old man had never before held court to both the Minister of the Interior and the Chief of the Committee of Counter-Terrorism and Public Safety. Letif’s instinct, as well as his trade, led him to suspect a trap. In any case, he decided that matters had clearly reached a climax.

He bowed, gave the ceremonial greeting, and sat down, against the wall opposite the two men. The colonel’s appearance was certainly not that of a conspirator: he was wearing cavalry twill jodhpurs and calfskin boots, and an English chequered hacking jacket with a yellow handkerchief flowering from his breast pocket; and was drinking from a bottle of good Scotch whisky on the table beside him. Letif guessed that he had brought it with him. For Dr Zak — like the Ruler — discouraged alcohol.

Tamat gave his big fleshy grin. ‘So, Minister Letif, we meet in the wolf’s den!’ His smile shifted to Dr Zak, who sat without expression. Tamat raised his glass to Letif: ‘Well — what is new at the all-powerful Ministry of the Interior?’

Letif licked his lips. ‘I have spoken again to His Imperial Highness. He is angry that I cannot tell him more than we have already discussed. He does not believe the report that our honourable host —’ he nodded at Zak — ‘was in Damascus. In fact, I had the impression that he no longer believes even what I tell him. I believe that he knows more than we suspect.’ He sat with his fingers locked together, his face grown taut and pale. ‘He also insulted me. It was not even a subtle insult. It was a vicious wound to the memory of my father.’

Tamat drank some whisky. His expression was relaxed, benign. ‘Poor Letif. But we who work so close to the Devil must expect the occasional jab from his horns. Did he tell you anything new?’

‘He told me I had little time — that I must hurry. He expects foreign assassins to enter the country at any moment. It is my impression that he is no longer impatient, but is becoming nervous.’

Tamat shrugged. ‘Impressions are not sufficient, Letif. I, like His Imperial Highness, require facts.’

Letif stared at the floor. He wondered why he was not accorded the accustomed formality of mint tea. He also wondered if he should tell Tamat that the Ruler knew about the fat man; whether Zak had confided to the colonel the existence of this Frenchman who was known under the names of Cassis and Pol, and perhaps other names too.

He wished that Zak had spoken to him first, had forewarned him of this meeting; for Letif loathed and feared his encounters with Tamat — doubly so now that the circumstances were so sudden and unexplained. He looked at Dr Zak, but the old man seemed to be dozing. ‘Tell me what is happening,’ he said, in a clear defiant voice.

Dr Zak opened his eyes and gave a slow sad smile. ‘Come, Minister, I have something to show you.’ He unfolded his thin legs and stood up, beckoning to Letif with his clawlike hand. Together the two men moved up to the wall of books. Zak paused, then ran his finger along a row of yellow paperbound volumes in French. He smiled again at Letif. ‘One day, Minister, when I have more time, I must try and arrange my humble little library. I can find nothing when I want it.’

Letif smiled back. ‘What are you looking for?’ He heard the rattle of the bead curtain and wondered if this was his mint tea arriving. He was about to turn when the doctor’s bony fingers closed round his wrist.

‘I think I have found it.’ Zak’s free hand was reaching up for a book on one of the higher shelves. Letif heard the pad of footsteps on the stone floor behind him. Zak had pulled out the book and Letif was trying to see the title, when something was thrown round his shoulders. He thought at first it was a rug, though it was too light, and had a shiny surface like a waterproof cape or oilskin. He felt hands round his neck and across his face, and began to scream.

It was a loud, choking animal scream, accompanied by a frenzied struggling … the noises of the farmyard and the abattoir. The man used the ceremonial dagger, with its long scythe-like blade worn thin on a whetstone, like a well-used carving knife.

He cut Letif’s throat with one swift movement, opening it from ear to ear, slicing the oesophagus, windpipe and tendons as far back as the spinal cord, until the narrow head was lolling back from the shoulders, while the face, stretched in its frozen scream, hung upside down until the man carefully lifted it, let the body down, and wrapped the head and shoulders in the plastic sheet whose folds were already brimming over with blood.

A second man had appeared and together they carried the body outside. ‘Bury him at once,’ Zak said, and put the book back on the shelf. ‘Then signal to the guards.’ He turned to Tamat. ‘I have given instructions that they are to dispose of the driver and the car in the gorge.’

Colonel Tamat nodded and finished his whisky. ‘This has been most satisfactory, Doctor.’ He glanced towards the bookshelves. ‘I congratulate you — hardly a spot of blood! Is that an omen, I wonder?’ He chuckled and refreshed his glass.

 

CHAPTER 34

Sarah woke late and breakfasted alone in the air-conditioned salon, where there was coffee and mint tea, yoghourt and honey, and bread loaves the shape of stones. Beyond the French windows she could see a few of the other guests, all of them men, basking on long chairs under the arcades round the pool. The women rarely appeared before dusk.

She had a headache and was still tired, although she had slept heavily. She

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