Assignment - Karachi (14 page)

The rush of men came to a dead halt as the old man squawked something in Arabic. Knives glittered in a semicircle around Durell. He backed away, trying to reach Alessa. But she stood dumb-struck, not realizing the danger in staying apart from him. If he could reach her and use the old man to shield them both—

Omar was like a rattling bag of bones in his grip, steadily shrieking Arabic curses that Durell ignored.

“Alessa, get over here,” he called in English.

She looked dazed. Unfortunately, the Punjabi understood English. His big arm shot out, his ringed finger caught her wrist and yanked her sprawling across the room, away from Durell. Grinning, the fat man put Ms knife at Alessa’s throat.

Again the room was silent. One of the oil lamps made a faint fluttering sound. The Punjabi’s grin showed teeth stained by betel juice.

“Shall I kill the lady, Omar?”

Durell squeezed a little on the old man’s neck. He could feel the brittleness of ancient bones in Omar’s throat and chest.

“You will die, too, Omar,” he said softly.

“I am ready to die.”

“Tell him to let the lady go.”

“I will not. If you kill me, she dies. You cannot prevent it. You are an American, and Americans are sentimental about women. You will not let the Punjabi kill her, eh? Now let me go, or Admidi will slit her throat as a butcher slaughters a lamb.”

Alessa’s eyes were huge, terrified. She whispered, “I’m sorry, Sam, I didn’t think—my mind was on what Omar said about the crown—”

Durell released the old man.

Omar jumped away, gown flapping, and shrieked orders to the waiting men. Durell was not sure what might happen. He had put Alessa’s safety above his own, and in his business there was no room for sentimentality.

The Punjabi pushed Alessa to Omar, who thrust her through the curtained doorway across the room. The other men signed for Durell to follow. Someone pushed him in the back and he stumbled, saw something glitter above his head, descending in a swift, brutal arc. Pain exploded in him. He went to his knees, was surprised to find himself at the foot of a stone stairway. Omar and Alessa were already at the top. The old man turned and cried in Urdu, “Let him live! We shall see who talks. There will be many rupees for all!”

Durell was pulled to his feet by a sweaty Arab, who swiftly took his gun from him and then stabbed at his eyes with both thumbs. Durell knew the trick. He ducked, caught one grimy wrist and twisted, heard bones snap like brittle wood. The Arab screamed in pain. Durell ran up the stairs after the old man and Alessa. His only hope was to get to the girl where he could act in defense without sacrificing her. But the Punjabi, for all his fat, caught at his leg and hauled him back. Durell kicked with his free foot, but the next moment he was pulled down, struggling against the vindictive weight of Omar’s men.

The next moments were a nightmare.

He let himself go limp under the rain of blows and kicks, then felt himself lifted to his feet and shoved up the stairs by the Punjabi. Dim lights showed the way through a scented apartment. An Arab woman in black, with the prostitute sign on her rouged cheeks, shrank away, tittering. He was in a warren of corridors and small, crib-like rooms. Here and there a door opened and a man looked out cautiously, then hastily slammed the door again. One larger room, with a tiled balcony overlooking an inner court, held three naked women sprawled in a tangle upon colorful cushions, with an unmistakable, but anonymous white man. There were little cries and shrieks, a rapid untangling of fleshy hips and buttocks, and then Durell was hurried on into another corridor, down more steps, across a vile-smelling alley, down another flight of steps.

A door slammed. He heard the Punjabi grunt, draw in a preparatory breath, and then there was an explosion in the back of his head, and Durell pitched forward into darkness. . . .

He was aware of the cold first, and of a trickle of water over his left leg. He did not open his eyes or move. There was pain in his forehead and another that pulsed and ebbed at the base of his neck. He thought of Omar and the Punjabi and tasted dismay like coppery metal in the back of his throat. He had made a mistake, taking Alessa here with him; she had been a danger factor, hampering him. But he could not have left her at the bungalow, either, since he could not trust her.

The thought of the girl made him open his eyes. But everything was utterly dark. There was nothing to see. He tried to sit up against the pain, and bit back a groan between his teeth.

