The Casbah Killers

Chapter 3

Marina had made me promise to return soon. It was a promise she needn’t have extracted. I had to push thoughts of her out of my mind.

The memory of her milk-white skin against the blackness of her hair, her beautifully formed breasts, her long, slender thighs, lingered in my mind, distracting, bothersome visions. Her hunger, so long denied, had not been satisfied this one time, I knew.

It was an exciting prospect to contemplate, but now I had other matters, ugly, dangerous matters.

Rashid the Rif, she had told me, and I headed for the little rug dealer in the medina. He would, I knew, be able to tell me where I could find this Rashid the Rif.

I searched my memory for what I knew of the Rifs. Little, long-buried facts began to sift their way up into my conscious mind.

The Rif was the fortress of Morocco, the mountainous stretch of inhospitable land in North Africa, from the tip of Morocco where it faces Spain, along the Mediterranean, to the Algerian border.

As conqueror after conqueror found out, the people of the Rif were fierce fighters, quick to anger, feeling themselves more than a little apart from the rest of their countrymen. The Romans could never conquer or subdue the Rifs in their natural stronghold. Neither could the Spaniards nor the French. The only Berber or Arab chiefs who made headway among the Rifs were those who came in peace and not to conquer.

The mountainous Rifs in 1926, under Abd-el-Krim, fought 325,000 French troops and 100,000 Spanish troops to a standstill with 20,000 men. Great horsemen, at home with their fleet stallions or the mehari, the sand-colored fast camels used on the desert ranges, the Rifs were a warrior caste, a proud, aloof people.

I wondered if that meant anything or whether this Rashid the Rif was merely a loner.

Ben Kashan didn’t give me any leads on that. When he saw me he brought out a wan, apologetic smile.

“The sellers of information have become terribly greedy,” he said, spreading his hands out wide, his eyes a mirror of concern.

I got the message.

“Tell the greedy ones that if the information they have is good, I will double what I would have paid,” I answered. “Right now I come seeking one called Rashid the Rif.”

Ben Kashan’s face clouded and his eyes grew wary.

“He will tell you nothing,” he said. “He is a bad man, a man to keep away from.”

Ben Kashan’s advice was sincere, but I knew that the Arabs in general disliked and feared the Rifs in a legendary fear going back a thousand years.

Ben Kashan saw in my eyes that I wasn’t impressed.

“If you must find him, his house is on the other side of the medina, behind the row of gift stores. It was a stable once, his house.”

“What does he do, this Rashid the Rif?” I asked.

Ben Kashan shrugged and rolled his eyes. “He is a Rif,” he said. “He tells no one anything, he speaks to no one. He came to the medina only a few months ago and, I have heard, paid to rent this old stable. More than this, I do not know.”

“Good enough,” I said, tossing an American dollar at him. The part about only arriving a few months ago was interesting.

I found my way back across the medina and located the line of semi-permanent gift shops aimed at tourist trades, full of carpets, brass and copper utensils, and general native arts and crafts. Behind the row of shops I found the old stable. A low house, it jutted out in an L-shaped form.

I entered the open door and paused to pull on a bell rope just inside the doorway.

Rashid the Rif appeared from within the house silently, suddenly standing before me, unmistakably the man I sought. Wearing a djellaba with a cartridge belt slung around one shoulder and a long, curved Moorish dagger hanging from his belt, he regarded me with the eyes of a falcon, cold, piercing, predatory, deadly.

His face itself was hawk-like, sharp-nosed, with tightly drawn skin and a glance that skewered me as though I were a piece of mutton on a spit. The man fairly stank of evil and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck go up. He outwaited me as I spoke first.

“I seek a man called Karminian,” I said. “I was told he visited you recently.”

“I know of no such man, foreigner,” he spat out, each word distinct in heavily accented Arabic.

“I was told he had business dealings with you,” I tried again.

