Night Train to Memphis

Chapter Ten

MY HEART should have skipped a beat, or maybe my blood should have run cold. I didn’t feel a thing. Except a distant primeval urge to lay violent hands on Max.

After the others had gone out he closed the door. Then he looked at the wardrobe and said quietly, ‘I am sorry you had to see that, Dr Bliss.’

‘I’m sorry too.’ His statement had been so unexpected, not to say inapropos, that I answered without thinking. Why not? He knew I was there. Was he now going to apologize for dragging me out and turning me over to Hans and Rudi? And Mary?

‘Do you have a watch?’

I was thinking about Mary and the look in her eyes when she said she had plans for me. ‘What? Oh. Yes.’

‘Wait fifteen minutes. Most of us will have left the house by then. If you take reasonable precautions – I suggest the balcony – you should be able to leave unseen. I beg you won’t try something brave and foolish. You would only be caught again.’

‘Where are you taking him?’

Max clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘Now, Dr Bliss, you know better than to ask that.’

‘Max. Please. You said you owed me a favour – ’

‘I am doing you that favour. I would be in great trouble if it were known I had connived at your escape. Catch the first plane to Cairo and leave the country as soon as you are able.’

‘You know I won’t do that.’ A sensible woman wouldn’t have wasted her breath arguing with him. Vicky Bliss went right on talking. ‘You asked me a question once, remember? I didn’t know the answer then. I do now. I love him, Max. Please . . .’

Max took a step towards me. ‘Are you crying?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I would if I thought it would do any good,’ I said, sniffing.

‘It would not. Honestly, I cannot comprehend why an intelligent woman like you should behave this way. You ought to be thanking me for . . . Stop that!’

‘I can’t,’ I snuffled. The conversation, between a courteous criminal and a weeping wardrobe, might have seemed funny to a detached observer. I was not detached, and Max was clearly uncomfortable. I couldn’t figure him out. I never had been able to figure him out. Only in fiction do you find cold-blooded villains with one soft streak in their flinty hearts. But if he didn’t mean to let me go, why had he sent Rudi and Hans away?

‘Fifteen minutes,’ Max repeated. ‘There is no use trying to follow, they will have left the house by now. She is still here, however, and she would like nothing better than to get her hands on you. You can do him no good by allowing yourself to be recaptured.’

He thought he was being so clever. I said, between gulps, ‘I can’t get out. He locked me in.’

‘But there is no key. How . . .’ He came to the wardrobe. ‘Ah, I see. That is good, it will hold you just long enough. Auf Wiedersehen – or rather, goodbye, Dr Bliss.’

I threw a few more sobs at him as he walked to the door. His shoulders twitched but he didn’t stop or turn around.

I waited a few minutes, just in case. When I tried the door again it opened without difficulty. The bolt was part of the carved ornamentation. It wasn’t concealed, just inconspicuous, unless you were looking for it. I could have forced it if I had thrown myself against the door hard enough. Max had saved me the trouble. It would have been a pity to damage such a beautiful antique.

John had pulled the bedclothes apart before he was interrupted. In case I haven’t mentioned it, the sheets were linen, fine as silk. They knotted nicely. I took them out onto the balcony. My window overlooked the garden. I could hear sounds of activity at the back of the house – my friends the movers, I assumed. On this side there was no one in sight, not even a gardener, but I kept an eye peeled as I tied the end of one of the sheets around the wrought-iron railing. I slung my bag around my neck before I climbed over the balcony and took hold of the makeshift rope.

I have done some rock climbing and had become rather vain about my ability to lower myself smoothly down a chimney or rock face. I soon discovered that a bedsheet is not a good substitute for ropes and pulleys. My thigh muscles wouldn’t work the way they were supposed to, the sheet kept stretching, and the bag kept banging against my chest. I didn’t dare discard it, though. It’s bad enough to be on the run. Being on the run sans money, passport, and other useful items complicates the problem even more.

I had to drop the last ten feet, not because the linen gave out but because my thighs lost the struggle. Scrambling up, I scuttled along the side of the house, ducking under the windows, till I reached the corner.

Two of the gardeners were at work on the flowers that lined the driveway. Kneeling, their backs to me and the house, they appeared to be weeding the beds. Their dusty faded robes blended with the shadowed foliage and their white turbans looked like cauliflower. There were no vehicles in the driveway. The gates at its far end were closed. So was the door next to the gates. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I had anticipated it would be there, for the use of visitors who came and went on foot.

I had two choices. Well, actually, I had quite a few, but turning myself in didn’t appeal to me and neither did trying to get over a wall ten feet high that was topped with barbed wire and broken glass. I could make a run for it or try to bluff my way out. I decided on the second alternative. The gardeners were bound to see me – I intended that they should – and they were more likely to stop a frantic fugitive than a casual stroller.

