The double-raising of the picture plainly indicated the cocking and then the deactivating of a booby trap. The charred picture and fresh paint and plaster showed that some unwary soul had raised the picture one time only and blown himself and that corner of the apartment into unsightly fragments.
I watched the base of the lamp as Bayak opened the safe and removed several thick envelopes. He returned to the sofa and busied himself counting money. He held out a stack of bills toward me, then withdrew it after a glance at Abdel. "How far is it to the transfer point?"
"Not far." He handed me the money. "How do you know I won't kill Abdel and take off with both cash and envelope?"
"The envelope will mean nothing to you," he smiled. "And I'm trusting that your business instincts are more highly developed than that. Our next conversation could mean much more to you than ten thousand dollars."
"One thing at a time. Coming, Talia?"
"Talia remains here," Bayak said. He smiled again. "But look her up after the transfer. I recommend it. She will be grateful for the envelope's recovery. You may leave now. Abdel will accompany you."
I thought about the ride down to the lobby in the close confines of the penthouse apartment elevator. Bayak read my mind. He addressed the giant in the foreign language, then spoke to me in English. "I told him that the envelope had priority. And that you would kill him if he tried to seize you on the elevator."
"You told him right."
"Then till we meet again, Mr. Drake. Soon, if you deliver on the envelope." The smile beneath the waxed mustache managed to be both promising and menacing.
The ride down in the elevator was tense. I'd have unloaded the rest of the gun clip into Abdel if he made Move One toward me. It wasn't often I'd doubted the efficacy of a.38 at close range, but I had visions of Abdel's subhuman vitality withstanding the impact of bullets long enough for those huge hands to crush my windpipe.
We reached the lobby without incident, however. I thrust the Smith & Wesson into a jacket pocket but let the giant see its outline before I motioned him off the elevator when its doors opened. A man was passing through the lobby, but he boarded the other elevator. "Do you have the key to the mailbox?" I asked Abdel when the other elevator's doors closed.
He stared at me uncomprehendingly.
"Key," I repeated, and gestured at the bronze lineup of mailboxes along one wall.
The giant removed a small, flat key from somewhere under the Nehru jacket and showed it to me tentatively.
"That looks like it," I said. "Open it up." I moved between him and the front entrance in case he had any kamikaze ideas about recovering the money as well as the envelope.
He opened the mailbox, took out the envelope, studied it intently for an instant, then nodded his huge head slowly.
"See you later, muscles," I told him, and went out into the night.
I expected to be followed when I left Bayak's apartment building, and I wasn't disappointed.
A tail picked me up in the middle of the first block. I walked him sedately through the lobbies of two small, east-side hotels before I speeded up and lost him in the lobby of a third. It had been so easy that I cooled it while I made sure they hadn't given me a tail to lose while they kept another one on me. Nothing else showed on the horizon, though.
So although I was sure I was clean, I took all the usual precautions while approaching Erikson's office. I waited in the brightly lighted lobby for five minutes before I boarded the elevator. No one had entered the front entrance behind me.
The office door was opened at my knock by McLaren. He nodded and stepped back to let me enter. The ubiquitous tape recorder was on McLaren's desk with a set of headphones plugged in. McLaren was transcribing tapes again. I nodded at the recorder. "Any good listening lately?"
"Same old stuff," he shrugged. Then he brightened. "Although there was a real wild one on a reel the other day. I don't know how the hell it ever get on there. You'd never believe it."
I didn't tell him how easily I'd believe it.
Erikson wasn't there, so I gave McLaren a quick rundown on what had taken place. He made notes. The only things I omitted were Chryssie's role and what had happened to the man I'd lured back to her place. "Erikson will want to hear this from you himself," McLaren said when I finished. "I'll call him, and while he's on his way in, I'll check this Bayak character out and see what we have on him."
"Fine," I said. "Meantime I'll flake out on the sofa inside."
I went into the inner office, took off my jacket and shoes, stretched out on the sofa, listened for a moment to the murmur of McLaren's voice on the telephone, and then didn't hear anything.
A hand shaking my shoulder woke me. Erikson's rough-hewn features appeared mistily above me as I tried to focus my eyes. I felt more tired than before I'd sacked out. "What time is it?" I asked.
"Three-fifteen A.M.," McLaren answered. I hadn't seen him standing behind Erikson.
"We've found out a few things, Earl," Erikson said in his usual no-nonsense style. "Iskir Bayak isn't an importer of Oriental rugs. He's the number-three man in the Turkish UN delegation. It could mean smuggling via diplomatic pouch, the hardest kind to do anything about."
I digested it for a moment. "But that hardly ties in with a truck hijacking, or does it?"
"According to the contents of the envelope Bayak has now recovered, we have a truck hijacking about to take place in which these people are involved," Erikson pointed out. "What about this note of McLaren's that the Turk tried to proposition you about joining his operation?"
"He did. At least half-heartedly. He mentioned checking out my supposed anti-police attitude."
"What does that mean to you?"
"His propositioning me? That he lost his wagon boss, Hawk."
"I mean more than that," Erikson emphasized. "It means his timetable might be so tight that he would approach a stranger like you even though he had no real line on you."
"Except that he saw me work out on Abdel."
"We still don't know where the hijacking is supposed to take place," McLaren put in. "Now if Drake were to take up this Bayak's offer to join his gang-"
"Forget it," I said.
"The UN aspect of the situation complicates anything we might want to do unofficially," Erikson added. "That might be traced to us, that is. You're an independent, and you're already halfway inside the door."
"Forget it, you two. I've seen these types. You haven't. I wasn't brought up in a convent, but they're something else. My insurance company wouldn't care for it."
"It would be easy to arrange," Erikson said as though I hadn't spoken. "We could dump you in jail on a minor charge, complete with fictitious gangster personality. Then you could call the Turkish girl and ask her to have Bayak bail you out of a temporary difficulty. It would validate your supposed underworld credentials in the most practical manner possible, and at the same time make you obligated to Bayak so that he wouldn't think it too farfetched for you to accept his recruitment offer. He might even make it a condition for effecting your release."
"Who's writing your scripts these days, Karl? No jail for me."
"It makes sense," McLaren argued.
"From your point of view, maybe. Not from mine. I'm not about to become the cheese in your trap. Get one of your own men."
"We haven't time to work someone in from the outside," Erikson said patiently. "You're already inside, or almost."
"That's right," McLaren chimed in. "And we'd back you up all the way."
"From a thousand yards in the rear. What help would you be when the bullets really start flying?"
But they wouldn't let it alone.
We went round and round for a good half hour. Both men pressed me insistently to take on the job. "Why are you two so interested in intercepting a dope shipment?" I asked when I couldn't think of anything else to ask. "Why not let the narcotics boys take over?"