‘Feisal will assume the post, of course. He’s on his way here now. We have a number of things to discuss, so I’ll have to ask you to excuse me when he arrives.’
‘Have they caught the terrorists?’ I asked.
‘Not yet. Apparently there was a great deal of confusion. The police are rounding up – ’
‘The usual suspects,’ I murmured. From what I’d heard ahout the SSI, the usual suspects wouldn’t have a pleasant time.
John put his glass on the table and stood up. ‘I think I’ll have a swim. Anyone join me?’
Mary shook her head. Schmidt said doubtfully, ‘It does not seem proper.’
Hands in his pockets, lips pursed in a whistle, John sauntered towards the house. His pitch was perfect. I recognized the strains of ‘The Wreck on the Highway.’ He really was exceeding himself in tactlessness that afternoon. There hadn’t been any whiskey but there had been plenty of blood. And I hadn’t heard anyone pray.
Larry reassured Schmidt – ‘After all, you hardly knew the poor man – ’ but Schmidt remained seated. I wouldn’t like to imply that he was lacking in sensitivity, but I suspected mixed motives. He wanted more to eat and more to drink and more in the way of information. Browsing among the hors d’oeuvres, he peppered Larry with questions. Had anyone else been injured? Had a motive for the attack been established? Where had the bombs been placed, how had they been set off . . . Larry had no answers. A servant finally came to announce that Feisal was waiting in Larry’s study, and Larry excused himself. Schmidt decided he’d have a swim after all and since I could not decide which alternative was less appealing – having a heart-to-heart with the pregnant bride or watching the pregnant bride’s husband flex his muscles at me – I went to my room.
I didn’t know the answers to the questions Schmidt had asked either, but my admittedly confused memories of the event raised a couple of others he hadn’t asked. I had seen a big hole in the pavement and a lot of dust, but to the best of my recollection not a single column had toppled and nary a sphinx had been scarred. I had seen a lot of fallen bodies, but only one that was undeniably dead. The murder of a foreigner, and a foreign archaeologist at that, would raise a real stink. The usual suspects were in for a hard time. But maybe this time they were fall guys, not perps. (Note the technical vocabulary. We well-known amateur sleuths like to sound professional.)
I cannot say I felt particularly professional at that moment. What I felt was scared spitless, as my mother used to say, innocently unaware of the word the euphemism concealed. Bits and pieces of a theory were scuttling around in my brain like beetles with too many legs and shifty dispositions, darting for cover behind lumps of stupidity whenever I tried to swat one of them. The overall pattern was so preposterous I’d have laughed it off if anyone but John had been involved.
One thing stood out shining and clear though, and when I joined the others for dinner I was trying to think of a way of proposing it that wouldn’t make matters even worse. Larry did not join us. He had sent his apologies, claiming he would be busy all evening. It seemed a heaven-sent opportunity for making my move.
‘I feel guilty about taking advantage of Larry,’ I said, poking at a delectable fruit salad. ‘He’s too polite to say so, but I’m sure we’re making things more difficult for him. Not only is he getting ready to leave, but Jean-Louis’s death will involve a good many additional administrative problems. What do you say we check out and move to a hotel, Schmidt?’
Usually Schmidt was agreeable to any activity as long as he could do it with me, but this time he looked mutinous. ‘We can give help and comfort to our poor friend – ’
‘I doubt you can give him the sort of help he needs,’ John said dryly. ‘I think Vicky’s hit on a splendid idea. We’ll miss you when you’re gone, of course. Both of you.’
If that wasn’t a hint I’d never heard one. From the tilt of John’s eyebrow I deduced it was also a quote from one of Schmidt’s country ballads. Lots of them are about missing people after they’ve gone, and in most cases ‘gone’ doesn’t mean temporarily removed from the scene.
The meal dragged on, prolonged primarily by Schmidt, who ate hugely of everything offered. Nobody else seemed to have much of an appetite. When we headed for the parlour for coffee, one of the servants drew me aside. ‘There is a gentleman to see you, miss,’ he murmured.
He was waiting in the hall. I didn’t recognize him at first. He might have been dressed for a funeral, in a dark suit and sombre tie, and his face was almost as gloomy.
‘Feisal,’ I said in surprise.
His attempt at a smile wasn’t very convincing. ‘I have been with Mr Blenkiron. I thought – I hoped I might persuade you to come with me to a cafe.’
I had a number of reasons for believing that might not be such a good idea. ‘I don’t think so, Feisal. Not tonight.’
He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and caught mine in a hard grip. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Please, Vicky. Only for a little while. It’s not what you think; do you suppose I feel like celebrating? I have to talk to you.’
There were also a number of reasons for believing it might not be such a bad idea. He saw I was weakening. In the same hoarse whisper he went on, ‘We’ll go to the ETAP or the Winter Palace, wherever you will feel comfortable. Please?’
‘Well . . .’
He practically dragged me to the door. I made a few feeble protests about freshening my makeup and getting my purse, which he overruled. I looked beautiful and I didn’t need my purse, he would escort me home.
The last part turned out to be true, anyhow, if not in the sense I expected.
I was relieved to see a taxi waiting for us instead of Larry’s mammoth car, and even more relieved to hear the words ‘Winter Palace’ in the midst of Feisal’s otherwise unintelligible order to the driver. We didn’t go in the hotel, but sat on the terrace, which was crowded with people. I ordered coffee.
‘Let’s not waste time,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Can you ask?’
‘I just did. It has to do with Dr Mazarin’s death, doesn’t it? A nice step up for you.’
He turned a queer shade of brownish grey. ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with that?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if I did. But you are a member of one of the – er – revolutionary societies, aren’t you?’
Feisal went a shade greyer. ‘If you’d like to see me hauled off to a detention cell, never to emerge again, speak a little louder.’
‘Sorry.’
Feisal drained his cup and ordered a refill. ‘Forget politics, they’ve nothing to do with the present situation. I have a feeling you’re well aware of that.’
He stopped, watching me expectantly.
What little he had said confirmed my hunch. But although I was dying – make that ‘anxious’ – to know more, I had no intention of blurting out my suspicions to one of the people I was suspicious of.
‘Please continue,’ I said.
Feisal took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. ‘I’m taking an awful chance warning you, but I couldn’t just walk away and leave you at risk. I’m going into hiding and so must you. I can take you to a place where you’ll be safe.’
I groaned. ‘Why do I do these things?’ I inquired of the room at large. ‘You’d think by this time I’d have learned better. No, thanks, Feisal. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go round the tables and panhandle a few bucks so I can take a cab – ’
‘Back into the lion’s den?’
‘You mean back into the frying pan. What you’re proposing sounds a lot like the fire.’
‘I told you – ’
‘You haven’t told me anything; you’ve just spouted vague threats. Appeal to my intelligence, Feisal. Give me two – hell, I’ll settle for one – good reason why I should accept your offer.’
Feisal groaned. We sounded like a pair of sick dogs.
‘I was told to show you this.’ He opened his briefcase and took out a piece of paper.
There was no writing on it. It was a piece of plain black paper ahout eight inches square.
I felt the blood drain slowly out of my face, staring with my brain and backing up in my vocal cords. All I could do for a few seconds was gurgle horribly. Finally I managed to clear my throat. ‘Who gave you this? Larry? Max?’
