MEG: Nightstalkers by Steve Alten Read Free Book Online Page A

always call your old pal, Monty. The last woman I was with had to be inflated.”
    David smiled. “I have a better idea.”
    *   *   *
    The driver stopped at two airport security checkpoints before following a private road onto the tarmac where the Crown Prince’s 747-300 jumbo jet was in position to taxi onto the runway.
    Standing on either side of a red carpet leading up the mobile staircase were ten women in their mid to late twenties. Each Arabian beauty wore a crème-colored Dubai Land blouse and a short gray skirt with matching stiletto pumps. Name tags written in English and Arabic identified the participants’ first names.
    David climbed out of the back of the limousine, only to be rushed by an American sporting a video camera and a familiar face. “David? James Gelet. We’ve never officially met, but I worked for your father aboard the hopper-dredge McFarland , when we transported Angel out to the Panthalassa Sea.”
    “Dude, I think you have me confused with the guy in the limo. I’m Monty, James Mackreides’s nephew.”
    The documentary director looked confused. “But you look just like Jonas and Terry—”
    David grabbed his arm, leaning in. “I’m Monty. Just go with it.”
    Monty climbed out of the back of the limo. “Hello, hello! David Taylor is in the house. Who’s hosting this freak show?”
    A petite woman in her early thirties with dark blond hair and a Texas accent hurried to Monty’s side. “Amanda Silvernail, I’m the executive producer of the show. It’s so nice to meet you.”
    “Of course it is. Introduce me to the ladies, Anita; I’ve got an important announcement to make.” He whispered in her ear, motioning at David. “That’s Monty. Don’t waste a lot of air time on him, he’s a little meshugganah .”
    They approached the reality show contestants. “Ladies, this is David Taylor, the submersible pilot who will be selecting three of you as finalists over the coming weeks.”
    “You mean hours. I’ll be rendering my decision the moment we land in Tokyo. Ten hour flight; ten ladies. Do the math, Wanita.”
    “It’s Amanda , and this isn’t what we agreed to.”
    “Hey sweet thing, that’s the way David Taylor rolls. Every time I go down in my sub, there’s no guarantee I’m coming back. Life’s like that for us adrenaline junkies. Speaking of going down, I’ll be conducting one-on-one interviews in the Crown Prince’s private suite. Each of you lovely ladies will have an hour to persuade me to vote for you. So, who wants to be first? How about you?”
    Monty approached the first woman on the right side of the red carpet, a Lebanese model. “And what’s your name?”
    “Hoda.”
    “Well, Hoda, I’d love to check under your hood-a.” He winked, then turned to the dark-haired Egyptian actress on his left. “Zeina … how would you like to play my warrior princess?”
    And on it went, Monty working his way from one Arab beauty to the next. There was Rana, a well-endowed Iranian actress and Jihan, a Dubai brunette with the legs of a swimsuit model. Nesrin was a Syrian university student with bedroom eyes; Ghada was born in Libya to a Syrian father and Lebanese mother. Saba was a Jordanian actress with a Botox lower lip. Ayisha was a model from the United Arab Emirates, sporting a knockout figure and western attitude. A sultry Moroccan with raven-black hair … a Qatar beauty with waist-length wavy brown hair.
    Monty flirted and cracked inane jokes like a bad game show host, then led the procession of women up the stairs and onto the jumbo jet. The ten contestants dutifully followed him and a protesting Amanda Silvernail onto the upper level where they took seats outside the Prince’s bedroom suite; a stewardess directed David down a circular staircase to the lower level.
    Six rows of first-class seats were situated up front, followed by a cherrywood conference table, several private work stations, bathrooms, a dining area, and in back, a home theater,