I stuck to the shrubbery as long as I could, but I was still ten yards from the gate when I had to leave the path and step out into the open. One hand in my pocket, the other in my bag, I strode briskly towards the gate. One of the weeders sat back on his haunches as I passed him and gave me a curious look. I gave him a pleasant nod and managed not to break into a run. My back felt exposed, as if it had been stripped not only of clothing but of skin. My neck muscles ached as I fought the impulse to look over my shoulder.

The pedestrian door was locked. I had expected that, but I had hoped there would be a simple bar or bolt. No such luck. There wasn’t even a visible keyhole. The damned thing was probably electronically controlled, like the main gates. I heard the gardener call out; from the inflection it must have been a question. ‘Don’t you know you’re supposed to check out before you leave, you rude person?’ or ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, lady?’

I strolled on without replying, but the next demonstration of interest was too emphatic to ignore. The bullet hit the steel panel of the big gate with a ringing crack. Obviously it was time I stopped fooling around. I took the gun out of my bag, squatted down, pressed the barrel against the metal box at the base of the nearest column, and squeezed the trigger a few times. The position was unstable and my legs were as unsteady as my shaking hands. The recoil toppled me over onto my back. The next bullet whistled through the empty space where my head would have been if I hadn’t fallen over. The son of a bitch must be using a rifle. No hand weapon could have been so accurate at that distance.

The control box was a mess of smoking, ragged metal and the gate was ajar. So far so good, but I wouldn’t get far unless I could delay pursuit. I looked back. The man with the rifle had stopped shooting and started running. He was still some distance away, but the gardener wasn’t. I could see the whites of his eyes, so I stood up and pointed the gun in his general direction. He was no hero; with a yell he dived into the nearest bush. With an answering yell – I was beginning to lose my famous cool by that time – I dived through the door and ran . . . straight into a pair of grasping arms.

Eyes blurred, ears ringing, on the ragged edge of hysteria, I punched him in the stomach. My fist bounced off a surface as resilient as a beach ball. He staggered back, pulling me with him, and we fell onto the seat of a waiting vehicle which took off with a scream of tyres and a stench of burning rubber. The door flapped wildly until someone slammed it.

He’d fallen on top of me again. I stared up into the face in such intimate proximity to my own and burst into tears. ‘Schmidt! Oh, Schmidt, God bless you, what the hell are you doing here?’

Schmidt’s eyes were overflowing too, but only, as he was careful to explain, because I had hit him in the solar plexus. As soon as we had untangled ourselves he put an arm around me and pressed me to his stomach. ‘Put your head on my shoulder, little darlin’,’ he said tenderly. ‘All will be well. Papa Schmidt is on the case.’

That set me off again and Schmidt had to lend me his handkerchief and tell me to blow my nose like a good girl. The cab took a screeching turn into an alley hardly wider than the one I had traversed earlier that day and went careening along, scraping the walls on both sides.

‘What’s he doing?’ I gasped.

‘Eluding pursuit.’ Schmidt’s happy grin stretched from ear to ear and from moustache to double chin. Leaning forward, he tossed a handful of bills onto the front seat and shouted something in Arabic. The driver let out a whoop and roared across an intersection filled with traffic. I shut my eyes.

‘Schmidt.’ I had to raise my voice to be heard over the roar of the engine and the screams of rage from the other drivers, but I strove to speak calmly. ‘Schmidt, I think he’s eluded it. Wouldn’t we be less conspicuous if he drove at normal speed?’

‘That is probably true,’ Schmidt said reluctantly. Another fistful of money and another longish speech produced the desired effect. ‘I have instructed him to drive us around the city for a while,’ Schmidt said, settling back. ‘Now we can talk, eh? What has happened?’

I told him. When my voice gave out he said gravely, ‘So he is a prisoner.’

‘Or dead.’

Schmidt shook his head so vigorously that all his chins wobbled. ‘They won’t kill him. Not yet. Vicky, you are not thinking clearly. Oh, I understand; your emotions are at war with your intelligence, your heart aches to rush to the rescue of the man you – ’

‘Shut up, Schmidt.’ I bit my lip. ‘I’m sorry, Schmidt. I didn’t mean it.’

‘Ha,’ said Schmidt. ‘Well. I did not know what you told me, about the young woman. It explains the one thing that had confused me, however. Listen to me now, matters are more serious than I had realized, and we must act without delay. Late last night Sir John – ’

‘That’s not his name.’

‘Well, I know that, but I have become accustomed to it. It suits him. Late last night he came to my room. He said that he had sent you away, for your safety, and that I too must remove myself from the house. So, following his advice, I announced this morning that I felt it best to take myself to a hotel. Larry made only token objections. He seemed distracted.’