“If so, it was his business and mine, not yours,” Rashid the Rif growled. “But I told you I know no such man.”

I felt certain, without a shred of evidence, that he was lying. Besides, my own stubbornness was coming to the fore.

“I was told that he came to you only a week ago,” I persisted. I watched, my eyes narrowing, as his hand went to the hilt of the long, curved Moorish dagger in its jewel-encrusted sheath.

“You say Rashid lies?” he muttered darkly.

“I say what I was told,” I answered. I could feel myself getting mean, hoping the ugly bastard would try to use that curved pig-sticker on me. But he didn’t, though I had the strong feeling that he wasn’t putting aside the thought but merely deferring it.

“Too many questions is the way to lose one’s tongue,” he growled.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll have that tattooed on my chest.”

I turned and strode out, knowing any further attempts at information would be futile. I felt the Rif’s eyes following me until I was lost in the throng and when I emerged from the medina I took a deep breath.

It was becoming clearer that so far I had but two avenues to Karminian, both female. And I felt that both could be of greater help. I didn’t think they were deliberately holding back, not any longer, but they could know little things which seemed unimportant to them but might be really important as hell to me.

I decided to go over that scene again, starting this time with Aggie Foster.

She had just gotten up a few minutes before I arrived and greeted me wearing bright-green, halter-top, bare-midriffed pajamas. She quickly covered the flash of pleasure in her eyes with a half-pout. Without make-up, she looked surprisingly little-girl, the hard, jaded lines of her face softened by the natural glow of her complexion.

“I was wondering what happened to you,” she said, her lips thrust out in a pout. “I guess you’re not that interested in finding Anton.”

“Oh, but I am,” I said, grinning at her. “I’ve been busy looking for him.”

“I thought I’d hear from you yesterday,” she said. “How do you know I didn’t think of something?”

This time I grinned inwardly. It was a transparent ploy to see me but I wasn’t going to stomp on it.

“Have you thought of something?” I asked quickly. “Let’s hear it.”

“No matter,” she said, brightening up suddenly. “I wanted to see you on something else anyway. I’ve been thinking. A painting of me might be great publicity, something different from the usual glossy photos. Could you do something real sexy?”

“I don’t know,” I answered with a slow smile. “An artist can’t just make up sexiness. It’s something that has to come from his subject.”

“It’ll come,” she said grimly. “Especially these days.”

“Why especially these days?” I asked innocently. “You miss Karminian that much?”

Her eyes narrowed and she grew stiff, defensive. “What if I do?” she said, flouncing down on the small sofa, resting her arms on the back so that her breasts thrust forward, round, high mounds of inviting loveliness. Her foot moved back and forth, twitching restlessly, like a cat’s tail.

I was here to get more on Karminian from her, but I suddenly saw a better route to what I wanted, certainly one that might be more fun.

“What did you think of that was important about Karminian?” I asked. “Apparently you’ve been thinking a lot about him.”

She got the dig. “Maybe I don’t feel like talking about it now,” she answered quickly. “Maybe I forgot again.”

“Like hell you did,” I said, moving to stand in front of her.

She was being surly again, her restless eyes moving across my face.

I reached down, took the halter top in one hand and pulled her to her feet.

Instantly, her eyes showed fear.

“You promised no rough stuff,” she said.

“Who said anything about rough stuff?” I asked. “I want to help your memory along. Maybe reminding you of him will do it.”

I leaned down and kissed her, opening her lips with my tongue.

She didn’t move her body but her lips worked against mine, responding at once.

“Is that what you miss?” I murmured, not taking my lips from hers, still holding her by the front of the halter.

“Bastard,” she murmured back.

I let my tongue reach deep down into her, flicking back and forth, and I felt her body quiver.

“Hows the memory?” I breathed, still holding my mouth on hers. “Getting better?”

“Bastard!” she said, trying to tear away but clutching at me at the same time. “Stop it. That’s not fair.”

