might regret it now, but back then they needed the support of anyone and everyone wil ing to get on their bandwagon.”
“Excuse the interruption, Mr. and Mrs. Davis, but dinner is ready,” Henry said over the house intercom.
A table for two had been set in an intimate corner of an enclosed porch. What it lacked in formality, it made up for in the splendid view of the gardens and lawns of the estate Alan’s father had named EDEN.
“Magnificent,” Alan said, as the sun dipped below the horizon and a wash of pinks and purples bled across the sky.
Henry poured two glasses of a decanted Barol o and then retreated to the kitchen. When they were alone, Alan raised his glass and said, “Here’s to the loveliest lady I have ever known.”
“And I wil drink to the handsome young man whose vast array of skil s includes knowing how to make a lady blush.”
Henry presented their dinner consisting of extraordinarily wel presented lentil soup, lamb with yogurt (one of Alan’s favorites), green beans in oil, and finishing with fresh ground Lebanese coffee.
Alan didn’t eat much, though it had nothing to do with the quality of Henry’s Lebanese entrees. He was preoccupied with the terrorist attack that had shut down his Riyadh refinery, but he was even more concerned with the safety of his employees and their families. He had sent his best friend and most valued executive into a crisis situation that Alan should have taken responsibility for himself. How stupid!
He knew Dan was up to the job, just as Brian had said, but the name on the refinery belonged to Alan Davis.
Alan and Aly were in bed by ten. By midnight, Alan had given up on sleep. He listened to Aly’s soft and regular breathing and watched the shadows of moonlit trees dancing across his ceiling.
Almost magical y, his thoughts turned to the evening he had asked Aly to become his wife. They had been sitting at their favorite corner table in Maison Chez Louis on a night much like this one, and he could hear her reply as if it had been yesterday. “Yes, my darling…yes, yes, yes forever.”
They had not been intimate before that night––it was a mutual y accepted arrangement that was strongly influenced by her Islamic faith and his Christian beliefs.
He recal ed driving to the guest cottage and starting a glowing fire in the bedroom. He said, “This is a once in a lifetime moment and I just want to hold you close until our wedding night.”
PARIS, FRANCE
DAN MILLAR WALKED through the Charles de Gaul e International airport in Paris with a light duffel bag in one hand and a computer case in the other. His connecting flight to Riyadh, the capital city of Saudi Arabia, was due to board in eighteen minutes according to his watch.
More than half the passengers waiting at the boarding gate were in Muslim dress. Dan had flown in and out of Riyadh a dozen times, and this was nothing unusual. On most occasions, the bearded man with the conservative gray tunic would simply have blended into the crowd had it not been for the four brutish men surrounding him. They studied every face as if an enemy of the bearded man lurked there. Persian, Arabian, European; it didn’t matter. The suspicion was not new to Dan. Neither was the hatred. The suspicion he could understand, but the hatred con-fused him. So many Muslims seem to hate the West, and particularly Americans. Why, Dan wondered. What in the world have we done to them? America was never a colonial power. Most of us know that the fol owers of Mohammed once led the world in the arts and sciences. Most of us realize they were tolerant of other religions through the dark and middle ages. And we know too that they initial y spread their religion with the sword, their Prophet, Mohammed, leading them. We never experienced anything like that in America. Why hate us? Maybe, he thought, they see us as having everything and themselves as having nothing. Even if that were true––a terrible generalization in Dan’s view––who’s fault was that? Ours?
Five minutes later, boarding commenced. Dan found his seat, stored his carryon, and buckled up. He closed his eyes and thought about