‘I’m sure he was. Didn’t he comment on my failure to return last night?’

‘Oh, yes, he expressed concern and asked if I knew where you were. I was very clever,’ Schmidt said, puffing himself up. ‘I said that you were a grown-up woman and that this was not the first time you had gone off with a handsome young man.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘The important thing was not that he believed it but that he believed I believed it,’ said Schmidt. He added, smirking, ‘This facade of naivety I assume is very useful. No one tried to prevent me from leaving. Ha, but they will be sorry, when they find how they have underestimated – ’

‘Schmidt,’ I said, trying to articulate through clenched teeth, ‘at some future date I will spend an entire day telling you how brilliant you are. Right now I’m in something of a hurry. Stick to the point. How did you happen to turn up today?’

‘In the nick of time,’ Schmidt pointed out. ‘It was not a coincidence that I was there.’

‘I didn’t think it was.’

My teeth weren’t clenched, they were bared. Schmidt said hurriedly, ‘Yes, I will tell you, if you will stop the interruptions. I went, as I had said I would, to the Winter Palace Hotel and checked myself in. I was eating Mittagessen when a waiter summoned me to the telephone. It was Feisal; he was calling me, he said, at the instruction of a mutual friend. You had foolishly run away from him – Feisal, that is – and he – the friend – feared you would return to the house of Larry Blenkiron. He – the friend – strongly advised that I should adopt evasive measures for my own sake and for your sake I should hover outside the gates and try to intercept you.’

I had a sudden, insane mental image of Schmidt hovering over the house like the Goodyear blimp. Or a very well-fed angel. It won’t be Heaven to Schmidt unless there is an unending flow of fattening food.

‘You were too quick for me,’ Schmidt went on, frowning. ‘I was still hoping to see you come when I heard the guns shooting and knew they must be shooting at you or at Sss . . . at John. So I leaped from the taxi, telling the driver to be ready for instant departure, and was about to break down the gate when you emerged.’

‘Break down the gate,’ I repeated. ‘How did . . . Never mind. You’re a hero, Schmidt. If you hadn’t been there I’d never have made it.’

‘If it had not been for the foresight and noble sacrifice of John you would not have made it,’ Schmidt corrected. ‘So now we must rescue him, eh? Do you know where they have taken him?’

‘They didn’t take him anywhere.’ I stared at my hand. The knuckles were raw. ‘John managed to – to distract the other guys, they aren’t awfully bright, but he didn’t fool Max. Max knew there hadn’t been time for me to get away. He figured I had to be hiding somewhere in the room. The wardrobe was the most obvious place When he told them to tie John up he was trying to mislead me, to suggest that they intended to transport him some distance. Rudi even started to question the order, but Max cut him off. John is still there. So I’ve got to go back.’

‘Aber natürlich,’ Schmidt said.

‘I had to leave him, Schmidt. I had to convince Max I had fallen for his fabrication, and make sure the others knew I was gone. My departure was a little more conspicuous than I meant it to be,’ I admitted. ‘But now they’ll be off guard, they won’t expect me to come back. If I’d hung around – ’

‘Stop it, Vicky.’ Schmidt stifled me with the handkerchief. I blew my nose and mopped my face, while he continued gently, ‘You do not have to convince me. To have acted otherwise would have been folly.’

‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I get nervous when people shoot at me.’

‘Ha,’ said Schmidt. ‘Now be quiet and I will tell you some things. Did you think I was so stupid I did not know what you were doing? From the first I have known – known more than you, Ms. Know-it-all. I told you I never forget a face. The moment I set eyes on the secretary of Mr Blenkiron I recognized him for the criminous cutter of silhouettes.’

‘How could you?’ I demanded incredulously. ‘You never saw Max. He was in jail.’

‘And that is where I saw him, in the jail. I was curious,’ Schmidt admitted. ‘I am interested in the criminal mentality, and what you had told me of him suggested he was an unusual person. On the boat he kept away from you, but he did not expect I would remember. As soon as I recognized him I knew there was trouble brewing, which I had of course suspected as soon as I saw Sir John. A coincidence, that you and he should both be on that boat? You insult me to think I would believe such a story.’

‘You pretended to believe it.’

‘Well, of course. My feelings were deeply wounded by your lack of faith in me. But I forgave you,’ Schmidt said magnanimously. ‘For the desperateness of the situation became clear to me when I recognized that terrible man. The one thing I did not know was the identity of the young woman, but of course I realized that it was only a marriage of convenience and that his heart still belonged to you.’

I started to say something sarcastic but I changed my mind. If his heart didn’t belong to me, he had gone to considerable lengths for the sake of friendship.

‘How’d you figure that out?’ I asked meekly.

