her own son. It’ll be so good to be home again, she thought, to hold my son in my arms again and yes, yes, even to see my husband again. It’s been such a long time away from civilization, from good food and good talk, from good coffee and croissants and wine, from newspapers and radio and TV and all the wonderful things we take for granted. Though not me. I’ve always appreciated them and have always worked for a better world and justice in the Middle East.
But now? Her joy left her..
Now I’m not just a PLO sympathizer and courier but a secret agent for Lebanese Christian militia, their Israeli overlords and their CIA overlords - thank God I was fortunate to overhear them whispering together when they thought I had already left after getting their orders to return to Beirut. Still no names, but enough to pinpoint their origin. Dogs! Filthy vile dogs! Christians! Betrayers of Palestine! There’s still Teymour to be revenged. Dare I tell my husband who’ll tell others in the Council? I daren’t. They know too much.
Her attention focused out to sea and she was startled. Among the windsurfers she recognized JeanLuc, hurtling shoreward, beautifully balanced on the precarious board, leaning elegantly against the wind. At the very last second, he twisted into the wind, stepped off in the shallows, and allowed the sail to collapse. She smiled at such perfection.
Ah, JeanLuc how you do love yourself! But I admit that had flair. In many things you’re superb, as a chef, as a lover - ah, yes, but only from time to time, you’re not varied enough or experimental enough for us Middle Easterns who understand eroticism, and you’re too concerned with your own beauty. “I’ll admit you’re beautiful,” she murmured, moistening pleasantly at the thought. In lovemaking you’re above average, cheri, but no more. You’re not the best. My first husband was the best, perhaps because he was the first. Then Teymour. Teymour was unique. Ah, Teymour I’m not afraid to think of you now, now that I’m out of Tehran. There I couldn’t. I won’t forget you, or what they did. I’ll take revenge for you on Christian militia one day. Her eyes were watching JeanLuc, wondering what he was doing here, elated he was here, hoping he would see her, not wanting to make the first move to tempt fate but ready to wait and see what fate had in store. She glanced in her hand mirror, added a touch of gloss to her lips, perfume behind her ears. Again she waited. He started up from the beach. She pretended to concentrate on her glass, watching him in its reflection, leaving it up to chance.
“Sayada! Mon Dieu, cherie! What are you doing here?”
She was suitably astonished and then he was kissing her and she tasted the sea salt and smelled the sun oil and sweat and decided this afternoon would be perfect after all. “I just arrived, cheri. I arrived last night from Tehran,” she said breathlessly, letting her desire fill her. “I’m wait-listed on Middle Eastern’s noon flight to Beirut tomorrow - but what are you doing here, it’s like a miracle!”
“It is, how lucky we are! But you can’t go tomorrow, tomorrow’s Sunday. Tomorrow we’ll have a barbecue, lobsters and oysters!”
He was completely confident and Gallic and charmingly persuasive and she thought, Why not? Beirut can wait. I’ve waited so long one more day won’t matter.
And he was thinking, How perfect! The weekend was going to be a disaster but now love this afternoon, then siesta. Later I’ll choose a perfect dinner, then we’ll dance a little and love tenderly and sleep soundly, ready for another perfect day tomorrow. “Cherie, I’m desolate but I must leave you for almost an hour,” he said with the perfect touch of sadness. “We will lunch here - you stay at this hotel? Perfect, so do I: 1623. About one-thirty, quarter to two? Don’t change, you look perfect. C’est bon?” He bent down and kissed her and let his hand stray to her breast, felt her tremor and was pleased.
AT THE HOSPITAL: 1:16 P.M. “Good morning, Dr. Lanoire. Captain McIver, is it good or bad?” JeanLuc said, speaking French to him - Anton Lanoire’s father came from Cannes, his mother was Bahraini, a Sorbonne-trained daughter of an illiterate fisherman who still fished as he had always done, still lived in a hovel though he was a multimillionaire owner of oil wells. “It’s middling.”
“How middling is that?”
The doctor steepled his fingers. He was a distinguished man in his late thirties, trained in Paris and London, trilingual, Arabic, French, and English. “We won’t know with much accuracy for a few days; we still have to make several tests. We’ll know the real good or bad when he has an angiogram a month from now, but in the meantime Captain McIver’s responding to treatment and is not in pain.”
“But is he going to be all right?”
