“La banque est cent mille,” Salman announced. As the banker for the moment, the dealing shoe was in front of him. He had just announced that he would be the bank for one hundred thousand euros, about $125,000.
Twenty years ago, at the height of the Arab oil stranglehold on the world, such a bet would have been very conservative in a place like this. But nowadays even in the Salles Privées, bets above fifty thousand were increasingly rare, except at the very height of the season.
The game was played at a kidney-shaped table, the players seated on the outside rim across from the croupier, who raked in the cards. Seated behind him on a tall chair was the chef de parti, or umpire.
Salman had offered to play anyone or any combination of players around the table for up to the full amount of the bank. If someone wanted a piece of the action, he or she might push a pile of betting plaques forward. If a player wanted the entire bank, he or she would announce, “Banco.” If it was too rich a bet, that hand would be canceled and a smaller bank offered.
An expectant hush fell over the table.
Salman was seated with his back to the door. A young woman wearing a dazzling white off-the-shoulder evening dress, a dozen carats of diamonds around her long slender neck and a matching bracelet around one wrist, stood behind him, one hand delicately placed on his shoulder. She bent down and whispered something in his ear; he looked up and she kissed the side of his face.
McGarvey put his champagne glass aside and moved past the onlookers and through the opening in the rail at the opposite end of the table from Salman. “Banco,” he said. He nodded pleasantly to the chef de parti. “That is, if someone would relinquish a seat for me.”
An older American woman, seated in the number two position next to a man who was probably her husband, looked up at McGarvey with a rueful smile. She was slender and put together as if she might have been a model sometime in the past. She had a very small stack of black plaques, which were worth a thousand euros each. She scooped them up. “Take my place,” she offered. “The prince is just as lucky as he is charming.”
“Thank you,” McGarvey said, holding her chair, and when she got up he kissed her hand.
“Kill the smug bastard,” she whispered in McGarvey’s ear. Her husband started to get up too, but she waved him back. “Stick around; I’m just going to the ladies’.”
McGarvey turned to face the prince for the first time, and for what seemed like a very long moment he had no idea who he was looking at. Salman had Khalil’s eyes; though the prince’s were pale brown and the terrorist’s were jet black, they were the same shape, as were their faces and general build. Beyond that, McGarvey couldn’t be sure that they were the same man.
The way Salman held himself, his attitude and the expression in his eyes and on his mouth were that of a Saudi royaclass="underline" he expressed a vague, indifferent amusement, as if he considered himself at the center of the world and only those important enough to be noticed by him understood it. With a slackness that was almost effete, perhaps effeminate, he was the epitome of an ultrarich, bored playboy. The attitude was a studied one, but it was a badge of honor among a certain class.
Khalil had been intense, his movements and actions quick, precise, and sure. There’d been nothing vague about him. Nothing indifferent. The only attitude he’d seemed to share with the prince was the expectation that whoever he faced knew who was the center of the world, knew who was the superior intellect and the superior force.
All that passed through McGarvey’s head in an instant, as he nodded pleasantly to Salman and then took the plushy upholstered seat still warm from the American woman.
“Good evening, Mr … Brewster,” Salman said, languidly. “Did I hear you correctly — you have offered banco?”
McGarvey nodded, though he knew that his one-million-dollar line of credit would not pose any serious threat to the Saudi prince. At some point one flip of the cards could end it. This would have to be more a game of psychology than of cards. McGarvey turned to the chef de parti. “May I assume that the gentleman banker is good for the money?”
A gasp rose from the players and the onlookers who’d heard the gauche remark. McGarvey had been less than polite; he’d been insulting.
Salman’s mouth tightened. “It is I who should be asking you the question.”
“My credit is on file with the caissier. I don’t believe anyone in Monaco would question my character or my honesty.”
“You are an honest American here in Monaco then, doing what?”
“Hunting down rabid animals,” McGarvey replied, sharply.
The chef de parti intervened before Salman could say anything else and thus escalate what already seemed to be unacceptable behavior for the salle. “Both gentlemen have sufficient funds to cover the bet. May we proceed?”
Salman slid four cards in quick succession from the shoe, slapping them on the table and turning them over for everyone to see. They were the discards: a king, a ten, a natural nine, and a three.
The croupier raked in the cards and placed them in a tray.
Salman slid two cards out of the shoe, which the croupier raked across to McGarvey, and then dealt himself two cards.
McGarvey glanced at his cards, then looked up at Salman and snorted derisively. “Neuf,” he said, flipping his cards face up. They were a jack and a nine, which was a natural win unless the banker also had a nine.
Salman turned his cards up. They were a five and a three.
McGarvey laughed again. “Close, but no cigar,” he said boorishly. “Too bad.”
The croupier raked in the cards, then started to slide ten plaques, each worth ten thousand euros, across the table, but McGarvey made a brushing motion with his hand. “Let’s double it — that is, if the prince has the courage of his Bedouin ancestors.”
Already word had begun to spread through the casino that something was going on in one of the Salles Privées, and the room was completely filled. Someone brought McGarvey a glass of champagne, but he ignored it, his eyes locked on Salman’s, goading the man, and yet he still wasn’t sure that the prince was Khalil.
Normally, the shoe would have passed to the player on the banker’s right, but the chef de parti offered no objections when Salman passed it across to McGarvey.
“Deux cents milles,” McGarvey said.
“Banco,” Salman replied, immediately.
McGarvey slid two cards out of the shoe, which the croupier raked to Salman, then dealt himself two cards.
Salman smiled and flipped his cards over. They were a pair of fours, a natural eight that could be beaten only by a nine.
McGarvey flipped his cards over without taking his eyes off Salman. “They were a six and a deuce. A tie.”
“Quatre cents milles,” McGarvey announced even before the croupier had raked in the cards.
“Banco,” Salman said. He gave McGarvey a forced smile. “It’s a dangerous game you are playing, Mr. Brewster.”
“Yes, it is,” McGarvey agreed. “Someone could get hurt.” Without looking down at the shoe, he dealt out two cards for Salman and two for himself.
McGarvey looked at his cards. He’d dealt himself a queen and a seven.
Salman looked at his cards, and shrugged. “Carte,” he said, which meant his hand totaled five or less.