‘From the way he did not look at you when he thought others were looking and the way he did look at you when he thought others were not. You,’ said Schmidt judiciously, ‘were more skilled at concealing your feelings. Had I not known better I would have believed you were adversaries instead of – ’

‘Yeah, right. Did John tell you what they’re planning, Schmidt?’

‘No, he did not have to tell me. I knew.’

‘How did . . . Oh, hell, never mind that now.’ I looked out of the window of the cab. Palm trees, flower beds, the rippling river beyond . . . ‘First things first. Did you check out of the Winter Palace?’

‘No. You see – ’

‘For God’s sake, Schmidt! They know you’re there; they’ll be looking for you.’

Schmidt let out a roar. For all his pretended calm, his nerves weren’t in much better shape than mine. ‘Give me some credit for good sense, Vicky! If I had checked out they would only look for me somewhere else. Now they will wait for me to return. I left my luggage, but I have with me all we will need,’ He indicated the briefcase on the seat next to him.

‘You’re right, and I’m a fool,’ I said humbly.

‘No, you are not a fool. You are fearing for the life and safety of the man you – ’

I didn’t want to scream at him but I knew I would if he said it, so I cut in. ‘I have the essentials with me too, but I’ve got to get rid of this gold-and-turquoise bag. It’s too conspicuous”

‘Now you are thinking,’ Schmidt said approvingly. He leaned forward and addressed the driver.

‘I did’t know you spoke Arabic’

‘I speak all languages.’ Schmidt twirled his moustache. ‘My Arabic is not good, however. Only a few phrases.’

Following – I assumed – Schmidt’s instructions, the cab stopped at one of the street markets, and Schmidt hopped out. He returned with an armful of souvenirs, including a new bag. This one was black, with the head of Nefertiti on one side and rows of hieroglyphs on the other. A good half of the souvenirs sold in Egypt have Nefertiti on them.

‘Now where?’ I asked, transferring passport, wallet, and a few dozen other objects into the new bag.

‘The ETAP,’ Schmidt answered. ‘It is good that you have your passport; we will need them in order to register.’

‘Under our own names?’

‘Unless you happen to have a false passport with you, we have no other choice,’ Schmidt said with pardonable sarcasm. ‘You know the regulations for foreigners. And don’t tell me we should choose a less expensive hotel. When they begin looking for us they will look in the cheaper places, thinking that we would not be so foolish as to go to another four-star botel. It is what you call the double whammy,’ Schmidt added.

I hated to get out of that taxi. I felt as conspicuous as a stoplight. However, I was less conspicuous at an expensive hotel, with other tall blond female tourists around, than I had been in the back streets of Luxor. Schmidt had had another bright idea, so, following his suggestion, I hung back, studying a rack of brochures, while he registered. The old boy was really in top form today – and I was not. If they tracked him down he could come up with a legitimate excuse for changing hotels, and my name would not be on the register. As he passed me, following the bellboy, he said loudly, ‘The fourth floor, you say?’ I waited a few minutes before following. When I got out on the fourth floor Schmidt was waiting to lead me to his room. It was a nice room, with a balcony and twin beds. Not that I expected to occupy one.

‘Good work, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘Now we have to – ’

‘Call the room service,’ said Schmidt, suiting the action to the word. ‘When he comes you will hide in the bathroom. Now close your mouth, Vicky, it looks very ugly when it is in that shape. I know the anguish that grips you, the frantic need to rush to the rescue of the man you – ’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you do, Schmidt.’

‘But it is important that we organize ourselves instead of running headlong into danger and inevitable defeat. How long has it been since you have eaten?’

I sat down on one of the beds. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘We will be running and shooting and using much energy,’ Schmidt said with evident relish. ‘We will need all our strength and cunning. We must procure disguises. And weapons, and money, much more money, for bribes and for – ’

‘You can’t come with me, Schmidt.’

‘But Vicky – ’

‘Come here, Schmidt.’ I patted the bed next to me. Pouting, Schmidt sat down. I put my arms around him – as far around as they would go. ‘You’re the man I love, Schmidt. You’re also about a thousand per cent smarter than anybody I know, including me. Especially me. I will have something to eat and I will assume any disguise you can supply, and I will proceed with the utmost care and caution. But one person has a better chance of sneaking into that place than two.’ Especially when one of them was the size of Schmidt. I’d have cut my tongue out before saying it, though. I went on, ‘And one of us has to play backup. If I don’t make it, you’ll have to come in for me. That,’ I added quickly, ‘is a football term, Schmidt, not a literal suggestion. I mean – ’

‘I know the football,’ Schmidt sniffed. He had given me his handkerchief, so he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘You mean I must go to to the police. Why don’t we do that now?’

