Zeno stopped cold. Unwillingly, he heard Martina's nagging voice. The warning flags went up as he cautiously responded. "OK, but before you start, tell me why you feel comfortable talking to me about these concerns -after all I'm a total stranger to you." He was all business, the evening forgotten.
He was surprised he'd said that. He wondered if it was a delayed reaction, if Martina's influence was greater than he'd thought. He felt deeply resentful about this state of affairs. Martina was taking too much space in his life, almost bossing him around like an Italian mother.
Noticing Zeno's reticence, Irina thought, “This man's either playing dumb or he's extremely intelligent”. How could he ask such a question at this point? He knew it would force Irina to admit either she was trusting a stranger -which would be a sign of weakness from her part- or she, for some reason, was considering this man in front of her as a confidant, which could lead to another hypothesis. Suddenly she felt as if he'd put her in a sort of lose-lose situation she didn't like at all. Actually, she decided defensively, she didn't want to know if he was stupid or intelligent, or simply trying to corner her. She just wanted to know this man better, and without judging him too quickly, she thought he might be able to help her. She chose to evade the question.
"Well,..." she said gratuitously without meaning to offend him, "I know I'm talking to a professional who works in many countries. Let's just say I'm seeking your professional advice. I'm in a bit of a quandary. The equipment I was going to deliver to the Omani government has disappeared between Dubai and here. See, the container necessary for the shipment was too large to pass under the gates of the town....so it had to be unloaded in Dubai"
Zeno, of course, couldn't chase Martina's voice from his head. Over and over he heard her telling him that Irina would not easily have accepted his invitation if it was not for some other reason other than the pleasure of his company. Her prescience annoyed him. His dream of seduction was shattered by both these women -one, by predicting an imminent disappointment -and the other by actually causing the disappointment. This date was quickly evolving into a catastrophe. He managed to conceal his feelings.
"Yes, I know, I've been told the story of the narrow gates...."
"Right. So, my equipment was shipped to Dubai."
"Excuse me Irina, from where?"
"Well, originally let's say from North America, but please don't ask for more details. The Omani are quite neurotic about confidentiality in international trading. From Dubai, I had the equipment transported by truck to Oman, final destination, Muscat, for official delivery."
"What kind of equipment? Is this stuff very expensive? Were you insured?" Zeno fired the questions like a machine gun, not giving her time to stop him before he finished, hoping to catch her off guard.
"Please don't ask any questions!" ordered Irina imperiously, only slightly raising her voice. Though he guessed she was on the verge of getting angry with him, Zeno could not resist the temptation of probing deeper. After all, being curious was part of his training as a consultant, beside he now felt he had nothing to lose.
"You know, I'm really starting to wonder why you are telling me all this, Irina. After all, how do you expect me to give you professional advice if you are withholding even the most basic information?"
"Well. Let's just say maybe I need someone to listen to me objectively, someone from a totally different field, someone who doesn't represent a potential threat to me."
Now he felt like he'd taken a blow to his chest. This beautiful woman in front of him was not even considering him for his charm, but only for his objectivity. She needed a sounding board? He was totally disgusted. With the touch of masochism that characterizes some Italian men, he probed again, this time allowing a bit of sarcasm to escape with the question.
"You mean someone like a friend?"
Irina stiffened. "Call it friendship if you will, but don't think I'm getting romantic or soft. Friends are a fiction, they don't exist, at least not in this world. The Japanese say business is war, therefore business people are warriors, and, as you may know, warriors are lonely people. They cannot afford to have friends. They must rely exclusively on their own inner strength."
Zeno became increasingly disturbed by the direction of their conversation. He started attacking the subject, trying to hide how sensitive he felt.
"Wow... listen... the world you depict is a little too harsh for me. I'm also in business, in a cut-throat competitive environment, but I think you're exaggerating. I have friends, people on whom I can count. And I know I can rely on my group of colleagues and associates to overcome any difficulties."
"Oh, Zeno, I don't want to upset you." Zeno wondered if she realized she'd done that already. "But you certainly have a boy-scout sense of reality. If your way has worked up to now, let me tell you, it's probably because you have remained in a sheltered circle, that you've not yet crossed the path of real business-warriors. The day you do, you'll agree with me -and I hope for your sake- you'll react quickly enough to limit the damage to you and your organization." The put down was a little much for Zeno. Who did she think she was talking to? Was his destiny to cross path with women like Martina?
"Fine Irina, let's change the subject. I believe there's no way to continue this conversation, clearly you and I are living on two different planets."
Zeno stopped there, almost regretting his rush of adrenaline and wondering if his initial interest and attraction to Irina would not end right here and now because of the deep division in their perceptions. After all, his first marriage had eroded for those very reasons. He felt confused, and wondered why he was reacting so angrily. The woman had actually done nothing wrong to him. True, his ego had taken a beating with a few involuntary blows, but there was really nothing to reproach her for. However, he felt justifiably angry at Martina. She'd been the one to seed all that crap in his head.
Irina, reflective for a moment, brightened and looked into Zeno's eyes. "Yes, let's change the subject. Waiter...bring us a bottle of Moët Chandon, 1985...if you still have some...and tell the chef to bring the box of Iranian caviar I had delivered this afternoon."
Zeno laughed.
"You know Irina, I love caviar, but there is probably nothing as badly contaminated as caviar nowadays. The Caspian Sea basically has become a cesspool, full of heavy metals and organics. It's amazing there are some fish still able to survive in it."
"Sure, sure. Don't waste my caviar, please. It tastes great, and anyway, one has to die of something, so I prefer poisoning myself with caviar in this place rather than dying of air pollution on a freezing morning in Budapest."
"Budapest? Why Budapest of all places?"
"Oh, it just came to mind. I was there last winter and I thought I would die!"
Swallowing the first spoonful of silvery pearls, Zeno observed that Irina had decidedly good taste, was well-organized -very well-organized -and she left little to chance. Although feeling a little wounded, Zeno remained fascinated by her, and after two glasses of champagne and a few more spoons of caviar, he completely forgot the world of business wars Irina had described.
Totally relaxed, he enjoyed the rest of the evening, resigned to the fact that he would probably never see this splendid female again .
November 2nd, Hotel Al Bustan, Muscat, Oman, Zeno and Irina tell their story, No 25
"Well, my father was Italian, my mother is Tatarian, and I was born in the States."
"Are you kidding me?" interjected Irina with a laugh, and continued without allowing Zeno the time to answer, "You may find it hard to believe this, but I'm also half Tatarian! I'm the daughter of a Russian man and a Tatarian woman. Who would've thought that you and I could share some genetic origins...maybe we're cousins.” Her smile was bewitching -Zeno wondered if she was making up the story, toying with him, but she continued, the spontaneity in her voice revealing a certain sincerity.
“Like most of the Tatars, my mother's family escaped from central Russia during the 1916 revolution. They had been land owners, and since that was politically unpopular, they were forced to flee a few thousand kilometers east during the winter," Irina flashed with one of her unbelievable smiles.
Zeno was flabbergasted by the sudden realization they had so much in common. Her spontaneity enthused him and as he resumed his story, he began looking forward to what seemed to be developing into a wonderful evening of mutual discovery.
"My father -his name was Alberto- was a strange guy. As a young man he fought in Korea as a GI. There he met and fell in love with a beautiful Tatarian woman, Aicha -my mother.” Zeno's face clouded slightly. He looked at his hands, aware that his narrative seemed to falter. “Later in his life, he was implicated in a number of, shall we say, adventures which had strong repercussions in our family's life. I learned these stories when I was old enough to read and understand some papers I found in my parent's home..."
"Our genetic roots are not the only similarities”, Irina interrupted. “It looks like our parents shared adventurous lifestyles. Don't ask me how or when, but my parents ended up in India. My mother never wanted to talk about that period. My father died mysteriously in Bombay, when I was very little -I actually have no recollection of him at all. I was brought up in India and in the US. I went to the States with my mother when I was just a teenager. Did you know that there's a large Tatarian colony in the Bay Area? Some cousins offered to help get us there...and..."
"Oh, right...I know what you mean when you say “some cousins”, believe me!" interjected Zeno. "Did you go to school there?"
Irina nodded and continued. "mmm-hmm, I finished high school there, then did a BSc in mathematics at UCLA. My mother died just before my graduation. After that, I went to University of Arizona for an MSc. in mechanical engineering, and finally I got an MBA at the University of San Francisco." Irina recalled those nearly forgotten days, and how she had paid for all her studies by herself, mainly dealing blackjack in Carson City and Reno, and once in a while in Lake Tahoe. Few people in her life knew these details.
"You know, this is really a crazy set of coincidences. I probably should introduce you to my business partner." Zeno put the emphasis on the word business. "She also shares our eastern Asiatic origins."
Irina's beautiful face froze for a fraction of a second, and in her eyes flashed emerald darts. She doesn't like competition, he thought, not even potential competition. She's the ultimate prima-donna, a queen. Zeno decided to take this into account and avoid stupid mistakes if he wanted to see her again. He quickly resumed the tactically safe position of continuing his family story.
"Anyway..., my mother was the daughter of a very large and multi-faceted family whose cousins were forced to emigrate during the Sino-Japanese conflict. Some went to China, some to Turkey, and some were raised under Japanese rule in Korea and stayed there until the Korean war. Dad told her he would fetch and marry her at the end of the war -and he kept his promise. My older brother Carlo and I were born some years later. I was partially brought up in Italy, after Dad had to leave the US after of some of his deals...um...deals turned sour. When I was eighteen years old I was sent to Switzerland as a student in the EPFL, the Federal Technical University . At the time Italian universities were plagued by permanent strikes and political problems."
"So, you did your studies in Switzerland -Zürich or Lausanne?"
"Oh, you know Switzerland?"
"Well of course. I often have business there... particularly in Lausanne."
"That's amazing," Zeno said, starting to wonder if the splendid female in front of him was not simply trying to find as many coincidences as possible in order to gain his confidence in as short a time as she could. Dismissing the thought, he continued his story, omitting that Lausanne was his European residence.
"When my dad died, my mother stayed in Turin, where she still lives. During my studies, and after learning about the real nature of Dad's profession, I began to drift away from my mother, though I still kept very close to my brother Carlo. It was probably one of the worst periods of my life. That's when I met and married what I refer to as “mon erreur de jeunesse”, my 'youth mistake'. We had three children and finally I divorced her before going totally insane."
Irina had her own experience with Swiss women each time she visited that country. She tried to suppress a smile at the idea of Zeno's “erreur de jeunesse”. She had heard men talk about their ex-wives as bitches and other ugly names, but never as 'youth mistakes'. Somehow, it meant something different. Was this man taking some responsibility, not blaming it all on the woman? Interesting.
Subconsciously she envisioned a comedy with Zeno and his Heidi fighting over a chocolate bar...the stereotype popped into her mind every time she talked about or traveled to Switzerland. Smiling inwardly, she asked, "And where is your family?"
"My nineteen-year-old son, Charles, is studying fishery in Canada, and the two younger ones, John and Mathilda, who live in Switzerland with their mother when I'm not there."
"And where do you live, Zeno?"
“Here we go”, Zeno thought, “now she is going to hit me with another of her coincidences and she expects me to fall for it.”
"I live in an old country house I'm restoring, on the outskirts of Lausanne."
Contrary to Zeno's expectations she didn't blink an eye. She's really good, he thought. A perfect manipulator, yet, he felt more and more attracted to her. He went for a little self promotion. "As you may have noticed at the conference, I'm the principal engineer of Earth System Research. ESR is an international firm with offices in Europe, the US, Canada, South America, the Middle East, and Taiwan. We're consultants and risk managers in the field of environmental earth sciences and underground engineering."
"Oh yes, I've heard of ESR, I'm impressed. I gather your work consists of visiting all your offices, troubleshooting hot situations. That's why I knew you wouldn't be as boring as the average engineer."
"Well, you didn't really think you were taking a chance, because if you did you wouldn't have accepted my invitation."
Irina seemed pleased by the witty exchange and asked. "And what about your projects in the Middle East. Could you explain exactly what you're doing here?"
A waiter arrived and Zeno paused to order a white wine, opting for a flowery Australian Chardonnay, an easy wine that would not displease even a non-cultivated palate, he thought. Then he launched into his standard pitch about the project.
"Certainly, but let me make a long story very short," he smiled, "I don't want you to change your mind about me not being boring." He settled into an explanation he'd given so many times before. "Oil fields are the places where wells are bored into the earth to extract oil from natural reservoirs. The oil is never alone, but comes with water -generally salty or brackish water extracted with the oil, and it's loaded with pollutants. Oil companies want to dehydrate the oil, that is, to separate the oil from the water. The oil industry considers the water an unpleasant secondary product to be disposed of as quickly as possible. Generally this can be done using quite simple and primitive techniques. Now, on the one hand there are methods to dispose of this water where it originates, that is, in the oil rock reservoir or at a similar depth, but on the other hand these methods are not always applicable, and sometimes implementing them is very expensive. We were asked by our clients to find alternative beneficial uses of this waste water, and to study the applicability of disposing of large amounts of water in regions where there's lots of space, but few inhabitants."
"And what have you found?"
"Well, after examining many different possibilities, including turning it into drinking water by sophisticated clean-up techniques -or using it to grow aquatic plants, bugs, fish, or making industrial quality water, growing algae and so on -we have determined the most viable strategy would be to develop agricultural farming with some very select species of plants and an even more select range of derivative products. Food for humans and feed or fodder for livestock would be avoided, in order to minimize risks about the accumulation of toxic metals in the organic tissue of the vegetable"
"But how many people work on this project and what kind of expertise do they have?" asked Irina.
