“I’ve got a professionally vested interest: if this leads to anything it will be as much to my advantage as to yours,” he said.
“I actually think I’ve got more to gain than you,” disputed Janet. “And I’m still grateful.”
“We’ve time for a drink downstairs before we go,” said Baxeter. “That OK with you?”
“You’re coming with me, then?”
“Didn’t you expect me to?”
Janet let her hands come up and fall in uncertainty. “I didn’t know,” she said.
“Let’s talk about it downstairs.”
Janet brushed past the man as she left the room and she was aware of his cologne. It was strong. John had never gone in for things like that, Janet remembered.
Janet asked for coffee. Baxeter chose scotch. Janet watched the barman pour, caught by a familiarity but unable to think what it was. Glenfiddich, she saw, remembering: she and John had drunk Glenfiddich that first night, in Nathan’s. She physically shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the memory. Somehow it seemed wrong when she was with another man, which she acknowledged to be a stupid feeling but one she had, nevertheless. She said: “The person I spoke to kept on about not involving the police: no tricks was how he put it. I asked how I would recognize him and he told me I wouldn’t. That he’d recognize me.”
“You’ll have to make the actual meeting by yourself,” agreed Baxeter. “They’ll be watching, obviously. They won’t approach if I’m with you.”
“Where will you be?”
Janet hadn’t intended to sound nervous. Baxeter became serious and reached across the table for her hand, as he had over the luncheon table. “Don’t worry!” he said. “I’ll be right there, very close. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, not this time.”
“Thank you,” Janet said, not looking back at him. She shifted her fingers away from his touch.
“Sorry,” he said, withdrawing his hand.
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“The Paphos Gate is a clever choice,” resumed Baxeter, briskly. “There’s a main highway directly outside, and three other major roads forming other good escape routes. I’ll stay in the car directly opposite the Gate, so I’ll be able to watch you all the time.”
“What if…” Janet straggled to a halt. Forcing the question she said: “What if they do make a grab at me?”
“Scream,” said Baxeter at once. “Scream and run back towards me. They’ll want to see the money, so we’ll loosen the package. If they go for you, drop it so the money breaks out: it’ll deflect them.”
“But they’ll get the?1,000!”
“But they won’t get you,” said Baxeter. “And the money’s useless anyway.”
“I…” Janet stopped again.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Janet said, brisk herself now. “We’d better get going.”
They had driven to lunch in Janet’s hired car, but this time Baxeter led the way to his vehicle. When Janet saw it she faltered, glad he was slightly in front and didn’t see her reaction. It was a Volkswagen. Unlike John’s, this one was dirty and there was a dent in the rear wing: it must have been a long-ago accident because it was already rusting. Baxeter let her in before walking around to the driver’s side and while he was doing so Janet saw that the car was uncared for inside, as well. A sweater and some very old newspapers were discarded on the rear seat, and the ashtray overflowed with chocolate bar wrappings. Baxeter saw her looking when he got into the car and said: “I gave up smoking six months ago. Now all I do is eat sweets: the risk isn’t lung cancer any more, it’s diabetes.”
The man drove familiarly towards the old part of the capital, joining up with the road system that looped entirely around the walls. “That’s the museum,” Baxeter identified, as they went by the building, “and up ahead is the Post Office block. That’s where I’m going to park. The Paphos Gate is right opposite…” He hesitated, looking sideways at her. “I won’t be more than twenty yards away at any time.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it would have affected me so much as this,” Janet said, embarrassed.
“I would have been surprised if it hadn’t,” said Baxeter. He stopped outside the telecommunications complex and pointed across to the meeting place. “There,” he said. “I’m very close.”
“Yes,” Janet agreed.
“You all right?”
“Fine.”
Baxeter had driven with the parceled-up money on the floor beneath his legs. He lifted it on to his lap and peeled away the tape holding the package together. He offered it to Janet and said: “Pull the paper back from the top, like that. Then they’ll be able to see the money.”
Janet took it: “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it worked! If this really were something!”
“Wonderful,” Baxeter agreed.
Janet got out of the Volkswagen and wedged the parcel under her left arm: with the tape loosened the package felt unsteady and she put her other hand across her body, frightened of dropping it and scattering money everywhere. She had to time her crossing of Egypt Avenue to dodge the approaching cars. People thronged the area directly in front of the Gate and Janet hoped she would not be lost from Baxeter’s view among the crowd. Although it was mid-evening there were still some fruit stalls loaded for business and groups of souvenir vendors and postcard sellers stood at either side of the Gate itself. Janet slowed when she reached the Gate, standing first to the right and then crossing over to the far side. She pretended interest in a copperwork stall, which was a mistake because the bent, claw-fingered man began trying to thrust bracelets and necklaces upon her. To escape Janet went across to the other side of the Gate. She wanted to check the time but didn’t because it would have meant turning her arm to see her watch and risking dropping the money. She wished she had gone to the toilet before leaving the hotel. She looked back towards the Post Offfice complex: she could make out the Volkswagen, but not as clearly as she would have liked. Baxeter would be able to see her, Janet thought, in self-assurance: she was sure he was absolutely dependable.
“Right on time.”
Janet gasped in surprise, half turning. Illogically Janet had expected the man to come from outside the old part, towards her, but he had emerged from the inside, through the gate. He wore a loose qumbaz, a robe going right down to the ground and so voluminous it was impossible to tell if he were a thin or fat man, and around his head and concealing his lower face was wrapped a red and white Bedouin kaffeyeh. He’d spoken English, and Janet could not detect the sort of intonation she would have expected from an Arab. “What is it you have?” Janet demanded.
“That the money?”
“Yes.”
“Let me have it.”
“I want what you have first.”
“Let me see it.”
Janet parted the wrapping as Baxeter had shown her, determinedly closing it after a few moments. “Now you.”
From beneath his robe the man brought an envelope, holding up but away from her. “Here!” he said.
“All I can see is an envelope.”
Still keeping it away, the man reached inside, half pulling out what appeared to be some sheets of paper and a glossy print. “It’s all here.”
Janet felt the jump of excitement deep in her stomach. “What’s the photograph of?”
“The house.”
“What house?”
“Where he is, in Beirut.”
The excitement grew, flowing through her. Trying to control it she said: “What else?”
“The address, where to go here. Where you’ll get the address in Beirut.”
“I don’t understand why you’re doing it this way,” she protested.
“No tricks, remember,” said the man. “If you’ve involved the police-if I’m jumped upon-then I won’t telephone the house where I’m sending you, to say everything is all right. If they don’t get a call within five minutes, they’re going to leave. The same if the money is phony, when I’ve a chance to look at it closer. Cautious, eh?”
“Very,” Janet agreed. It seemed a reasonable explanation for what the man was doing.
“Give me the money,” the man demanded.
“The envelope,” Janet insisted.