I let my hands drop down to press across the halter and rest on her two high, round breasts.

She threw her head back and a half-sobbing cry escaped her. Her hands still clutched at my arms.

“Do you remember being held this way?” I asked. “Remember?”

“Oh, Christ!” she cried. “Cut it out. I can’t stand it. Stop playing with me this way.”

I stopped playing with her. I slid ray hand under the halter to seize one softly firm, young breast.

Aggie almost screamed and threw her body against me. Her hips were making round motions, churning against my groin. She reached back and undid the halter top and it fell off to free my hand around her breast.

I ran my thumb across the small, pink, almost recessed tip, and she began to feverishly rub her body up and down against mine. Her breasts were indeed round and full and very youthful, and she pressed them into my hands, and her mouth against my neck was taking small bites.

I held her back for a moment and looked at her straining face, eyes tightly shut. She was nearly mad with desire, this unsubtle, simple little creature, delirious with unbridled, naked, raw desire.

I thought of how Marina, too, had been a creature of raw desire.

One was overheated from not having, the other from having. For a fleeting moment I found myself admiring this Karminian. In his own way, he was playing quite a game.

But then Aggie’s fervid desire shut all else out. Her shoulders were moving in a circular, rotating motion and I felt her breasts grinding into my palms, her hips moving against my stomach.

I was experiencing a close-up version of her dance. I reached down, put one arm between her legs and lifted her from the floor to carry her into the bedroom.

She had the pajama bottoms nearly off by the time I put her down on the bed and as she tossed and writhed I took in her firm, young, full figure. She was compact, and every motion of her body implored, begged, entreated.

I undressed and laid my chest atop hers.

Aggie began to twist and turn and moan, small, happy sounds coming from her lips, more than gasps and not quite words. Unlike Marina, there was nothing languorous, nothing subtle, nothing refined about Aggie Foster’s lovemaking. The exotic dancer was still basically a Midwest, small-town girl, and her lovemaking was blunt, a driving, uncontrollable force.

Aggie clutched me to her and rolled over atop me, her firm, compact body pumping and thrusting and driving.

I seized her shoulders and began to match the harsh, demanding movements.

She flung herself backward and cried out for me to do more. She didn’t want brutality, and masochism wasn’t part of her. She was merely totally caught up in raw passion.

As I made love to her, Aggie lifted her torso from the bed with each driving thrust, higher and higher, astonishing me with the strength of her small form. As I matched her every pushing, pumping movement, she cried out for more until suddenly she almost leaped into the air and clasped me to her with a wriggling, hip-grinding cry of ecstasy, and it was over and done with.

We lay side by side with only the bittersweet ecstasy left, the almost painful sensitivity of two spent bodies.

After a while, Aggie raised her head and I saw her eyes begin to focus, to return to earth as it were, and she looked at me as if coming out of a dream, her voice strained, hoarse.

“Christ,” she breathed. “Oh, Christ, I’d never have believed it. I didn’t think anyone could be better than Anton.”

“You shouldn’t make comparisons,” I chided.

“I’m not,” she breathed, resting her cheek on my chest. “I’m just saying what’s true.”

Once again, as I had with Marina, I didn’t hesitate to take advantage of her warm, unguarded mood, of this brief period when she was emotionally my captive.

“Did you ever hear him mention someone called Rashid the Rif?” I asked softly. I saw her head nod.

“Just before he disappeared,” she answered. “He told me he was afraid of someone called Rashid.”

I grimaced to myself. The old bastard had lied, as I felt certain he had.

“Did Karminian take you to his apartment often?”

I asked, tossing out another one.

The whole tiling was being made up of unexplainable bits and pieces. It was becoming a game of how many more contradictions I could uncover.

“Never,” Aggie murmured. “We either came here or went out.”

“He smoked, didn’t he?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Horrible, strong Turkish cigarettes. Nothing else but and he chain-smoked them.”

