"Yes." I was on my feet. “My name is Steve Victor."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Victor?"
"I have a letter—" I fished out the introduction written for me by Ben-Kavir. I was only guessing that it would mean something to Mama Macri, only hoping that she would have some connection with the syndicate Sheikh Tajed el Atassi was reputed to head.
She took the paper from me. Her face remained impassive as she read it. “I see," she said noncommittally. “Would you wait just a moment, Mr. Victor? There is something I must attend to and then we shall discuss just exactly what it is you wish." She went out again, motioning to me not to bother getting up.
I settled in the armchair and waited for her to return. A moment later I felt a little breeze on the back of my neck as the door opened again. Presuming it to be Mama Macri returning, I started to get to my feet. I never made it. My skull exploded into a million colored lights, which were quickly doused by the blackness into which I plunged.
I opened my eyes. It didn't make a hell of a lot of difference. Except for the dot of a small candle-flame, it was just as black in front of the lids as it had been behind them. I closed my eyes. It seemed more sporting to look for my head with them shut.
I found it. Easy. It was attached to that great big lump of pain under my groping fingers. I ran my hand down over my scalp and face to my neck. Everything there? Check. Everything attached? Check. Everything all fouled up? Check and double-check!
I touched the lump again. The hair was sticky with blood around it, but it wasn't bleeding any more. It was the size of an egg, more tender than a soft-boiled yolk. I wondered what the hell had hit me. Then I wondered where the hell I was.
I opened my eyes again. Still just the light from that lone candle across from me, I got up on rubber legs and hobbled toward it. As I got closer, I could make out that it was perched on a shelf over what looked like a long, oblong box with the lid removed. I reached across the box for the candle. Pulling it back towards me, I glanced down into the box.
I jumped so hard I almost dropped the candle. The sudden movement almost made the flame go out. I was damn glad it didn't. That box was no ordinary box at all. It was a coffin!
And there was a corpse in it!
I made myself look again. Dead eyes stared back at me unblinkingly. The body was Chinese, male, and, I judged, middle-aged. It was naked and smelled of em-balming fluid. The dead skin gave off an eerie green glow in the candlelight.
Tearing myself away from the macabre sight, I set out to investigate my surroundings. There wasn't much to investigate. It was a small chamber about twelve by twelve. The walls, the floor, and what I could make out of the ceiling were concrete. There were no windows. The door on one wall was made of steel. I tried it. It was locked from the outside. I guessed it was some sort of cell, probably below ground leveclass="underline" a dungeon, stark, dank and cold.
There was nothing in the chamber except the coffin, its occupant and me. Irresistibly, I was drawn back to peer at him. I stood over the coffin, staring into that impassive mask of death, thinking that even if he was alive he might not have been able to give me the answers to the questions tumbling over one another in my mind. I stared at him for a long, long time.
"Do you recognize him, Mr. Victor?"
This time I spun around so fast that the candle did go out. The echo of the voice, vaguely familiar, permeated the blackness like some ominous other-worldly sound. The door hadn’t opened. I was sure of that. Then where had the voice come from? The hair crept over the back of my neck as I groped for a match.
The candle re-lit, I held it carefully as I turned slowly around and studied the cell. Everything was the same as before. Still only me and my embalmed friend, For a crazy moment I believed it was really the corpse that had spoken.
“You seem distraught, Mr. Victor.” The voice again. But this time I was more reassured than frightened. It definitely hadn’t come from the cadaver. It was coming from that steel door. I strode over to it and investigated. Yes, there was a grill high up near the top of it. That's where the voice was coming from.
It sounded again. “But you haven’t answered my question, Mr. Victor. Do you recognize the deceased gentleman?"
“No. I don't."
“He is Dr. Suno Wong of the People's Republic of China. Ahh, I see from your face that the identification is indeed meaningful to you."
“Dirty pool," I said with a flippancy I didn't really feel. “You can see my face, but I can't see yours.”
“True enough, Mr. Victor. I had hoped that the element of the unexpected might make you panic and divulge something of what it is you are up to. However, I can see that is not going to be. Therefore, I shall join you."
There was a moment's silence and then the door creaked open. My jaw dropped as Sheikh Taj-ed el Atassi strode into the room. He motioned to two burly guards to wait outside.
“I have looked forward to our meeting again, Mr. Victor.”
“You must have. You went to a lot of trouble to see that we wouldn’t miss each other." I rubbed the lump on my head ruefully.
“I am sorry about that, Mr. Victor. It was necessary that you have no opportunity to exercise reluctance concerning such a meeting."
“Why should I be reluctant to meet with you?"
“I am not sure, Mr. Victor. However, your actions in relation to me present many puzzling questions."
"All you had to do was call me at my hotel and I would have met you any place you suggested."
“Perhaps. And then again, perhaps not. In any case, I did not wish to contact you directly for the reason that I do not wish it known that I am in Kabul. There are reasons for this, but they needn't concern you. Arranging our meeting in this fashion was easier. The clerk at your hotel is paid to steer any Europeans seeking sexual entertainment to Mama Macri’s. She had already been alerted to watch for a man bearing a letter from Ben-Kavir. Since there are all sorts of people taking an interest in, your movements, I didn't want you traced from Mama Macri's establishment to this one. It was more expedient to have you simply disappear from her premises."
“Then you know about the letter Ben-Kavir gave me requesting cooperation in your name."
“Yes. What I don't know is the use to which you intended putting it.”
“I'm a sex researcher investigating Oriental practices. I'm from O.R.G.Y. I told you that back at your palace outside Damascus."
“So you did. And I believed you then. But I no longer believe you. You shall have to do better than that, Mr. Victor."
I let that pass. “Do you know Ben-Kavir is dead?" I asked him.
“Of course. It is one of the two reasons which brought me to Kabul. You see, there was some feeling among those at that disastrous banquet you attended with Ben-Kavir that you had—to use the American vernacular— 'fingered' him for the gunman.”
“But why would I do that?"
"I’m not sure, Mr. Victor. Many reasons occur to me. I do not know which is the correct one."
“How did you know I was coming to Kabul?”
“Simple. A man was found tied up in your room in Baghdad. The police were summoned. The personnel were questioned and the hotel desk clerk revealed that you had made inquiries regarding transportation to Kabul. It is interesting to note, incidentally, that the man found in your room was an agent of the American C.I.A. But let that pass for the moment. To complete my answer to your question, in my business it is necessary to maintain many contacts with the police in the various cities in which my organization operates. It was they who informed me of your probable destination."