‘I can think of at least two good – ’ A knock on the door interrupted me. I dragged myself into the bathroom and splashed water on my face while I waited for the waiter to leave. The face needed a lot more than water, but I got the worst of the dirt off before Schmidt called me back.

‘I know the reasons too,’ he said, waving me into a chair. ‘It will be hard to convince the police they must invade the home of so distinguished a visitor as Herr Blenkiron. Have you any proof, Vicky, of what he plans?’

‘No.’ I put things in my mouth and chewed them. Swallowing wasn’t easy, but I managed it. ‘That’s one reason. The other . . .’

‘Yes, I have thought of that too.’ For once Schmidt didn’t appear to be enjoying his food.

Neither of us wanted to say it. Even supposing the cops could be persuaded to search the house, they might not find anything. It’s easier to hide a dead body than a live one. John knew exactly what they were planning. They still needed him for one part of the scheme – I was pretty sure I knew what part – but they’d work around that rather than take the risk of letting him talk to the authorities.

‘Another thing concerns me,’ Schmidt said, tactfully changing the subject. ‘Is there a possibility, do you think, that not all the police are honest?’

‘It’s a dead certainty, I think, that some of them are not. There are a few people in any security service in any country who can be bought.’ I put my fork down and stared dismally at my boss. ‘That’s another little problem, Schmidt. I doubt that even John knows who is in Blenkiron’s pay and who is unwitting. If we pick the wrong person . . .’

‘Eat, eat,’ Schmidt urged. ‘Do not lose heart. We will not pick the wrong person because we will go straight to the tops – my old acquaintance, Dr Ramadan, the director of the Cairo Museum, and my dear friend the Interior Minister, and the pleasant individual I met at a conference – ’

‘I’ll leave it to you, Schmidt,’ I said. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t sit still a second longer. At that moment I was in complete sympathy with the people who want to censor films because of excessive, explicit violence. Obviously I’d seen too many of them; Technicolor images kept flashing across the screen of my mind. ‘Help me figure out how I’m going to get back in that place.’

The main gate was out. They’d be guarding it closely, especially since I had wrecked the electronic controls. Once inside there was a chance I could mingle with the packers long enough to enter the house. If the packers were still there and if I could climb that damned wall and if my turban didn’t fall off . . .

‘Forget it,’ I said impatiently, grabbing the strip of white cloth from Schmidt after it had collapsed around my ears for the third time. ‘I can’t put it on till after we leave the hotel anyhow. I’ll cheat and use safety pins.’

He’d had to make a quick shopping trip. There are dozens of shops and souvenir stands along the corniche; the only problem he’d had was finding a galabiya without sequins, embroidery, or bright braid. The one he’d brought back was plain grey. After I wadded it up and rubbed it in the flower box on the balcony and frayed the hem, it looked reasonably authentic. The white cloth was a cotton scarf designed for female tourists. My handsome tanned complexion came out of a bottle.

‘What else have you got in there?’ I asked, curiosity overcoming my raging impatience as Schmidt replaced the bottle in his briefcase.

‘Contact lenses,’ said Schmidt. ‘Black ones and brown ones. Scissors. They are useful for many things. Dye for the hair – ’

I declined the hair colouring. It would take too long to dry, and if it was the same stuff Schmidt had used on his moustache it would probably run.

‘Traveller’s cheques,’ Schmidt continued. ‘And money. Take it, you may need it. I will cash more traveller’s cheques this afternoon. And take this also.’

I put the cash into my pocket. The other offering was a knife.

‘Where’d you get that?’ I demanded. He must have brought the other things all the way from Munich, but he could never have gotten the knife through customs. It had a worn wooden hilt and a blade eight inches long. The edges shone.

‘From the taxi driver,’ Schmidt said calmly. ‘He did not have a gun, but he – ’

‘Thanks.’ I was in no mood to be fussy. I was only sorry the taxi driver hadn’t packed an Uzi.

I didn’t get to use my pretty new bag after all. I filled my pockets with as many useful items as they would hold and fastened them securely with safety pins. Schmidt was talking – something about Cairo – but I cut him off. ‘Let’s go.’

I assumed my disguise in the taxi. Watching in the rearview mirror, the driver was so interested he almost ran over a bicycle and two Swedish tourists. Schmidt told him some story – something indecent, probably, because the driver howled with laughter and Schmidt blushed when I asked him what he had said.

He dropped me off and I waved bye-bye to him as the taxi headed back along the corniche. The arrangements had taken longer than I would have liked. The sun was sinking towards the cliffs of the west bank and the river reflected the glow of gathering sunset. It might have been more sensible to wait until after dark before I made the attempt. In fact, there was no question about it; it would have been more sensible.

