Tall and shimmering, her breasts swaying as though alive with eagerness, she crossed to the sleeping girl and gently woke her with a long, deep kiss on the mouth. The girl's eyes opened and she began to languidly caress the flanks of the sehhiqeh. Only a moment, and this produced a visible discharge of pleasure. As if in gratitude, the sehhiqeh knelt over the girl and bestowed a long, drawn-out series of suckling-kisses on her breasts. These were punctuated by the teasing flicking of her tongue and delicate little sharp bites.
The pair moved as if performing a familiar dance to which they each knew all the steps. Their every embrace seemed a part of this dance. The postures were varied and intricate, yet they each had in common the fact that the purpose was more and more heightened stimulation. Finally they stretched out facing each other, each with one leg under the other's body so that the quivering fulcrums of their sex were fused. They joined hands and began rocking back and forth in a seesaw motion. I recognized the position as one recommended in The Perfumed Garden, but the recommendation as I recalled had been made for male-female relations.
No matter!—-at least to them. Quickly, they fell on their shoulders, dropping the handclasp, and both of their lower bodies rose high in the air as the fruits of their mutual delight washed over their limbs and bellies. They held the position for a long moment, straining to savor the last dregs of pleasure.
Just as they sank, exhausted, to the mattress, one of the curtains to our booth opened and a servant signaled to the sheikh. “Ranjit Bey will see us now," Sheikh el Atassi told me, motioning me to follow him.
“Oh well, I guess they were finished anyway," I remarked as we strode down the hallway. .
“You are naive, Mr. Victor. The young ladies were only just beginning. They have many hours of pleasure yet before them."
“You're right, I am naive," I had to admit, awestruck despite all my book knowledge of sexual lore.
The servant led us to an outer chamber and indicated that Ranjit Bey would summon us to the inner room in a moment.
"I think it would be more fruitful if I saw him alone," Sheikh el Atassi suggested. "Do you mind waiting out here, Mr. Victor?"
"Aren't you afraid I’ll run away?"
"1 wouldn't advise it. My men would soon find you. And I'm afraid I should be so irked as to inflict some terrible punishment on your person by way of retribution.
Not only his threat, but also curiosity as to what he might find out from Ranjit Bey regarding the whereabouts of Anna Kirkov and Mustafa Ben Narouz, kept me there. It was about half an hour later that he emerged.
“Well?” I asked him as we left the premises and started for his waiting car.
“They are in Karachi. He isn't sure where. But definitely in the hands of the Chinese."
“Nice of Ranjit Bey to tell you.”
"Nice? No, Mr. Victor. It is just that, with a man like Ranjit Bey, every bit of information he accumulates has its price. I did not dicker with him, I merely paid it. I would wager he is already on the telephone to the Chinese negotiating to see what it is worth to them to be informed of my interest and of the identity of my companion. They too will pay. What he tells them may prove dangerous for us, but the peril is unavoidable."
How right Sheikh el Atassi was in this prognostication was proved to us that very night. We were seated at the dinner table, facing each other. The sheikh was opposite a pair of French doors opening on the garden, and my image was reflected in a large mirror hanging behind his back. Glancing into that mirror as I raised a spoonful of soup to my lips, I spied Death with its cheeks sucked in, poised to strike!
My reaction was quick. I lunged across the table and gave the sheikh a violent shove which spun him from his chair. Just in time. The dart intended for his throat whistled past his right ear, smacked into the mirror and dropped to the carpet, where it stuck.
The sheikh’s two bodyguards made a false start for me, comprehended what had happened, reversed themselves and dove for the French doors. They vanished outside. A moment later they returned with a scurvy-looking Hindu wearing a turban and a dirty white robe in tow. This character was driven to his knees before the sheikh.
One of the guards handed the sheikh a blowpipe. He looked at it for a moment and then passed it to me. There was another dart lodged in it, ready to be fired. "Be careful. You may be sure that it is poisoned," the sheikh told me.
He took the blowgun back and turned to the wretch cringing before him on the carpet. “Who sent you?" he asked. “The Chinese? Of course! Where have they taken the Russian girl? Speak!" He punctuated each query with a sharp slap across the would-be assassin’s face.
The Hindu merely kept pulling his head back and stretching his jaws apart, evidently trying to show us something. Finally, the sheikh noticed and bent low to peer at the gaping mouth. “He can tell us nothing," he said disgustedly, straightening up. “His tongue has been cut out!”
"By who? The Chinese? And why?" I asked.
“More likely the Moslems. Some religious fracas, no doubt. Such things are frequent, as you know. The Sikhs have done worse to Moslems. No doubt this filth deserved it. But in any case he is of no use to us. He can tell us nothing."
"Perhaps he can write it.”
"No. He can't write. He is low-caste. Fit only for his trade of assassin." Sheikh el Atassi picked up the blow-gun and motioned to the guards. They pried the Hindu's mouth open and the sheikh shoved the end of the blowgun down his throat. With a grimace, he put his own lips to the mouthpiece and blew the poison dart down the assassin's windpipe. Within moments, the victim turned a bright and unmistakable shade of blue. Clutching at his throat in agony, he died. The guards carried the corpse out and the sheikh motioned to me to sit back down at the table so that we might resume our dinner.
Bon apetite eluded me. Not so the sheikh. He ate with gusto and punctuated the meal with the series of belches which proved him a master of Arab etiquette. Briefly, I was reminded of my stay with the Hazaras of Afghanistan. His voice brought me back to the present.
"You saved my life, Mr. Victor. I am grateful."
“How grateful?"
"Very grateful." He smiled understandingly. “Suppose you tell me just exactly what it is you want of me, Mr. Victor. If it is in my power, I will try to see that you get it.”
“Mainly my freedom, I guess. I don't like being a prisoner.”
"You have it. From now on, I hope that you will consider yourself my guest, free to come and go as you please." Sheikh el Atassi noticed that one of the guards had returned and was hovering in the doorway, waiting to attract his attention. “Yes? What is it?" the sheikh asked.
“This was found on the person of the dead man, effendi." He handed the sheikh a rnatchbook.
He examined it and passed it across to me. The name of the Cafe Jirgha was imprinted on the front in Pashtu, the language of Pakistan. There was an artist's rendition of a veiled dancing girl in what looked like a quite un-characteristic can-can pose. Underneath this was an advertising blurb which was beyond my meager understanding of Pashtu. I opened the matchbook. On the inside of the cover a circle had been drawn with dots spaced around the inside of it and two lines radiating from the center. Obviously it was meant to indicate a clock. The lines indicating the hands set the time at one o'clock.