Contradictions, contradictions and more of the same. I let Aggie cling to me a few minutes longer and then I moved out from beneath her. I had to get away and review this puzzle of contrasts but first I was going to pay another visit to Rashid the Rif.

Karminian had dealt with him and recently. It was the one solid bit of information I had, confirmed by both Marina and Aggie.

This time Rashid would talk. I looked forward to another meeting with the evil, falcon-eyed Rif.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Aggie said as I finished putting on my clothes. “I meant that about wanting you to paint me.”

“Of course,” I said, taking in the compact, earthy sexiness of her body as she lay looking up at me. “I’ll stop by after you get back from the club... or perhaps just before you go. I’ll see you.”

“I like you,” she said unexpectedly. “I mean, I think you’re a nice person.”

I smiled down at her.

The remark was so like her, simple, direct, uncomplicated. I put one hand upon her round breast and she held it there. I suddenly felt very sorry for Aggie Foster. She ought to have been back in Akron, Ohio, bedding down with some nice, simple, uncomplicated guy.

“I’ll be back,” I promised, and she let my hand go and turned over to snooze some more.

I left her that way and started down the street. It would be dark before I reached the medina, but I didn’t hurry.

I was deep in thought, trying to unravel a mystery called Karminian, a paragon of contradictions, a split personality to end all split personalities. What solid information I’d uncovered only served to make the overall picture of the man more puzzling. But it wasn’t just that, merely puzzling, I realized. The whole damned thing was somehow out of shape, a picture out *of focus.

Aggie Foster described a man who was a wild swinger, a big drinker, an extrovert who loved crowds.

Marina told of a shy man who hardly ever drank, an introvert who hated crowds.

Aggie knew a jazz nut who knew the styles and habits of all the jazz greats, a real jazz buff who could dig it for hours.

Marina knew a lover of Scarlatti and Palestrina and poetry.

With Aggie he smoked only strong, Turkish cigarettes.

With Marina, never anything but his pipes.

One girl he took to his apartment frequently, the other he never brought there.

According to Fatasha in the medina he was a regular patron of far-out sexual pleasures, a connoisseur of the erotic.

To the barkeep at the Chez Caliph he was hardly ever seen with women.

And one more fascinating item kept rolling around in my head. Karminian had been an AXE contact man for years but the Russians were here, trying as desperately as I was to find him. Of course, this could be because they’d found out he had something on them but somehow, in the back of my mind, that didn’t seem to hold water.

I went over the list quickly again and once more told myself that these were more than just contradictions.

Of course, I’d known people who were split personalities, contradictions within themselves. Such people were indeed studies in contrasts, their surface traits often directly opposed to each other.

Karminian could have been one such person. Or, he might have deliberately given himself two totally different personalities, one for Marina and one for Aggie. But right there is where I had to stop, where I couldn’t take it any further.

A man could, for his own reasons, give himself two faces for different people. He could actually have a personality split very deeply but even a split personality only splits so far. If the guy were really a devotee of weird and wild sex, as both ben Kashan and Fatasha testified, I’d be damned if I could see him sitting around with something like Marina and holding her hand. It just didn’t add up. And, conversely, if he was an ascetic, a strange duck who took his sex intellectually, vicariously, then I couldn’t see him inside Fatasha’s house of pleasure.

I just couldn’t see anybody’s split personality splitting that far. And yet, I had to admit that the sonofabitch seemed to have done it. It was my assignment to find him, or find out what had happened to him. But it had become more than an assignment.

Karminian had become a minor obsession with me. The man had become a figure of fascination and, in a way, admiration. He was leading two lives and doing the damnedest job at it too.

As I reached the medina, I put aside all thoughts of how he did it or why he did it.

Even at night, the Arab quarter was a busy, hustling place but in the dark it took on an added dimension.

