into his left temple; unable to breathe, the obese Englishman gripped both railings with his hands to keep from falling back down the steps.
'It is you,' said the gaunt, hollow-cheeked man, withdrawing the pistol but keeping the knife in place. 'You are not to come here. You are never to come here!'
Swallowing air, his immense body rigid, MacDonald spoke hoarsely, feeling the psychopath's blade across his throat. 'If it were not an emergency, I would never have done so, that should be perfectly clear.'
'What is clear is that I was cheated!' replied the man, wiggling the knife. 'I killed that importer's son in the same way I could kill you at this moment. I carved up that girl's face and left her in the streets with her skirt above her head and I was cheated.'
'No one meant to.'
'Someone did!'
'I'll make it up to you. We must talk. As I mentioned, it's an emergency.'
'Talk here. You don't come inside. No one comes inside!'
'Very well. If you'll be so kind as to permit me to stand rather than hang on for dear life half over this all too ancient staircase—'
'Talk.'
Tony steadied himself on the third step from the top, taking out a handkerchief and blotting his perspiring forehead, his gaze on the knife below. 'It's imperative I reach the leaders inside the embassy. Since they cannot, of course, come out, I must go in to them.'
'It is too dangerous, especially for the one who gets you inside, since he remains outside.' The bone-gaunt killer pulled the blade away from MacDonald's throat, only to readjust it with a twist of his wrist, the glistening point now resting at the base of the Englishman's neck. 'You can talk to them on the telephone, people do all the time.'
'What I have to say—what I must ask them—can't be spoken over the phone. It's vital that only the leaders hear my words and I theirs.'
'I can sell you a number that is not published in the listings.'
'It's published somewhere and if you have it, others do also. I cannot take the risk. Inside. I must get inside.'
'You are difficult,' said the psychopath, his left eyelid flickering, both pupils dilated. 'Why are you difficult?'
'Because I am immensely rich and you are not. You need money for your extravagances… your habits.'
'You insult me!' spat out the killer-for-hire, his voice strident but not loud, the half-crazed man aware of the fishermen and dock labourers trudging to their morning chores three storeys below.
'I'm only being realistic. Inside. How much?'
The killer coughed his foul breath in MacDonald's face, pulling the blade back and settling his rheumy stare on his past and present benefactor. 'It will cost a great deal of money. More than you have ever paid before.'
'I'm prepared for a reasonable increase, not exorbitant, mind you, but reasonable. We'll always have work for you—’
'There's an embassy press conference at ten o'clock this morning,' interrupted the partially drugged man. 'As usual, the journalists and television people will be selected at the last minute, their names called out at the gates. Be there, and give me a telephone number so I can give you a name within the next two hours.'
Tony did so: his hotel and his room. 'How much, dear boy?' he added.
The killer lowered the knife and stated the amount in Omani rials; it was equivalent to three thousand English pounds, or roughly five thousand American dollars. 'I have expenses,' he explained. 'Bribes must be paid or the one who bribes is dead.'
'It's outrageous! cried MacDonald.
'Forget the whole thing.'
