“Excellent. Then bring a bottle of Fallet-Dart champagne to the table.”
“Of course, Mr. Nagib. It will be my honor to deliver it personally to your table.” Andrew discretely signaled that the guests in the walnut paneled cocktail lounge should be escorted to the dining room. He then bowed, repeating an ancient blessing: “May you be the father of 100 sons, Mr. Nagib.”
“Sons? Who the hell wants sons? They are weak and easily influenced. Haven’t you yet learned, young man, that women are by far the more effective of the species? It is daughters we should develop, not sons.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I will be along in a moment.”
Mohammed al Nagib strode into the gentlemen’s washroom. He stood in front of the marble sink and oversized antique mirror. A half smile broke the permanent scowl. He carefully combed his thinning silver hair. The confident face in the mirror echoed his thoughts. Three decades of planning, manipulating, bribing, threatening, and even a few disappearances. Now we are ready. The clock on the wall ticked. He checked the time against his gold Rolex, then strode towards the dining room.
“Ah, there you are my good friend.” Achilles Antonopolis stood up as Mohammed al Nagib walked through the large double doors into the formal dining room. They embraced warmly, kissing once on each cheek. The other two members of tonight’s special dinner meeting, a Swiss and a Brazilian, each took turns hugging and kissing their host and business partner. Warm greetings were exchanged all around in French and English. The champagne glasses were filled and the ever-bowing Andrew withdrew. They were seated at a corner table, slightly away from the rest of the guests.
Nagib briskly raised his glass to Jorge Molinas, sitting directly opposite. “Congratulations on your success.”
The short, neatly dressed Brazilian returned the toast. “Sometimes the best strategy is to let your opponent believe you have failed while your plan is proceeding.” He nodded to the others as they all drank deeply of the vintage champagne.
“Now that we are on schedule,” Nagib went on, “I can report that within one week, two at most, our asset will be securely in situ and waiting for the signal.”
“It is truly exhilarating to have destiny in our hands-and to be in control of the timetable.” The diminutive Helmut Hofer adjusted his thin wire-rimmed glasses, never making direct eye contact.
“And when the timing suits our needs, we can act at will,” added Antonopolis.
Nagib raised his bubbling flute of champagne. “For over thirty years we have pledged our lives together. Planning, testing, and revising our overall plans. I remember the old days when we would loan each other money during tough times. But thanks to all of your hard work and sacrifices, our business empires are not only expanding, but highly profitable. To our most ambitious project ever.”
“My mining and logging conglomerate would have never survived without your assistance.” The Brazilian bowed his bald head. “But now it’s profitable beyond my wildest dreams.”
Herr Hofer spoke just above a whisper. “My little bank has benefited handsomely from our long-term business dealings. And it’s benefited those who know a Swiss bank is the safest place for their money.”
“Ah, here comes the head chef himself,” Nagib announced. Lowering his voice, he added, “I suggest we change the conversation, gentlemen. All plans for the next phase are available through the secure network.” He looked up at the celebrity chef, decked out in a white smock, chef’s hat and colorful bowtie. Everyone stood up, shook hands all around and the pleasantries began.
The Tonight Show
“I’m no longer allowed to tell ethnic or political jokes,” the venerable late-night host quipped towards the end of his opening monologue. “The network brass get too many threatening phone calls from senators and congressmen. So tonight my writers have opted for a more scientific approach.” He shuffled his feet as if in deep thought. “Let’s see, the subject is… oh yeah, genetics.” The live audience broke into organized clapping, encouraging him on. “Okay, Okay, patience. You don’t get a scientific degree overnight, you know, these things take a while.”
A wry grin spread across his elongated face, making his chin look even more prominent than it was. He stared straight into the camera. “What do you get when you cross an Arab woman with a stick of dynamite?
“… Nothing.”
Blue Ridge Private Clinic and Hospital
A soft noise pierced the foggy veil of his mind. “Muzak. God, I hate Muzak.” Matt Richards fell back into a narcotic-induced sleep. For the past several weeks, he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. It was strange. In the mornings he would wake up to a set of electrodes placed on his arms and legs, stimulating his muscles, keeping atrophy at bay. He was just barely conscious as the machine kept up its steady rhythm of muscle contraction and relaxation. He could also feel a thick material covering his face, like large bandages. Then as soon as the machines were unplugged, he would fall into a deep sleep. More like a zombie than a living being.
But today, amidst a collage of bizarre dreams, he surfaced into semi-consciousness again.
“No. No.” The crisp bed sheet jerked uncontrollably. The dream came back. In and out of a vague blackness floated a face- her face. The same face captured on television. The suicide attack on the President. Bedouina Missoumi. It was her. He was certain of it. The image skimmed across his drug-fogged mind, smiling, snarling, laughing, brooding, beckoning. Soon more figures began to appear, misty, facing away from him. But each time they turned the face was always the same, Bedouina. Samir’s long dead girlfriend wafted closer and closer. He reached out with an invisible hand. She melted away. He sat up, trying to reach the evaporating form, then fell back into the soft pillow. More Muzak.
Again he awoke with a start. Another dreamy face.
“Who are you?” he called aloud. “Go away. Don’t look at me. Go away.” He didn’t want to know. He wanted the screen of his mind to go blank, but it glowed even brighter as the fragments of images coalesced. His mind reached out. He could feel every contour of her face as if it were etched into his DNA. Matt tried to close his mind. To shut off the thoughts.
“Oh, God.” He let out a low moan. It was the red-haired beauty he comforted so many years ago during a thunderstorm in the skies. The goddess he had fallen in love with-Maha.
“Calm down now, take a few deep breaths.” A soothing male voice came from directly overhead. “You must have been having a nightmare or a vivid hallucination. They’re common with concussions and injuries of your type.” Flashes of light moved back and forth across his eyes. The doctor held his lids apart and peered at his pupils.
“He’s regaining consciousness. The swelling of the lining of the brain seems to be going down as a result of the drugs. It looks like your patient is making a speedy and complete recovery. But he still needs rest.” The doctor turned slowly to face two men standing just behind him. Then all three men peered at the figure lying on the hospital bed. White bandages encircled head and face. Only the eyes were visible, with small holes for the nostrils.
“When will he be recovered enough for us to talk to him, doc?”
Matt flinched but his eyes remained closed.
“Speak quietly. His ears are very sensitive at this stage.”
“When? We can’t wait much longer.” A hushed voice with a heavy accent.
“Not now. He still needs his daily exercise and then his rest. And it will be at least one more week before we can take the bandages off.”
“But it’s been five weeks already. We need to talk with him, time is running out.” The other man moved into the bright light hanging over the steel-framed bed. His bald head glistened with sweat. They were in a small, elaborately equipped recovery room, sealed off from the rest of the clinic by large doors and armed guards.