I had a number of reasons for believing that might not be such a good idea. ‘I don’t think so, Feisal. Not tonight.’
He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and caught mine in a hard grip. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Please, Vicky. Only for a little while. It’s not what you think; do you suppose I feel like celebrating? I have to talk to you.’
There were also a number of reasons for believing it might not be such a bad idea. He saw I was weakening. In the same hoarse whisper he went on, ‘We’ll go to the ETAP or the Winter Palace, wherever you will feel comfortable. Please?’
‘Well . . .’
He practically dragged me to the door. I made a few feeble protests about freshening my makeup and getting my purse, which he overruled. I looked beautiful and I didn’t need my purse, he would escort me home.
The last part turned out to be true, anyhow, if not in the sense I expected.
I was relieved to see a taxi waiting for us instead of Larry’s mammoth car, and even more relieved to hear the words ‘Winter Palace’ in the midst of Feisal’s otherwise unintelligible order to the driver. We didn’t go in the hotel, but sat on the terrace, which was crowded with people. I ordered coffee.
‘Let’s not waste time,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Can you ask?’
‘I just did. It has to do with Dr Mazarin’s death, doesn’t it? A nice step up for you.’
He turned a queer shade of brownish grey. ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with that?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if I did. But you are a member of one of the – er – revolutionary societies, aren’t you?’
Feisal went a shade greyer. ‘If you’d like to see me hauled off to a detention cell, never to emerge again, speak a little louder.’
‘Sorry.’
Feisal drained his cup and ordered a refill. ‘Forget politics, they’ve nothing to do with the present situation. I have a feeling you’re well aware of that.’
He stopped, watching me expectantly.
What little he had said confirmed my hunch. But although I was dying – make that ‘anxious’ – to know more, I had no intention of blurting out my suspicions to one of the people I was suspicious of.
‘Please continue,’ I said.
Feisal took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. ‘I’m taking an awful chance warning you, but I couldn’t just walk away and leave you at risk. I’m going into hiding and so must you. I can take you to a place where you’ll be safe.’
I groaned. ‘Why do I do these things?’ I inquired of the room at large. ‘You’d think by this time I’d have learned better. No, thanks, Feisal. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go round the tables and panhandle a few bucks so I can take a cab – ’
‘Back into the lion’s den?’
‘You mean back into the frying pan. What you’re proposing sounds a lot like the fire.’
‘I told you – ’
‘You haven’t told me anything; you’ve just spouted vague threats. Appeal to my intelligence, Feisal. Give me two – hell, I’ll settle for one – good reason why I should accept your offer.’
Feisal groaned. We sounded like a pair of sick dogs.
‘I was told to show you this.’ He opened his briefcase and took out a piece of paper.
There was no writing on it. It was a piece of plain black paper ahout eight inches square.
I felt the blood drain slowly out of my face, staring with my brain and backing up in my vocal cords. All I could do for a few seconds was gurgle horribly. Finally I managed to clear my throat. ‘Who gave you this? Larry? Max?’
‘Who’s Max?’ Either he was honestly bewildered or he could have given drama lessons to Sir Laurence Olivier.
‘He cuts silhouettes,’ I mumbled, staring at the piece of black paper. ‘For a hobby. His other hobbies are fraud, theft and murder. Art and antiquities, those are his specialties. I thought he was in jail! I helped put him in jail! How the hell did he . . .’
I shoved my chair back and stood up. ‘I’ve got to get Schmidt out of there. If Max is one of them . . . Oh, Christ, of course, it has to be him! He was careful to keep out of my way, but I should have known, he was obviously wearing a wig the first time I . . .’
I wasted time fumbling under the table for my purse before I remembered I didn’t have it. Feisal grabbed my arm as I started blindly for the street.
‘Hold on a minute. You don’t have money for a cab.’
‘I’ll tell him to wait. Just long enough for me to collect Schmidt and my purse.’
‘I’ll come with you. Wait a second.’
He tossed a few bills onto the table and picked up his briefcase without relaxing his grip on me. I pulled away from him, and he said, ‘I sense you are now convinced of the danger. Come with me to the place I mentioned.’
‘Not without Schmidt.’
There were several decrepit-looking vehicles lined up in front of the hotel. I opened the door of the first one – hoping it was a taxi – and got in. Feisal followed me.
‘I’ll go back for him after I’ve taken you – ’
‘No, you won’t. Driver!’
Feisal enveloped me in a rib-cracking embrace and rattled off a string of directions to the driver. I didn’t understand a word, but I was pretty sure he had not given the order I would have given. I tried to free myself. ‘Let me go, damn you!’
‘Certainly,’ said Feisal, unwrapping his arms. I fell back against the seat and he socked me on the jaw.
* * *
He must have given me an injection of some kind, because it was morning when I woke up. Very early morning; the rosy hues of dawn fell prettily across the floor of . . . wherever I was. I didn’t wait to examine my surroundings, but made a rush for the door. Somehow I wasn’t surprised to discover that it was locked. The single window was blocked by ornate grillwork. It had been there awhile, rusty streaks stained the black iron, but it was still functional, as I discovered when I shook it. Had it been designed to keep people in or keep them out? I wondered. Whatever the original purpose, it would suffice to keep me in.
The rush of adrenaline subsided, leaving me shaking and weak-kneed. I staggered back to the bed and sat down.
After I had surveyed the room I had to admit that I had been shut up in worse places. The furniture looked as if it had come from the local equivalent of a low-budget outlet store, but it was clean and fairly new. In addition to the bed, the amenities consisted of a table, a lamp, and two straight chairs. On the table was a jug (plastic) full of water, a glass (plastic), a bowl (you guessed it), a bar of soap, a towel, and a paperback novel with the cover missing. I picked up the book. It was by Valerie Vandine. I threw it across the room.
There was only one door. I am not without experience. I was raised on a farm. I found what I was looking for chastely hidden under the bed.
After I had paced the room forty or fifty times I retrieved the book and started reading.
Voluptuous Madeleine de Montmorency was fighting off the villain for the second time when I heard a sound at the door. The book and my feet hit the floor simultaneously. There was nothing in the room I could use as a weapon, so I had to rely on craft, cunning, and my bare hands. Which left me, I had to admit, at a distinct disadvantage.
But when I saw the figure framed in the open doorway my clenched fist fell. Nothing my imagination had conjured up could equal that vision.
She was about three feet tall and about a hundred years old and she didn’t have a tooth in her head. Black cloth covered everything except her face and her hands – the standard garb of a conservative Muslim female. She wouldn’t wear a face veil in her own house with only another woman present. Baring her gums at me in what was probably not a smile, she sidled into the room, and deposited a tray on the table.