"Actually, the project team is made of ESR experts working in Switzerland, Vancouver and San Francisco. It's a rather small team -fifteen people altogether. Engineers, hydro-geologists, pedologists, biologists and one oceanographer- each one staking out his or her parcel of truth, along with your humble servant here, trying to make sense out of all these experts for our clients. My command of several languages sure helps and organizing a transcultural team to work on such a project is a very interesting challenge. It brings together people with different backgrounds and different sensibilities, allowing us to deliver a perfectly balanced product to the client. Not too much technology, not too little. Not too much humanism, not too little."
Irina nodded with the look of somebody who understands all the intricacies and the subtleties of a complicated synergy. He noticed how she'd been unfazed by his technical descriptions seemingly absorbing features of his specialized language.
The waiter brought the wine, and served it to Zeno, without allowing him to taste it first. Irina and Zeno shared smiles at his ineptness, and toasted each other.
Zeno watched as Irina turned a sip of the Australian Chardonnay in her mouth, slowly moving her jaw forward and back to allow the wine to touch all the delicate taste buds on her tongue. She concentrated, closing her eyes, apparently forgetting about the conversation. Zeno stared at her, surprised and aroused by the evocative movements of Irina's mouth.
She broke the crystalline silence and said, "A little edgy, too forced on the flowery side, too easy. This wine is definitely good for non-experienced, unsophisticated markets. I hope you did not order this to please me!" she teased.
Before Zeno was able to resume breathing she continued the conversation.
"I'm working for the Omani government. -actually I'm selling them some equipment- but there is another reason for me to be in Oman. I have organized an export business of Persian carpets from Iran."
"But their export is..." Zeno tried to interject, but she cut him off by raising a perfectly manicured finger to her lips.
"Don't worry, borders and rules are made to be broken. Iran is only fifty miles away -right in front of this beach -and it gets even closer west of Muscat," she said gesturing northwest with an elegant sweep of her long fingers, jangling the dozens of gold bangles covering her slender wrist. She was a real manipulator, Zeno thought. Iranians probably hated to deal with a woman, especially a woman like this. They probably dumped in their pants when she ordered them around. The topic dropped, they sipped their “too easy” Chardonnay.
"And now we are acquainted," said Irina leaning closer to him, her voice becoming confidential, "let me tell you about my immediate concerns."
"Are you kidding me?" interjected Irina with a laugh, and continued without allowing Zeno the time to answer, "You may find it hard to believe this, but I'm also half Tatarian! I'm the daughter of a Russian man and a Tatarian woman. Who would've thought that you and I could share some genetic origins...maybe we're cousins.” Her smile was bewitching -Zeno wondered if she was making up the story, toying with him, but she continued, the spontaneity in her voice revealing a certain sincerity.
“Like most of the Tatars, my mother's family escaped from central Russia during the 1916 revolution. They had been land owners, and since that was politically unpopular, they were forced to flee a few thousand kilometers east during the winter," Irina flashed with one of her unbelievable smiles.
Zeno was flabbergasted by the sudden realization they had so much in common. Her spontaneity enthused him and as he resumed his story, he began looking forward to what seemed to be developing into a wonderful evening of mutual discovery.
"My father -his name was Alberto- was a strange guy. As a young man he fought in Korea as a GI. There he met and fell in love with a beautiful Tatarian woman, Aicha -my mother.” Zeno's face clouded slightly. He looked at his hands, aware that his narrative seemed to falter. “Later in his life, he was implicated in a number of, shall we say, adventures which had strong repercussions in our family's life. I learned these stories when I was old enough to read and understand some papers I found in my parent's home..."
"Our genetic roots are not the only similarities”, Irina interrupted. “It looks like our parents shared adventurous lifestyles. Don't ask me how or when, but my parents ended up in India. My mother never wanted to talk about that period. My father died mysteriously in Bombay, when I was very little -I actually have no recollection of him at all. I was brought up in India and in the US. I went to the States with my mother when I was just a teenager. Did you know that there's a large Tatarian colony in the Bay Area? Some cousins offered to help get us there...and..."
"Oh, right...I know what you mean when you say “some cousins”, believe me!" interjected Zeno. "Did you go to school there?"
Irina nodded and continued. "mmm-hmm, I finished high school there, then did a BSc in mathematics at UCLA. My mother died just before my graduation. After that, I went to University of Arizona for an MSc. in mechanical engineering, and finally I got an MBA at the University of San Francisco." Irina recalled those nearly forgotten days, and how she had paid for all her studies by herself, mainly dealing blackjack in Carson City and Reno, and once in a while in Lake Tahoe. Few people in her life knew these details.
"You know, this is really a crazy set of coincidences. I probably should introduce you to my business partner." Zeno put the emphasis on the word business. "She also shares our eastern Asiatic origins."
Irina's beautiful face froze for a fraction of a second, and in her eyes flashed emerald darts. She doesn't like competition, he thought, not even potential competition. She's the ultimate prima-donna, a queen. Zeno decided to take this into account and avoid stupid mistakes if he wanted to see her again. He quickly resumed the tactically safe position of continuing his family story.
"Anyway..., my mother was the daughter of a very large and multi-faceted family whose cousins were forced to emigrate during the Sino-Japanese conflict. Some went to China, some to Turkey, and some were raised under Japanese rule in Korea and stayed there until the Korean war. Dad told her he would fetch and marry her at the end of the war -and he kept his promise. My older brother Carlo and I were born some years later. I was partially brought up in Italy, after Dad had to leave the US after of some of his deals...um...deals turned sour. When I was eighteen years old I was sent to Switzerland as a student in the EPFL, the Federal Technical University . At the time Italian universities were plagued by permanent strikes and political problems."
"So, you did your studies in Switzerland -Zürich or Lausanne?"
"Oh, you know Switzerland?"
"Well of course. I often have business there... particularly in Lausanne."
"That's amazing," Zeno said, starting to wonder if the splendid female in front of him was not simply trying to find as many coincidences as possible in order to gain his confidence in as short a time as she could. Dismissing the thought, he continued his story, omitting that Lausanne was his European residence.
"When my dad died, my mother stayed in Turin, where she still lives. During my studies, and after learning about the real nature of Dad's profession, I began to drift away from my mother, though I still kept very close to my brother Carlo. It was probably one of the worst periods of my life. That's when I met and married what I refer to as “mon erreur de jeunesse”, my 'youth mistake'. We had three children and finally I divorced her before going totally insane."
Irina had her own experience with Swiss women each time she visited that country. She tried to suppress a smile at the idea of Zeno's “erreur de jeunesse”. She had heard men talk about their ex-wives as bitches and other ugly names, but never as 'youth mistakes'. Somehow, it meant something different. Was this man taking some responsibility, not blaming it all on the woman? Interesting.
Subconsciously she envisioned a comedy with Zeno and his Heidi fighting over a chocolate bar...the stereotype popped into her mind every time she talked about or traveled to Switzerland. Smiling inwardly, she asked, "And where is your family?"
"My nineteen-year-old son, Charles, is studying fishery in Canada, and the two younger ones, John and Mathilda, who live in Switzerland with their mother when I'm not there."
"And where do you live, Zeno?"
“Here we go”, Zeno thought, “now she is going to hit me with another of her coincidences and she expects me to fall for it.”
"I live in an old country house I'm restoring, on the outskirts of Lausanne."
Contrary to Zeno's expectations she didn't blink an eye. She's really good, he thought. A perfect manipulator, yet, he felt more and more attracted to her. He went for a little self promotion. "As you may have noticed at the conference, I'm the principal engineer of Earth System Research. ESR is an international firm with offices in Europe, the US, Canada, South America, the Middle East, and Taiwan. We're consultants and risk managers in the field of environmental earth sciences and underground engineering."
"Oh yes, I've heard of ESR, I'm impressed. I gather your work consists of visiting all your offices, troubleshooting hot situations. That's why I knew you wouldn't be as boring as the average engineer."
"Well, you didn't really think you were taking a chance, because if you did you wouldn't have accepted my invitation."
Irina seemed pleased by the witty exchange and asked. "And what about your projects in the Middle East. Could you explain exactly what you're doing here?"
A waiter arrived and Zeno paused to order a white wine, opting for a flowery Australian Chardonnay, an easy wine that would not displease even a non-cultivated palate, he thought. Then he launched into his standard pitch about the project.
"Certainly, but let me make a long story very short," he smiled, "I don't want you to change your mind about me not being boring." He settled into an explanation he'd given so many times before. "Oil fields are the places where wells are bored into the earth to extract oil from natural reservoirs. The oil is never alone, but comes with water -generally salty or brackish water extracted with the oil, and it's loaded with pollutants. Oil companies want to dehydrate the oil, that is, to separate the oil from the water. The oil industry considers the water an unpleasant secondary product to be disposed of as quickly as possible. Generally this can be done using quite simple and primitive techniques. Now, on the one hand there are methods to dispose of this water where it originates, that is, in the oil rock reservoir or at a similar depth, but on the other hand these methods are not always applicable, and sometimes implementing them is very expensive. We were asked by our clients to find alternative beneficial uses of this waste water, and to study the applicability of disposing of large amounts of water in regions where there's lots of space, but few inhabitants."
"And what have you found?"
"Well, after examining many different possibilities, including turning it into drinking water by sophisticated clean-up techniques -or using it to grow aquatic plants, bugs, fish, or making industrial quality water, growing algae and so on -we have determined the most viable strategy would be to develop agricultural farming with some very select species of plants and an even more select range of derivative products. Food for humans and feed or fodder for livestock would be avoided, in order to minimize risks about the accumulation of toxic metals in the organic tissue of the vegetable"
"But how many people work on this project and what kind of expertise do they have?" asked Irina.
"Actually, the project team is made of ESR experts working in Switzerland, Vancouver and San Francisco. It's a rather small team -fifteen people altogether. Engineers, hydro-geologists, pedologists, biologists and one oceanographer- each one staking out his or her parcel of truth, along with your humble servant here, trying to make sense out of all these experts for our clients. My command of several languages sure helps and organizing a transcultural team to work on such a project is a very interesting challenge. It brings together people with different backgrounds and different sensibilities, allowing us to deliver a perfectly balanced product to the client. Not too much technology, not too little. Not too much humanism, not too little."
Irina nodded with the look of somebody who understands all the intricacies and the subtleties of a complicated synergy. He noticed how she'd been unfazed by his technical descriptions seemingly absorbing features of his specialized language.
The waiter brought the wine, and served it to Zeno, without allowing him to taste it first. Irina and Zeno shared smiles at his ineptness, and toasted each other.
Zeno watched as Irina turned a sip of the Australian Chardonnay in her mouth, slowly moving her jaw forward and back to allow the wine to touch all the delicate taste buds on her tongue. She concentrated, closing her eyes, apparently forgetting about the conversation. Zeno stared at her, surprised and aroused by the evocative movements of Irina's mouth.
She broke the crystalline silence and said, "A little edgy, too forced on the flowery side, too easy. This wine is definitely good for non-experienced, unsophisticated markets. I hope you did not order this to please me!" she teased.
Before Zeno was able to resume breathing she continued the conversation.
"I'm working for the Omani government. -actually I'm selling them some equipment- but there is another reason for me to be in Oman. I have organized an export business of Persian carpets from Iran."
"But their export is..." Zeno tried to interject, but she cut him off by raising a perfectly manicured finger to her lips.
"Don't worry, borders and rules are made to be broken. Iran is only fifty miles away -right in front of this beach -and it gets even closer west of Muscat," she said gesturing northwest with an elegant sweep of her long fingers, jangling the dozens of gold bangles covering her slender wrist. She was a real manipulator, Zeno thought. Iranians probably hated to deal with a woman, especially a woman like this. They probably dumped in their pants when she ordered them around. The topic dropped, they sipped their “too easy” Chardonnay.
"And now we are acquainted," said Irina leaning closer to him, her voice becoming confidential, "let me tell you about my immediate concerns."
November 2nd, Hotel Al Bustan, Muscat, Oman, Zeno meets Irina, No 24
Finally, the time came to meet Irina. The lobby of the Al Bustan Palace Hotel replicated the classical magnificence of the best Moorish architecture.
Built in an octagonal shape, the domed lobby recalled the interior of a mosque.
First-time visitors felt their hearts skip a beat as they experienced the jewel-like colors and suffused light of the Al Bustan. Glazed tiles covering the walls in delicious tones of aqua and mint green, delivered a sense of coolness and peace. The tranquility was enhanced by the permanent perfume of frankincense radiated by traditional burners strategically placed in the gigantic open space. In the middle of the floor a monumental marble fountain filled the chamber with the joyful echoes of splashing water -so welcoming in this hot desert country.
As Zeno expected she would, Irina made a prima-donna entrance, walking slowly out of one of the mirrored lifts like a queen entering her court. Resplendent in an elegant silk shalvar camiz, a classic East-Indian dress consisting of a long flowing tunic over slacks gathered at the ankle, she had changed her hairstyle, pulling the luxurious mane toward the back of her head and securing it with an exquisite golden clip. Long and equally impressive ear-rings framed her cheeks, and around her neck she wore a radiant filigree necklace.
Zeno swallowed hard, shocked by the provocative sensuality emanating from Irina. Coming back to reality, he first wondered why in the hell she had picked an Indian dress, it seemed so odd, but he decided, after all, the dress seemed to suit her elegance perfectly. There was not a person, male or female, who did not notice her in the lobby. Entire groups stopped in mid-conversation, a tribute to her beauty as she passed. Zeno and Irina greeted each other formally, so formally, in fact, Zeno felt very clumsy.
"I have reserved a table at the beach front," he said a little awkwardly, "I hope you don't mind."
