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Mossad had wanted his newest informant to die in the attack that had taken place on the previous eve. Extending that logic, and understanding the brutality that Freidman was known for, David felt the need to get out of Israel as quickly as possible.
After stumbling away from the site of the bombing, David didn’t make it far; only two blocks to be precise. A ruptured eardrum caused him to walk as if he were drunk. His dust-covered suit, listless walk and bloodied face caught the attention of a paramedic, who after a quick examination thrust him into a waiting ambulance. Upon arrival at the hospital David gave a fake name.
Mossad had spies everywhere and if they weren’t lucky enough to have one at the hospital, they could hack into the patient files with little effort. One of the first people to arrive after the attack, he was treated right away. The gashes in his leg and neck were cleaned and stitched up with great speed. More seriously injured people were being pulled from the rubble and on their way.
Having grown up around hospitals David had no problem finding the doctors’ lounge. He moved without fear of being discovered. The staff would be working at a crisis pace for the next day or more. His clothes were no longer useful, so he threw them into the garbage and cleaned up. The only thing he kept were his undergarments, shoes, and a money belt that contained cash and documents for an assumed identity. Next he searched the lockers until he found one that contained clothes roughly his size. David changed into them and took the car keys sitting on the top shelf.
Out in the parking garage he went to the first level where the physicians parking was located and hit the door lock button on the keyless entry twice. Up ahead on his right a pair of headlights flashed and a horn honked. David left Hebron as directly as possible. Various Palestinian groups had already begun setting up barricades to keep the Israeli Defense Forces from entering the city and he was lucky to find a way through them.
By sunup David had made it all the way to the south and crossed the border into Jordan at Arava. Feeling only slightly safer, he called the prince and requested that he send his plane to the seaside town of Aqaba to pick him up. The prince, comatose from a night of festivities, was unable to speak, so it was his always efficient assistant Devon who sent one of Omar’s five private jets. By noon he was safely out of Freidman’s reach and on his way to France. He landed in Nice in midafternoon and was taken by limo to the Carlton Hotel in Cannes, where Devon had booked him a suite.
The first order of business was clothing, so after an hour of shopping along de la Croissette and billing everything to his hotel room, and ultimately the prince, David returned to the solitude of his plush room and collapsed out of exhaustion. Sometime later, he was awakened by the fleshy soft hand of none other than Prince Omar.
David rolled over onto his back and tried to blink the weariness from his eyes. As the room came into focus he realized it was nighttime. Omar reached out and pawed the side of David’s neck. The touch stung the tender skin around the stitches. Out of reflex David slapped the prince’s hand away. Almost instantly he was aware of someone else in the room. Someone large by the size of the shadow they cast against the wall.
Chung, the obedient Chinese bodyguard, was making his presence known, lest David try anything stupid. Prince Omar, however, was not bothered by the slap. He was too amused by the mark on David’s neck and the implications it held.
“I think someone has been up to something.” Omar cupped David’s cheeks in his hands and said, “I want to hear all about it.”
David shooed Omar’s hands away. His head was killing him and the last thing he wanted right now was the prince touching him. “Hear about what?”
“About last night!” proclaimed the Saudi prince with a twinkle in his eye.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” David groaned.
Omar stood up laughing. He was dressed immaculately in a very expensive silk suit. “Oh … you know what I’m talking about. Now get your duff out of bed and get ready for dinner.” Omar gestured with his hands toward the bathroom. “Come now … hurry. I am very hungry and I have been watching Al Jazeera. I want to know everything. We will eat and celebrate tonight. I will be waiting for you downstairs.” Omar, as giddy as a schoolgirl, left the room with Chung in tow.
By the time he got into the shower his spirits had lifted a bit. He was famished. Maybe a nice feast with Omar wouldn’t be so bad. Shaving proved to be a bit more of a challenge than he would have liked, but with Omar skipping it was not an option. The prince was a stickler for appearances. He wanted to be surrounded by beautiful people and that meant well-groomed and well-dressed people.
David put on his new clothes: a white shirt, four-button black suit, and blue tie. The tie was a bit tricky but as long as he didn’t turn his head too much it was manageable. A large flesh-colored Band-Aid over his stitches helped keep blood off the collar.
David found Omar downstairs in the bar. He was sitting in a corner booth squeezed in between four women, two on each side. Two other men sat at each end of the U-shaped booth. They were both Arab and more than likely were several of Omar’s three-thousand-plus cousins. As for the women, they were undoubtedly high-priced hookers that had been secured for however long the prince chose to stay in Cannes, or until he tired of them and replacements were obtained.
David almost didn’t notice Chung, which was no easy feat considering his size. Somehow he’d managed to conceal himself on the other side of a large potted fern and column. David winked at him, just to let him know he wasn’t fooled. Chung’s sphinxlike face remained utterly impassive.
As David approached the table, Omar released his always groping hands from two of the girls. Reaching out, he held his palms up in a gesture of enthusiastic welcome. “David, I am so glad you could join us.” Looking to his guests he said with a conspiratorial wink, “David is a man of many talents, and he is soon to be very famous.” The two Arab men nodded as if they knew more than they should.
The girls looked at him with playful eyes and then began giggling and muttering to each other in French. David ignored the women and gave the prince a disapproving look.
Omar, not wanting his little party spoiled by the often too serious David, rushed to say, “Sit!” The prince gestured to one of his cousins to make room. “Come sit with us. We will celebrate.” Looking to the waiter standing obediently near the booth, Omar yelled, “Champagne … more champagne!”
David held up his arm, freezing the waiter before he could fill the order. With a smile, and a slight bow at the waist, David said, “My prince, if I may have a moment of your time in private?” David’s forceful dark eyes conveyed that his words were not a request but a demand.
“Of course.” Omar clapped his hands twice and gestured for the table to be removed. He was not about to slide his plump form out of the booth.
The waiter snapped his fingers and two busboys rushed over and removed the table. Omar left his guests without saying a word and grabbed David by the elbow. With a look of deep concern, he asked, “What is wrong?”
David strained to look at ease. He was willing to bet double or nothing on the ten million dollars that Omar had given him not even a week ago, that the prince had shared their secrets with other members of the Saudi royal family.
“Who are those two men?”
“Cousins, of course.”
“Ah … just as I thought. And what have you told them?”
“Nothing.”
David stared doubtfully at Omar.