Carrying my shopping bag, I shuffled along the broken sidewalk in my backless leather slippers. For once I was grateful I had feet as big as a man’s. The women’s slippers were gaudy affairs with turned-up toes and gilt trim. By the time I’d gone a few hundred yards my footwear was dusty and scuffed, like the shoes of the other pedestrians.

What I saw at the entrance to the institute made me duck into the first street leading away from the corniche. I had expected guards. I had not expected they would be wearing black uniforms. It was depressing confirmation of the doubts Schmidt and I had had earlier. Larry must have convinced the police he needed protection. If they were stationed all around the perimeter, I was in deep trouble.

By the time I had worked my way around to the back of the estate, blue shadows were gathering and my nerves were ready to snap. I had been warned away from the wall by one guy carrying a rifle and wearing a uniform, and there were apartment buildings facing it across a narrow street. Finally I reached a place where the buildings were replaced by a vacant lot, filled with weeds and tumbled masonry. The base of the wall was in deepening shadow and the mud plaster had flaked, leaving crevices between the underlying bricks. Nobody was around. It was now or never, and by that time I was about ready to whip out my gun and shoot anybody who tried to stop me. If, that is, there were any bullets in the gun. I couldn’t remember how many shots I’d fired. Several.

I’ve never climbed anything as fast as I did that wall. At any second I expected to hear a shout or a shot. Hanging on by my toenails and one hand, I reached into the shopping bag slung onto my back and pulled out the pillow I had taken from Schmidt’s bed. It helped some, but the barbed wire ripped a gash in my long skirts as I swung my leg over. It didn’t do my shin any good either. I didn’t try climbing down, I just let go.

The ten-foot drop knocked the breath. out of me and the shrub through which I fell had lots of thorns. It was a nice thick shrub, though. I blessed Larry’s landscaper for wanting to hide that ugly wall.

I had left my Nefertiti bag with Schmidt and was wearing my own clothes under the galabiya. After gathering up the odds and ends that had fallen out of my pockets I peered through the branches and tried to figure out where I was. The swimming pool – or, to be more precise, the surrounding fence – oriented me. I pinned my turban back on and headed for the house, skulking along in the shrubbery when I could, dashing across the open spaces when I couldn’t. It would be dark before long, but if the movers had quit for the day . . . Apparently the gardeners were about to do so. I spotted a couple of them heading for a shed, rakes and spades over their shoulders. Some of the others – the ones I particularly didn’t want to meet – must be away from the house, not heading for another hideout as Max had tried to make me believe, but searching for poor little me. They needed me. Not for my sweet self, but in order to persuade John to carry out his part of the deal.

And I needed John. Not only for his sweet self, but because he knew the answers to certain vital questions. How far had the corruption spread? How many people were in on the scheme? One reason why I was reluctant to appeal to the police, or the SSI, was that I felt certain some of them must be involved. The man I had met in Larry’s office, who had insisted on the conveniently anonymous appellation of Achmet, had to be in Larry’s pay. The purpose of that interview was clear to me now; it had been intended to get me off the case and convince me there was no need to contact anyone else.

Until I spotted Max I hadn’t been certain Larry was involved. They could have done the job without his knowledge, though it would have been difficult. But Larry had lied about how long his secretary had been with him. A year ago Max had been in a Swedish prison. Larry had pulled the necessary strings and gotten him out when he was needed. It’s terrifying, the amount of power money can wield. All the complex aspects of the plot had been made easier by Larry’s influence and wealth. He probably owned the Queen of the Nile – and the crew and the captain, and the engineer who had dutifully demolished the refrigeration machinery. And Jean-Louis and Feisal. It wasn’t fair. Everybody was on Larry’s side. Except John, who was, as usual, on his own side. Not entirely, though; not any longer. I didn’t dare think about his reasons for defying the others, or the price he would probably have to pay. I didn’t dare think about a lot of things. If I did, the defences I had built up over the years would crumble and fall, and I couldn’t afford that kind of weakness now.

As I approached the side entrance I heard voices. The movers were working late, but one look told me this clever idea wasn’t going to work a second time. The man who stood by the open door watching them pass in and out was wearing European clothes. Though darkness was not yet complete, the floodlights illumining the entrance had been turned on, enabling him to see their faces clearly. They also enabled me to see his features clearly. I had known him as Bright. I had a hunch that wasn’t his real name.

The floodlights served me as well, half-blinding him to anything that was going on outside their glare. I sidled through the landscaping until I reached the terrace. As I crawled on hands and knees in the dubious shelter of the low walls, one of my sandals fell off. Instead of replacing it I kicked the other one off. Once I was inside the house, bare feet would be quieter and quicker than those clumsy sandals.