"Oh how nice..." Irina added breezily, "I love the beach and I know a few people there -good idea!"
They walked slowly down to the restaurant, Zeno offering his arm in classic Italian form.
As Zeno had requested when he made the reservation, they were seated in the first row of tables under the palm trees facing the beach, and they made polite conversation about the fabulous garden setting. Zeno, impatient to get on with the evening, said, "I tried to reach you by telephone this afternoon, but no one at the desk knew you were staying here."
Irina smiled, and replied almost condescendingly, "Of course, they do not register the hosts in the seventh floor private suites."
"Seventh floor? There is no seventh floor in the lifts," said Zeno with a smile of disbelief to hide his confusion.
"You're right, Dr. Santucci, but there is indeed a seventh floor with eight privately owned suites. See -although part of the hotel- these are private suites, staffed with each owner's own trusted personnel, and the access is independent from the lobby."
"But how...?"
"Well, Dr. Santucci, I am not allowed to tell you exactly how one accesses them -that was your question, wasn't it- but let's say it includes using a limo..."
Zeno was flabbergasted.
So it was not a myth.
He remembered hearing the story about the unbelievable suites on the top of the hotel, and how patrons could reach their suites without stepping out of their armored limousine, by using a very special and private "elevator." He decided to drop the subject, afraid he'd look stupid. He didn't even want to know in whose suite she was staying. Was she involved with one of these ultra-wealthy, powerful men? Zeno thought certainly she couldn't be, because she wouldn't have accepted his invitation if she was.
He was just beginning to feel reassured when she broke the uncomfortable pause in the conversation by asking, "So, Dr. Santucci. May I call you Zeno? Tell me all about you!"
"Please -and may I call you Irina... if you don't mind, of course."
She looked at him straight in the eyes, with a calculating, yet tender smile and whispered, "Not at all, go ahead, Zeno, I had a chance to hear people speaking a little bit about you and your organization, and I thought it was fascinating. Tell me all about yourself."
Zeno's internal warning system screamed in his head. Was this a Freudian slip? Who was fascinating? Zeno as a person, or ESR? And for what purpose? He chose to ignore all alarm bells and volunteer some information.
Built in an octagonal shape, the domed lobby recalled the interior of a mosque.
First-time visitors felt their hearts skip a beat as they experienced the jewel-like colors and suffused light of the Al Bustan. Glazed tiles covering the walls in delicious tones of aqua and mint green, delivered a sense of coolness and peace. The tranquility was enhanced by the permanent perfume of frankincense radiated by traditional burners strategically placed in the gigantic open space. In the middle of the floor a monumental marble fountain filled the chamber with the joyful echoes of splashing water -so welcoming in this hot desert country.
As Zeno expected she would, Irina made a prima-donna entrance, walking slowly out of one of the mirrored lifts like a queen entering her court. Resplendent in an elegant silk shalvar camiz, a classic East-Indian dress consisting of a long flowing tunic over slacks gathered at the ankle, she had changed her hairstyle, pulling the luxurious mane toward the back of her head and securing it with an exquisite golden clip. Long and equally impressive ear-rings framed her cheeks, and around her neck she wore a radiant filigree necklace.
Zeno swallowed hard, shocked by the provocative sensuality emanating from Irina. Coming back to reality, he first wondered why in the hell she had picked an Indian dress, it seemed so odd, but he decided, after all, the dress seemed to suit her elegance perfectly. There was not a person, male or female, who did not notice her in the lobby. Entire groups stopped in mid-conversation, a tribute to her beauty as she passed. Zeno and Irina greeted each other formally, so formally, in fact, Zeno felt very clumsy.
"I have reserved a table at the beach front," he said a little awkwardly, "I hope you don't mind."
"Oh how nice..." Irina added breezily, "I love the beach and I know a few people there -good idea!"
They walked slowly down to the restaurant, Zeno offering his arm in classic Italian form.
As Zeno had requested when he made the reservation, they were seated in the first row of tables under the palm trees facing the beach, and they made polite conversation about the fabulous garden setting. Zeno, impatient to get on with the evening, said, "I tried to reach you by telephone this afternoon, but no one at the desk knew you were staying here."
Irina smiled, and replied almost condescendingly, "Of course, they do not register the hosts in the seventh floor private suites."
"Seventh floor? There is no seventh floor in the lifts," said Zeno with a smile of disbelief to hide his confusion.
"You're right, Dr. Santucci, but there is indeed a seventh floor with eight privately owned suites. See -although part of the hotel- these are private suites, staffed with each owner's own trusted personnel, and the access is independent from the lobby."
"But how...?"
"Well, Dr. Santucci, I am not allowed to tell you exactly how one accesses them -that was your question, wasn't it- but let's say it includes using a limo..."
Zeno was flabbergasted.
So it was not a myth.
He remembered hearing the story about the unbelievable suites on the top of the hotel, and how patrons could reach their suites without stepping out of their armored limousine, by using a very special and private "elevator." He decided to drop the subject, afraid he'd look stupid. He didn't even want to know in whose suite she was staying. Was she involved with one of these ultra-wealthy, powerful men? Zeno thought certainly she couldn't be, because she wouldn't have accepted his invitation if she was.
He was just beginning to feel reassured when she broke the uncomfortable pause in the conversation by asking, "So, Dr. Santucci. May I call you Zeno? Tell me all about you!"
"Please -and may I call you Irina... if you don't mind, of course."
She looked at him straight in the eyes, with a calculating, yet tender smile and whispered, "Not at all, go ahead, Zeno, I had a chance to hear people speaking a little bit about you and your organization, and I thought it was fascinating. Tell me all about yourself."
Zeno's internal warning system screamed in his head. Was this a Freudian slip? Who was fascinating? Zeno as a person, or ESR? And for what purpose? He chose to ignore all alarm bells and volunteer some information.
November 2nd, Hotel Al Bustan, Muscat, Oman, Martina gets jealous, No 23
Martina almost choked on the last drops of coffee from the exquisite porcelain cup.
"Zeno, you really surprise me. I know you're a romantic, but I've never known you to be so... attentive, especially with a woman you hardly know." Martina paused, mockingly she pushed out her lower lip, like a pouting child, "...I'm becoming a little jealous."
Zeno looked at her, feigning disbelief.
As she was engaged in a long-term relationship with his brother, he knew indeed very well jealousy was not precisely the issue with Martina. What she was feeling was simply frustration for not possessing everyone and everything around her, no matter what and how.
She didn't leave him a chance to speak.
"To tell you the truth, Zeno, I wonder what prompted her to accept your invitation -just like that. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not trying to say you're not interesting and attractive, but I can't believe a woman like Vassileva doesn't have a hidden agenda. She's the epitome of pragmatism. Last night, our gross Mr. Zandar filled me in on her... She's apparently capable of being rather treacherous."
Zeno felt a stinging in his cheecks. He had detected a similar disapproving look on the men's faces the night before. He wasn't stupid.
"Hmmm... Martina, you're probably right," he sighed, trying not to sound too defensive, "but she really does something to me. You know, I really feel like knowing her better, even if it turns out to be a dead-end. After my divorce in Switzerland, I thought I would never feel anything for a woman again." Too hurt, too scared, he thought, too many other easy ways to be happy without the responsibility of a relationship. "I always thought I had enough love in my life with the kids, but, let me tell you, this lady's gotten to me."
After fumbling with some electronic gadget in her purse which had started beeping, Martina nodded and said as she studied the tiny contraption rather than looking at him, "Yep, that's precisely what you should watch out for. Responding emotionally instead of rationally is not a good idea Zeno, everybody thinks the lady is a real manipulator."
"Come on now -don't push it," replied Zeno a little too fast, betraying his growing annoyance. "You should be the first to admit it -people tell the stories that excite them the most, and there are no better than the stories about business women..."
With a serious expression, Martina leaned forward across the table and whispered, "Zeno, I agree, but please, promise me you'll behave like an adult and not like a ..."
Zeno was not smiling any more.
Stiffly he said, "Look, Martina, we're friends, business partners -and we share lots of things in our lives. As a matter of fact, we even share my brother Carlo. But at this very moment, I'm warning you, you're way out of line here. This is my private life and I intend to keep it that way."
Martina knew she had seriously crossed a very thin boundary that Zeno would defend at any cost. He was keen to keep his private life as far away from their business as possible. Martina decided to take a full step back, and try to undo the damage she had already done.
"Whoa, Zeno, I' m sorry. I didn't think you'd be so touchy about this. I'm really sorry. Let's change the subject."
The reminder of the breakfast was cordial, but strained as they kept to safe topics about the day's agenda.
Martina had decided to take the day off.
Zeno should have done the same for he had trouble concentrating all day. Happily he didn't have anything challenging, only a number of boring meetings with expatriate British engineers working for various Omani ministries.
After hours of useless discussions with a second group of particularly obnoxious technical experts belonging to a newly formed commission, Zeno excused himself.
With the unbridled excitement of a teenager getting ready for a first date, he dressed for the much-anticipated evening. He selected a light silver gray suit, a cool pink Cerruti shirt, and a dark violet Boss tie with olive dots, perfectly matching his silk pochette.
"Zeno, you really surprise me. I know you're a romantic, but I've never known you to be so... attentive, especially with a woman you hardly know." Martina paused, mockingly she pushed out her lower lip, like a pouting child, "...I'm becoming a little jealous."
Zeno looked at her, feigning disbelief.
As she was engaged in a long-term relationship with his brother, he knew indeed very well jealousy was not precisely the issue with Martina. What she was feeling was simply frustration for not possessing everyone and everything around her, no matter what and how.
She didn't leave him a chance to speak.
"To tell you the truth, Zeno, I wonder what prompted her to accept your invitation -just like that. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not trying to say you're not interesting and attractive, but I can't believe a woman like Vassileva doesn't have a hidden agenda. She's the epitome of pragmatism. Last night, our gross Mr. Zandar filled me in on her... She's apparently capable of being rather treacherous."
Zeno felt a stinging in his cheecks. He had detected a similar disapproving look on the men's faces the night before. He wasn't stupid.
"Hmmm... Martina, you're probably right," he sighed, trying not to sound too defensive, "but she really does something to me. You know, I really feel like knowing her better, even if it turns out to be a dead-end. After my divorce in Switzerland, I thought I would never feel anything for a woman again." Too hurt, too scared, he thought, too many other easy ways to be happy without the responsibility of a relationship. "I always thought I had enough love in my life with the kids, but, let me tell you, this lady's gotten to me."
After fumbling with some electronic gadget in her purse which had started beeping, Martina nodded and said as she studied the tiny contraption rather than looking at him, "Yep, that's precisely what you should watch out for. Responding emotionally instead of rationally is not a good idea Zeno, everybody thinks the lady is a real manipulator."
"Come on now -don't push it," replied Zeno a little too fast, betraying his growing annoyance. "You should be the first to admit it -people tell the stories that excite them the most, and there are no better than the stories about business women..."
With a serious expression, Martina leaned forward across the table and whispered, "Zeno, I agree, but please, promise me you'll behave like an adult and not like a ..."
Zeno was not smiling any more.
Stiffly he said, "Look, Martina, we're friends, business partners -and we share lots of things in our lives. As a matter of fact, we even share my brother Carlo. But at this very moment, I'm warning you, you're way out of line here. This is my private life and I intend to keep it that way."
Martina knew she had seriously crossed a very thin boundary that Zeno would defend at any cost. He was keen to keep his private life as far away from their business as possible. Martina decided to take a full step back, and try to undo the damage she had already done.
"Whoa, Zeno, I' m sorry. I didn't think you'd be so touchy about this. I'm really sorry. Let's change the subject."
The reminder of the breakfast was cordial, but strained as they kept to safe topics about the day's agenda.
Martina had decided to take the day off.
Zeno should have done the same for he had trouble concentrating all day. Happily he didn't have anything challenging, only a number of boring meetings with expatriate British engineers working for various Omani ministries.
After hours of useless discussions with a second group of particularly obnoxious technical experts belonging to a newly formed commission, Zeno excused himself.
With the unbridled excitement of a teenager getting ready for a first date, he dressed for the much-anticipated evening. He selected a light silver gray suit, a cool pink Cerruti shirt, and a dark violet Boss tie with olive dots, perfectly matching his silk pochette.
November 2nd, Hotel Al Bustan, Muscat, Oman, No 22
With the efficiency of a drill instructor, Martina woke at seven sharp.
When Zeno finally emerged from his room and joined her for breakfast in the restaurant beside the swimming pool, she was ready to go to the beach.
One of the most luxurious hotels in the world, the Al Bustan, boasted not only an exotic, cooled swimming pool, but a magnificent private beach. The architects employed a concept known as vertical separation to avoid conflicts between patrons of different cultural and religious background. Accessing the swimming pool, gym, and adjacent restaurant two floors beneath the lobby, special elevators took guests directly from their rooms to the lower levels, thus avoiding embarrassing encounters, in particular those between "indecent infidel females" and "decent people." Of course, from the windows above the swimming pool, it was entirely possible to view the array of "indecent infidel females" sunbathing. Proof temptation can be too strong for even the most pious, it was not unusual to glimpse the discrete use of high-powered binoculars from the balconies. Between the pool and the beach, a large palm garden containing multitude of decorative shrubs and multicolored flowers was impeccably and permanently manicured by an army of grounds-keepers.
After serving himself at the buffet, Zeno sat down in front of Martina. Her hair tied in a orchid colored ribbon, the perfect oval of her face suffused with a welcoming smile. Without so much as a "good morning," Zeno launched into the topic preoccupying him.
