Night Train to Memphis (32 page)

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.’