The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [81]
Lobby seating at the Four Seasons is on two low balconies flanking the somber central chamber. I climbed a flight of stairs and checked the western balcony first. I was retracing my steps when I glanced to my right. A man exiting the hotel through the revolving door looked back over his shoulder at me. I noticed a scar, or some other type of disfigurement, running from his mouth to his ear. I’d seen him somewhere else recently, but I couldn’t place him.
“Mr. Wallace.”
I shifted my gaze up, spotting the bodyguard who’d admitted me to Rashid’s suite the other day. He was standing in the middle of the eastern balcony, leaning over the rail and beckoning to me.
“This way, please,” he called.
I climbed the matching stairs on the opposite side of the lobby and saw Rashid at a table set for two in the far corner. The bodyguard took my coat and then escorted me toward him, whispering out of the side of his mouth.
“He was up all night on the phone. His doctors are very unhappy. Try to be as brief as possible, please.”
I hadn’t thought Rashid could look worse, but he did. His previous pallor had taken on a yellowish tinge, and his features seemed to have sunk, as if he were a balloon with a slow leak. I took his hand delicately, afraid of hurting him. The suspicions I’d had on the way over seemed absurd in his presence. Rashid was a friend.
“As-Salāmu ‘Alaykum,” he said hoarsely. Peace be upon you.
“Wa ‘Alaykum As-Salām.” And on you be peace.
“You’ll have something to eat or drink?” he asked, gesturing toward the pastries and coffee on the table.
“Nothing, thank you.”
He scratched his neck with the backs of his nails and sighed.
“Courtesy obliges me to insist, but then I’d have to take a bite of something myself, to shame you. And I can’t bear the thought of eating just now. My sense of taste has entirely gone—a side effect of the drugs. Every meal is like working my way through a plate full of cardboard.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s my own fault, for being seduced by Western medicine. My people have a saying: There comes a time for every old man to ride his donkey into the desert.” He walked his hand across the table and let it fall off the edge. “It’s a different mentality.”
Even in my agitated state, it hurt to see him so low.
“Old people here ride the Amtrak to Florida. That’s kind of the same thing.”
He laughed, as I’d hoped he would.
“Imagine me in Miami Beach.” He lifted his water glass, pretending to make a toast. “Next year in Jerusalem.”
I forced a return smile.
“That’s always a popular line at OPEC meetings,” he confided. “Delivered with and without irony.”
“Listen, Rashid,” I said, leaning toward him. “I have something very important that I need to ask you about.”
“Excellent,” he said, setting the glass down and crossing his legs. “Tit for tat, as ever between us. But I believe the possession arrow is in my quiver.”
“Sorry?”
“Did I say it wrong?” he asked, sounding abashed. “I’ve been watching American basketball in the evenings, when I have difficulty sleeping.”
“It’s more of a pointer,” I said, catching his drift. “There aren’t any quivers involved.”
He stroked his beard, looking put out.
“As you prefer. I have some preliminary reactions to your Saudi information, but before we get to that, I’d like to discuss the luncheon you attended with Senator Simpson.”
I felt a sudden chill. I hadn’t mentioned my meeting with the senator to him.
“Who told you I had lunch with Simpson?”
He shrugged.
“We exchange information, Mark, not sources.”
“Not today,” I said, struggling to keep my voice light. I felt irrationally