feet of Abdullah to protest his loyalty.

Nobody moved in the tent for ten minutes, until General
Suliman hurried back to the King’s side and whispered reassuring news in his ear. Prince Hassan had merely fainted, worn out by the incessant traveling and ceremony of the past month.

There was an immediate hubbub of relief.

As Abdullah washed his hands in the proffered silver bowl, none of the tribesmen around him could have guessed how profoundly anxious the King felt. Prince Hassan had been constantly ill at Port Regis, his English school. Either the child was the victim of slow poisoning or else he was unfit to be a future King.

*   *   *

It was a blazing hot June day and the sun beat down on the concrete grandstand at Le Mans, as gendarmes made periodic sweeps to control the crowds of hangers-on who swarmed over the track. The roars and snarls of the finely tuned engines could be heard far away, in the flat forests beyond the circuit, as the cars took their places on the grid. In the noisy, crowded grandstand, an exuberant group waved Union Jacks and the black Eagle flag.

“Where’s Gregg?” Maxine strained her eyes in the bright smoke-tinged air, but couldn’t see the Spear in the line-up.

Lili wriggled out of the spectators’ box and ran to the pit, where mechanics worked fast and silently on the Spear.

“Throttle’s jammed. It’s this bloody heat,” Gregg shouted over the roar of starting cars. “We’re going to lose a lap.”

Lili watched as the cars tore off, hugging the ground in formation behind the pace car for the pre-start lap. Then, with a howling crescendo, they began the race. Before the end of the first lap, the Spear slipped onto the track.

By the end of the second hour, the Spear was lying in tenth position. Triumphantly, Gregg jumped out of the car, shouting, “God, that car’s so beautiful!”

“Who’s leading?” Lili yelled, as Gregg’s co-driver shot off in the Spear. The confusion of heat, the fumes, the cheering crowds and the distant cacophony on the fairgrounds made it impossible for her to keep track of the race.

“Nannini in the Lancia; he’s really giving it stick,” Gregg bellowed, as the Spear slip-streamed past the green BMW Sauber C7 and gradually nosed up to overtake it.

Five minutes later, the Canon Porsche spun out of control, hitting Jacky Ickx’s Rothman Porsche, which spun briefly on the grass, then rejoined the race, having lost a place.

By the end of the fourth hour, the Spear was lying sixth. Lili watched the car shudder into the pit with damaged balance weights on the front right wheel; the mechanics worked frantically to replace the whole wheel in twenty-five seconds. “See why we need so many spares?” Gregg prepared to take over from his co-driver. “This race really puts a car through it.”

And it puts the drivers through it, thought Lili, as for the first time, she found herself desperately anxious about someone else’s safety. Suddenly, the race was not dull, it was not exciting, it was frightening. Lili felt only cold terror for Gregg as she saw a Mazda 717 briefly balk the Spear, then both cars veered apart as they tore under the Dunlop Bridge.

At the end of the fifth hour, a doube pileup on the Mulsanne Straight took both Aston Martin Nimrods out of the race and left Gregg lying second, behind the leading Porsche.

In the grandstand, Lili heard the name Eagle Spear in the crackle of noise that was issuing from the commentary loudspeakers. “WHAT’S HAPPENING?” she screamed to Charles.

“HE’S IN THE LEAD,” Charles yelled back excitedly. “THE PORSCHE HAS GONE!”

Gregg knew that eight more Porsche 956s were snarling up behind him. Porsche always dominated all the endurance races, thanks to the excellent German engineering. At Le Mans, a car could self-destruct under its driver; metal would shear, rubber would wear away, plastic would melt; in twenty-four hours’ hard driving, a car could simply fall apart, around and beneath its driver. Only the toughest survived Le Mans.

The third gear felt ominously sticky, as Gregg changed down, anticipating the slow right-hand turn at the Tertre Rouge. Andretti, in the Kremer Porsche, was closing up behind him. Gregg’s left ankle started to throb and, suddenly, he found it difficult to concentrate ail his energy on the corner.

Then Gregg felt a stab of white pain, he heard a gnashing, mashing of metal, saw the world spin in front of him and fir trees rush toward him, as the Spear shot off the road.

*   *   *

“Luck of the devil!” Charles threw his long, thin body into a velvet armchair. “He crashes at two hundred and fifty kilometers and all he suffers is a sprained ankle.”

Outside the French windows of the chateau, the bubbling song of a nightingale and the tart scent of lime trees drifted into the library. Exhausted by the emotion, the excitement, and the anxiety, Maxine shrugged off her voile jacket and collapsed onto the blue brocade sofa. “Ouf, it’s a hot night!”

