Carter prowled restlessly, integrating himself into the scene, getting a sense of it. As he always did when entering a place for the first time, he sought and memorized the location of exits, halls, and stairways. If trouble broke — when it broke — there would be no time to waste in searching for a way out.
Easing his way through the milling crowd in the grand front hall, he made his way to the main room, the club proper.
Some customs are universal. Slipping the attendant in charge of seating a handful of rivals bought Carter a table which, while not in a prime location, was as good as any allocated to a single fellow, as opposed to a big-spending party.
Carter surveyed the mingling of Middle Eastern and Western pleasure seekers. There were government officials, oil men, dealers and traders, buyers and sellers. Here sat a trio of Egyptians clad in conservative business suits, their heads crowned by red fezzes. There sat white-bearded sheiks from the interior, guarded by scowling desert tribesmen.
Female patrons were few and far between. Arabia was above all else a man's world. What few females there were, were European or American, sleekly expensive playthings plying their age-old trade in the emirate as the toys of powerful potentates. Carter wondered how many of them would conclude their Khobaiqi sojourn by being sold as slaves and shipped off to some sheik's harem in the great desert. More than a few, he decided.
Many of the patrons drank from porcelain teacups, but the crowd's roaring clamor suggested that they were fueled by something more high-octane than tea.
Raising his voice to be overheard by the waiter, Carter asked if it was possible to get a drink.
Indeed, it was possible. His whiskey was served to him in a teacup, outwardly observing the proprieties. It was watered-down, weak, and expensive, but it was authentic enough.
An intensive scan of the surroundings turned up no sign of Hodler. The towering East German would stand out in any crowd.
Carter faced front to watch the floor show. Big speakers pumped in loud European disco-pop that had been popular ten years ago. But what the music lacked in interest was more than made up for by the live entertainment.
On the raised stage, a trio of girls writhed like flames in a high wind. They were voluptuous in the extreme, as their scanty costumes of sequined bras, G-strings, and filmy scarves revealed to the satisfaction of all concerned. Gold glitter dusted their sweating bodies, sparkling under the spotlights.
Spinning individually, the trio wove around each other in a kind of intricate belly-dancing minuet. Despite their near nudity, their faces were veiled below their come-hither eyes. Their caressing movements as they glidingly intertwined said that these lovelies were more than platonically fond of each other.
Heat, smoke, and noise filled the space. The dancers played to a most appreciative audience, who clapped and stomped and roared their approval.
As the music reached a crescendo, so did the action. These dancers had every part of their anatomy under control, with melon breasts, rounded bellies, taut thighs, and ripe buttocks all gyrating to the beat of a different drummer at the same time.
This was no striptease, though by the number's climax they had shed their glittering halters and all veils but the ones masking their faces. Heaving breasts sent dark nipples swirling in opposite directions, buttocks clenched and unclenched, heavy hips bumped and grinded, miming the thrusting movements of sex.
As the music peaked, the three graces shuddered, each flying high in her own individual orbit, paroxysming with orgasmic shudders as the sound suddenly ceased and the stage blacked out.
After a heartbeat's stunned pause, the walls shook as the spectators cried out in one many-throated voice.
The sweat beading Carter's face had nothing to do with the temperature. That was some performance!
When the lights came back up on the stage, the dancers were gone. Carter noted that they had not been so carried away by simulated passion as to forget to collect the veils and garments they shed in the dance.
Waiters circulated, taking and dispensing orders. Carter stopped one of the fast-moving young men with a fistful of riyals.
The Killmaster surprised the waiter by speaking to him in Arabic. "When does Sultana dance?"
The waiter looked grieved. "Alas, Sultana dances no more. But there are many other fine performers who would delight in staging a private exhibition of their skills for a generous gentleman."
"No doubt, but my heart was set on Sultana."
"Alas, that is not possible."
Carter passed him more riyals, which rapidly vanished. "All things are possible for the right price."
The waiter shook his head. "Sultana's master is a most jealous man."
"Who might that fortunate fellow be?"
"A foreign devil of an unbeliever — begging your pardon, sir. But he is an evil man, a white-haired giant."
"Where does he keep this pearl beyond price?"
"There."
Ranged along both of the room's long walls flanking the stage were balconies subdivided into rows of private boxes whose intricate screens and sliding doors could be opened to watch the stage, or shut for more intimate pursuits.
The waiter's pointing finger indicated a box at stage left.
"Sultana is there?" Carter asked.
"Please accept this small token of my appreciation." Carter slipped some folded riyals into the waiter's breast pocket. His pleasure at the gratuity was offset by his dismay at Carter's recklessness. "Beware, stranger! Her master is absent, but he has set his dogs to guarding his property!"
"Dogs can be scattered by a few well-placed kicks."
"But these are evil men — killers!"
"Thank you again, you have been so very helpful." Carter glided past the waiter, who sadly shook his head at such rashness.
A steep flight of narrow wooden stairs rose to the gallery. Carter climbed them.
A turbaned guard stood behind a screen with brawny arms folded, blocking the entrance to the box holding Sultana and her two watchdogs. He stood half a head taller than Carter. His mean face was designed for scowling, while his muscular physique was built for violence.
"I have a message for Sultana," Carter said.
"I will see that she gets it."
"A message meant for her ears alone."
"Begone, dog."
Carter tried the easy way first. "I have a message for you, too." He held out a handful of riyals.
Taking the bribe, the guard crumpled the bills and threw them to the floor. "Go away, little man."
Carter feinted, as if trying to slip past him. The guard grabbed a handful of Carter's shirt front, tearing it.
Carter draped his right hand over the guard's, as if patting it. Instead, he applied a claw hold that wedged the guard's fingers together in such a way that nerves were ground between the bones. An agonizing submission hold.
The guard was tough. He didn't scream, only vented a gasping groan. But he found it impossible to resist the Killmaster's punishing grip as his hand was twisted downward.
The guard's rolling eyes bulged as he dropped to his knees. That put him in position for Carter's front snap kick, which took him square in the belly. A hard, taut belly, it was softened up by that kick.
Carter finished him off with a brutal, chopping strike to the nerve junction behind the angle of his jaw. The blow rocketed the guard off to slumberland.
Carter wasn't even breathing hard, though he did break a bit of sweat while dragging the unconscious guard off to one side, propping him against the wall.
Pausing to straighten his bow tie and tuck in his shirt, he pushed back the sliding panel and entered the box, closing the door behind him.
Sultana reclined on a divan, Arab fashion. Not even the dark hooded garment wrapping her could disguise the allure of her statuesque physique. Above the veil, her eyes were almond-shaped, expressive, kohl-rimmed. She looked dreadfully bored, until her languid glance fastened on the figure of the Killmaster.