‘The Ruler has a very select taste,’ Pol went on. ‘And as I told you, he has already met Sarah and was impressed.’
‘What you mean is, he’d like to sleep with her?’ Packer scowled.
‘That is what was indicated.’
‘To whom?’
Pol took a sip of champagne. ‘His Imperial Highness confided in his close associate, Monsieur Shiva Steiner.’
‘How very touching.’
There was a pause. ‘Do you have any further questions, Capitaine Packer?’ Pol said at last. ‘Of a less personal nature?’
‘Yes. How did you get involved with Steiner and Zak?’
Pol slid off the bed and waddled over to the window, where he poured more champagne for Sarah. ‘Ah, mon cher!’ he cooed over his shoulder, ‘that is an indiscreet question, and it would require an indiscreet answer.’
Packer nodded. ‘So the final show was always planned to be played over in Mamounia — with Sarah in the star role, and me just walking on in the last act carrying a spear? It was just a matter of talking Sarah into it — convincing her that you’d got a back-up plan to rescue her. It doesn’t matter if it’s a good plan or a bad plan or a hopeless plan — just as long as she’s convinced.’ He gave her a tired smile. ‘Are you convinced, Sarah?’
She was looking at Pol, like a novice seeking spiritual guidance, but Pol did not respond; he just stood, grinning impishly, and said nothing.
‘That was why you chose me in the first place — even before Amsterdam?’ Packer went on. ‘I was to be your trained gun-hand and strategist. But it was Sarah you were really after, wasn’t it?’
‘Is this true, Charles?’ she asked, in a low tight voice.
Pol simpered over his champagne. ‘Our friend simplifies everything, ma petite. He is so very suspicious. And it is too late now to start distrusting each other.’
Packer said, ‘All right, Charles. Get out your cheque book and your gold pen. And make the first cheque out to Mademoiselle Laval-Smith.’
‘Owen, I feel cold. Is it cold in here?’
‘No. They’ve got the central heating on.’
‘That sounds funny — central heating in the Lebanon! And it’s nearly May.’
‘It gets cold up in the mountains at night. Like the desert.’
‘Yes.’ She gave a quick shudder and her teeth chattered. ‘Owen —’ she reached out with both hands, in a stiff theatrical gesture — ‘come here.’ Her eyes were large and bright with fear. He walked over to the bed where she was sitting, and stopped just beyond her reach.
They had gone back to her bedroom, at her request. Pol had disappeared — hopefully, Packer thought, on his mission to Beirut’s Central Post Office — and they were waiting for dinner which Pol had explained would be served in their rooms. It was now dark beyond the drawn curtains.
‘Owen, I’m frightened.’ She seized his wrist. Her fingers were very cold, and he allowed her to pull him up against the bed, but did not sit down beside her. ‘I need you, Owen. I’m all alone.’ Her other hand reached out and began to pull him down towards her.
‘You need me, Sarah. But it’s not because you’re alone. It’s because you think I’m the only one you can trust. The trouble is, you’re too bloody right!’
She began to cry. He touched her shoulders, and she grabbed at him with both hands, her whole body shaking against him. ‘I’m frightened, I’m frightened!’ she moaned, between quick heaving sobs, and he could feel her tears trickling over the back of his hand.
‘It’s all right,’ he whispered, and they sat on the bed, rocking gently against each other; then suddenly she stiffened, pulled the shawl off her shoulders, and fell back on to the pillows, kicking off her shoes and wriggling her toes between his thighs.
He undressed her quickly, more from habit than from skill, turning her over to unhook her skirt, breathing calmly now, with her face turned away from him, as he pulled her bra from under her and peeled off her pants. He paused, looking down at her, and a giddiness swept over him.
He felt sick and the floor seemed to be moving, rising up to meet him, while the whole room had turned red, the walls expanding and contracting like a pair of lungs. He closed his eyes, and the darkness was full of ugly swirling patterns, with Sarah still on the bed, lying on her belly with her legs parted and her whole body bathed obscenely in red. He blinked and looked away, but her body was still there, still red, but horribly distorted. Things were happening to it — strange, vile, unspeakable things that were the product of disordered imaginations, fed on centuries of cruel desert lore.
He switched off the bedside light and lay down beside her, and her hands closed round him, her fingers sliding across his body like scales in the dark. He started to say something, but she choked the words off with her tongue, letting out a long hiss of breath as he went into her, and he felt her tremble and contract with a steady rhythmic frenzy which he had never known before. It was over very quickly and simultaneously. For several seconds he lay sprawled across her, drained and dizzy. In the quiet of the room he could still hear the sharp cry she had given when she came; and he felt another rush of sickness as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to banish that horrible red image on the bed.
He pulled away from her, and she gave a little gasp. ‘Owen, what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all — except that either you, or I, or both of us, is going to be killed in the next few days.
