Bloody Passage - Jack Higgins [58]
"I always do, my friend, especially in situations like this, I assure you."
He spoke briefly into the telephone in Arabic and replaced the receiver. Langley said, "He spoke to the guardroom. Told them to get a Sergeant Husseini to collect convict eight-thirty-three from the special block and bring him here."
I said, "This special block. Is that as bad as it sounds?"
"Your friend Wyatt has been a little difficult," Masmoudi said. "You know how it is with these young men these days. Nothing but long hair and rebellion."
"Funny talk coming from a Marxist."
"Ah, but then we have the only true answer," he said. "Everything else has been tried."
It was a superbly arrogant remark and delivered with a smile of considerable charm so that I didn't know whether to take him seriously or not.
He patted the divan beside him and said to Simone, "A glass of champagne while we're waiting."
"I'd rather have a brandy." For the first time I noticed that she was trembling slightly.
He stood up, quite unconcerned, went to a cupboard in one corner, produced a cut-glass decanter and a glass, filled it and brought it to her. She took it gratefully and thanked him.
He put a hand on her shoulder, "You are soaked to the skin, little flower. Permit me."
He moved to the closet into which Langley had pushed the whore, opened it, giving us a further brief glimpse of her, took out a military greatcoat with a sheepskin collar and closed the door again on the startled woman.
He held the coat open for Simone, a slight smile on his face, and she stood up, took off her wet burnous, and pulled it on. Again she smiled her gratitude.
"Heh, I like that," Barzini said, and he helped himself to the brandy. "He knows how to treat a lady. He's been well brought up."
I was aware of a vague irrational annoyance. The whole thing was really becoming quite farcical, and then there was the rasp of feet on the terrace outside and a knock on the door.
Everyone scattered, taking up positions quickly and I nodded to Masmoudi. He called out in Arabic. The door opened and a prisoner in striped cotton pajamas and leg irons was propelled into the room with such force that he fell on his knees. The sergeant who moved in behind him was an enormous black-bearded man and I knew this must be Husseini.
Nino kicked the door shut and rammed the muzzle of his AK into Husseini's ribs and I reached over and lifted the service revolver from his holster. Like his master, he showed no great emotion. A dour, implacable man who took in the situation calmly and clasped his hands behind his neck when Langley told him to.
The man in the striped pajamas was in a bad way and had obviously recently had a severe beating. His right cheek was split so that it really required two or three stitches and a nasty green bruise ran up into the eye.
I dropped to one knee beside him. "Stephen Wyatt?"
"That's right." His voice was hoarse and broken and he appeared dazed. More than that, there was genuine fear in his eyes.
"It's all right," I said. "You've nothing to worry about. Not any more. We've come to get you out."
"Out?" he said slowly. "Out of prison, you mean? I don't understand."
It was as if everything about him, each sense, had been dulled at the edges. I said, "You don't need to," and I looked up at Masmoudi. "Let's have these leg irons off."
He gave Husseini a brief order in Arabic and the big sergeant produced a key and leaned down to take off the irons. Wyatt shrank away from him which told its own story. I pulled him to his feet and he stood there, swaying, a look of complete bafflement on his face.
I said to Masmoudi, "Right, we're going to leave now. Tell Husseini to help the boy across the square. We all leave in the one truck. You drive, Aldo. I'll sit up front with you and we'll have the colonel between us. The rest of you in the back." I turned again to Masmoudi. "You're going to take us straight through the front gate. Understand?"
"Perfectly."
He spoke again in Arabic