Needless to say I was startled, but at the same time a bit of stray data from my researches popped into my mind. It was the fact that it has long been the custom of epicures in China and Indochina to hide young boys under the dinner table to “entertain” the guests while they're eating. These children are quiet and very adept at fondling the male organs until satisfaction is achieved. Etiquette dictates that the guest make no mention of what is being done to him, although it is permissible for him to grunt and even half-rise in his chair at the moment of release. The boys involved, incidentally, are picked for their effeminate characteristics and most especially for their delicate hands. A light touch is considered a sensual accomplishment among them.
Such is the custom in China and Indochina, but I was in Iraq. How was it that I was encountering it here? Curious, I dropped my napkin so that I might have a pretext for peering beneath the table.
The boy who had wedged himself between my knees was indeed Chinese. For a moment though, I wasn't sure that he was a boy. His hair was long and his features so fine that he did indeed look like a girl. But then I saw that his pants were open and that he was playing with himself with his other hand at the same time that he was stroking me. Unmistakably, he was male—just over the edge of puberty, if I was any judge. I motioned him away from me and he gave me a sad look and backed off farther under the table.
Straightening in my chair, I found that Ben-Kavir had been watching me. "The lad’s hands do not please you, Mr. Victor?" he asked, troubled by my reluctance to be indulged.
"I'm sorry. I don’t swing that way," I replied, stammering as I searched for the Arabic word for "swing."
"Perhaps his lips would please you more?"
“I'm afraid not. Thanks just the same. But let me ask you something. I always thought this was a Chinese custom. I am most curious as to how long it has been going on in this part of the world."
“It does not as a rule occur here, Mr. Victor. You are correct. The custom and the boys are Chinese. It is in the nature of a gift to the friends of Sheikh el Atassi from another friend of his, an Egyptian traveller for whom the Sheikh has done a favor."
My heart skipped a beat. The trail was getting hot again. The "Egyptian traveller" could only be Mustafa Ben Narouz, the abductor of Anna Kirkov. I sorted my words carefully, wanting to question Ben-Kavir without arousing his suspicions. "Is this Egyptian present?" I asked. “I would like to speak with him. He might be able to give me some information about the other customs of China. I fear that as an American I won't be able to investigate them for myself."
"But what a pity. You have just missed him. Only this afternoon he left to transact some business in Kabul. Perhaps the Sheikh will be able to arrange a meeting between you at some future—"
Ben-Kavir never finished the sentence. A bullet from a sub-machine gun shattered the words in his throat. Suddenly, all hell had broken loose!
I reacted speedily. The burst had been preceded by the crash of glass as the muzzle of the gun had been pushed through the glass of the French windows across the room from us. Somehow I knew those bullets had been meant for me. Splattered with Ben-Kavir’s blood, I didn't wait for the gunner's aim to improve. Even as the weapon chattered again, I dived under the table, out of range.
There were several screams of shock and pain above me. Two or three bodies crumpled lifeless to the floor. I crawled farther under the table and suddenly felt something warm and wet gushing over the back of my hand. At first I thought it was blood. It wasn't.
The Chinese boys were still hard at it under the table. One of the guests, despite the turmoil, had just been successfully "entertained." Neither danger nor death itself can stop an Arab at such a moment, I thought, wiping myself off with a handkerchief.
Allah be praised!
005
TWO MORE bursts from the tommygun and then it was over. The gunman must have fled. I crawled out from under the table, glad to get away from the grinning faces of the Chinese boys who evidently thought I was anxious to join in their sport.
Ben-Kavir was dead. The others were looking at me as if I was in some way responsible for the carnage. I decided to get out of there before that feeling was transmitted into action.
Basra was waiting with the motor running. He gunned it and we took off down the road like the proverbial bat out of hell. “Back to Baghdad?” he asked.
“Back to Baghdad,” I agreed.
“To your hotel, sir?”
“To my hotel."
“I am glad that you are alive, sir."
“Since it's to your financial interest, I believe that you are, Basra."
"I know many less dangerous brothels to which I can guide you, sir.”
“I’m sure you do. However, it won't be necessary. I'm leaving for Kabul in the morning. I'm afraid our business arrangements will have to be terminated.”
“I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Basra sighed. “It has been a most pleasant relationship."
“And most profitable too, I'm sure. But now, Basra, you'll have more time to devote to your sisters. By the way, what would you have done if I had been killed back there? If I was dead, I would have had no way of paying you.”
"I should have tried to get the wallet from your corpse, sir," he said candidly. "And failing that, I should have rifled your hotel room."
“You mean you would rob a dead man? Basra, you have no scruples."
"Of what use is money to a dead man?" he retorted practically. “If I should die, you wouldn't pay me, would you?"
"I might make an effort to find your family and give them what you have coming."
“I should haunt you if you did, effendi. My pig of a sister would only give it to the first man so strong of stomach as to allow himself to fall between her legs. If I die, sir, it is my wish that you give the money to the first Hindu you encounter to be used in place of his thumb."
It was a joke, and a dirty one at that since Arabs are contemptuous of Hindus for their custom of using one hand to eat with and the other to cleanse themselves of excrement. It is Hindu ritual to keep the two hands separate and Arab humor to imply that the Hindu confuses them. But later I was to wonder if Basra would have made the joke if he'd known how soon it would turn out to have been a grim prophecy.
That prophecy started to come true when Basra glanced in the rear-view mirror and informed me that we were once again being followed. “Step on it," I told him, and he complied. We picked up speed, but so did the car behind us. The distance between us began to close. “Can't you go any faster?" I asked Basra.
"My foot is down to the floorboard now, sir."
Seconds later the other car was alongside us and I saw the snub nose of the tommygun poke out of one of its windows. I threw myself to the floor as it started to chatter. Basra screamed with the first burst and I felt our car veer wildly out of control. It smashed against an out-cropping of rock before I could grab the wheel.
I was thrown back to the floor, shaken, but unhurt. Flames flared up from the engine. I grabbed Basra under the shoulders and pulled him from the wreck. I pulled him behind the rocks we'd hit and stretched him out on a patch of earth.
Blood was spurting from his chest, but his eyes were open. He managed a smile. "Don’t forget the Hindu, effendi,” he said. He coughed once and died in my arms.
They were on me then, three of them racing towards me from the other car. My pistol was in my hand. “Drop it!" the man in the rear of the other two ordered. The voice was unmistakable. It was Potemchenko. I dropped the pistol.