“Oh, Sam—I’m so glad—”

He spoke her name, his voice harsh. Her hands touched his face, then withdrew. He could not see her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes.” She paused. “But what they did to you—”

He could see something, after all—a faint yellow line glimmering in the blackness. He could not make it out, or guess its distance from him. He touched his jaw, felt crusted blood on his cheek, and tried to focus on the yellow line. There were no reference points in the darkness. He felt his body, was astonished to find he was stripped naked. It explained the chill. When he sat up, he found the floor was simply dank earth, with a little ooze of water running across his legs. He shivered. Alessa put her arm around him, and the scent of her skin was like something from another world, fragrant and civilized. He touched her shoulder, her waist. She still wore her skirt and blouse. His nakedness did not trouble her, apparently.

“How long was I out?” he asked, speaking into darkness.

“I can’t guess. About an hour, I think,” she whispered.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“So far. But I’m afraid of the old man.” She paused for a long time. “What kind of place was that, where they took us through. With all those—women?”

He grinned, and it hurt his face. “An Arab whorehouse. Our Omar the Storyteller is an enterprising old gentleman.”

“He makes me shudder,” Alessa said.

He stood up. The line of yellow fell far below the level of his vision. He walked carefully toward it, and it turned out to be exactly four steps. He bumped into a wooden door. The light came from beyond, seeping under the bottom. He felt the door all over with his hands, trying to orient himself. The door had iron hinges, an iron lock. He felt his way along the walls, judging the size of their cell. It was about twelve by twelve. He bumped into Alessa again. Now his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, utilizing the faint glow from under the door. He could make out her face dimly.

She said awkwardly, “They left your clothes here, Sam.”

“Where?”

She handed him his shirt, trousers, shoes. For some reason, his socks were gone. He searched for his wallet and gun. They were gone, of course. Five thousand in expense money, receipted to Henry Kallinger. He didn’t worry about that. He regretted the loss of his gun. His ID card and passport were missing, too, of course.

“I shouldn’t have insisted you come with me, Alessa.”

“It’s all right,” she said abstractedly.

“Are you still thinking of what the old man mumbled about a Cave of a Thousand Skulls, viewed from the breast of Roxana?”

She made a deprecating sound. “I’m afraid it stirred up my imagination. I think I know the place.”

“On S-5?”

“On the North Peak, where Bergmann went.”

“We’ve got other things to think about, at the moment. How to get out of here, for instance.”

“I don’t think it’s possible,” she said.

But he had to try. He moved slowly around the walls, his body responding slowly from the bruises of his beating. He ignored the pain and studied the cell. It had brick walls. He tried to jump, arm extended upward, to feel for the ceiling. He could not reach it. There was no furniture in the cell, no scrap iron, nothing useful. He returned to the door, his feet squelching in the wet mud floor. Pausing, he knelt and felt the floor, discovering a small, oozing stream that apparently seeped up from underground. He went to the door and considered the space under it. The wet earth extended to the very edge. At once he began to trace back on the wet trickle, digging a channel from the center of the floor toward the doorway, grateful that there was no stone in the way.

“What are you doing?” Alessa whispered.

“Digging out.”

“But we have no tools.”

“I have my hands. Help me.”

They knelt together and pulled away the soft, mucky earth from the area directly under the door, pushing it aside to make a slow, laborious excavation. The thin line of yellow light immediately grew brighter, and he saw Alessa more clearly now. There was a bruise on her face, where someone had slapped her. Her body kept bumping and brushing against him as they worked together to scoop away the wet mud.

Her eyes reflected the pale light from under the door. “You look at me, Sam, as if—”

He smiled. “You don’t look like a girl with a doctorate in ancient history. It’s unusual for someone as beautiful as you to spend your life absorbed in the dead past.”

“It isn’t dead for me. It’s been very exciting, stimulating—”

“You’re not at all like Rudi, are you? He has a reputation for chasing after pleasure.”

“No,” she said shortly. “We’re not alike.”

“Hasn’t there ever been a man for you?” he asked bluntly.

“I’ve been busy all my life—studying, trying to recoup the family fortune. I suppose you think that’s like an obsession. It was.”

“Do you feel differently now?”

“I’m not sure. I’m confused, and I don’t like it, because I usually know exactly what I’m doing, and why. Facts can be dealt with. Emotions are—new to me.” She paused. “A man like you is something new to me.”