They were silent for a moment. The servants had gone to bed and the library was dark except for a dim, brass reading lamp. Maxine sighed. “Charles, I’m exhausted. D’you mind waiting up until Lili gets back from the hospital? She was making a lot of fuss, but her concern was genuine. I’m getting fond of her. Maybe she really will settle down with Gregg.”

“He seems like a nice enough fellow.”

“And very suitable for Lili.” Maxine yawned. “If he becomes the European Sports Car Champion, he’ll have nothing to gain from Lili’s success. He doesn’t need to hitch onto her fame and, as he’s not in the same business, their ambitions won’t clash.”

Charles nodded. “He won’t feel threatened by her.” Slowly, he stretched his arms and legs.

“I can never understand why men find a successful woman a threat.” Maxine eased off her white sandals. “Women don’t find a successful man a threat.” She lifted her toes and wriggled them. “Women think success is sexy.”

Maxine stretched her tired legs out and rotated her ankles. Even after twenty years of marriage, Charles couldn’t take his eyes off Maxine’s long, pale, rounded legs. Maxine knew this perfectly well, and so continued to twirl them slowly in the dim, amber light.

Eternally pragmatic, Maxine realized that seeing someone you know nearly die really sorts out your priorities fast. Charles had been nicer to her than he had been for months, as they drove back from the hospital where Gregg had been taken. Delicately, Maxine massaged her left calf, thinking, our situation won’t be resolved until he says he’s sorry, and
he’s never going to say he’s sorry. But Charles will always
show
that he’s sorry, if I give him the chance and don’t rub his nose in it. She pulled back her voile skirt and started to massage her left knee. Softly she said, “Charles, I’m sorry.” It was better to put yourself in the wrong and get your own way, than to stubbornly insist on being right and continue to be miserable.

“What are you sorry for, Maxine?”

“Everything.”

Charles pounced.

“Successful women are always overdressed,” he whispered in her ear as she squirmed happily beneath him. Charles plunged his hands inside the filmy fabric of Maxine’s dress, ripped off her peach satin camisole, and started to flick his tongue, lizardlike, over his wife’s creamy body.

Mid-June 1979

O
UTSIDE THE
S
YDONITE
Embassy, the June sun sparkled on the distant Potomac. A picket line of dejected feminists in jumpsuits carried placards that read “Arabs oppress women.” “Islam equals mutilation,” and “CUT IT OUT!”

Wearily, the cops cleared a path for King Abdullah, who flashed out of the maroon Rolls and through the imposing front door, followed by General Suliman.

“Mark Scott’s exhibition is a great success.” His Majesty peeled off white gloves and thwacked them onto the silver salver proffered by a robed servant. “And that leader in the
Washington Post
about the circumcised child was exactly what I’d hoped for.”

“If the World Health Organization really got behind us, such atrocities would be forgotten in ten years,” said General Suliman. “Tomorrow, Your Majesty will meet the Coptic woman doctor who led the campaign against female circumcision in Egypt. I have put the United Nations report on your desk.”

“What’s the summary?”

“Only the Sydonite women themselves can stop this practice. A man may agree that a virgin bride need not be proven
so by mutilation but the women do not believe that, when it comes to the point, a man will accept such a girl. Because of their fear, no progress can be made.”

Abdullah sighed, then asked, “What’s next?”

“The child specialist is waiting in the audience chamber, Your Majesty; then this evening you will preside at a banquet which is being held here, in the Embassy.” The General stood aside as Abdullah strode into the audience chamber. Two neat, gray-suited men were waiting for him. Abdullah looked surprised. “I was expecting you alone, Doctor.”

“My colleague, Doctor Margolies, specializes in the psychiatric problems of adolescents.”

The King raised his eyebrows. The doctor elaborated. “After examining Prince Hassan, I find that there is nothing physically wrong with him, Your Majesty. He is a healthy boy.”

“Then why is he constantly ill at school? He’s missed so many lessons that the headmaster’s warned me that my nephew may not be accepted for Eton. Yet two years ago, he was a perfect student.”

“Perhaps too perfect, Your Majesty,” the psychiatrist suggested. “Prince Hassan seems to be a quiet, well-behaved and studious boy, but he is abnormally docile for a twelve-year-old, and shows little sign of aggression or curiosity. He is exhibiting the classic behavior of a child reared in an overly authoritarian home environment.”