by Gore Vidal
Pete stared hard at the King of Egypt. He looked, he decided, more like a dentist than a king. “I didn’t know kings went night-clubbing,” said Pete.
“This one does.” Hélène looked thoughtful. “Of course, he’s incognito. No one is supposed to recognize him or talk to him. But look over there.” She nodded at the corner of the dance floor. A square man in a gray business suit stood, his eyes on the King. Then Pete saw that in each corner a man stood, hand in pocket, guarding the King. “Make just one unexpected move in his direction…”
“How about in the blonde’s direction?”
She laughed. “Don’t tell me you have the American mania for bleached hair.”
“Bleached or real, it’s what goes with it,” said Pete. He was beginning to feel the effects of the champagne.
Then they danced. He held her very tight, aware of every part of her as they floated on the music, their bodies close together. But this contentment did not last long; after the third number a man cut in.
Pete was prepared to tell him to go on about his business, but a warning look from Hélène restrained him, and he went back to the table alone, leaving her with the stranger. The two waltzed together formally, the distance of her arms between them. The man was tall, with Arab features, swarthy and aquiline. He looked as though he should have been wearing a turban and robe, but he was impeccably dressed in evening clothes and his wiry gray hair was clipped short in the German fashion.
Hélène frowned as they talked to one another. Suddenly she stopped and turned on her heel, leaving her partner alone on the dance floor. On her way back to the table, Pete noticed that the King, who had been dancing with a bored, stolid air, looked suddenly interested; he said something to the blonde. They both looked at Hélène as she came back to the table.
“You took care of that fast.”
She shrugged. “Let’s not talk about it. I hate people who bother one at a dance, talking business. I want more wine, Peter.”
He filled her glass. “Business?”
“Yes. He’s a…a rival of mine.” She would say no more; but whoever the man was, he had put her in a bad mood, for after only one dance she wanted to go home.
In the car, on the way back to Shepheard’s, Pete put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him, pulled the scarlet mouth against his lips. It was all easy, suddenly, dreamlike and exciting. But then, sensing his excitement, she pushed him gently away. “You’re ruining my veil,” she said.
“To hell with that,” he murmured, conscious of a familiar pounding in his ears; he held her tightly, and this time she accepted his embrace passively.
At the hotel they got out and she dismissed the driver. Then slowly they walked up the steps in the moonlight to the dim lobby, where only a few drowsy servants leaned against columns, nodding.
There was a difficult moment, for Pete at least, when they stood looking at one another, she with an odd expression in her gleaming eyes and he with a roaring in his ears.
She broke the silence. “You can walk me to my room,” she said lightly. “I’m on the ground floor, right on the garden.” He followed her without a word down the high-ceilinged, dim hall to the right of the desk. Her room was in a corner, at the end of the hall. She opened the door with a large brass key. “Come in,” she said, without looking back at him.
He followed her into a large room, Victorian, with a brass bedstead canopied with mosquito netting. She sat down at her dressing table and removed the veil, then she turned and motioned for him to sit in the armchair opposite her. Puzzled, he sat down. Her mood had abruptly changed. She was now cold and businesslike.
“What is your price?” This came with startling clarity.
“Price? Price for what?” For a moment he wondered if perhaps she thought she would have to pay him for making love to her, but this was too extraordinary.
She came to the point quickly. “For your time, for your intelligence, which I hope is high, for your body, which…” She paused thoughtfully; then: “It should take no longer than a week, and it will be dangerous.”
“What will be dangerous?”
“What you must do. The errand Hastings and I have in mind for you.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a very clear idea—”
“You won’t have, for some time.” She smiled. “You will have to go up the Nile. It will be dangerous, but with luck and good sense you will be quite safe. You will be paid half in advance and half when you return at the end of the week.”
“Return from where?”
“Luxor. It’s several hundred miles to the south.”
“Paid how much?”
“That is what I asked. I want to know your price.”
Pete grinned, amused by the situation. “I’m afraid I don’t have any set fee.”
“We’ll pay you a hundred pounds sterling now and another hundred when the mission is over.”
He multiplied that out quickly in his head, around seven hundred dollars in all.
She noticed his hesitation, misjudged it for bargaining, and said, “You will be given some fifty pounds in Egyptian piasters for expenses.”
“You twisted my arm.”
“I what?”
“Old Army expression. I mean you talked me into it. I’ll go.”
“I’m glad,” she said, relaxing a little. Absently she un-fastened the diamond brooch at her throat and placed it on the dressing table. He watched her, full of desire, but there was no sign, no signal that she wanted him, and the thought of the money at stake made him cautious.
“When do I go?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.” She ran a comb through her dark hair. She was perfectly casual, as though she were alone or with a familiar friend. “Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a few days. It will depend on Hastings.”
“You are partners?”
“In a sense.”
“Will I be told what I am supposed to do in Luxor?”
“Oh, I think so, but not much more.” She laughed. “You must not be too curious, either.”
“One question: Just how does this proposition stand in relation to the law?”
“You want to know if what we’re doing is illegal?” She sighed. “It is so hard to answer. Some would say yes and some would say no.”