The narrow, twisting, cobbled streets looked ominous, each of them, and the small, yellow lamps on the outsides of the houses added an eerie, shadowy glow to the place. The cry of the muezzin had given way to the soft, sensuous sounds of reed instruments, and, here and there, a prostitute’s voice raised in a strange sing-song cry, not quite a call and not quite a song.

I passed the small shops, now closed and shuttered, their gifts put away for the night. I rounded the corner of a winding street that led to the old stable where I’d met Rashid and halted abruptly. Rashid had company.

Five horses were tethered outside the house, five pure-blooded Arabian stallions, unmistakable to anyone who knew horses by the sturdy, broad back, the high tail and large upper head with the added brain capacity, the slight bulge over the forehead called the jibbah by the Arabs.

I decided to circle around to the side of the house where a small, arched window beckoned invitingly some three feet over my head. I glanced around the narrow passageway and saw I was alone. I leaped, got a hold on the ledge and pulled myself up.

The window was open and I moved silently into what once must have been a grain or oats storage room. Four narrow crossbeams ran from the wall with the window across to the opposite wall where the door to the adjoining room stood open, the light streaming into the dark storage room.

I heard the sound of voices from the adjoining room, voices raised in angry urgency.

One of the narrow beams, the nearest one to me, ran to the top of the doorway. I edged my way out on it, keeping a precarious balance, inching my way across the narrow piece of wood. It was slow going, and I took a few painful slivers of dry wood in the belly, stopping each time to pull them out.

Finally I reached the end of the beam where it met the wooden lintel across the open door. The lintel had a small, curved space above it and through it I peered down at a room where the five Rifs stood around a small table with Rashid.

A sixth man, his back to me, wore trousers, a shirt and a small, high peaked cap. The others were all wearing their djellabas and, like Rashid, decked out in cartridge belts, pistols and the curved Moorish daggers.

The Rifs, I knew, spoke a Berber dialect called tarrafit and I thanked the Lord they weren’t using it. They were speaking French, a choice dictated by the presence of the sixth man in western clothes, I presumed. One of the Rifs, taller than the others, was arguing with Rashid, whose piercing eyes were glittering in anger.

“Karminian is dead,” Rashid was saying. “I killed him myself, I tell you.”

I almost lost my balance at that one. It appeared I had at least some of my answers at last.

“Then why do so many seek him?” the tall Rif asked. “They do not think him dead.”

“They do not know it,” Rashid argued. “But they will not find him. He is done with.”

“So you say, my brother,” the tall Rif answered. “But El Ahmid knows that if the jackals stir up enough dust, the vultures will be attracted. We cannot take chances, not now.”

The sixth man spoke.

I wished I could get a look at his face.

“Indeed we cannot,” he agreed. “Things have been put in motion. It is too late to stop now or to have something go wrong now. My people would be terribly upset if something went wrong now.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” the tall one answered. “It is a long ride from the Casbah at Tangiers but we have come here to eliminate the jackals. They will join the one they seek, each one of them. That way we will be rid of them all, and there’ll be no more questions and attempts to find Karminian.”

He turned to Rashid. “You do not argue the wisdom of El Ahmid’s decision, I hope,” the tall one said. “I can tell him of your cooperation?”

“Of course, of course,” Rashid complied quickly. “There is this girl, the dancer, and the artist who seeks Karminian. Then there are the four Russians who also look for him.”

“We will take the whole list from you,” the tall one said. “As you know, those I have brought are specialists in our task.”

The five killers from the Casbah would, I could see, go about their business with ruthless efficiency.

I was wondering how much Rashid actually knew. Obviously, I was on the list. So was Aggie, but he hadn’t mentioned Marina. Perhaps only because he hadn’t gotten around to her yet.

I was just starting to inch my way backward along the narrow beam when it decided to give up. It did so with only a sudden sharp crack as a warning. I only had time to leap forward, seize the crossbar of the lintel and hang there. The beam tore loose at the end and crashed down with the sound of splintering wood.