"I've tried to locate Ms. Vassileva through the concierge," he said in exasperation, "but they maintain they don't have anyone under that name registered here."
"Well, good morning to you too Zeno." said Martina, half amused, half annoyed. "And why is it you wanted to see her?" she asked, surprised by the slight trembling of her voice and hoping he wouldn't notice. She raised a cup to her lips, and sipped the hot liquid.
Zeno, suddenly slightly embarrassed, mumbled, "It's just...well, I was going to send her some roses...and..."
When Zeno finally emerged from his room and joined her for breakfast in the restaurant beside the swimming pool, she was ready to go to the beach.
One of the most luxurious hotels in the world, the Al Bustan, boasted not only an exotic, cooled swimming pool, but a magnificent private beach. The architects employed a concept known as vertical separation to avoid conflicts between patrons of different cultural and religious background. Accessing the swimming pool, gym, and adjacent restaurant two floors beneath the lobby, special elevators took guests directly from their rooms to the lower levels, thus avoiding embarrassing encounters, in particular those between "indecent infidel females" and "decent people." Of course, from the windows above the swimming pool, it was entirely possible to view the array of "indecent infidel females" sunbathing. Proof temptation can be too strong for even the most pious, it was not unusual to glimpse the discrete use of high-powered binoculars from the balconies. Between the pool and the beach, a large palm garden containing multitude of decorative shrubs and multicolored flowers was impeccably and permanently manicured by an army of grounds-keepers.
After serving himself at the buffet, Zeno sat down in front of Martina. Her hair tied in a orchid colored ribbon, the perfect oval of her face suffused with a welcoming smile. Without so much as a "good morning," Zeno launched into the topic preoccupying him.
"I've tried to locate Ms. Vassileva through the concierge," he said in exasperation, "but they maintain they don't have anyone under that name registered here."
"Well, good morning to you too Zeno." said Martina, half amused, half annoyed. "And why is it you wanted to see her?" she asked, surprised by the slight trembling of her voice and hoping he wouldn't notice. She raised a cup to her lips, and sipped the hot liquid.
Zeno, suddenly slightly embarrassed, mumbled, "It's just...well, I was going to send her some roses...and..."
October 29th: Muscat, Oman, CWM, Zeno invistes Irina Vassileva out for dinner... , No 21
Martina was finally free to approach the group encircling Irina -and now, Zeno as well.
She was recall the details of the conversation she had lost during her duel with Zandar, when suddenly she saw the Vassileva woman focus on Zeno.
"So, Dr. Santucci, what is your point of view on the socio-political situation in Syria?"
Zeno, without blinking an eye, smiled and answered very slowly and evenly.
"I am afraid I don't know. Lately I have been too interested in other matters to be able to actually form an opinion, but," and he stared straight into her eyes, "I have come over here to you to invite you to dinner tomorrow evening."
Overhearing the invitation, Martina stopped in her tracks, flabbergasted. Had she heard correctly? Could this be Zeno, the charming, but after all shy Italo-Tatarian man she knew so well? Was Zeno, whose fear of rejection was paramount, standing there in the middle of a group of unknown people, exposing himself to failure and ridicule by interjecting such a futile statement into this high level political discussion?
The circle surrounding Irina and Zeno held its breath. No one had ever extended such a personal invitation to Ms. Vassileva without being first formally introduced to her. Many in the group knew that, in the past, she'd reacted very poorly to this kind of forward approach.
"Well, I don't know," Irina said slowly, matching the quiet tenor of his question and without turning her eyes away from his. "Generally I find technical people quite boring." Zeno swallowed, but before he could say anything, she continued briskly, turning away from him as she spoke. "...but I get the feeling, after all, that you may not be as boring as the usual ones. She whirled to face him. “So be it, pick me up tomorrow at nine in the lobby of my Hotel, the Al Bustan Palace."
She resumed her conversation with the admiring throng exactly where she had dropped it, totally ignoring Zeno from then on. Several men watched him with envy, some with clear disdain. This newcomer, this dandy, had dared to openly declare his ignorance in the political arena in which Ms. Vassileva excelled. And yet, the bastard had finagled a date with her. For most of them she represented a sort of forbidden fantasy. A select few -through their own past experiences- knew however, that if Vassileva had accepted the invitation, there was certainly a hidden agenda.
She was recall the details of the conversation she had lost during her duel with Zandar, when suddenly she saw the Vassileva woman focus on Zeno.
"So, Dr. Santucci, what is your point of view on the socio-political situation in Syria?"
Zeno, without blinking an eye, smiled and answered very slowly and evenly.
"I am afraid I don't know. Lately I have been too interested in other matters to be able to actually form an opinion, but," and he stared straight into her eyes, "I have come over here to you to invite you to dinner tomorrow evening."
Overhearing the invitation, Martina stopped in her tracks, flabbergasted. Had she heard correctly? Could this be Zeno, the charming, but after all shy Italo-Tatarian man she knew so well? Was Zeno, whose fear of rejection was paramount, standing there in the middle of a group of unknown people, exposing himself to failure and ridicule by interjecting such a futile statement into this high level political discussion?
The circle surrounding Irina and Zeno held its breath. No one had ever extended such a personal invitation to Ms. Vassileva without being first formally introduced to her. Many in the group knew that, in the past, she'd reacted very poorly to this kind of forward approach.
"Well, I don't know," Irina said slowly, matching the quiet tenor of his question and without turning her eyes away from his. "Generally I find technical people quite boring." Zeno swallowed, but before he could say anything, she continued briskly, turning away from him as she spoke. "...but I get the feeling, after all, that you may not be as boring as the usual ones. She whirled to face him. “So be it, pick me up tomorrow at nine in the lobby of my Hotel, the Al Bustan Palace."
She resumed her conversation with the admiring throng exactly where she had dropped it, totally ignoring Zeno from then on. Several men watched him with envy, some with clear disdain. This newcomer, this dandy, had dared to openly declare his ignorance in the political arena in which Ms. Vassileva excelled. And yet, the bastard had finagled a date with her. For most of them she represented a sort of forbidden fantasy. A select few -through their own past experiences- knew however, that if Vassileva had accepted the invitation, there was certainly a hidden agenda.
October 29th: Muscat, Oman, CWM, Martina argues with Zandar meanwhile Zeno's ... , No 20
Before Martina could deliver a discrete kick to Zeno's leg, he levitated toward the siren in the corner, leaving Martina nonplussed and alone with a surprised Mr. Zandar.
"Perhaps Dr. Santucci was bothered by our conversation, Dr. Ho? Or perhaps he is going to enjoy the political speech of the irresistible Ms. Irina Vassileva." Zandar smiled again, not a straight open smile, Martina noticed, but one of those self-satisfied, all-knowing smiles that triggers curiosity and at the same time, made her want to slap him right across the face, just to see if his expression would change.
Martina found herself increasingly irritated.
Annoyed, she could not resist the temptation to react. "Well, Mr. Zandar, do you have anything against women talking about politics?"
"Oh no, Dr. Ho." He stopped for a second, taken aback by her suddenly aggressive tone of her question. "You American women are so defensive, ready to take any statement made by a man,especially if the poor chap is Latino or Arab, as an insult against the whole gender. I have nothing against women in politics,... but Ms. Vassileva happens to be an extremely beautiful and attractive woman. I do not think that the people around her are all thinking about politics and water at this moment... and she's certainly not either."
Zandar's voice sank to a strained whisper. "That person is a business devil! She has organized the most unthinkable deals here in the Middle East, bringing together at the same negotiating table parties that had previously sworn forever mutual death. She happens to be a real genius in opening the eyes of people to their own interests, helping them to overcome their difficulties with potential business partners, and helping them close the deals. Of course, she racks up top dollars for her services.”
His tone became conspiratorial: “ Just look at her. At this moment she is evaluating the people around her-one by one- storing their faces and personalities in her brain, for further reference at the next pertinent occasion. She is better than a computer. She is said to have an incredible memory for facts about the people she meets, and to use this information ruthlessly... particularly if she sees an advantage for herself."
Meanwhile Zeno made his way across the room, slowly, like a cat closing in on its prey. He moved steadily, step by step, without taking his eyes off Irina. Finally, after five minutes of effort, he nonchalantly reached the inner circle, merely and arm's length from his objective.
Martina, eyes on Zeno, was vaguely aware of Mr. Zandar's voice fading in and out of her consciousness; "..so, I hope that you do not mind me asking this, but is it true that you and Dr. Santucci share,...em, ... let's say,... more than just professional interests?"
Martina froze. "Here we go again," she thought. "Why is it that men cannot ever think of a woman as self-sufficient? They always need to believe that if a woman gets to a highly visible position, it is because of her sexual relationship with a man?" She swiveled around to face him, barely concealing her contempt.
"No, my dear Mr. Zandar”, she smiled, “ Dr. Santucci and I share exclusively professional interests, and actually, you might be interested to know ... I own more ESR shares than he does."
"So I should not interpret the looks that you are giving him and Ms. Vassileva as jealousy, should I?"
Martina stiffened. The little bastard was taunting her! She was ready to explode, furious that she had led him to this assumption. This Mr. Zandar was pushing his social chit-chat too far and unfortunately she knew exactly where he was taking this exchange. Inaudibly she sucked in her breath, and smiled ever so sweetly. As she pulled herself to her full height -about three inches above his miserable head.
"No, Mr. Zandar,... you should not,.... and I would like to ask you to stop interpreting my behavior. We are here to talk about water." The conviction of her statement missed its mark. Zandar edged closer to her, stopping just short of touching her with his sweaty little face. His hand brushed against the cuff of her jacket.
"Yes indeed,.... lets talk about water.... my dear Martina," whispered Mr. Zandar sliding into a more intimate approach, "since you are not involved with Dr. Santucci, how about joining me for a nice helicopter flight to my villa in Dubai? I have a cooled swimming pool and a beautiful palm tree plantation. We could spend the rest of the afternoon there, share dinner, and tomorrow my pilot would take you back to Muscat."
Unfortunately, this was exactly what Martina expected. But, after all, she begrudgingly acknowledged, this guy was mentally quick and agile -as well as a potential client. He deserved a honorable way out.
"Mr. Zandar, your proposal is tempting, and you are such a charming man," replied Martina using all her diplomacy and tact to avoid burning a bridge that could link ESR to a potential new job in the Middle East, "but I am afraid that I cannot accept your flattering offer. My fiancé is a very jealous Italian man. Actually you may be interested to know that he is Dr. Santucci's brother, Carlo. Moreover, I am a faithful lady,..." she said, pausing for maximum effect, "...so, of course, any relationship between you and I must be kept entirely professional. I would be pleased to visit you in your office during one of my next trips to the Middle East, ....and you are welcome to visit our offices in Europe during one of your trips. We will be able to talk business."
After this masterpiece of evasion and flattery, Mr. Zandar murmured a few polite niceties and left immediately, ego damaged, but basically intact. He was almost relieved. “Decidedly”, he reasoned, “these American professional ladies were too difficult for an unprepared Middle-Easterner -better to leave them alone!
"Perhaps Dr. Santucci was bothered by our conversation, Dr. Ho? Or perhaps he is going to enjoy the political speech of the irresistible Ms. Irina Vassileva." Zandar smiled again, not a straight open smile, Martina noticed, but one of those self-satisfied, all-knowing smiles that triggers curiosity and at the same time, made her want to slap him right across the face, just to see if his expression would change.
Martina found herself increasingly irritated.
Annoyed, she could not resist the temptation to react. "Well, Mr. Zandar, do you have anything against women talking about politics?"
"Oh no, Dr. Ho." He stopped for a second, taken aback by her suddenly aggressive tone of her question. "You American women are so defensive, ready to take any statement made by a man,especially if the poor chap is Latino or Arab, as an insult against the whole gender. I have nothing against women in politics,... but Ms. Vassileva happens to be an extremely beautiful and attractive woman. I do not think that the people around her are all thinking about politics and water at this moment... and she's certainly not either."
Zandar's voice sank to a strained whisper. "That person is a business devil! She has organized the most unthinkable deals here in the Middle East, bringing together at the same negotiating table parties that had previously sworn forever mutual death. She happens to be a real genius in opening the eyes of people to their own interests, helping them to overcome their difficulties with potential business partners, and helping them close the deals. Of course, she racks up top dollars for her services.”
His tone became conspiratorial: “ Just look at her. At this moment she is evaluating the people around her-one by one- storing their faces and personalities in her brain, for further reference at the next pertinent occasion. She is better than a computer. She is said to have an incredible memory for facts about the people she meets, and to use this information ruthlessly... particularly if she sees an advantage for herself."
Meanwhile Zeno made his way across the room, slowly, like a cat closing in on its prey. He moved steadily, step by step, without taking his eyes off Irina. Finally, after five minutes of effort, he nonchalantly reached the inner circle, merely and arm's length from his objective.
Martina, eyes on Zeno, was vaguely aware of Mr. Zandar's voice fading in and out of her consciousness; "..so, I hope that you do not mind me asking this, but is it true that you and Dr. Santucci share,...em, ... let's say,... more than just professional interests?"
Martina froze. "Here we go again," she thought. "Why is it that men cannot ever think of a woman as self-sufficient? They always need to believe that if a woman gets to a highly visible position, it is because of her sexual relationship with a man?" She swiveled around to face him, barely concealing her contempt.
"No, my dear Mr. Zandar”, she smiled, “ Dr. Santucci and I share exclusively professional interests, and actually, you might be interested to know ... I own more ESR shares than he does."
"So I should not interpret the looks that you are giving him and Ms. Vassileva as jealousy, should I?"