“The law is usually pretty clear in most cases.” Pete was stubborn.
“Perhaps,” said Hélène. “Now I think you’d better go. I shall probably see you tomorrow, after you have your talk with Hastings.”
“I hope he’ll be clearer than you,” said Pete angrily. He had not expected the evening to end this way, but the expression in her dark eyes warned him not to make a move yet. Then, too, he was confident that if he really wanted her he would have her, sooner or later. There was a natural law that operated in these matters, he thought, his eyes on her slender legs, which showed clearly through the black silk as she sat, legs crossed, in front of the dressing table.
“Good night,” she said coolly.
“Thanks for the dinner.” He managed to sound as casual as she, even though his mouth was dry with desire.
“I enjoyed it,” she said softly. Then, remembering herself, she added evenly, “Be sure to mention none of this to anyone. Not that it is illegal.” She smiled. “It’s just that what we are doing is confidential and Hastings and I have many rivals in Cairo. Some of them are desperate men.”
* * *
He awoke suddenly.
Through the latticed window the dawn gleamed, pale and gray. In its dim light he saw three figures standing over him. He tried to leap out of bed, to call for help, but they moved too quickly for him. Dazed from sleep, he struggled for one brief moment; then it was all over.
They tied his arms behind his back and slipped what seemed to be a pillowcase over his head.
A harsh voice muttered in his ear, “Make noise, throat cut.” The accent was Arab. Beyond that Pete could tell nothing about his visitors. He remained perfectly still on the floor where they
had left him.
He could hear them searching the room: rolling up the mattress of the bed, shaking out pillows, opening drawers in the battered bureau. Then, after what seemed an eternity in which no one spoke, he was lifted by strong arms and dropped onto the bed.
A surprisingly soft pair of hands moved over his hard bare chest and arms; then, to his embarrassment, his shorts were pulled off and he was subjected to an examination even more thorough than the Army’s. When he struggled, a knife’s cold blade was held to his throat. When the investigation was over, the same Arab voice murmured in his ear, “We cut you loose. Make no move until we go. Understand?”
Pete nodded. A knife cut his bonds and he was left sprawled on his belly. He waited until he heard the door click shut; then he jumped to his feet, pulled off the blind-fold, ran to the door, and looked out into the hall. It was empty.
He shut the door and turned on the light. His visitors had gone through everything, he saw. Even the soles of his one pair of shoes had been pried loose. He sat down heavily on the bed, wondering what to do next. No use to call the police. They had taken nothing; there’d been nothing for them to take. Yet they had been trying to find out something, had suspected him of hiding something in his room. Well, they knew he had nothing, he thought grimly, rearranging the bed. There was nothing they didn’t know about him now.
It was not until he was about to get back into bed again that he detected a familiar, subtle odor in the room—a scent of jasmine, like that which Hélène had worn.
Chapter Two
The next morning he was called to the telephone in the hall. It was Hastings, who made a date to meet him for lunch at Shepheard’s. Pete dressed and went downstairs, his soles flapping as he walked. He would get a new pair of shoes out of his mysterious employers, he decided, still irritated by what had been done to him during the night.
After coffee, he strolled out into the burning street. He was the only person without a hat, he noticed, and since the direct sun was supposed to addle the brain, he kept to the shaded side of the streets, walking with his hands in his empty pockets.
In spite of the unpleasant events of the previous evening, he was soon in a good mood. Even the sight of the bar where he had lost his money did not disturb him. On an impulse, he went in.
Le Couteau Rouge was a dark, wine-smelling bar, very French, with many decrepit travel posters of France pasted to the walls. At this hour it was deserted except for a pair of tired-looking French women with frizzled blonde hair seated at one of the tables, drinking coffee sadly, and a half-dozen English and French derelicts leaning on the bar, talking among themselves.
The bartender, small and fat and bald with a huge mustache and red cheeks crisscrossed with broken purple veins, nodded when he saw Pete. “You have good night Tuesday?” he asked, waddling over, polishing a glass as he talked.
“No, a bad night. I was robbed.”
“Quelle horreur!” said the bartender, rolling his eyes. “How much?”
“Everything I had, every cent.”
“But this is terrible!”
“That’s what I thought, too. You don’t happen to remember who I was with that night, do you? I don’t remember anything.”
The bartender nodded and placed his finger against his nose craftily. “Absinthe,” he said.
“What?”
“Absinthe. You say you want to drink only that, and though I warn you because you seem good boy, you don’t listen, so I give you four. Four will make people crazy.”
Now it was becoming clear. Pete was a light drinker, and he had assumed that his blackout had been the result of a drugging.
“Your name Peter Wells?”
“That’s right. How’d you know?”
“I thought yes. Someone from the Consulate call up and ask about you, about the traveler’s checks. I say we never see them but we see you.”
“Did you see them?”
“Monsieur!” The little man looked injured.
“Just wondering. You remember who I left here with?”
“I no notice. It is busy night. Ask one of these girls. They are here always, see all things.”
Peter went over to their table. Both brightened up considerably; in fairly good English, they invited him to sit down. The bartender brought him coffee, implying tenderly that it was on the house. It was bitter and unpleasant but Pete drank it.
