The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [53]
An hour after he had left the boat, Ramses was in the same coffee shop he had visited twice before, asking the same question and getting the same answer. Nobody had seen the man he wanted. Nobody knew where he was.
Ramses paid the waiter and stared gloomily at the small cup of coffee. Damned if he’d drink the stuff; he’d been swilling coffee for three nights in a row, and caffeine jangled along his nerves. He rose to his feet, deliberately conspicuous in his European clothing. He hadn’t hoped anyone would lead him to his quarry, but Wardani certainly knew by now that he was being asked after, and by whom. It would be Wardani’s decision as to whether to make contact.
He chose the darker streets on his way back to the river, waving away the cabdrivers who accosted him hoping for a fare. Once he had left the boulevard he encountered only a few people, their faces muffled against the cool night air. He could have shouted with relief when one of them veered toward him and a hand closed over his arm.
“Do not move or cry out,” said a quiet voice. “Do you feel the point of the knife?”
“Yes.” It was scarcely more than a pinprick, below his left shoulder blade.
Another shadowy form closed in on his right, and he was blindfolded, quickly and efficiently.
“Children’s games.” He spoke Arabic, as they had done, and one of them let out a muffled laugh.
“Come, then, Brother of Demons, and we will play the game you have chosen.”
He moved with them, letting his other senses compensate for the loss of sight. When they stopped he could have retraced the route without hesitation, and identified the establishment they entered. The smell was unmistakable. The British authorities were trying to stop the import of hashish, but so far all they had accomplished was to make it scarcer and more expensive. Ramses waited until the door had closed behind him and his escorts before he acted.
“So then,” he said to his guide, whom he now held against the wall with the fellow’s own knife at his throat. “Shall we find a more comfortable place in which to talk?”
As he had suspected, the guide was Wardani himself. He had grown a beard, which blurred the shape of that arrogant chin and strong jaw. Unperturbed and smiling, he glanced at the man who lay groaning on the floor. “More childish games, my friend. That was unnecessary and unkind. You knew you were in no danger with us.”
“I dislike being dictated to in such matters.”
“You were showing off,” Wardani corrected. “Avec quel panache, mon brave! If you will be good enough to return my knife, I will escort you to my humble quarters.”
He led the way up a flight of broken steps at the end of the corridor. The other man got painfully to his feet and followed, so close on Ramses’s heels that his harsh, uneven breathing was audible even over the groaning of the loose boards. He sounded annoyed, but Ramses did not look back or move more quickly. To show uneasiness would have been a false move in the stupid little game they were playing.
The room Wardani entered was small and shabby, lit only by a smoking oil lamp. Wardani sat down on the divan and motioned Ramses to take a seat beside him.
“Coffee? Mint tea?”
“No, nor hashish, thank you.” The smell was fainter here, but still perceptible. Ramses wrinkled his nose. “This isn’t the hideout I would have chosen. Raiding hashish dens has become a popular sport for the young bloods in the police force, and that beard does not alter your appearance very effectively.”
“An acquaintance of mine lent me the room for this occasion only,” Wardani said calmly. “I move frequently.”
“Then you haven’t taken up the drug trade in order to raise money?”
A spark of anger flared in the dark eyes. “Do you mean to insult me? Drugs are the curse of my people. I am as anxious to stop the trade as are your police, but they go about it the wrong way. Education