I had come prepared to break the glass if I had to; one of the useful objects Schmidt had pressed upon me was a roll of tape. However, the French doors weren’t locked. The parlour was lighted but empty. After I had closed the door behind me I relaxed a little, though I knew the feeling of greater safety was mostly wishful thinking. There were places to hide, behind draperies and furniture, but several of the pieces I had seen before were gone – into one of the moving vans, I supposed.

I wished I were more familiar with the plan of the house. Somewhere, I felt certain, there were rooms not open to the general public, and I wasn’t thinking of the kitchen and service areas. But if they were as secret as they had to be – underground, protected by every possible security device – access wouldn’t be easy. I had decided I would investigate the bedrooms first.

My turban had come unhitched and my hands were too unsteady to deal with the damned thing. I tied it around my neck in a neat Girl Scout knot and padded towards the hall and the front stairs.

If the man who came down the stairs had been barefoot I would have walked right into him. He was wearing boots and his step was firm and confident; I heard him coming and ducked back into the parlour, praying that room wasn’t his destination. He went the other way, heading for Larry’s study. The door opened and I heard voices before it closed again.

Evidently a business meeting was in progress. There had been several voices, including a woman’s soprano, considerably louder and shriller than her usual soft tones. I hadn’t dared look to see who the latest arrival had been – Max? Larry? – but at least four of them were now in the office.

Lifting my skirts, I ran up the stairs. All the doors along the corridor were closed; lights in antique bronze sconces shone brightly.

A methodical searcher would have tried each door in turn. That procedure had its risks, however. It was too much to expect that all of them would be in Larry’s study. If I opened the door of an occupied room the search would end then and there. I tried the door of Schmidt’s former room first, and then that of my own. Both were dark. I had to turn on the lights to make certain nobody was there. It was not a very smart move, but I hadn’t thought of bringing a flashlight. There were a lot of things I hadn’t thought of.

Time was getting on. The meeting could break up at any moment. It occurred to me that maybe I ought to find a place where I could hide in case someone came upstairs. If I couldn’t find him right away, if he wasn’t in this part of the house, I would have to wait till after they had gone to bed before I resumed the search. Maybe I would be lucky enough to overhear a snatch of conversation: ‘Let us go to the cellar, which is reached by a flight of stairs next to the kitchen, and see how our guest (sneering laughter) is getting on.’

Fat chance. I had been associating with Schmidt too long even to imagine such a thing.

It was likely that he was in the cellar (if there was a cellar) or in one of the other buildings. Checking the bedrooms was probably a waste of time, but it had to be done and now was the best time, before the occupants of the house retired for the night. First, though, I needed to find a place. where I could hide temporarily. The narrow unadorned door at the back of a shallow recess looked as if it led to another broom closet or a linen closet, so I tried it first. No one would be there.

Someone was, though.

It was a small room, only eight or ten feet square, with a single window. Shelves along two of the walls indicated that its original function had been that of storage, of linens or other household objects. The furniture consisted of a cot, a table, and a few chairs.

They hadn’t even bothered to lock the door.

His head had fallen forward and his body sagged against the ropes that bound him to the chair. I hadn’t dared hope I would find him in pristine condition. I had even braced myself for a little blood. But only the dark hours of nightmare could have prepared me for this. The stains covered his shirt like a macabre crazy-quilt pattern of rust and scarlet, some patches still wet and bright, some dried to ugly brown.

The sound I made was wordless, more like a bird’s squawk than anything human, but John must have recognized my voice. His head lifted alertly and his face was set in a scowl.

‘You again,’ he said, without enthusiasm.

‘What . . .’ His face was unmarked except for a swollen lip. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘What did they . . .’

‘It’s called “The Death of a Thousand Cuts,” or something equally picturesque. Lower percentages are employed for purposes of discipline or persuasion.’ The scowl became even more pronounced. ‘The primary subject of the interrogation was your present whereabouts. I ought to have told them not to bother, because you’d be sure to turn up before long. Christ Almighty, Vicky, wasn’t one encounter with that ghastly woman enough? I have been trying for two days to get you out of here, and you keep coming back like a – a bloody boomerang!’

‘You’re the nastiest, most ungrateful bastard I have ever – ’ I began.

‘If you’re going to shout, at least close the door!’

‘Oh.’ I closed the door.

‘Dare I flatter myself that you came after me this time?’ John inquired in his most poisonously polite voice. ‘Very good of you, I’m sure. All right, let’s try the escape bit again. If we keep practising we may get it right one day. I trust it occurred to you to bring along a weapon? Possibly even a knife? If you didn’t, there’s one on the table.’

I had already seen it and was trying hard not to look at it. The blade was dark and clotted. Hoisting my skirts, I whipped out my own knife. I had wrapped a cloth around it as a makeshift scabbard.

