The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [83]
“Nobody who’s read a lick of history would ever trust the French.”
“I agree. But it’s not only the French. They’ve proposed a coalition—France, Russia, and a handful of other countries to be named later. A coalition is an attractive concept to the Arab leadership. It’s much easier to treat with a superior force if you can potentially play the members of that force off against one another.”
“And the quid pro quo?”
“Overtly? What you’d expect. A switch of primary reserve currency to the euro, munitions deals, preferential allocation of infrastructure contracts, and so forth. Covertly—”
“Control of the oil when it runs short. Exactly what Simpson wants.”
“Precisely. But the French will be well mannered enough not to mention it.”
“And they think America is just going to let this happen?”
“Your people are still pinned down in Afghanistan and Iraq, and your regional popularity has never been lower. What’s your kinder, gentler Democratic president going to do when the Saudis and the Kuwaitis politely ask your forces to leave—declare war on the rest of the Arabian Peninsula? By the time America starts getting squeezed for energy, the French and their partners will be entrenched on the ground and have control of the oil fields locked up.”
It was a disaster in the making for the United States. Right at that moment, though, I had other concerns.
“I hate to keep pushing the same question, Rashid, but did the French minister give any indication at all of how he obtained the transcript?”
“I can ask Riyadh. Why are you so interested?”
“It’s a long, strange story, and before I tell it, I want to ask you something else. Were you acquainted with a man named Carlos Munoz?”
“The Venezuelan who was murdered a few years back,” he said, toying with his beard again. “We’d met.”
I heard a hushed conversation behind me and turned to see the bodyguard conferring with a uniformed hotel employee. The bodyguard took a cordless phone from the employee and approached our table.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, offering the phone to Rashid. “A call from your office in Vienna. They say it’s urgent.”
“Forgive me a moment,” Rashid said, accepting the phone and raising it to his ear. “Hello? Hello?”
I leaned toward the table to pour myself a cup of coffee. A hammer blow knocked me backward out of my chair. I was on the floor, lying beneath something heavy. The air was filled with smoke. I tried to get up, but the room began spinning, and I spiraled down into darkness.
28
A sharp, persistent noise summoned me back to consciousness. I opened my eyes and saw an ebony hand inches from my face.
“Come on,” a voice said, as the fingers snapped again. “Wake up.”
“I’m awake,” I mumbled. “Where am I?”
“You tell me.”
I was flat on my back and couldn’t seem to turn my head. The ceiling was acoustical tile, and my view to either side was blocked by pale green curtains. I half recalled people lifting me, and asking me questions, and a siren.
“Hospital?”
“Right. Saint Luke’s.” The speaker moved into my field of view. He was a young black man wearing a white medical coat. He flipped on a penlight and shined it into my eyes. “You remember where you were before here?”
“Four Seasons Hotel.”
“Good. Follow the light with your eyes. What’s three times four?”
“Twelve. Why can’t I move my head?”
“It’s immobilized. I’m going to manipulate your arms and legs. You tell me if anything hurts.”
He worked his way professionally from limb to limb, tapping my reflexes and bending my joints. Everything hurt, but not enough to deter him.
“You’re a lucky guy,” he said, when he was done. “You’re basically fine, except for a mild concussion and a nasty piece of shrapnel in your forehead. You had a tetanus shot recently?”
“I’m not sure. What do you mean ‘shrapnel’?”
“From the blast that knocked you out.”
“What blast?”
“At the hotel. I don’t know anything more about it.”
He unstrapped whatever had been imprisoning my head and helped me sit up.