I shook my head slowly. "What do the British make of it?" I asked.
"They don't know what to make of it, N3," Hawk said grimly. "They're literally running around in circles. These were particularly bloody murders and panic is growing in high places. There is talk that even the Queen isn't safe. It's the biggest thing in years. It could literally destroy the British government if they don't find out what it's all about."
The waiter was back with the food. Hawk attacked the steak eagerly, talking as he ate.
"At first they thought it might be one of the international crime syndicates. Or maybe even an ex-con, recently released, with a grudge against official London. Now they think it may be the Russians."
I was skeptical. "Really?"
"It may not be as farfetched as it sounds. The Russians are at odds, bitterly, with several of Britain's top leaders. Dumbarton was one of them. They might be trying to effect a change of government in London — the direct way. It's been done before."
Hawk finished his steak and leaned back. "Maybe Russia is more edgy than we think," he continued. "Dumbarton was pushing the development of a fighter aircraft that would make a MIG look like Von Richtofen's Fokker DR-1. He was also pressing for a bacterial arsenal. British intelligence points to the language of the notes — the repetitive use of 'we' and 'us, the fact that the note paper is the same kind used by a Russian sub-agent in another matter. And, lastly, to the fact that Boris Novosty, who recently showed up in London, has now mysteriously dropped out of sight."
"He's one of KGB's best," I said thoughtfully.
Hawk nodded.
"And that's why you're here. The chief of SOE's Select Missions group and the Prime Minister got together and decided that since you're already in on this thing through Augie Fergus, and especially because Novosty and his people have never seen you, it would be nice if I loaned you to them for a while."
"And thus ends another brief but glorious holiday," I said. "I just wish I had been able to get something from Fergus."
"He may not have had anything," Hawk said. "The most they could find out about the poor devil is that he served as a commando quite a few years back and then went downhill from there. Of course, he might have done some sub-agent work for the Commies and overheard something. At any rate, that's irrelevant now. The British need all the help they can get to crack this. I'm sorry, Nick, that you seem to get all the nasty ones, but that goes along with being so good at what you do."
I acknowledged the compliment. "Thanks. When do I leave?"
"Early tomorrow morning. It's the first flight out." He grinned. "You'll have time to see her again tonight, I should think."
I grinned back. "I was counting on it."
The Mirimar Hotel was a pre-colonial vintage building that managed to retain its european flavor. The club was located at the rear of the lobby. I took a table and ordered a scotch on the rocks. When the waiter left with my order, I scanned the surroundings. The room was dimly lit, with most of the illumination coming from the candles which sat atop each table. The clientele was mainly Europeans in Tangier on holiday, with a smattering of modernized Arabs in western garb sipping Turkish coffee, talking animatedly among themselves.
Just as my drink arrived, the lights dimmed and the show began. The first act was a French singer who went through several numbers bemoaning the heartache of lost loves. She was followed by a procession of belly dancers whose talent was more worthy of Eighth Avenue in New York than the Mid-East.
Finally Hadiya was announced, and a respectful hush settled over the room. The musicians struck up a beat, and Hadiya slid onto the stage from the wings.
She was dressed in the standard belly dancer's costume, but that was as far standard as she was. From the onset it was evident that she was head and shoulders above the average belly dancer. Her abdominal muscles quivered with a control that must have taken years to perfect. Her breasts shook as if they had a mind of their own, and even her arm movements betrayed a grace that was from long ago, when belly dancing was an art rather than the bastardized striptease that it has been relegated to in recent years.
She swirled on bare feet, her body responding to the tempo of the musicians, rising passionately on the upbeats, slowing seductively on the downs. About me I could hear the labored breathing of the male customers as they bent forward to get a better view of her. The few female onlookers glared at her with envy, all the while studying her every movement, trying to copy them for the moment when they could use them in privacy, with their men.
Toward the end of the act the music grew fiercer, but Hadiya kept pace with it, perspiration dripping down her face, following the taut muscles of her neck and disappearing into the deep valley separating her breasts. She reached her peak with a final crescendo of drums, then fell to her knees, her body bent at the waist.
For a minute an awed silence hovered over the room, then, as one, every member of the audience burst into wild applause. Several men stood up, their hands working like pistons — me included. Hadiya acknowledged the applause, then modestly scampered offstage. The hand-clapping gradually subsided, and as if on cue, a collective murmur issued from the customers, each tongue reliving every movement of her act.
I called for my check, paid the waiter and made my way backstage. I was halted in the wings by a burly bouncer who restrained me by placing his meaty hands on my chest. I brushed his hand aside and continued toward the door which, I assumed, was Hadiya's.
I felt the bouncer's heavy hand on my shoulder as I knocked. I was just about to make an argument out of it when Hadiya emerged.
"It's all right, Kassim," she said, and the grip on my body relaxed. I walked into the dressing room, shutting out the fat Arab.
Hadiya disappeared behind a curtain, changed to street clothing, then walked out the door. When we reached the street, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of her apartment as I settled in next to her.
Hadiya's place was on the top floor of an old, well-kept building in the silversmiths' quarter, overlooking the sea. She opened the door, let me pass, then followed me in and locked it. Light from the full moon poured through the window. I scanned the living room for traces of Fergus. There were none. It was a female's habitat through and through.
Hadiya poured herself a snifter of brandy, handed me one and sat in the only armchair in the room. I sank into the couch and regarded her over the rim of my glass.
Finally I said, "The photograph Fergus said you should give me?"
She reached into the folds of her dress, and from a pocket pulled the picture. She handed it to me. I studied it. It was an old photograph, faded with time. There were 20 men in it, all wearing desert battle dress, all arranged in a formal group pose of four rows.
"It is Fergus' old commando unit," Hadiya said. "He's in the second row, second from the left. It was taken in 1942, in Cairo."
I turned it to the back, hoping to find something written there. All it bore was the name of the photographer. Whatever Fergus wanted to tell me was in that picture, probably concerning one of the men.
"Tell me about Fergus," I said.
She sipped her brandy. "I don't know anything… about his business, I mean. He was arrested several times for smuggling gold. Once he was questioned by the police about something to do with hashish — I think it was selling it. Other than that, he visited me once, maybe twice, a year. Sometimes he brought me money. Other times he borrowed money from me."
"The suitcase where the photo came from? What else is in it?"
"Nothing," she said. "Just a few old clothes."
I got up, entered the bedroom. The suitcase lay open on her bed. I rummaged through it, finding nothing but a few changes of men's clothes and an old, moth-eaten wedding dress.