The blonder of the two girls had a faint but unmistakable mustache, which shone dark blue against her heavily powdered skin; she knew more English than the other and she did the talking. “We talk to you ever so much Tuesday,” she said, patting his arm. “You promise to visit us sometime. We have charming flat.”
Pete allowed he would like to visit the charming flat one day; meanwhile, he wanted to know if they could remember what he had done Tuesday night.
The spokesman frowned thoughtfully. “You come in about five and have beer. We notice you immediately because there are so few American gentlemen here in this hot, hot month. Then, after a while, you ask for the absinthe and drink it. Then you talk to all the girls—very nice, though, not like so many American men, who shout and get sick. Then arrives Le Mouche, who plays at the piano nicely here every night, and you talk to him and after a while you sit down and perhaps go to sleep a little in the corner. No one bothers you. It is very gay. Then Le Mouche comes and sits beside you and you drink more absinthe. Then we meet two gentlemen we have appointment with. By then it is very late. When we go you are still talking to Le Mouche.”
“Who is Le Mouche?”
“He plays at piano here very nicely, from Lyon, he says, but really he is from Alexandria. But he likes to lie. Oh, very droll, he is.”
“When does he come here?”
“When it grows dark. No definite time. We are not so precise in Cairo.” They talked a little more, but they had no further information for Pete. As soon as he could, he excused himself, promising that he would visit them one day soon.
His next stop was the Consulate.
Mr. Case had grown no more mellow since the day before. “We have found no trace of the traveler’s checks as yet, but they are bound to turn up. It occurred to me, after you left, that if you could give us the serial numbers we would be able—”
“Don’t remember them.”
Mr. Case looked as though he was not in the least surprised. “In that case, we’ll send a cable to the branch office where you bought them and see what can be done about stopping payment. I’m not hopeful.”
“Neither am I. In any case, I bought them in New Orleans, Seamen’s Bank.”
“I will make a note of that.”
“What does the Consul say?”
Mr. Case looked at him coldly. “He is a very busy man. I haven’t had time to present the case to him yet. When I do, I will let you know.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Case,” said Pete, and he left the office, allowing the door to bang after him.
* * *
Hastings seemed quite cheerful at lunch. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight that streamed into the restaurant through tall windows overlooking the garden at Shepheard’s.
“Have a good night, my boy?”
“Only some of it.”
Hastings looked surprised. “Didn’t like Hélène? I can hardly believe that. Splendid woman. All Cairo at her feet.”
“I was at her feet, too, but it didn’t do much good.”
“Women are funny,” said Hastings, as though communicating wisdom.
“Then, after I went home, some people broke into the room and searched it, and me.”
“Damned odd! Try the lobster. Believe it or not, they have a marvelous lobster here. Never dared ask, though, where they get it from.”
Pete was growing angry. “I don’t see why it was necessary for you people to go messing up my room, ruining a good pair of shoes, and—and so on. She could’ve found out just as much, and more, on her own.”
“Think Hélène was there, too?” Hastings’ e
xpression was inscrutable.
“I know she was. I got a look at her before they blind-folded me.” This was a lie, but it worked.
Hastings nodded. “We’ll get you another pair of shoes. Sorry about that. Had to be done, though. Thorough investigation…must be reliable. Hope you understand. Surprised Hélène was there—if she was, of course.”
“She was, all right.”
“All for the best, believe me. Talked to her this morning and she said you’d do. Gave a fine report.” And Hastings chuckled as Pete flushed angrily.
The lunch was served them with great ceremony. When it was over, they talked business. Hastings lighted a cigar, Peter refused the one offered him, taking a cigarette instead.
“Now, Pete, my boy, we will get down to cases. Tonight you will take the wagon-lit to Luxor. You will get there tomorrow. You will be met at the station by a dragoman—that’s the local word for guide—named Osman. He will take you to your hotel, take care of all details. You can trust him. Now, after you’ve been there a day or so, sightseeing—must appear to be a tourist—you will be contacted by a Mr. Said. He will tell you what to do.”
“And what is that?”
Hastings blew a wreath of smoke about the neck of the wine bottle. “Wheels within wheels, my boy. Remember one thing, though: Keep looking over your shoulder. There may be trouble. Handle a gun?”
“Pretty well.”
“Said will probably give you one. Be careful about using it.”
“Just what sort of business are you in, Mr. Hastings?”
The Englishman chuckled. “You might say I’m an export-import man.” And that was all the information Pete could get out of him.
As they left the dining room, Hastings took out his wallet and counted out, very slowly, a hundred pounds, which he gave to Pete, along with an envelope. “The envelope contains Egyptian currency, expense money as per agreed.”
“Thanks,” said Pete, pocketing the money casually.
Hastings said with his cold but genial smile, “We trust you, my boy. Absolute confidence you’ll come through.”
Pete said he was very touched.
“Drop by for dinner tonight,” said Hastings, just before he got into the waiting car out front. “Hélène would like to see you, I’m sure, and I’ll have your reservation for you. Train leaves at ten-thirty. Come about eight.”