Martina stiffened. The little bastard was taunting her! She was ready to explode, furious that she had led him to this assumption. This Mr. Zandar was pushing his social chit-chat too far and unfortunately she knew exactly where he was taking this exchange. Inaudibly she sucked in her breath, and smiled ever so sweetly. As she pulled herself to her full height -about three inches above his miserable head.
"No, Mr. Zandar,... you should not,.... and I would like to ask you to stop interpreting my behavior. We are here to talk about water." The conviction of her statement missed its mark. Zandar edged closer to her, stopping just short of touching her with his sweaty little face. His hand brushed against the cuff of her jacket.
"Yes indeed,.... lets talk about water.... my dear Martina," whispered Mr. Zandar sliding into a more intimate approach, "since you are not involved with Dr. Santucci, how about joining me for a nice helicopter flight to my villa in Dubai? I have a cooled swimming pool and a beautiful palm tree plantation. We could spend the rest of the afternoon there, share dinner, and tomorrow my pilot would take you back to Muscat."
Unfortunately, this was exactly what Martina expected. But, after all, she begrudgingly acknowledged, this guy was mentally quick and agile -as well as a potential client. He deserved a honorable way out.
"Mr. Zandar, your proposal is tempting, and you are such a charming man," replied Martina using all her diplomacy and tact to avoid burning a bridge that could link ESR to a potential new job in the Middle East, "but I am afraid that I cannot accept your flattering offer. My fiancé is a very jealous Italian man. Actually you may be interested to know that he is Dr. Santucci's brother, Carlo. Moreover, I am a faithful lady,..." she said, pausing for maximum effect, "...so, of course, any relationship between you and I must be kept entirely professional. I would be pleased to visit you in your office during one of my next trips to the Middle East, ....and you are welcome to visit our offices in Europe during one of your trips. We will be able to talk business."
After this masterpiece of evasion and flattery, Mr. Zandar murmured a few polite niceties and left immediately, ego damaged, but basically intact. He was almost relieved. “Decidedly”, he reasoned, “these American professional ladies were too difficult for an unprepared Middle-Easterner -better to leave them alone!
October 29th: Muscat, Oman, CWM, Martina is puzzled by the lady at the other end of the room... , No 19
Martina felt an immediate surge of danger. Astonished by her own reaction, she wondered if she was feeling a natural competitiveness, or something less rational. Could she be jealous? Could she have developed protective feelings toward her friend Zeno, or was it just that she felt she “owned” him? Martina was a coolly logical thinker, yet she never disallowed the power of intuition. In her mind, intuition was yet another talent, and she believed in using all her talents.
Martina had reasons to believe in instinct, particularly the female intuition she had inherited from her mother. Indeed, her parents, a rich Chinese businessman and a Czech woman, met in Singapore that infamous day in 1939 when the city was invaded by the Japanese. Facing certain death, the pair knew they had to escape on one of the seven boats able to take to sea. Martina's mother picked the one they boarded. Only two of the seven ever made it to safety.
Martina knew what to expect from a woman like the one across the room. Her mother had made it very clear to her when Martina was a child as they spent long hours waiting for the man of the family to come home -long, silent hours waiting , while father attended to "business." Martina knew that business meant another woman, and that other women brought anger and despair to her family. Instinct was part of the female arsenal. Following her mother's example, combining intuition and hard work, Martina became what she was, the powerful head of a world-wide organization, and she felt she “owned” everything and everyone in her entourage.
Focusing on a few snatched phrases, Martina grasped the theme of the monologue -Middle Eastern politics -and the thesis that the next large scale war in the Middle East would be triggered by water strategy and possession. Apparently the people gathered around the speaker were not only captivated by the intelligence and the coherence of her ideas, but by her scalpel-sharp judgments about several eminent political characters, and her predictions about the region's future. Though she generally thought of herself as a critical thinker, actually the best of them, Martina unhappily conceded that what she was hearing was more than cynical pretense or extravagant grandstanding. The woman's arguments were sophisticated and penetrating. The male part of her audience appeared as hypnotized by her impromptu speech as her radiant smile. They could hardly miss the rest of the package. She had a triangular, feline face with green almond shaped eyes. A champagne-colored silk blouse, beneath a matching linen suit, accentuated her lean torso; her small breasts rose like proud and well-proportioned jewels above an impossibly tiny waist, and a magnificently rounded behind.
Martina had reasons to believe in instinct, particularly the female intuition she had inherited from her mother. Indeed, her parents, a rich Chinese businessman and a Czech woman, met in Singapore that infamous day in 1939 when the city was invaded by the Japanese. Facing certain death, the pair knew they had to escape on one of the seven boats able to take to sea. Martina's mother picked the one they boarded. Only two of the seven ever made it to safety.
Martina knew what to expect from a woman like the one across the room. Her mother had made it very clear to her when Martina was a child as they spent long hours waiting for the man of the family to come home -long, silent hours waiting , while father attended to "business." Martina knew that business meant another woman, and that other women brought anger and despair to her family. Instinct was part of the female arsenal. Following her mother's example, combining intuition and hard work, Martina became what she was, the powerful head of a world-wide organization, and she felt she “owned” everything and everyone in her entourage.
Focusing on a few snatched phrases, Martina grasped the theme of the monologue -Middle Eastern politics -and the thesis that the next large scale war in the Middle East would be triggered by water strategy and possession. Apparently the people gathered around the speaker were not only captivated by the intelligence and the coherence of her ideas, but by her scalpel-sharp judgments about several eminent political characters, and her predictions about the region's future. Though she generally thought of herself as a critical thinker, actually the best of them, Martina unhappily conceded that what she was hearing was more than cynical pretense or extravagant grandstanding. The woman's arguments were sophisticated and penetrating. The male part of her audience appeared as hypnotized by her impromptu speech as her radiant smile. They could hardly miss the rest of the package. She had a triangular, feline face with green almond shaped eyes. A champagne-colored silk blouse, beneath a matching linen suit, accentuated her lean torso; her small breasts rose like proud and well-proportioned jewels above an impossibly tiny waist, and a magnificently rounded behind.
October 29th: Muscat, Oman, CWM, Martina controls Zandar meanwhile Zeno gets distracted... , No 18
"I wish to congratulate you both," Zandar continued obsequiously, "for the outstanding presentations you gave on the subject of the strategic reuse of oil-field production water. It is an extremely promising trend that you have illustrated with your work here in Oman. I am sure many other countries and production companies should follow your example. I'll make sure that my government invites you both to...ah...," he let his eyes slide slowly from Martina's face to her breasts and then to her hips, taking no pains to cover-up his attraction to her body "that is for, ..hum...a seminar."
Ever the professional, Martina ignored Zandar's pointedly boorish innuendo. Perfectly aware, but not particularly upset by the man's gaze, her brilliant smile thawed a laconic reply. "Thank you, Mr. Zandar, but the congratulations should really go to our clients. They are the ones who decided to invest in the conservation of water and the restoration of the environment. What ESR does for them is to make the best use of their resources in order to solve a complex problem. We have the capabilities and the technologies, but without their commitment we could achieve very little." Ever the diplomat, Martina put the company line forward as easily as she breathed.
As Martina spoke, she could feel Zeno becoming more and more distracted -while Mr. Zandar became more and more attentive to the slightest movement of her body. The miracle of the proper cut of a tailleur, she thought, rational as a computer: the clothes are some of the most modest that money can buy, yet they provoke admiration and excitement in men even if the wearer is not at all in the mood to flirt. Martina was indeed miles away from flirting. She was becoming annoyed with both men -Zandar, because he had clearly not yet learned than in passing to the twenty-first century, women were not interested in being chased by pompous jerks, and Zeno because she could not believe that even a half-Italian could loose his mind through a lack of caffeine.
Martina turned briskly towards Zeno, about to kick him in the ankle and tell him again to stop acting like a child, when she discovered that his distraction was not coffee, but a stunningly beautiful woman standing on the other side of the room. The woman was surrounded by a group of eight or ten men and a few women, all in awe . Clearly the center of attention, the exotic woman spoke emphatically and with authority. Martina wondered if she was a professional speaker.
The woman's dramatic gestures animated an incredible beauty which radiated from her whole persona- the wild imperious beauty of an Amazon warrior or of a barbarian princess.
Her green eyes shone with intensity. Perhaps the high cheek bones gave her that sort of wild look. Then there was the hair -ash blond with heavy golden undertones, cut just below the jaw and artistically untamed, perfectly complementing the impeccable tan of her flawless skin.
Ever the professional, Martina ignored Zandar's pointedly boorish innuendo. Perfectly aware, but not particularly upset by the man's gaze, her brilliant smile thawed a laconic reply. "Thank you, Mr. Zandar, but the congratulations should really go to our clients. They are the ones who decided to invest in the conservation of water and the restoration of the environment. What ESR does for them is to make the best use of their resources in order to solve a complex problem. We have the capabilities and the technologies, but without their commitment we could achieve very little." Ever the diplomat, Martina put the company line forward as easily as she breathed.
As Martina spoke, she could feel Zeno becoming more and more distracted -while Mr. Zandar became more and more attentive to the slightest movement of her body. The miracle of the proper cut of a tailleur, she thought, rational as a computer: the clothes are some of the most modest that money can buy, yet they provoke admiration and excitement in men even if the wearer is not at all in the mood to flirt. Martina was indeed miles away from flirting. She was becoming annoyed with both men -Zandar, because he had clearly not yet learned than in passing to the twenty-first century, women were not interested in being chased by pompous jerks, and Zeno because she could not believe that even a half-Italian could loose his mind through a lack of caffeine.
Martina turned briskly towards Zeno, about to kick him in the ankle and tell him again to stop acting like a child, when she discovered that his distraction was not coffee, but a stunningly beautiful woman standing on the other side of the room. The woman was surrounded by a group of eight or ten men and a few women, all in awe . Clearly the center of attention, the exotic woman spoke emphatically and with authority. Martina wondered if she was a professional speaker.
The woman's dramatic gestures animated an incredible beauty which radiated from her whole persona- the wild imperious beauty of an Amazon warrior or of a barbarian princess.
Her green eyes shone with intensity. Perhaps the high cheek bones gave her that sort of wild look. Then there was the hair -ash blond with heavy golden undertones, cut just below the jaw and artistically untamed, perfectly complementing the impeccable tan of her flawless skin.
October 29th: Muscat, Oman, CWM, Mr. Zandar meets Martina and Zeno, No 17
A tremendous round of applause immediately rose from the invited panel and the guests filling the auditorium. In his speech, the Sultan had pinpointed future trends and the important concepts, demonstrating once again, to his people and to the leaders of neighboring states, his gifts as a brilliant planner and visionary. Sultan al Quebun had shown the world that a nation like Oman can indeed undergo major change without losing its identity, or without prostituting itself to more developed countries. In Oman and through the Middle East, the decades constituting the reign of Sultan al Quebun were known as the Renaissance. The Sultan also had his enemies, however, and among these, the most dangerous were some his own countrymen -especially the Hagari groups in southern Oman.
To outside observers, the Sultan had made only one real error in planning this fabulous era of renewal. The commercial harbor of Muscat -door to the city of Mutrah, and to much of Oman -could not accommodate the dimensions of modern, over-sized containers ships, putting a severe restriction on the allowable traffic to and from the harbor.
As soon as the Sultan's address finished, several delegates gathered around Martina and Zeno.
"Dr. Ho, Dr. Santucci. Omar Zandar. Secretary of the Water Resource Ministry of the United Dharani Emirates. As you know, we are one of the closest allies of Oman." The speaker, a short, bald, overweight man, had pushed his way through the group of admirers, full of his own self-importance, in his immaculate traditional dress, worn with extreme care for every single detail.
Eye-to-eye with Martina's and Zeno's identity badges, he carefully scrutinized their titles. He seemed to find Martina's badge, and the perfectly rounded features beneath it, more interesting than Zeno's.
To outside observers, the Sultan had made only one real error in planning this fabulous era of renewal. The commercial harbor of Muscat -door to the city of Mutrah, and to much of Oman -could not accommodate the dimensions of modern, over-sized containers ships, putting a severe restriction on the allowable traffic to and from the harbor.
As soon as the Sultan's address finished, several delegates gathered around Martina and Zeno.
"Dr. Ho, Dr. Santucci. Omar Zandar. Secretary of the Water Resource Ministry of the United Dharani Emirates. As you know, we are one of the closest allies of Oman." The speaker, a short, bald, overweight man, had pushed his way through the group of admirers, full of his own self-importance, in his immaculate traditional dress, worn with extreme care for every single detail.
Eye-to-eye with Martina's and Zeno's identity badges, he carefully scrutinized their titles. He seemed to find Martina's badge, and the perfectly rounded features beneath it, more interesting than Zeno's.
October 29th: Muscat, Oman, CWM's closing statement by the Sultan, No 16
Zeno and Martina had met a decade earlier at a conference, and two years later, after working together on various contracts, founded an international engineering consulting company: Earth Systems Research, known around the world as ESR. Gathering a number of seasoned veterans, as well as some young talent, they embarked on an adventure that took them from literally nothing, to international status as principals of a highly visible, world-class organization.
The Sultan al Quebun, a gentle distinguished man with his own solid reputation in geology and engineering, concluded his speech.
My Dear People, of all the gifts with which God has blessed us, water is the greatest -it must be cherished- and every effort to develop this resource must be supported. Extravagance is forbidden by Islam, and this prohibition applies to the water of life. Indeed, Islam teaches us that it is our duty to conserve. The use of water throughout the world will have a great impact on future international development strategies, and, indeed, could become a decisive factor in political and security issues.
These are the challenges we face. The task is great; the rewards immense; failure unthinkable. Go back to your nations, take what you have learned at this conference, and use it to make a better world for us all. Go in peace. God's blessing upon you.
