Neil took his time, almost beginning to enjoy himself. He described the foothills of political small talk, leading up to the discussion on the ethics of terrorism, and finally Ali La Joconde’s tears and Dr. Marouf’s offer of a truce.
When he had finished, without being interrupted once, Le Hir sat back and nodded: ‘So you had quite a little session up there.’ He turned to the two legionnaires: ‘What do we do with this clown?’
The girl Nadia leant against the wall and said lazily, ‘Kill him.’
Le Hir ignored her. The young legionnaire went round and whispered something to him. He frowned and looked down at Neil, then nodded: ‘Nadia, give the Englishman a drink — a proper drink. He’s going to need one!’ He went over to the telephone and dialled a number, speaking for several minutes. Neil could not catch what was said. He sat sipping a strong chilled martini with a sliver of lemon; it gave him a pleasant glow as he watched, with relief, the two legionnaires return to the balcony.
Le Hir at last put down the telephone and said, ‘Nadia, show him the bathroom.’ He turned to Neil: ‘Clean yourself up. Nadia will give you a new shirt. We want you looking smart.’ He went back to the telephone.
The girl took Neil into a bathroom lined with black mirrors and shelves of perfumes and toilet preparations which must have been worth more than a hundred pounds. An elaborate exercising machine composed of springs and pulleys hung from the ceiling. While Neil bathed he could hear the incessant murmur of Le Hir’s voice on the telephone,
He cooled his swollen lip and put on a fawn-coloured silk shirt that Nadia had given him. It had a label from Cervi’s, Rome. He returned to find Le Hir strapping on a polished gun holster under a white sporting jacket. The legionnaires led the way out, down to the same Citroën DS with the moustached Corsican at the wheel. Neil sat in the back between the two legionnaires.
‘Blindfold him,’ said Le Hir.
The driver took a black cloth from the glove compartment; the young legionnaire bound it tightly round the upper half of Neil’s head, and they drove smoothly and fast, upwards, round steep bends, the driver using the horn in aggressive blasts.
They stopped suddenly and Neil was hurried out across the pavement, up several flights of stairs. A bell tinkled; there was a pause, and a door creaked open. Le Hir’s voice said, ‘All right, we’ve got him.’ Neil was led forward, round a coiner, and pushed down into a chair. The cloth was untied.
Facing him across a polished table sat Anne-Marie. She gave him a brief nod, as though they had only just met. He opened his mouth to speak but she flashed her eyes at him in warning, and he fell silent.
Le Hir and the two legionnaires took up their positions against the wall. The black-moustached chauffeur disappeared through a door at the end of the room. There was a tense silence.
The flat was small and overcrowded, typical of the French provincial bourgeoisie: heavy, dark-stained furniture, ornate wall lamps, old brown photographs. There was a smell of floor polish and coffee beans.
The door at the end of the room opened again. Anne-Marie looked up, and the two legionnaires stiffened as though coming to attention. The chauffeur stepped through and held the door open for a tall man in uniform the colour of dried mud. He wore no decorations. He walked in, nodded round the room, then stood staring at Neil. Neil stared back, and a little shiver passed through him. He was looking at Colonel Pierre Broussard, alias M. Martel, second-in-command of the Secret Army.
CHAPTER 3
‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Ingleby.’ Colonel Broussard pulled up a hard-backed chair and seated himself beside Neil: ‘You smoke, I believe?’ He pushed a rose-wood box along the table, full of fat Turkish cigarettes.
‘Thank you,’ said Neil, taking one.
Colonel Broussard turned to Anne-Marie: ‘Perhaps Monsieur Ingleby would like something to drink? Some coffee?’
‘Thank you,’ said Neil again. She stood up without looking at him and went into the passage. Broussard turned back to Neil. His face was drawn and tired, and the eyes held that familiar luminous glare, sunk under his bony brows, which Neil now recognized as a symptom of the opium-smoker.
‘So we meet again,’ Broussard said, with the hint of a smile, ‘first on the Holy Mountain, and now here. It seems that our ways cross by destiny. Or is it by design? I should like to know.’
There was an oppressive pause. The door opened and Anne-Marie came in with a tray of coffee. Neil cleared his throat, took a cup, thanked her, and began once again to explain about his arrival in Athens and his meeting with Pol.
Broussard held up his hand: ‘Monsieur Ingleby, I do not know why you should suppose that I am the last person in this city to have heard of your exploits. My intelligence service is not inefficient,’ he added dryly. ‘However, I confess that when you were summoned here today I did not realize that you were the same Englishman I met on Mount Athos.’
Neil glanced at Anne-Marie. So she had kept his confidence after all. He gave an inward sigh of relief; at least there was one person here he could trust.
Broussard continued, in a flat, quiet voice, ‘I am prepared to accept that our meeting on Athos may have been fortuitous. Your presence in this city is not. You are here for some purpose devised by Monsieur Charles Pol, and it is my intention to find out what that purpose is. I suggest that you begin by repeating to me what you have already told Colonel Le Hir about your visit to the Casbah this morning. Our