The Rifs came racing into the dark of the storage room. Hanging on with both hands, I couldn’t reach either Hugo or Wilhelmina.

They were in a cluster just below me, looking at the fallen beam in the cloud of dust. It would be only seconds and they’d turn their faces up and see the figure hanging there.

I did notice that the sixth man in western dress was not among them. He’d taken off, apparently, and I was sure it wasn’t because he was naturally shy.

There wasn’t much choice left to me so I decided to get the advantage of surprise, at least. I let go, dropping straight down atop the small, robed cluster. I felt my feet take out one of them, landing hard on his head. The fall sent me sprawling and tumbling onto the others and I went down in a welter of robes and flying djellabas.

I rolled over and was on my feet before they’d collected themselves, racing across the lighted room for the door. I just reached it and was tearing through the curtained archway when the first shot rang out, a tremendous, crashing explosion that could only have come from an old, heavy pistol. The bullet slammed into the wall with a crashing thud, but I was on the streets already.

I could hear their excited shouts as they came after me. The small, narrow street was virtually deserted, and the end of it was quite a way down. I’d never make it before they had me in their sights.

I ducked into a small passageway between two of the closed gift shops. A small side door of one didn’t look too sturdy. It wasn’t, and it flew open as I slammed into it with my shoulder. I closed it behind me and moved into the darkness of the small shop.

I could make out brass kettles, a stack of small carpets, leather-covered camel saddles, water-pipes and teapots, kettles, incense burners, pottery and brass trays.

The place was a virtual booby trap. The wrong move was certain to send something crashing. I crept into a corner and rested on one knee. I could hear them outside, the tall one’s voice giving instructions.

I knew enough Berber to catch the most of it. They were going to make a house-to-house search, apparently convinced I hadn’t had time to make it to the end of the long street.

I stayed quietly and waited. It wasn’t a long time before I heard the side door being pushed open. I watched the robed figure move cautiously into the room, the long, curved dagger unsheathed, held in one hand. Any noise, from either of us, would be heard by the others prowling outside. I watched him moving carefully into the little shop, skirting the pottery.

Hugo dropped into the palm of my hand noiselessly, the cold steel blade a comforting touch. I saw a glint that told me the Rif had his long, curved Moorish dagger unsheathed and ready. I drew back my arm and waited. This had to be right. I couldn’t have him falling and crashing into copper trays or knocking over pottery.

I waited until he was slowly moving alongside the thick pile of carpets in the center of the shop. Hugo flashed through the dark, death on wings of tempered steel. I saw the Rif clutch at his chest, stagger backward and topple over onto the soft stack of carpets, noiselessly. I was beside him in an instant but there would be no final cry from him.

Quickly, I pulled off his djellaba and burnoose. Slipping into them, I retrieved Hugo and went out the door. I ducked out the little passageway, straightened up, and started down the street, head lowered, another Arab in his djellaba.

I passed two of the Rifs as they emerged from one of the shops.

They shot me a quick glance and hurried on to the next shop.

I stayed in the djellaba until I was out of the medina and then came out from under it and headed for Aggie Foster’s apartment. She would be getting back from the club soon enough, and I waited outside, in the shadows of the arched doorway of the house.

Finally, I saw her approaching, hurrying toward the building. I stepped from the shadows and called to her. She jumped in fright.

“That’s not funny,” she said angrily.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” I said. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

She caught the urgency in my voice and quickly opened the door to her flat.

“Did you find Anton?” she asked, shedding her coat. She had her costume on underneath it.

“Not exactly,” I answered.

I had decided to say nothing about Karminian being dead. Rashid swore he’d killed Karminian, but his fellow Rifs didn’t seem to be at all certain of it. I wasn’t sure I was, either.

Nothing would be helped by mentioning it to Aggie but when I told her I wanted her to clear out of town she put up such a fuss that I had to open up a little with her.

“Look, honey,” I said. “Your friend Karminian was mixed up in some pretty nasty stuff, I learned. Anyone who knew him is in real danger and that definitely includes you.”