“Angina is quite ordinary, usually. I understand from his wife he’s been under very great stress for the last few months, and even worse for the last few days on this Whirlwind exercise of yours - and no wonder. What courage! I salute him and you and all those who took part. At the same time I’d strongly advise that all pilots and crews be given two or three months off.”
JeanLuc beamed. “May I have that in writing, please. Of course the three months sick leave should be with full pay - and allowances.” “Of course. What a magnificent job all of you did for your company, risking your lives - you should all get a well-deserved bonus! I wonder why more of you don’t have heart attacks. The two months is to recuperate, JeanLuc - it’s essential you have a careful checkup before you continue flying.” JeanLuc was perplexed. “We can all expect heart attacks?” “Oh, no, no, not at all.” Lanoire smiled. “But it would be very wise to be checked thoroughly - just in case. You know angina’s caused by a sudden blockage of blood? A stroke’s when the same happens to the brain. Arteries get clogged and that’s it! Insha’Allah. It can happen anytime.” “It can?” JeanLuc’s discomfort increased. Piece of shit! It’d just be my luck to have a heart attack.
“Oh, yes,” the doctor continued helpfully. “I’ve known patients in their thirties and early forties with perfectly normal blood pressure, normal cholesterol, and normal EKGs - electrocardiograms-and poof!” He parodied with his hands expressively. “Within a few hours - poof!” “Poof! Just like that?” JeanLuc sat down uneasily.
“I can’t fly but I would imagine flying creates a lot of stress, especially somewhere like the North Sea. And stress is perhaps the biggest cause of angina, when part of the heart dies an - ”
“My God, old Mac’s heart died?” JeanLuc was shocked.
“Oh, no, just a part. Every time you have an attack of angina, however mild, a part’s lost forever. Dead.” Dr. Lanoire smiled. “Of course you can go on quite a long time before you run out of tissue.”
Mon Dieu, JeanLuc thought squeamishly. I don’t like this at all. North Sea? Bucket of shit, I’d better apply for a transfer before I even go there! “How long will Mac be in the hospital?”
“Four or five days. I would suggest you leave him today and visit tomorrow, but don’t tax him. He must have a month’s leave, then some further tests.” “What are his chances?”
“That’s up to God.”
Upstairs on the veranda of a pleasant room overlooking the blue waters, Genny was dozing in a chair, today’s London Times, brought by BA’s early flight, open on her lap. McIver lay comfortably in the starched clean bed. The breeze came off the sea and touched him and he woke up. Wind’s changed, he thought. It’s back to the standard northeasterly. Good. He moved to see better out into the Gulf. The slight movement awakened her instantly. She folded the paper and got up. “How’re you feeling, luv?”
“Fine. I’m fine now. No pain. Just a bit tired. Vaguely heard you talking to the doc, what did he say?”
“Everything seems fine. The attack wasn’t bad. You’ll have to take it easy for a few days, then a month off and then some more tests - he was very encouraging because you don’t smoke, you’re ever so fit, considering.” Genny stood over the bed, against the light, but he could see her face and read the truth thereon. “You can’t fly anymore - as a pilot,” she said and smiled.
“That’s a bugger,” he said dryly. “Have you been in touch with Andy?” “Yes. I called last night and this morning and will check again in an hour or so. Nothing yet on young Marc Dubois and Fowler but all our birds are safe at Al Shargaz and being stripped for freighting out tomorrow. Andy was so proud of you - and Scrag. I talked to him this morning too.” The shadow of a smile. “It’ll be good to see old Scrag. You’re okay?” “Oh, yes.” She touched his shoulder. “I’m ever so glad you’re better - you did give me a turn.”
“I gave me a turn, Gen.” He smiled and held out his hand and said gruffly, “Thanks, Mrs. McIver.”
She took it and put it to her cheek, then bent down and touched his lips with hers, warmed by the enormity of the affection in his face. “You did give me such a turn,” she said again. He noticed the newspaper. “That’s today’s, Gen?” “Yes, dear.”
“Seems years since I saw one. What’s new?” “More of the usual.” She folded the paper and put it aside carelessly, not wanting him to see the section she had been reading in case it worried him. “Stock market collapse in Hong Kong.” That’ll certainly affect Struan’s and that bastard Linbar, she thought, but will it touch S-G and Andy? Nothing Duncan can do, so never mind. “Strikes, Callaghan’s messing up poor old Britain more than ever. They say