I declare this International Conference on Water in Desert Regions officially close.
The Sultan al Quebun, a gentle distinguished man with his own solid reputation in geology and engineering, concluded his speech.
My Dear People, of all the gifts with which God has blessed us, water is the greatest -it must be cherished- and every effort to develop this resource must be supported. Extravagance is forbidden by Islam, and this prohibition applies to the water of life. Indeed, Islam teaches us that it is our duty to conserve. The use of water throughout the world will have a great impact on future international development strategies, and, indeed, could become a decisive factor in political and security issues.
These are the challenges we face. The task is great; the rewards immense; failure unthinkable. Go back to your nations, take what you have learned at this conference, and use it to make a better world for us all. Go in peace. God's blessing upon you.
I declare this International Conference on Water in Desert Regions officially close.
October 29th: Muscat, Oman, Conference on Water Management (CWM).No 15
Martina's flat in San Mateo was bare, her life was bare.
She worked day and night in her starkly modern office in San Francisco's financial district. She had insisted, like only she could insist, on the high powered location because, as she said, "That's where the clients are, so that's where we ought to be."
Privately, Zeno suspected that in bed she would be much like she was at work: quick, insensitive, efficient, and no fun. Sometimes he wondered why Martina and his brother Carlo got along so well in their interminable engagement, fully aware that it was sometimes already difficult enough to bear her character in their professional life.
A Latin lover and an icy computer-what a couple, and the third apex of the triangle? Zeno had adopted a discrete approach, as Martina's work was actually saving him from spending interminable and boring hours performing administrative tasks at the office.
She worked day and night in her starkly modern office in San Francisco's financial district. She had insisted, like only she could insist, on the high powered location because, as she said, "That's where the clients are, so that's where we ought to be."
Privately, Zeno suspected that in bed she would be much like she was at work: quick, insensitive, efficient, and no fun. Sometimes he wondered why Martina and his brother Carlo got along so well in their interminable engagement, fully aware that it was sometimes already difficult enough to bear her character in their professional life.
A Latin lover and an icy computer-what a couple, and the third apex of the triangle? Zeno had adopted a discrete approach, as Martina's work was actually saving him from spending interminable and boring hours performing administrative tasks at the office.
Tokyo, Japan, Tastuya-san gives his orders, Night of October 29th, No 14
Masuyama looked to Tatsuya-sensei. Receiving a permissive nod, he stood to answer.
"We do not believe so. The Swiss have investigated him thoroughly, probably trying to determine if he is working for us. It is possible that their investigation has simply been a ruse, but I will be surprised if that is the case. I think we can assume he is OK."
"And what about Gary Morton, the gaijin lawyer?" asked the industrialist.
Masuyama again rose to respond, his tone loaded with deference he answered the question without inappropriate elaboration: "Mr. Morton is clean."
The man sat down. There was a long silence in the room. Tatsuya lit a fresh cigarette, puffed on it, threw it away, picked another out of the pack and lit it. As Masuyama had been speaking, Tatsuya's face slowly turned crimson.
Rising suddenly, he exploded."Masuyama-san!" he screamed.
"Hai?" Masuyama practically squealed, clearly shocked.
"We”, and he used the wari-wari-wah term for -we-, to reinforce his leadership, “will check with Morton immediately and find a solution. I will not be blackmailed by these unwashed dog-haired dung-eating lying foreigners! Zettai-muri! Absolutely impossible”. Tatsuya closed the phrase with a hiss before turning his head towards the other assistant.
“Miyahata-san!”
"Hai?" he quaked the younger man. Equally startled, he snapped to attention, like a puppet, standing next to Masuyama, arms close to his rigid body.
"Have someone question that Vancouver gaijin, and check out his flat!"
"Hai."
"What have you heard recently of Takatsuka's Yakuza?"
"Nothing sensei. There is no news, but we are investigating rumors of their activities in the Middle East."
As the others looked on in astonished silence, Tatsuya continued, shaking with rage, "Call Takatsuka," he demanded, "and do it now. Tell him we need to talk."
"We do not believe so. The Swiss have investigated him thoroughly, probably trying to determine if he is working for us. It is possible that their investigation has simply been a ruse, but I will be surprised if that is the case. I think we can assume he is OK."
"And what about Gary Morton, the gaijin lawyer?" asked the industrialist.
Masuyama again rose to respond, his tone loaded with deference he answered the question without inappropriate elaboration: "Mr. Morton is clean."
The man sat down. There was a long silence in the room. Tatsuya lit a fresh cigarette, puffed on it, threw it away, picked another out of the pack and lit it. As Masuyama had been speaking, Tatsuya's face slowly turned crimson.
Rising suddenly, he exploded."Masuyama-san!" he screamed.
"Hai?" Masuyama practically squealed, clearly shocked.
"We”, and he used the wari-wari-wah term for -we-, to reinforce his leadership, “will check with Morton immediately and find a solution. I will not be blackmailed by these unwashed dog-haired dung-eating lying foreigners! Zettai-muri! Absolutely impossible”. Tatsuya closed the phrase with a hiss before turning his head towards the other assistant.
“Miyahata-san!”
"Hai?" he quaked the younger man. Equally startled, he snapped to attention, like a puppet, standing next to Masuyama, arms close to his rigid body.
"Have someone question that Vancouver gaijin, and check out his flat!"
"Hai."
"What have you heard recently of Takatsuka's Yakuza?"
"Nothing sensei. There is no news, but we are investigating rumors of their activities in the Middle East."
As the others looked on in astonished silence, Tatsuya continued, shaking with rage, "Call Takatsuka," he demanded, "and do it now. Tell him we need to talk."
October 29th: Muscat, Oman, Conference on Water Management, No 13
Zeno and Martina were sitting in the second row of the auditorium, in the area reserved for invited speakers. Ever the gentleman, Zeno Santucci had carefully placed himself on Martina's left. He was fit and tanned from his recent work in the Middle East, which had kept him in the field. Fieldwork made Zeno happy. During winter, if he did not get enough natural sun, he would use tanning beds. Zeno knew that the devices were dangerous for the skin, but for him this risk was an acceptable price. At all costs, he had to avoid SAD, seasonal affective disorder syndrome, from which he suffered when he did not receive enough solar light.
Seated beside Martina, Zeno cut an impressive figure. His salt and pepper hair and beard, and the bronze of his skin were perfectly accentuated by a charcoal Savile Row suit. The Row was a vanity that he had already succumbed to by the time he was thirty. At forty-five, he had again hired the expert tailors of one of the most expensive shops in the world to craft the magnificent hand-made garment that enhanced his well-muscled body, yet also cleverly disguised a slightly prominent belly, the legacy of his Italian genes and his love for good food and good wine. Zeno and his belly were in constant competition; a great lover of cooking, drinking and eating, he enjoyed saunas and massages far more than the gym. To complement the suit, he wore a beautiful claret English tie, carefully selected from his extensive collection. Zeno took pains to display his assortment of ties whenever an opportunity presented itself, and he often traveled with a complete assortment of his favorite ones.
For her own part, Martina Ho, dark-haired, slightly oriental-looking, and elegantly dressed in a cobalt blue French tailored suit, made a perfect visual match for Zeno -not too tall, and beautifully proportioned. Those that saw her by the hotel swimming pool knew that she probably spent a good deal of her free time in the weight room, sculpting and maintaining her body with the care of an athlete, or a gladiator. The short jacket, meticulously tailored from luxurious Italian cashmere and detailed in silk thread, dropped neatly from her square shoulders, and enhanced her trim hips.
In surprising contrast to the richness of her suit, however, Martina wore no jewelry -no rings, no chains, no adornments of any kind. She never used perfumes, and her make-up was so light that most people would have thought that she wore none at all. On her slender wrist was a man's watch, and her handbag was filled with enough electronic toys to allow her to communicate, annotate, store and retrieve data from any thinkable place on this planet. A great traveler, Martina often had to convince airport security services around the world to let her gadgets filled bag follow her into the plane.
Though both held PhD in civil engineering, Zeno and Martina stood out for their elegance in this tweedy gathering of technical people and academics. Over the years Zeno had worked almost exclusively in the field, while Martina had assumed many of the administrative duties of their company. She had developed tremendous strength as an international contract negotiator, one that liked a little too much other people's blood, at least for Zeno's tastes. Beneath her beautiful, practiced smile, she was a hard businesswoman, oftentimes harsh and insensitive.
In contrast to Zeno, Martina lived in a spartan world of bare essentials. "Vive di niente et con niente: she lives with nothing and out of nothing," as Zeno described it, with a little irony in his voice.
Seated beside Martina, Zeno cut an impressive figure. His salt and pepper hair and beard, and the bronze of his skin were perfectly accentuated by a charcoal Savile Row suit. The Row was a vanity that he had already succumbed to by the time he was thirty. At forty-five, he had again hired the expert tailors of one of the most expensive shops in the world to craft the magnificent hand-made garment that enhanced his well-muscled body, yet also cleverly disguised a slightly prominent belly, the legacy of his Italian genes and his love for good food and good wine. Zeno and his belly were in constant competition; a great lover of cooking, drinking and eating, he enjoyed saunas and massages far more than the gym. To complement the suit, he wore a beautiful claret English tie, carefully selected from his extensive collection. Zeno took pains to display his assortment of ties whenever an opportunity presented itself, and he often traveled with a complete assortment of his favorite ones.
For her own part, Martina Ho, dark-haired, slightly oriental-looking, and elegantly dressed in a cobalt blue French tailored suit, made a perfect visual match for Zeno -not too tall, and beautifully proportioned. Those that saw her by the hotel swimming pool knew that she probably spent a good deal of her free time in the weight room, sculpting and maintaining her body with the care of an athlete, or a gladiator. The short jacket, meticulously tailored from luxurious Italian cashmere and detailed in silk thread, dropped neatly from her square shoulders, and enhanced her trim hips.
In surprising contrast to the richness of her suit, however, Martina wore no jewelry -no rings, no chains, no adornments of any kind. She never used perfumes, and her make-up was so light that most people would have thought that she wore none at all. On her slender wrist was a man's watch, and her handbag was filled with enough electronic toys to allow her to communicate, annotate, store and retrieve data from any thinkable place on this planet. A great traveler, Martina often had to convince airport security services around the world to let her gadgets filled bag follow her into the plane.
Though both held PhD in civil engineering, Zeno and Martina stood out for their elegance in this tweedy gathering of technical people and academics. Over the years Zeno had worked almost exclusively in the field, while Martina had assumed many of the administrative duties of their company. She had developed tremendous strength as an international contract negotiator, one that liked a little too much other people's blood, at least for Zeno's tastes. Beneath her beautiful, practiced smile, she was a hard businesswoman, oftentimes harsh and insensitive.
In contrast to Zeno, Martina lived in a spartan world of bare essentials. "Vive di niente et con niente: she lives with nothing and out of nothing," as Zeno described it, with a little irony in his voice.
Tokyo, Japan, Japanese Industrialists meeting, Night of October 29th, No 12
The silence deepened, only the smoke moved in gray swirls around the seated figures. Grim expressions involuntarily disturbed their features as they averted their eyes from one another. Tatsuya continued. "The gaijin is well-informed, and has supplied documentation to support his claim. There can be no doubt that he is speaking the truth”. Tatsuya paused an inhaled deeply. “There is more. He waited until we signed before contacting us, and now says that if we pay him a certain sum of money, he will provide additional documents showing the seller knew about this problem before we drew up our contract. If we do not pay, he will not give us the papers, and we will not be able to get a permit to proceed with our development."
The men seated around the table continued to stare at the tabletop, unable to meet each other's gaze, unable to acknowledge their shame. How could this have happened? They had never been caught like this in their lives! Like children! By a damn gaijin! The situation was incredible. Finally, one man, a leading industrialist, raised his head. "Is the Indian man, Mr. Malhotra, involved in this?"
The men seated around the table continued to stare at the tabletop, unable to meet each other's gaze, unable to acknowledge their shame. How could this have happened? They had never been caught like this in their lives! Like children! By a damn gaijin! The situation was incredible. Finally, one man, a leading industrialist, raised his head. "Is the Indian man, Mr. Malhotra, involved in this?"
October 29th: Muscat, Oman, Conference on Water Management in Arid Regions, No 11
"I really need a coffee," whispered Zeno into Martina's left ear.
Without turning her head, letting the words seep through the curtain of long silky black hair that partially covered her face, she leaned towards Zeno. "Don't be childish -you can't leave now. The Sultan's speech is almost finished. Hush. Listen."
Zeno, looking straight ahead, could almost visualize in his mind's eye, the expression Martina had on her severe face, especially on her lips. It was the expression she used when reprimanding him, or anyone else who would be exuberant by nature. He also imagined her dark eyes, often insensitive, but always shining with intelligence, looking towards the ceiling in disapproval.
He decided it would be better to wait for his coffee.
Without turning her head, letting the words seep through the curtain of long silky black hair that partially covered her face, she leaned towards Zeno. "Don't be childish -you can't leave now. The Sultan's speech is almost finished. Hush. Listen."
Zeno, looking straight ahead, could almost visualize in his mind's eye, the expression Martina had on her severe face, especially on her lips. It was the expression she used when reprimanding him, or anyone else who would be exuberant by nature. He also imagined her dark eyes, often insensitive, but always shining with intelligence, looking towards the ceiling in disapproval.
He decided it would be better to wait for his coffee.
Tokyo, Japan, Night of October 29th, No 10
Smoke and noise choked the board room.
While thick clouds of were the norm, animated, buzzing conversation was rather unusual. Anyone passing outside the room would have known that something extraordinary was happening, but at this late hour no one but this group was in the building.