She looked at me skeptically and I opened up more.

“He wasn’t exactly everything you thought,” I said. “He was a completely different person to some people. He seemed to have two distinct personalities. I’d say he was a real weirdo.”

I tossed out a few of the smaller contradictions I’d found out without getting trapped in any details.

“So what?” Aggie answered defensively. “So he had a split personality. Back in Akron they used to say the same thing about my sister and me. We were completely different in everything, in our likes, our tastes, our habits, clothes, amusements, everything. People used to wonder how two sisters could be so different in every respect.”

It had been an innocent statement and I automatically started to answer it.

“All right, but that was you and your sister,” I said. “That’s still two people and...” I left the sentence hanging in mid-air as bright lights began to explode over my head.

My thoughts burst out in a geyser of rushing, interconnected sequences. Aggie and her sister... two people... very different. What if Karminian had been two people? Brothers, identical twins?

I sat down on the arm of a stuffed chair as the enormous simplicity of it swept over me. Of course, that was it!

The out-of-focus picture was suddenly pulled into sharp clarity, and all the contradictions and questions started to answer themselves. Two people — twins, with completely opposite personalities. It was uncommon but not unheard of. Marina and Aggie had actually known two different Karminians.

I took it a step further. What if they’d been working both sides of the street, and doing it for years, one contacting AXE with information to sell, the other contacting the Russians? They’d pool their bids and sell to the highest bidder, of course. Or, they’d supply each side with information on the other’s activities.

Naturally, when our Karminian contacted Hawk, his brother had contacted the Russians. That explained what the Kremlin gremlins were doing here. Like Hawk, they too wondered what had happened to their contact when they didn’t hear any further. But the importance of what I’d discovered was still incomplete.

What was the “something big” the Karminians had uncovered? And how did it concern the Rifs? They had killed one Karminian, the only one they knew existed, which meant the other one was in hiding someplace, in fear of his life.

I smiled to myself. Right now I was the only one who knew that there was a second Karminian, and that he was hiding someplace, holed up in fearful desperation. He, of course, knew the Rifs were after him, knew they’d gotten to his twin brother.

I had to find him and find him first. He was the key to everything and I wondered which one he was, the introvert or the extrovert, Marina’s Karminian or Aggie’s.

I watched Aggie emerge from the bedroom where she’d changed from her costume into a bathrobe.

A frightened, fearful man would undoubtedly try to contact someone for help sooner or later. By rights, I knew I ought to urge her to stick around on the chance that her Karminian was still alive. But I couldn’t. It would be murder. The killers from the Casbah were on the loose, ruthlessly determined men.

I’d find Karminian some other way. Maybe they’d find him for me.

I took Aggie by the shoulders.

“You get your clothes on and take off for the airport or the bus terminal,” I said. “You can contact me at the American embassy here from wherever you go if you like. But clear out, understand? Forget the Club Bedouin. The world’s full of them and you’d be a smash now back in Akron. Just get going, Aggie.”

She didn’t say anything, her lips pushed out in a pout.

I grinned down at her. “Do as I say, honey,” I asked her. “Believe me, you’ll find your way someplace else. I know you’re not ready, but that’s not important now. Move out, sweetie. It’s time.”

I kissed her quickly and left, hoping I’d scared her enough to get moving.

I headed for Karminian’s flat to pick up my things and find someplace else from which to operate. I was on that list Rashid had rattled off to the Casbah killers and staying in Karminian’s flat like a sitting duck would only be making their task easier. They were a completely unexpected development.

I could see the Russians wanting Karminian if they suspected him of selling to us or if they knew he had hold of something big involving them. But the fierce fighters from the mountainous Rif? It just didn’t fit in and yet they were in, in for murder.

I hurried through the silent, dark streets of Casablanca with the feeling that my discovery about Karminian was not the only strange twist in store for me in this thing.