down to the cellar. You can get out that way.'
So we let Tabby lead us, and the escape proved simplicity itself. Singh gave her his blessing in the basement, and we slipped outside to an alley running alongside the building. As we emerged from the alley, I got my first real look at New York in the blackout.
There's only one way to describe it. It was dark. Very dark. Park Avenue might have been some underground cavern. And the skyline looked like a subterranean horizon of stalagmites. Here and there, in the distance, car headlights flitted like twin fireflies coming in low for a landing. Candles in windows dotted the facades of the buildings like flickering rebukes to Tom Edison. An occasional flashlight drew chalkmarks across the blackboard of the night with the impudence of a naughty child whose teacher has left the room.
I turned on my own flashlight as we started up the Avenue. A sedan, large and black, its headlights out, moved slowly up, pacing us for a moment. Then an extremely bright searchlight beam was aimed at us from one of the windows. The tone of the voice behind it said that the speaker had a gun and that the lightbeam was meant to pinpoint a target area. Needless to say, we were the target area.
'Get in.' Only the two words.
Singh and I looked at each other.
'Don't try it,' the voice advised.
We didn't try it. We got in the car.
'Smart.' The voice approved our compliance. 'Neat, the way you got out, too. We almost missed you.'
'What do you want with us?' I asked.
'You're from S.M.U.T.' The voice assumed the statement was explanation enough.
'What are you going to do to us?'
The voice laughed. It was an extremely unpleasant laugh. 'Kill you, of course.' The tone said the answer should have been obvious and that it was childish of us to have even raised the question. Still, it was an indulgent tone as it repeated the answer: 'We're going to kill you!'
CHAPTER FOUR
'We're going to kill you!'
Cheery words; a cheery prospect. That's how they were spoken, anyway. But somehow I couldn't get into the joyful spirit of the occasion. Neither could Singh. We both fell quiet as the car moved slowly through the pitchblack streets of the crippled city.
Finally Singh broke the silence. 'I do not smoke myself,' he said, following it up with more relevance. 'But perhaps my companion would like a last cigarette.'
It was very considerate of him, but his choice of words sent a chill down my spine. Still, I did want a smoke. 'Is it okay?' I asked.
The hood in the back and the one sitting beside the driver exchanged shrugs. 'Go ahead,' one of them said.
So I reached for a cigarette, reached down to where my pocket should have been. No cigarette. No pocket. There are no pockets in a toga; not even in a homemade toga. Nero may have fiddled while Rome burned, but he sure as hell couldn't have done much smoking in that bedsheet he was wearing. I spread my palms to indicate my predicament.
'Here.' One of the hoofds passed me a cigarette.
'Allow me.' Singh reached over with a Zippo lighter, which burst into flame as he lit the coffin-nail for me.
What happened then was done so quickly and so casually that it was a moment before either I or our captors realized it had happened. Just prior to it, Singh must have manipulated the window handle beside him with his elbow so the window was open a few inches. Now, as he finished lighting my cigarette, he tossed the lit lighter over his shoulder and out of the window as naturally as if it was an ordinary match. But he tossed it calculatedly and with accuracy.
The flaming lighter landed neatly in the open coat collar of a traffic cop who had just waved us past a corner. It lodged there. Jumping up and down to beat out the flames, the cop began blowing his whistle and waving his flashlight at us. These actions also served as a signal to the cop at the next corner to stop us, which he did.
It all happened so fast that both cops were alongside the car before our captors had a chance to react. The first cop was singed and mad, and he was waving his pistol around furiously. The second cop, probably more jittery than usual because of the blackout, also had his gun out.
'Did you see him jump?' Singh said loudly as the cops leaned into the car.
'Who threw that?' The first cop looked apoplectic.
'It was an accident, officer,' one of the hoods tried to explain.
But Singh overrode his explanation. 'I did,' he admitted loudly. 'But it was my friend's idea.' He pointed at me.
'All right, you wise guys. Get out!'
Singh got out. The hood in back followed him. I emerged last.
'They had nothing to do with it,' Singh told the cop, pointing at the hood on the sidewalk and the two still in the front of the car. 'They don't even know us. We just asked them for a lift because of the power failure and they agreed.'
'All right.' The cop motioned the hood back into the car. 'You three can go.'
'But -' the driver started to protest, realizing that Singh and I were about to slip out of their clutches.
'No buts,' the cop said firmly. 'You wanna go to jail with these two, just hang around. Otherwise, get out of here fast before I change my mind.'
The driver threw his companions a helpless look and then did the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He threw the car into gear, gunned the engine, and they sped away from the scene. Thanks to Singh we'd escaped from them.
But it didn't look like it was going to be quite that easy to get away from the cops. Mad as they were, it sure seemed we were destined to spend the night in the cooler. The remarkable Singh, however, again came up with a way out.
'You cannot arrest us,' he told the cops haughtily.
'Oh, yeah? Why not?'
'Because we have diplomatic immunity,' Singh announced, looking down his nose at them.
'Oh, no!' the cop who'd been burned moaned. 'I might have known it!'
'Just a minute.' The second cop was more suspicious. 'That car didn't have DPL plates on it.'
'Of course not. It was not our car. I told you that we just took a lift from them.' Singh's tone said he didn't think the cop was very bright.
'Well, if you're diplomats, you must have some identification,' the cop persisted. 'Let's see it.'
'Persecution!' Singh sang out. 'You are persecuting the U.N. ambassador from Nepal!' He pointed at me, his finger quivering with outrage. 'My country will lodge a formal protest!'
'All I did was ask for identification,' the cop muttered, obviously somewhat intimidated by Singh's outburst.
'I have none,' I said frostily, following Singh's lead. 'There are no pockets in my clothing. But if you persist in detaining us, I insist on my right to make a telephone call.'
'Who do you want to call?'
'The White House.' I stared him down.
'What about him?' the first cop piped up, pointing at Singh. 'He's wearing civilized clothes. He's got pockets. Where's his identification?'
'You are a witness that this creature implied that our native garb is uncivilized,' I told Singh. 'You will so testify at the international diplomatic hearing we shall demand.' I turned back to the cops. 'He needs no identification since he is with me, under my protection, and shares my immunity,' I told them. 'Now, are you going to stop badgering us immediately, or shall I have the Asian-African bloc lodge a formal protest with the Security Council?'