Tatsuya violently sucked on his cigarette, pulling the smoke deeply into his lungs as the tobacco rapidly burned down to his nicotine-stained fingers. He crushed the butt into a loaded ashtray as he abruptly rose to his feet, and then banged his fist on the table. The room fell instantly silent. His two assistants, Masuyama and Miyahata watched him expectantly, like two students awaiting the words of their sensei. The other members of the group, representatives of various Japanese industrial groups, also waited in silence.
"Gentlemen," he said, "A matter of urgency has arisen. As you know, yesterday we signed a very important building and real-estate development contract. Today we have received disturbing news from our gaijin consultant in Vancouver. This man claims that we have been stung. There is, he says, a slope stability problem with our parcel of land. The mountain on which we intend to build could fail entirely at any time."
While thick clouds of were the norm, animated, buzzing conversation was rather unusual. Anyone passing outside the room would have known that something extraordinary was happening, but at this late hour no one but this group was in the building.
Tatsuya violently sucked on his cigarette, pulling the smoke deeply into his lungs as the tobacco rapidly burned down to his nicotine-stained fingers. He crushed the butt into a loaded ashtray as he abruptly rose to his feet, and then banged his fist on the table. The room fell instantly silent. His two assistants, Masuyama and Miyahata watched him expectantly, like two students awaiting the words of their sensei. The other members of the group, representatives of various Japanese industrial groups, also waited in silence.
"Gentlemen," he said, "A matter of urgency has arisen. As you know, yesterday we signed a very important building and real-estate development contract. Today we have received disturbing news from our gaijin consultant in Vancouver. This man claims that we have been stung. There is, he says, a slope stability problem with our parcel of land. The mountain on which we intend to build could fail entirely at any time."
Evening of October 20th, The meeting ends abruptly. No 9
"Yes, of course." the Wali swore, "Wallah billah, I have followed the rules of secrecy, and we are ready to escort you to the location according to plan."
Smiling inwardly, he was confident his discrete breach of the secrecy surrounding this mission would be just enough to gain some status in the eyes of his own people. The Wali bent slightly at the waist to indicate his understanding. Ignoring the condescension that tainted the Leader's face, the Wali ordered: "Bis millah, let's go visit the location."
The Wali turned to reach for the head of his camel. At that moment, out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed an unnatural motion. He twisted back just in time to see his men falling from their mounts one after another, as if they were being kicked off their saddles by some giant invisible foot, their eyes full of surprise, pain, and disbelief. In a few seconds all eight men were on the ground, chests torn and bleeding, puddles of blood staining the sand. Not one had even had time to scream. They died quickly, silently.
The Wali turned to meet the gaze of the Leader. Cold and inexpressive, the Leader's eyes were devoid of emotion. Immediately the Wali understood. His fate was sealed. He knew his betrayal of this man was to be paid for with his men's lives -and his own. In sign of resignation and submission to the Leader, who was now clearly superior to him by the design of Allah, the Wali let his eyes fall to the ground. He waited to die. His last thought was for Razziah and for the fruit of the seed he may have planted in her during that first night. “Mekhtub”, he prayed, “it is written”. The bullet shattered his chest, and he felt his body fall from his camel. He heard the thud of his flesh on the dirt, then nothing more.
The Leader turned toward Ahmed, his loyal assistant, whose bullets had ended the Wali's life. "Na uzo billah, na uzo billah," he whispered, the chant-like expression registering a traditional response to unpleasantness. "Here ends the life of a good Wali that could not shut-up! Remember, Ahmed, our allies have asked us to eliminate all the possible sources of leaks. It is terrible to have to kill our brothers; because of this imbecile many more shall die. But our allies are too important for our cause. We need them -at least for the moment.
Ahmed. Take a dozen of the best men. Go to the Wali's village and destroy it. No one, I insist, no one, male, female, child, or infant may escape alive. Destroy everything. Go. Do your duty in the name of Allah."
Smiling inwardly, he was confident his discrete breach of the secrecy surrounding this mission would be just enough to gain some status in the eyes of his own people. The Wali bent slightly at the waist to indicate his understanding. Ignoring the condescension that tainted the Leader's face, the Wali ordered: "Bis millah, let's go visit the location."
The Wali turned to reach for the head of his camel. At that moment, out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed an unnatural motion. He twisted back just in time to see his men falling from their mounts one after another, as if they were being kicked off their saddles by some giant invisible foot, their eyes full of surprise, pain, and disbelief. In a few seconds all eight men were on the ground, chests torn and bleeding, puddles of blood staining the sand. Not one had even had time to scream. They died quickly, silently.
The Wali turned to meet the gaze of the Leader. Cold and inexpressive, the Leader's eyes were devoid of emotion. Immediately the Wali understood. His fate was sealed. He knew his betrayal of this man was to be paid for with his men's lives -and his own. In sign of resignation and submission to the Leader, who was now clearly superior to him by the design of Allah, the Wali let his eyes fall to the ground. He waited to die. His last thought was for Razziah and for the fruit of the seed he may have planted in her during that first night. “Mekhtub”, he prayed, “it is written”. The bullet shattered his chest, and he felt his body fall from his camel. He heard the thud of his flesh on the dirt, then nothing more.
The Leader turned toward Ahmed, his loyal assistant, whose bullets had ended the Wali's life. "Na uzo billah, na uzo billah," he whispered, the chant-like expression registering a traditional response to unpleasantness. "Here ends the life of a good Wali that could not shut-up! Remember, Ahmed, our allies have asked us to eliminate all the possible sources of leaks. It is terrible to have to kill our brothers; because of this imbecile many more shall die. But our allies are too important for our cause. We need them -at least for the moment.
Ahmed. Take a dozen of the best men. Go to the Wali's village and destroy it. No one, I insist, no one, male, female, child, or infant may escape alive. Destroy everything. Go. Do your duty in the name of Allah."
Evening of October 20th, The Wali and the Leader meet, No 8
Suddenly the glare of headlights scraped across the hills, and a convoy of heavy trucks rumbled into view from behind the nearest ridge. The engine noise swelled to a roar. Twelve trucks advanced upon the Wali and his men, who stood their ground, fingers on triggers. Uncertain, yet defiant, the Wali's men leveled their weapons at the oncoming snake of massive vehicles.
With a tremendous squeal and hissing of brakes, the lead truck came to rest in a cloud of dust, stopping all the other in the convoy. The driver of the first truck jumped out of the cab, shouting and clutching an automatic rifle. In the yellow glow of the headlights, the Wali could see the driver's face was covered with dust. Lines of evaporated perspiration traced the tension in his forehead and jaw. Other cabs opened, and a chorus of voices permeated the dusk. At first the calls were harsh. Then laughing, joking and backslapping began, and cigarettes were lit. The Wali and his men waited motionless in stony silence, only the muscles in their jaws flinching.
Within moments, a second group of trucks and jeeps, which had been hidden in the cloud raised by the first convoy, sped into view. The Wali recognized the Leader himself behind a dusty windscreen in the front seat of the lead 4x4 as it pulled to a stop. As he alighted from the vehicle, the friendly banter among the truck drivers died. Cigarettes rapidly disappeared.
Even though the Wali had met the Leader only once before, he was immediately struck by the strength of the man's expression -and by the instant subservience of his men. Deep inside, the Wali too felt a sudden deference as an aura of authority emanated from the charismatic figure before him. This impulse was checked, however, by an immediate rush of resentment and jealousy flooding his brain. How could this man command such respect? How could he hold the attention of the crowds and of men like these -sons of the desert like himself?
"Your fiery promises of freedom and respect have bought your position," thought the Wali, "...but can you keep your word? If you cannot, you will burn. I would like to see you burn, Leader, so long as I am not burning beside you."
As the Wali savored the thought, the Leader quickly and efficiently organized the heavily-armed men. Trucks were moved, a secure perimeter was established around the vehicles, sentries were posted, and camp was struck. Everything progressed with speed and precision. The Leader's jeep had been escorted by six vehicles, and while the shift from camels to cars detracted from the natural majesty of the Hagaris, the weapons carried by the Leader's entourage went a long way in restoring a measure of tribal respect. Of traditional dress, only the dish-dash, the long, pale blue robe, and the gleaming silver, curved knife remained. Tribal garb was now augmented by grenade belts, double bandoleers of ammunition worn from each shoulder down to the waist, and well-maintained firearms.
As the Leader and his men approached, the Wali observed them very carefully, trying to determine the origin of their weapons. Certainly not original Russian or American, the guns were probably from Afghanistan. The Wali had never seen these models, and carefully made a mental snapshot of them. When he got back to his village, Insh' Allah, God willing, he would try to acquire the same weapons for his men. After all, he was the Wali, and despite his promises, this Leader had no official position.
Position or not, the Leader now stood before the Wali and his men who still blocked the road in silence, weapons at the ready. "Salaam wha aleikum, Wali." The Leader offered the Islamic greeting appropriate for the Wali's honoured rank. "Aleikum salaam." answered the Wali dryly. "You are at least two hours early."
"Well, it has been easier than foreseen -no escort to get in the way. Did you make sure that the area is clear, Wali, that no one followed you, and no one knows where you are?"
With a tremendous squeal and hissing of brakes, the lead truck came to rest in a cloud of dust, stopping all the other in the convoy. The driver of the first truck jumped out of the cab, shouting and clutching an automatic rifle. In the yellow glow of the headlights, the Wali could see the driver's face was covered with dust. Lines of evaporated perspiration traced the tension in his forehead and jaw. Other cabs opened, and a chorus of voices permeated the dusk. At first the calls were harsh. Then laughing, joking and backslapping began, and cigarettes were lit. The Wali and his men waited motionless in stony silence, only the muscles in their jaws flinching.
Within moments, a second group of trucks and jeeps, which had been hidden in the cloud raised by the first convoy, sped into view. The Wali recognized the Leader himself behind a dusty windscreen in the front seat of the lead 4x4 as it pulled to a stop. As he alighted from the vehicle, the friendly banter among the truck drivers died. Cigarettes rapidly disappeared.
Even though the Wali had met the Leader only once before, he was immediately struck by the strength of the man's expression -and by the instant subservience of his men. Deep inside, the Wali too felt a sudden deference as an aura of authority emanated from the charismatic figure before him. This impulse was checked, however, by an immediate rush of resentment and jealousy flooding his brain. How could this man command such respect? How could he hold the attention of the crowds and of men like these -sons of the desert like himself?
"Your fiery promises of freedom and respect have bought your position," thought the Wali, "...but can you keep your word? If you cannot, you will burn. I would like to see you burn, Leader, so long as I am not burning beside you."
As the Wali savored the thought, the Leader quickly and efficiently organized the heavily-armed men. Trucks were moved, a secure perimeter was established around the vehicles, sentries were posted, and camp was struck. Everything progressed with speed and precision. The Leader's jeep had been escorted by six vehicles, and while the shift from camels to cars detracted from the natural majesty of the Hagaris, the weapons carried by the Leader's entourage went a long way in restoring a measure of tribal respect. Of traditional dress, only the dish-dash, the long, pale blue robe, and the gleaming silver, curved knife remained. Tribal garb was now augmented by grenade belts, double bandoleers of ammunition worn from each shoulder down to the waist, and well-maintained firearms.
As the Leader and his men approached, the Wali observed them very carefully, trying to determine the origin of their weapons. Certainly not original Russian or American, the guns were probably from Afghanistan. The Wali had never seen these models, and carefully made a mental snapshot of them. When he got back to his village, Insh' Allah, God willing, he would try to acquire the same weapons for his men. After all, he was the Wali, and despite his promises, this Leader had no official position.
Position or not, the Leader now stood before the Wali and his men who still blocked the road in silence, weapons at the ready. "Salaam wha aleikum, Wali." The Leader offered the Islamic greeting appropriate for the Wali's honoured rank. "Aleikum salaam." answered the Wali dryly. "You are at least two hours early."
"Well, it has been easier than foreseen -no escort to get in the way. Did you make sure that the area is clear, Wali, that no one followed you, and no one knows where you are?"
Evening of October 20th, The Wali has reached the meeting point, No 7
Promises and strong leaders. These were things to be respected. In the eyes of the Wali and many other influential tribal personalities in the Wilayats of the southern regions, the present ruler of Oman, Sultan al Quebun, who had slowly and cautiously shifted his desert kingdom towards a representative democracy, symbolized a weakening of the culture.
The Wali had trouble concentrating. He thought again of Razziah, imagined her warm skin pressed against his, her young eyes now knowing, her mouth like an open flower. He spurred his camel onwards. Yes, it was good to be free. Independent desert people did not easily accept decisions made in remote Muscat, the capital of the Sultanate. Muscat, to the north, facing Iran at the entrance of the Strait of Ormuz did not even follow the traditional ways. The Hagari frequently found themselves offended by the so-called “modern attitudes” of the central government.
After a long day of riding, the Wali and his men reached the southern slopes of the high mountains that separate the Omani desert from the northern coast. There they dismounted by the side of a dirt road, and waited in a grove of date palms. As the sun fell, the shadows deepened, and evening birds began to call, filling the air with their exotic songs.
Sometimes a few foreigners were found in this area, tourists who came to visit the ancient falaj, the underground water distribution systems built by the Persians several thousand years ago, the remarkable wells had been drilled as a series of vertical shafts linked to each other by a tunnel, sometimes many kilometers long. Although there were many types of falaj, this region was famous for the tunneled ones, the Dawudi or Iddi. A wonder, truly.
