“No, thank you. I will go down and wait. Please do not come with me.”
Tammy opened the door.
“How can we get in touch with you?”
“I have no telephone,” the Pakistani said. “It is best if you do not try to see me at all. I have come here and told you all I know, but I do not want more trouble.”
Tammy asked him to telephone her if he found out anything new.
“I will,” he promised, “but for some weeks I will be not working. A waiter who cannot write orders or carry trays is no good waiter.”
He managed a faint smile and then said goodnight and walked very slowly away towards the stairs.
“Should we just let him go like that?” Tammy said sotto voce when she had closed the door again. “I mean, he’s so weak.”
“He’s right about not wanting to risk being seen with us,” Simon said. “Your room is on the front. Turn out the light and we can watch from the window and at least be sure he gets into his taxi with no trouble. I assume he won’t have much walking to do when it drops him wherever his room is.”
“Oh, Lord, I should have asked him where he lives,” Tammy said.
“I don’t think he’d have told us,” the Saint replied matter-of-factly. “Now let’s get that light out and have a look.”
Tammy flicked off the living-room lights leaving the flat in darkness. The only illumination now came from the street lamps outside. Simon went to the window and partially drew aside the curtain.
“Is he down there yet?” Tammy asked.
“He’s just coming out,” the Saint reported.
The girl came and stood beside him so that she could share his view of the sidewalk. When she realised that her shoulder was pressing against his she edged quickly away.
“He’s pretty brave to do this, you know,” she commented a little nervously.
“Yes. Almost too brave.”
Tammy nodded in agreement. Mahmud was a somehow pathetically small shadow among other shadows at the edge of the garden that bordered the street. The lights and then the black gleaming shape of a taxi came into sight and slowed in front of the house.
“Lord,” Tammy said tensely, as if she half expected the quietness of her neighbourhood to erupt into an ear-shattering exhibition of submachine-gun fire in the grandest Chicago tradition.
But Mahmud only climbed with painful slowness into the taxi and then was driven unspectacularly away. Tammy breathed again and Simon spoke.
“I’ll be going, then. Thanks very much for the talk — and the exercise.”
“We’ll be going, and that’s the last time I intend to correct you,” Tammy said. “Let me change into a skirt and grab my purse. Have you got any money? I never do. You didn’t bring your car?”
“Yes, I do have some money, and no, I didn’t bring my car. Do you have one?”
“Yes. That’s one reason why I don’t have any money. With my wheels and your cash we should go a long way, though. Ready?”
“Eminently.”
“Onward, the Light Brigade,” Tammy said. “Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell, or whatever the poet said.”
“Don’t forget, he was also a prophet,” Simon remarked.
They had just stepped into the hall, and Tammy locked the door behind her.
“What is that ominous statement supposed to mean?” she asked.
“I know we made a deal,” Simon answered, “but as the older and possibly more clearheaded member of this partnership I think I ought to remind, you that instead of being the toast of Fleet Street when this expedition is over, you may end up as dead as Ali, and just as uncomfortably.”
“Rot!” Tammy said defiantly. “We’ll see who’s the most clearheaded. Come on.”
“I think I’d better remind you of something else,” Simon told her as she started off down the hall.
“What?”
“You forgot to put on your shoes.”
3
How Shortwave Was Receptive, and Mahmud Lost His Cool
1
When Tam Rowan had gone back into her flat and returned to the Saint properly shod, the two of them walked quietly downstairs to the entrance hall.
“Much more practical,” Simon said with a glance at her low-heeled brown shoes. “And I congratulate you on your presence of mind: they’re both the same colour.”
She compressed her lips and did not say anything. He stopped her with a touch on her arm as she headed for the door.
“Is there a back way out of this place?” he asked. “Just in case some of your fans are watching in front.”
“Of course,” she said haughtily. “This way.”
She led him down the hall into its dark nether regions and disengaged the bolt which held the rear door shut. They stepped out into a tiny fenced yard where the apartment building’s wastepaper and orange peels overflowed several containers.
“Through here,” she pointed.
They went through an opening in the wooden fence and were standing in a narrow cul-de-sac just wide enough to allow a row of cars to park along one side and still leave access for driving in and out.
“We can walk around and catch a taxi,” Simon said. “My car’s at my flat.”
“Mine’s right here,” Tammy said. “Let’s take it. There’s no point in wasting time.”
“Okay.”
She took him to a long, low, scarlet sports car with gleaming wire-spoke wheels.
“Very nice,” the Saint said.
“Thank you. It’ll be mine in another eight hundred and forty-five payments — assuming I can come up with enough dirt on this immigration racket to keep my boss doling out the wherewithal.”
Simon opened her door for her and went around to jackknife himself into the low bucket seat on the other side.
“I wonder if you couldn’t have bought something a little more roomy for eight hundred and forty-six payments,” he commented.
“The littler they are the more fun they are to scoot around in,” she said. “You obviously weren’t designed for overpopulated areas.”
“I’m strictly designed for wide open spaces,” he agreed. “Shall we try the ignition and see what happens?”
She reached for the key, then hesitated, looking at him in the dim greenish light of the instrument panel.
“What do you mean, see what happens?”
“See if it blows up in our faces,” he elucidated.
“Are you insulting my car or are you implying there might be a bomb planted in the engine?” she asked uncertainly,
“The latter; but I don’t think your sparring partners are that technologically advanced. You’re much more likely to get a knife between your charmingly upholstered ribs, or a piano-wire collar around your neck.
She swallowed audibly.
“I’m going to start it,” she threatened, as if hoping that he would stop her.
“Go ahead. Take a chance.”
She turned the key with stabbing determination. The engine coughed and burbled to a steady rumble. There was, as Simon had expected, no explosion. Tammy took a deep breath and presented him with a triumphant look.
“So there,” she said. “Satisfied?”
“Alive,” he said. “And that’s good enough for me. Let’s go.”
She backed the car out of the cul-de-sac and he directed her to circle the block to avoid passing in front of the building.
“If the subjects of your biographical essays happen to be watching your front door, this may help us to give them the slip,” Simon explained. “On the other hand, unless they’re totally incompetent, they could be watching the back too, but there’s no harm in trying.”