A look of apprehension replaced John’s scowl as I wobbled towards him. ‘Do please watch what you’re doing. There are several essential arteries running down the extremities and your knowledge of anatomy – ’

‘I don’t suppose it’s as expert as hers.’ I had no doubt who had used that knife. His shirt was open and I could see some of the cuts, arranged in patterns as neat as cross-stitch.

I managed to free his ankles without slashing an artery and then crawled around behind the chair. When the knife touched his bare arm he made a profane remark and I snapped, ‘I’m trying to slide it down between your wrists. The rope is pretty tight.’

‘Oh, is it really?’

‘If you don’t stop twitching and complaining it will be your own damned fault if you end up with a spouting artery.’

After the last of the ropes had fallen away John rose briskly to his feet and immediately dropped to his knees. Instinctively I reached for him. He flinched away from my touch.

‘No. Just . . . give me a minute.’

I stood looking helplessly down at him as he fought to control his ragged breathing. Sweat had darkened his hair and his wrists were ringed with ridged flesh.

‘John,’ I whispered. ‘I, uh . . . I . . .’

‘Well?’ He didn’t look up, but his shoulders straightened as if in expectation.

‘I . . . I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry,’ John repeated.

‘Well, uh . . . It was very nice of you to lock me up in the wardrobe and . . . and all the rest. Of course if you had taken the trouble to mention at an earlier point in time that Mary was one of the gang and a closet sadist, none of this would have happened.’

‘Oh, well done,’ John said. ‘For a moment there, I feared that the Vicky I know and love had gone soft.’ He fumbled in his pant pocket. His hands were still numb; he managed to extract a small tin, but it slipped through his fingers when he tried to open it.

‘Let me.’ I picked it up. ‘Though I think you need something a little stronger than aspirin.’

‘That is something a little stronger than aspirin. One of the white and two of the yellow, please.’

I didn’t like the look of those pills. If they weren’t illegal they were dangerous. Maybe both. This didn’t seem an appropriate time for a lecture on drugs, however. ‘Can you swallow them without water?’

‘I’ll have to, won’t I?’

After he had forced them down I said, ‘Maybe we’d better get moving.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. Perhaps we ought first to discuss the method of escape you have in mind. I trust you do have a method in mind?’

‘I hadn’t gotten that far,’ I admitted.

‘Hadn’t you?’

We were both kneeling. When he turned his head his eyes were on a level with mine.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then he said, ‘Unless you were planning to tuck me under one arm and make a break for it, you’ll have to contain yourself for . . . say, ten minutes. It will take that long for those pills to kick in. Until they do I might manage a slow crawl.’

‘Did they say when they’d be back?’

‘No, they were not so considerate as that. Have you been here all this time? Not in the wardrobe, surely.’

‘No, I left. Thanks to Max. He knew I was in the wardrobe.’

That shocked him into relative alertness. ‘What? How do you know?’

‘We had a long talk. He sent Hans and Rudi out of the room before he spoke to me, and he obviously meant to let me get away, but he refused to tell me where they were taking you even after I . . . I . . . uh.’

‘You seem to be suffering from a speech disability,’ John remarked. ‘You, uh, what?’

‘Are you ready to – ’

‘No. What did you do or say to poor old Maxie? Burst into tears? Tell him you . . . Oh, Christ,’ John said, reading my face as only he could. ‘You didn’t! You didn’t really give Max – Max, of all people! – the old Romeo and Juliet routine? Did you threaten to perch on my tombstone and drink poison? Did you promise you’d follow him to the ends of the earth and stab him before throwing yourself off the battlements, à la Tosca? I’m immensely touched that you should perjure yourself for me, darling, but my opinion of your intelligence has been sadly shaken. You’d have stood a better chance of softening a rattlesnake than that cold-blooded, cynical – ’

The door opened just far enough to admit a man, and then closed as quietly. The man was Max.

‘Ah,’ he said softly; ‘I thought I’d find you here.’

My skirts were bunched up under me. I had to stand before I could get at my gun. Max watched interestedly while I fumbled in my pockets. John didn’t move a muscle. His mouth was still open and his eyes were glazed. Finally I got the gun out and pointed it at Max.

‘Don’t call for help,’ I said.

‘My dear Dr Bliss, I had time to recite an entire sonnet while you were trying to locate that weapon,’ Max said. ‘Something by Shakespeare or Mrs Browning, perhaps? I am not as familiar with your English poets as I would like to be.’

John closed his mouth and cleared his throat, but he was not yet capable of speech. I said, ‘Turn around, Max.’

‘So you can strike me unconscious with the butt of the gun? I think not, Dr Bliss. It would be painful for me and counterproductive for you.’

John got unsteadily to his feet and took the gun from me. He squinted at it, and then slipped it into his belt. ‘Would you care to elaborate on that, Max?’

‘My meaning should be clear,’ Max said. ‘I am going to help you escape.’