"And so were the tourists a wonder," thought the Wali bitterly, a deep hatred stirring in his bowels. "Another sign of the so-called 'freedom' brought to the country in the last decade or so." The Wali prayed that Oman would never allow the ungodly liberalism experienced by some of the neighboring countries. Their reformed practices had brought planes full of Russian tourists, many of them with disreputable and disrespectful women -women who wandered around with their breasts exposed, hanging down like half-empty, leather water bags. Naked or clothed, these foreigners were ridiculous abominations. They had no place in the desert. He spat on the sand.
The Wali quickly freed his thoughts from the tourists as the wind carried faint rumblings to his ears. Distant thunder? Or guns? His men glanced around, then silently goaded the resting camels off their knees. Mounted again on protesting beasts, they fingered their rifles and waited. Gradually, the indistinct noise resolved itself into the sounds of powerful engines. The Wali and his men surveyed the horizon, searching for the source of the disturbance. The surrounding hills projected long shadows into the valley. In a very short time, night would fall. The birds abruptly stopped singing. Tension grew in palpable waves as the Wali and his men awaited the Leader's imminent arrival
The Wali had trouble concentrating. He thought again of Razziah, imagined her warm skin pressed against his, her young eyes now knowing, her mouth like an open flower. He spurred his camel onwards. Yes, it was good to be free. Independent desert people did not easily accept decisions made in remote Muscat, the capital of the Sultanate. Muscat, to the north, facing Iran at the entrance of the Strait of Ormuz did not even follow the traditional ways. The Hagari frequently found themselves offended by the so-called “modern attitudes” of the central government.
After a long day of riding, the Wali and his men reached the southern slopes of the high mountains that separate the Omani desert from the northern coast. There they dismounted by the side of a dirt road, and waited in a grove of date palms. As the sun fell, the shadows deepened, and evening birds began to call, filling the air with their exotic songs.
Sometimes a few foreigners were found in this area, tourists who came to visit the ancient falaj, the underground water distribution systems built by the Persians several thousand years ago, the remarkable wells had been drilled as a series of vertical shafts linked to each other by a tunnel, sometimes many kilometers long. Although there were many types of falaj, this region was famous for the tunneled ones, the Dawudi or Iddi. A wonder, truly.
"And so were the tourists a wonder," thought the Wali bitterly, a deep hatred stirring in his bowels. "Another sign of the so-called 'freedom' brought to the country in the last decade or so." The Wali prayed that Oman would never allow the ungodly liberalism experienced by some of the neighboring countries. Their reformed practices had brought planes full of Russian tourists, many of them with disreputable and disrespectful women -women who wandered around with their breasts exposed, hanging down like half-empty, leather water bags. Naked or clothed, these foreigners were ridiculous abominations. They had no place in the desert. He spat on the sand.
The Wali quickly freed his thoughts from the tourists as the wind carried faint rumblings to his ears. Distant thunder? Or guns? His men glanced around, then silently goaded the resting camels off their knees. Mounted again on protesting beasts, they fingered their rifles and waited. Gradually, the indistinct noise resolved itself into the sounds of powerful engines. The Wali and his men surveyed the horizon, searching for the source of the disturbance. The surrounding hills projected long shadows into the valley. In a very short time, night would fall. The birds abruptly stopped singing. Tension grew in palpable waves as the Wali and his men awaited the Leader's imminent arrival
October 20th, Zuerich, Von Globus Bank Conference Room, No 6
The secretary led the two men into a conference room which was as dark as a confessional. Turning on soft lights, she then vanished, just as Konrad Streubli entered the room.
"Guete Hans, Bernard, wie goet's," Konrad's singsong voice was laced with an unmistakably optimistic intonation. Like well-trained schoolboys they responded automatically, not betraying their impatience, "Very well Konrad, thank you, and how are you?" That was it for social chit-chat.
Hans Weber immediately lowered his voice. "Can we speak freely?"
"Yes, of course" answered Konrad almost mechanically.
Ready for business, he peered at the two men in the dim light.
"Good," added Konrad. "Then what about our little Indian broker in London?"
"Well," answered Bernard suppressing a sneer, "Mr. Malhotra is clean. Our private detectives have checked out everything about our little friend. I do mean everything -including following him to the toilet, and putting a spy in his bed." He smiled thinly. "I can give you a detailed report on his preferred Kamasutra positions, if you wish."
"That won't be necessary, Bernard," snapped Streubli. "At this point, can we say that the whole deal is secure and there is no way anyone can find out?"
"Absolutely," answered Bernard. "Confidentiality is assured." Again, the thin smile played on his wide mouth. "We have paid and...ah...convinced...whenever and whomever necessary. In eight days we will begin act one of our little play, and without any doubt, by the end of November we will emerge victorious. No one will know. No one will even suspect what has happened. But we will, as they say in American movies, laugh all the way to the bank!" Bernard paused, for effect, pleased with his small joke. "Now. Can I interest you gentlemen in a bit of lunch?"
"Guete Hans, Bernard, wie goet's," Konrad's singsong voice was laced with an unmistakably optimistic intonation. Like well-trained schoolboys they responded automatically, not betraying their impatience, "Very well Konrad, thank you, and how are you?" That was it for social chit-chat.
Hans Weber immediately lowered his voice. "Can we speak freely?"
"Yes, of course" answered Konrad almost mechanically.
Ready for business, he peered at the two men in the dim light.
"Good," added Konrad. "Then what about our little Indian broker in London?"
"Well," answered Bernard suppressing a sneer, "Mr. Malhotra is clean. Our private detectives have checked out everything about our little friend. I do mean everything -including following him to the toilet, and putting a spy in his bed." He smiled thinly. "I can give you a detailed report on his preferred Kamasutra positions, if you wish."
"That won't be necessary, Bernard," snapped Streubli. "At this point, can we say that the whole deal is secure and there is no way anyone can find out?"
"Absolutely," answered Bernard. "Confidentiality is assured." Again, the thin smile played on his wide mouth. "We have paid and...ah...convinced...whenever and whomever necessary. In eight days we will begin act one of our little play, and without any doubt, by the end of November we will emerge victorious. No one will know. No one will even suspect what has happened. But we will, as they say in American movies, laugh all the way to the bank!" Bernard paused, for effect, pleased with his small joke. "Now. Can I interest you gentlemen in a bit of lunch?"
October 20th, Wali's patrol in the desert, No 5
The Wali was preoccupied; his newest marriage was no longer a priority. Since his first secret meeting with the Hagari man known as “the Leader”, the Wali's mind had been busy with sobering and important thoughts, with dreams of grandeur and future opportunities. He had become very serious of late, and in his current mood, sex - pleasurable as it was- had become a sort of unwanted distraction. Still he found himself dwelling on the behavior of his beautiful and enticing new wife and wondering what she would do once he left her for the Jihad -the Holy War. Was she with child from their first night? These were not thoughts the Wali had time for. More important issues were at hand. For the Wali and his people, the next few weeks would bring a leap into the future, a better future, where resurrected freedom and respect for their tribal heritage were to be found. Or so the Leader had promised his followers.
October 20th, ten years ago, Zuerich, Switzerland, No 4
They had been in these offices before.
As they trailed the secretary through a maze of thickly-carpeted corridors and hallways, Bolliger and Weber were oblivious to the magnificent woodwork and glass-lit shelves that supported a large collection of ceramics and crystals, ranging from antique porcelains to Lladrò. Unfortunately, all the items were displayed with the rigidity and lack of imagination that only their owner -a Swiss private banker- could achieve. Lack of creativity seemed to pervade the entire building. Located in the outrageously expensive Bahnhofstrasse in the heart of Zürich, Bank Von Globus was typically Swiss: precise, expensive, boring, but ready to engage in creative businesses if the reward was juicy enough.
As they trailed the secretary through a maze of thickly-carpeted corridors and hallways, Bolliger and Weber were oblivious to the magnificent woodwork and glass-lit shelves that supported a large collection of ceramics and crystals, ranging from antique porcelains to Lladrò. Unfortunately, all the items were displayed with the rigidity and lack of imagination that only their owner -a Swiss private banker- could achieve. Lack of creativity seemed to pervade the entire building. Located in the outrageously expensive Bahnhofstrasse in the heart of Zürich, Bank Von Globus was typically Swiss: precise, expensive, boring, but ready to engage in creative businesses if the reward was juicy enough.
Before the Wali departure from his village, No 3
Prepared by the older ones, bathed and perfumed, Razziah had been waiting in an atmosphere thick with incense for the first night with her husband.
It had been a night of passion and ecstasy, the woman-child obedient and submissive to all the desires of her man, as only a young Hagari female could be.
Still, the Wali had not enjoyed the young desert virgin wholeheartedly. In spite of the broad hints of his older uncles, who cheerfully advised that there was "nothing better to keep a man young and alive than young quivering meat", only reluctantly had he decided to take her as his fourth wife.
It had been a night of passion and ecstasy, the woman-child obedient and submissive to all the desires of her man, as only a young Hagari female could be.
Still, the Wali had not enjoyed the young desert virgin wholeheartedly. In spite of the broad hints of his older uncles, who cheerfully advised that there was "nothing better to keep a man young and alive than young quivering meat", only reluctantly had he decided to take her as his fourth wife.
October 20th, ten years ago, Zuerich, Switzerland, No 2
"Herr Bolliger,” The voice paused for effect, ”Herr Weber." She nodded with quiet Swiss efficiency as she beckoned the two men to follow. "Dr. Struebli will receive you now." Her eyes and face impassive, the statuesque secretary led them from the waiting room.
Mr. Bolliger and Mr Weber, representatives of ROTHIDA International Holdings AG, did as they were told, as was their habit. For ten years they had been doing as they were told by Dr. Konrad Struebli, director of North American Accounts for Von Globus Bank. And for ten years Von Globus had shuffled ROTHIDA's money around the world.
Mr. Bolliger and Mr Weber, representatives of ROTHIDA International Holdings AG, did as they were told, as was their habit. For ten years they had been doing as they were told by Dr. Konrad Struebli, director of North American Accounts for Von Globus Bank. And for ten years Von Globus had shuffled ROTHIDA's money around the world.
October 20th, ten years ago: Somewhere in the Omani Desert, No 1
The first rays of the burning sun darted from the horizon; the day was going to be long.
Three days earlier, the Wali, left his village in the northernmost region of the Al Wusta, the central portion of Oman near the border with Ad Bakhdiyah.
The man, Governor of one of the fifty nine counties or Wilayat constituting the Sultanate of Oman, traveled with his personal guard of eight men, the standard complement for a routine ground-patrol of the Wilayat. In recent years ground-patrols had become rare events indeed, but this trip was quite extraordinary.
Their usual relaxed pace forgotten, the Wali and his escort rode hard from the moment they departed, heading their camels north, towards the mountains and their secret rendez-vous.
Even though sworn to confidence, the Wali nonetheless had revealed the real nature of his trip to a few members of his fiercely loyal Hagari tribe, the people of the South Omani desert. Proud knights, free men, rarely tolerating any kind of authority, the Hagari were known to be continually at war among themselves and with other Bedouins, fighting for tribal supremacy, territorial domination, and religious convictions.
As the men rode, hot desert winds buffeted their weathered faces, and the Wali's thoughts turned to the last night he had spent in his village. On his tongue he could still taste the roasted baby goat, dates, pistachios, and the black, hot coffee and cardamom, beverage of the sons of the desert. And as his strong arms and hands guided the camel's reins, the Wali remembered the silky smoothness of his newest and youngest wife Razziah.
Three days earlier, the Wali, left his village in the northernmost region of the Al Wusta, the central portion of Oman near the border with Ad Bakhdiyah.
The man, Governor of one of the fifty nine counties or Wilayat constituting the Sultanate of Oman, traveled with his personal guard of eight men, the standard complement for a routine ground-patrol of the Wilayat. In recent years ground-patrols had become rare events indeed, but this trip was quite extraordinary.
Their usual relaxed pace forgotten, the Wali and his escort rode hard from the moment they departed, heading their camels north, towards the mountains and their secret rendez-vous.
Even though sworn to confidence, the Wali nonetheless had revealed the real nature of his trip to a few members of his fiercely loyal Hagari tribe, the people of the South Omani desert. Proud knights, free men, rarely tolerating any kind of authority, the Hagari were known to be continually at war among themselves and with other Bedouins, fighting for tribal supremacy, territorial domination, and religious convictions.
As the men rode, hot desert winds buffeted their weathered faces, and the Wali's thoughts turned to the last night he had spent in his village. On his tongue he could still taste the roasted baby goat, dates, pistachios, and the black, hot coffee and cardamom, beverage of the sons of the desert. And as his strong arms and hands guided the camel's reins, the Wali remembered the silky smoothness of his newest and youngest wife Razziah.
The action starts on October 20th! No 0
Do not miss the riveting first posts of the story.
Action will start in the Omani desert and simultaneously in Zuerich, Switzerland.
The Wali (governor of a Wilayat, a county) will ride towards his destiny, meanwhile some very sleazy Swiss bankers will be putting a few final touches to the deal of their lives.
And then…
Just immerse yourself in the universe of intrigue awaiting to explode in Zeno’s and Carlo’s face.
Start thinking which character of the story best suits your inclinations.
More revelations soon.
Action will start in the Omani desert and simultaneously in Zuerich, Switzerland.
The Wali (governor of a Wilayat, a county) will ride towards his destiny, meanwhile some very sleazy Swiss bankers will be putting a few final touches to the deal of their lives.
And then…
Just immerse yourself in the universe of intrigue awaiting to explode in Zeno’s and Carlo’s face.
Start thinking which character of the story best suits your inclinations.
More revelations soon.
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Book One
The Santucci Brothers Trilogy, 1999, F. Oboni
