I lowered his head and knelt there for a moment in the blackness. By accident I had gotten mixed up in one of Augie Fergus's shady deals — had, ironically, almost gotten myself killed — and I still didn't know anything about the assassination. It was possible, of course, that Ayoub had known something without telling Gasim. But it didn't matter now one way or the other. Both Augie and Ayoub were beyond further explanation or conniving.
The next day I took a United Arab Airlines flight to Cairo and grabbed the next jet to Tangier. I arrived in Tangier and first took a room at the Grand Hotel, in the Medina, which Fergus had mentioned. I had lunch in a nearby restaurant, mechoui and a Stork Pils beers, then returned to the hotel bar.
I was sipping a Pernod, standing beside a barstool with my back to the dark-mustached bartender, when the girl came in. She was young, dressed in a black sheath and high-heeled sandals. Long straight dark hair fell over her shoulders. She was beautiful the way only young Arabian girls can be beautifuclass="underline" a dark, earthy beauty with a hint of mystery. She walked in a way that made a man want to reach out and touch her, a hips-undulating, breasts-moving, sensual walk that made an erotic but not vulgar display of her body. I watched as she moved past me, avoiding my eyes, leaving a faint scent of musky perfume in the air. She sat on a barstool about halfway down the bar and ordered a sherry. After the bartender had served her, he moved down to me.
"Every day she comes in like this," he said, noticing my admiring glance. "She orders one drink — just the one — and then she leaves."
"She's lovely," I said. "Do you know her name?"
"It is Hadiya — in Arabic it means 'gift, " he said, smiling through his mustache. "She dances at the Miramar Hotel. Shall I introduce you?"
I picked up my Pernod. "Thanks," I said, "but I'll go it solo."
The girl turned to look at me as I sat down beside her. Her eyes, big and black, were even lovelier close up, but at the moment aloof and wary. "May I buy you a drink?" I asked.
"Why?" she said coolly.
"Because you remind me of five memorable days I spent in Lebanon," I said, "and because it pleases me to be near you."
She looked into my eyes and studied my face for a long moment. "All right," she said suddenly. "You remind me of three lovely days in Gibraltar."
We laughed then together, and her laugh was musical. We exchanged names and some small talk about Tangier, and then the bartender showed up.
"A call for you."
I groaned inwardly. It was Hawk, I knew. His plane must have arrived early. I asked Hadiya to wait for me and excused myself. I took the call in the lobby, for privacy.
"Nick?" The voice was brisk, businesslike, with just a hint of a New England accent.
"Yes, sir. I hope you had a good flight."
"The girls were pretty, but the food was terrible," Hawk grated. I pictured his lean, impatient face, capped by thick graying hair, as he sweated in the Tangier airport telephone booth. "I have only a few hours between flights, Nick, so kiss the girl goodbye, whoever she is, and meet me at the Djenina Restaurant for an early dinner in exactly… one hour and a half."
I acknowledged and the phone clicked in my ear. I stood there for a moment, wondering what Hawk had up his sleeve for me now and whether it would be a follow-up to the Luxor business. Then I returned to the girl. "I have to leave," I said. "Business."
"Oh," she said, pouting prettily.
"But I think I'll catch the floor show at the Miramar tonight," I said. "If it's at all possible."
"I would like that, Mr. Carter." She smiled at me.
I drew back. "I told you my first name, not my last."
"Augie Fergus told me you'd be here," she said.
"How the hell did…"
Her face grew solemn. "Augie called me yesterday afternoon from Luxor. He described you, then said if anything happened to him, I should give you a photograph he keeps in his suitcase in our room."
Somehow, the thought of this beautiful thing belonging to Augie Fergus took me by surprise, and I must have registered it. I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me short.
"Something has gone wrong, then?" she asked.
I gave her the details. She took it all passively, then said, "It must have happened while he was on the telephone."
"What must have happened?" I asked.
"When he was killed. He was saying, 'Tell Cartel that… when the line went dead."
"That's all he managed to say?"
She shook her head up and down.
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing."
"I've got the money here," I patted the attaché case at my side. "Give me the photograph."
"It's in my room," she said. "Meet me tonight, after the show. I'll give it to you then."
"Now I know I'll catch the show," I said.
"Do that," she smiled, then slid off her barstool and walked out.
I walked to the Djenina Restaurant in the Casbah. Most of my meetings with Hawk were at his offices in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building on DuPont Circle in Washington. Rarely did we confer outside of Washington or New York, rarer still outside of the U.S. Hawk had no love for junkets about the globe and ventured abroad only on matters of the most extreme urgency. He apparently had classified his Johannesburg visit — and our Tangier meeting — as urgent.
Hawk arrived a short time after me and we took an outside table. He looked almost English, in a tweed jacket and gray trousers. His face was lined and looked tired and his spare frame seemed even slimmer than usual.
"Bad luck at Luxor, Nick. Damned bad luck. But maybe you'll get something from the girl." He pulled a long brown cigar from his jacket, stuck it into his mouth and chewed down on it without lighting it. "You probably haven't seen it in the papers yet but there's been another assassination in London." He removed the cigar from his mouth and watched my reaction.
"Another government official?" I asked.
"You might say so. This time it's Percy Dumbarton, Britain's Minister of Defence."
I whistled and stared out across the narrow cobble-stoned street, through the slow traffic of robed Arabs and donkey carts to the crumbling old buildings across the way. I started to comment, but just then the waiter returned to take our order. I ordered the Moroccan chicken couscous, and Hawk stuck to steak. Then the waiter was gone again.
"Dumbarton," Hawk continued not waiting for my response, "was one of England's most able leaders. The killer left another note, and it's clear now that the threat in the first note was no idle one."
"You haven't filled me in on that," I reminded him. Hawk reached into his pocket again and handed me two pieces of paper. "Here. I've typed out what the two notes said. Top one's the first one."
I read: "This is to prove we mean business. To prevent the death of other cabinet members, the British government must arrange to pay to us the sum of ten million pounds within the fortnight. Another execution will occur each fortnight until payment is made and the sum will increase by two million pounds after each succeeding death.
"The British government will save important lives, considerable anguish and millions of pounds sterling by immediate capitulation to our demand. When that inescapable decision is reached, a white flag must be flown below the Union Jack atop Parliament. At that signal, a further note will be delivered advising method of payment."
I looked up at Hawk. "Interesting," I said. Then I read the second note, the original of which had been found at the scene of the second assassination:
"You were warned but you did not take us seriously. Now your Minister of Defence is dead, and our demand has risen to twelve million pounds. Is the government of Britain too proud to capitulate? Let us hope not. We will watch for the white flag."