‘Who’s Max?’ Either he was honestly bewildered or he could have given drama lessons to Sir Laurence Olivier.
‘He cuts silhouettes,’ I mumbled, staring at the piece of black paper. ‘For a hobby. His other hobbies are fraud, theft and murder. Art and antiquities, those are his specialties. I thought he was in jail! I helped put him in jail! How the hell did he . . .’
I shoved my chair back and stood up. ‘I’ve got to get Schmidt out of there. If Max is one of them . . . Oh, Christ, of course, it has to be him! He was careful to keep out of my way, but I should have known, he was obviously wearing a wig the first time I . . .’
I wasted time fumbling under the table for my purse before I remembered I didn’t have it. Feisal grabbed my arm as I started blindly for the street.
‘Hold on a minute. You don’t have money for a cab.’
‘I’ll tell him to wait. Just long enough for me to collect Schmidt and my purse.’
‘I’ll come with you. Wait a second.’
He tossed a few bills onto the table and picked up his briefcase without relaxing his grip on me. I pulled away from him, and he said, ‘I sense you are now convinced of the danger. Come with me to the place I mentioned.’
‘Not without Schmidt.’
There were several decrepit-looking vehicles lined up in front of the hotel. I opened the door of the first one – hoping it was a taxi – and got in. Feisal followed me.
‘I’ll go back for him after I’ve taken you – ’
‘No, you won’t. Driver!’
Feisal enveloped me in a rib-cracking embrace and rattled off a string of directions to the driver. I didn’t understand a word, but I was pretty sure he had not given the order I would have given. I tried to free myself. ‘Let me go, damn you!’
‘Certainly,’ said Feisal, unwrapping his arms. I fell back against the seat and he socked me on the jaw.
* * *
He must have given me an injection of some kind, because it was morning when I woke up. Very early morning; the rosy hues of dawn fell prettily across the floor of . . . wherever I was. I didn’t wait to examine my surroundings, but made a rush for the door. Somehow I wasn’t surprised to discover that it was locked. The single window was blocked by ornate grillwork. It had been there awhile, rusty streaks stained the black iron, but it was still functional, as I discovered when I shook it. Had it been designed to keep people in or keep them out? I wondered. Whatever the original purpose, it would suffice to keep me in.
The rush of adrenaline subsided, leaving me shaking and weak-kneed. I staggered back to the bed and sat down.
After I had surveyed the room I had to admit that I had been shut up in worse places. The furniture looked as if it had come from the local equivalent of a low-budget outlet store, but it was clean and fairly new. In addition to the bed, the amenities consisted of a table, a lamp, and two straight chairs. On the table was a jug (plastic) full of water, a glass (plastic), a bowl (you guessed it), a bar of soap, a towel, and a paperback novel with the cover missing. I picked up the book. It was by Valerie Vandine. I threw it across the room.
There was only one door. I am not without experience. I was raised on a farm. I found what I was looking for chastely hidden under the bed.
After I had paced the room forty or fifty times I retrieved the book and started reading.
Voluptuous Madeleine de Montmorency was fighting off the villain for the second time when I heard a sound at the door. The book and my feet hit the floor simultaneously. There was nothing in the room I could use as a weapon, so I had to rely on craft, cunning, and my bare hands. Which left me, I had to admit, at a distinct disadvantage.
But when I saw the figure framed in the open doorway my clenched fist fell. Nothing my imagination had conjured up could equal that vision.
She was about three feet tall and about a hundred years old and she didn’t have a tooth in her head. Black cloth covered everything except her face and her hands – the standard garb of a conservative Muslim female. She wouldn’t wear a face veil in her own house with only another woman present. Baring her gums at me in what was probably not a smile, she sidled into the room, and deposited a tray on the table.
Where I come from, punching old ladies simply isn’t done. My stupefied stare must have reassured her. Straightening to her full height of three feet six, she gestured at the door and twisted her bony wrist – once, twice, three times. I got the message. Three doors, three locks, between me and freedom.
I was begining to think maybe I could overcome my conditioning about hitting old ladies – not hard, of course, just a little tap – when she gave a sudden backward hop, agile as an Egyptian cricket. (They are black and very large, and they don’t fly; they beam themselves from place to place like Captain Kirk.) Before I could move she was out of the door. It closed with a slam and I heard the key turn in the lock.
I didn’t swear. I was too dumbfounded to be angry. What the hell kind of jailer was this? Where the hell was I? Who the hell was responsible for this?
By the time I had finished the coffee and nibbled at a piece of flat, unleavened bread I was pretty sure I knew the answer to the last question. The situation had his distinctively lunatic touch, including Grandma Moses. I wondered where he had dug her up. So, fifty pages later, when I heard the key turn in the lock again, I didn’t bother assuming a posture of attack. Where John was concerned, bare hands weren’t worth a damn. I’d need a water cannon to handle him.
The man who entered had the same swagger and the same condescending smirk. It wasn’t John. It was Feisal.
‘Don’t you have any Barbara Michaels or Charlotte MacLeod?’ I asked, waving the book at him. ‘I loathe Valerie.’
Feisal settled himself comfortably in one of the chairs. ‘Wrong cue. You’re supposed to say, “How dare you,” or “What do you want with me?” so I can leer lustfully at you.’
‘Let’s not bandy words,’ I said. ‘Who’s the old lady?’
‘My grandmother.’
‘You low down skunk. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, dragging an innocent grandmother into this. Or is she innocent?’
‘Oh, quite. She thinks my interest in you is personal.’
‘Now wait a minute.’ I didn’t believe him, but I thought it might be a good idea to get up from the bed. I pulled out the other chair and sat down facing him. ‘A dear, old-fashioned Muslim granny wouldn’t connive at abduction and rape.’
‘Certaily not.’ Feisal looked shocked. ‘She knows I’m irresistible to women. She thinks you’re just playing hard to get. But don’t worry,’ he went on, while I struggled to express my feelings, ‘much as I’d enjoy overcoming your maidenly scruples, you are perfectly safe from attentions of that sort.’
‘And why is that?’
Feisal sighed. ‘It’s those years at Oxford, I suppose. The facade is only skin-deep but it sticks like glue. Besides, I have been told how many square inches of skin I would have removed if I so much as breathed heavily on you. He was quoting
‘He does quote Shakespeare a lot,’ I agreed. ‘How very gallant of him to be concerned about my maidenly scruples. Or is he saving me for later?’
Feisal folded his arms. ‘Vicky, you simply have to take this seriously. You are perfectly safe here. It’s probably the only place in Luxor where you
Emulating his cool, I folded my arms and stretched my legs out. ‘What’s going to happen in a few days?’
‘I’m not going to ask how much you know,’ Feisal began.
‘I must know more than I think I know. What vital clue, observed but uncomprehended by me, prompted this rash act?’
Feisal’s beautiful black eyebrows drew together, but he sounded more puzzled than angry when he spoke. ‘Astonishing. You really haven’t a clue, have you?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Obviously not. So why don’t you just relax and leave it to us?’