He went on digging. She had stopped, staring at him as she knelt beside him. Whatever she was about to add was interrupted by the sound of footsteps beyond the thick door they were trying to tunnel under. Durell swore softly. The footsteps did not go by, as he had hoped. They halted, and a key rattled in the lock.

Instantly he was up, motioning Alessa to one side, and flattened against the wall beside the door as it opened The light that poured into the cell seemed blinding now. Omar’s old, quavering voice had a peculiar echoing quality.

“Come here where we can see you! Both of you!”

Durell did not stir.

There was a mutter of orders. Durell recognized the Punjabi’s voice in agreement. A flashlight flickered around the cell; but those outside were too wary to step in through the doorway. The light did not touch the shallow trench he had dug just inside the entrance. The Punjabi began to argue with the old man. There seemed to be no others out there. Then the old man made a snort of disgust and stepped in.

His sandaled foot came down in the shallow trench, threw him off balance, and he staggered toward Durell against the dark wall. Durell whipped an arm around him and hurled him aside as Omar began his usual shrieking; he felt the hard impact of the Punjabi as the big man rushed in. He hoped Alessa this time would stay out of the way. The Punjabi had a long knife, and he could not reach the other’s wrist. For a moment they struggled in the wet trough inside the doorway, slipping in the wet mud. The Punjabi’s fist slugged into him again and again. There was no escape from that pile driver. He was not in the best of condition, after his first beating, and he knew at once the struggle would go against him.

“Enough!” he gasped.

The Punjabi threw him to the floor, began to kick him. The old man staggered up, cursing. His flashlight shone on Alessa, in a corner.

“Ahmidi! You know what to do.”

“Yes, Omar.”

The big man grinned. Omar had Durell’s gun. The old man licked his black lips, his open mouth like an obscene hole in his face. Ahmidi went to Alessa and pulled her away from the wall. With hooked fingers, he ripped off her blouse and then her skirt. Durell started up, was quieted by a slight gesture from Omar’s gun. He knew, looking at the old man’s lascivious eyes, that Omar would kill him in an instant if he interfered.

Alessa stood naked, like a golden Teutonic statue, her body exposed to the old man’s slow, rapine gaze.

“It is good,” the old man whispered. He sounded choked. “She will learn to wash my feet as my other daughters do.”

Courage fought with shock in Alessa’s eyes. Her clothing made a small heap on the floor at her feet. Her body was perfect, bathed in the relentless glow of Ahmidi’s light; she looked strong and proud. Her quick breathing made her breasts lift and fall. The cell was silent, a token of the perfection of her body. She looked straight ahead, sightlessly. Omar broke the spell with a cackle.

“Yes, she shall wash my feet until I am tired of her, and then she can work in the bordellos with my other daughters. Bring her closer to me, Ahmidi.”

The Punjabi pulled Alessa toward the old man. Omar gave Ahmidi the gun, reached out to caress and fondle the girl’s frozen body.

Durell tried again. He went for the Punjabi, knifed down on the brown wrist, and sent the gun spinning into the wet earthen floor of the cell. The Punjabi grunted, apparently annoyed by Durell’s persistence. He spread his big arms wide to crush Durell in a bear hug. Durell moved in under him and sank a fist into the man’s belly, drove in another, lifted a left for the man’s astonished face. It connected solidly. The Punjabi went down, legs splayed wide, and tried to roll away. Durell jumped for him, and they rolled into the wet trough he and Alessa had dug in the doorway. He pushed the Punjabi’s head into the shallow, muddy water, face down. The big man writhed, convulsed. Durell held his nose and mouth under the mud. He heard Omar screaming for help, and then someone spoke from above him.

“It is not necessary to kill this stupid man, my friend.” Durell looked up and saw the round, beaming face of Swerji Hamad. Two other evil-looking men were behind the teahouse proprietor, watching with professional interest.

Durell eased up a little. The Punjabi gasped, choked, vomited. Durell rolled aside and found his gun and picked it up. It was muddy, and he didn’t think it was safe to fire it at this moment. But he pointed it at everyone.

“What are you doing here?” he gasped to Swerji Hamad. “Qissa Khani has a thousand ears. We heard you were in trouble down here in Omar’s nest of rats,” the fat man said placidly.