'Do you think that fellow will keep the bar open for us? I mean, while we're doing our Christian duty the bugger could lock the doors, you know.'
'The bastard had better not!' exclaimed the man named Dickie as the three figures lurched into the darkened room, the light from the hallway outlining the bed. 'I gave him twenty pounds to keep the place open, if only for us. If you think I'm shutting my eyes for a single second until I'm on that plane tomorrow, you're ready for the twit farm! I'll not have my throat slit by some wog with a messianic complex, I tell you that, too! Come on, heave!'
'Good night, fat prince,' said the companion. 'And may all kinds of black bats carry you to wherever.'
The heavyset man in the pinstriped suit raised his head from the bed and turned his face towards the door. The footsteps in the hallway receded; inelegantly he rolled his bulk over and got to his feet. In the shadowed light provided by the dull streetlamps below outside the window, he removed his jacket and trousers, hanging them carefully in the open closet, smoothing out the wrinkles. He proceeded to undo his regimental tie, slipping it off his neck. He then unbuttoned his soiled shirt reeking of whisky, removed it also and threw it into a wastebasket. He went into the bathroom, turned on both taps and sponged his upper torso; satisfied, he picked up a bottle of cologne and splashed it generously over his skin. Drying himself, he walked back into the bedroom to his suitcase on a luggage rack in the corner. He opened it, selected black trousers and a black silk shirt, and put them on. As he buttoned the shirt and tucked it under the belt around his thick stomach, he walked over to a window, taking out a book of matches from his trouser pocket. He struck a match, let the flame settle and made three semicircles in front of the large glass pane. He waited ten seconds then crossed to the desk in the centre of the left wall and switched on the lamp. He went to the door, unlatched the automatic lock and returned to the bed where he meticulously removed the two pillows from under the spread, fluffed both up for a backrest and lowered his large frame. He looked at his watch and waited.
The scratching at the door made three distinct eruptions, each semicircular, on the wood, if one listened. 'Come in,' said the man on the bed in the black silk shirt.
A dark-skinned Arab entered hesitantly, in apparent awe of his surroundings and the person within those surroundings. His robes were clean, if not brand new, and his headdress spotless; his was a privileged mission. He spoke in a quiet, reverent voice. 'You made the holy sign of the crescent, sir, and I am here.'
'Much thanks,' said the Englishman. 'Come in and close the door, please.'
'Of course, Effendi.' The man did as he was told, holding his position of distance.
'Did you bring me what I need?'
'Yes, sir. Both the equipment and the information.'
'The equipment first, please.'
'Indeed.' The Arab reached under his robes and withdrew a large pistol, its outsize appearance due to a perforated cylinder attached to the barrel; it was a silencer. With his other hand the messenger pulled out a small grey box; it contained twenty-seven rounds of ammunition. He walked dutifully forward to the bed, extending the handle of the weapon. 'The gun is fully loaded, sir. Nine shells. Thirty-six shells in all.'
'Thank you,' said the obese Englishman, accepting the equipment. The Arab stepped back obsequiously. 'Now the information, if you please.'
'Yes, sir. But first I should tell you that the woman was recently driven to the palace from her hotel in the next street—’
'What?' Astonished, the British businessman bolted upright on the bed, his heavy legs swinging around, pounding the floor. 'Are you certain?'
'Yes, sir. A royal limousine picked her up.'
'When?'
'Roughly ten to twelve minutes ago. Naturally I was informed immediately. She is there by now.'
'But what about the old men, the merchants?' The fat man's voice was low and strained, as if he were doing his utmost to control himself. 'She made contact, didn't she?'
'Yes, sir,' answered the Arab tremulously as though he feared a beating if he replied in the negative. 'She had coffee with an importer named Hajazzi in the Dakhil, then much later met with him at the Sabat market. She was taking photographs, following
