"I have sifted the sand all around the barracks window with my fingers," she said. "Twice I had to run and hide in the shadows of the building next door, because that side of this one is in moonlight and I heard the guard coming. The thing you wish is not to be found. The sand is so deep."
That should have occurred to him, Slate thought. It was probably like trying to locate a needle in a haystack.
"Maybe it will be easier in daylight," he said. "I'll try to break away from work tomorrow and look for it myself. I guess we'll have to postpone our flight until tomorrow night"
"I am sorry," she said.
"It's all right. This will give you time to pack a few possessions. Don't take many, because we'll probably be riding double on a camel. I'd rather not steal a mount for you."
Konya understood this. A Mossagbahan wouldn't steal from his sheik. Slate thought if unnecessary to explain that moral considerations had nothing to do with his decision. He merely wanted the sheik to continue to believe he was a Mossagbahan, even after he was gone, and that his reason for flight had been simply elopement with Konya.
"Shall I come tomorrow night at the same time?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "Now you'd better scoot back to bed before a guard spots you."
"Good night, Abdul," she said softly, and faded away from the window.
Apparently Mossagbah didn't have any labor laws, Slate thought sourly after his first day of work on the launching pad tower. He and the Arabs working with him under the supervision of the THRUSH engineers and technicians put in a twelve-hour day in the boiling heat with only forty-five minutes for lunch.
All the laborers except Slate were allowed to return to the oasis during the noon break, for lunch prepared by their women folk. Slate lunched in the mess hall under the watchful eye of THRUSH men.
No one objected when after lunch he wandered outside and sank into the shade of the administration building just beneath the barracks room window.
He noted that Perez and Fritz followed him out and sat in the shade on the same side of the building, however. Maxim Karsh was still taking no chances that Abdul the merchant might just possibly be an U.N.C.L.E. agent.
Idly Slate sifted sand through his fingers. It was so dry and loose, he could probe down several inches. Occasionally he unobtrusively shifted position. By the time Maxim Karsh blew a whistle in signal that it was time to go back to work, he had covered the whole area beneath the window.
His groping fingers had encountered nothing but sand. Probably the pick-lock had worked its way down a foot or more.
Slate contemplated using the next day's lunch break to dig up the U.N.C.L.E. gun buried by the rear door of the administration building, but rejected the idea after some thought. He could hardly shoot his way past seven THRUSH agents, plus the Arab guard. Even if he did manage to fight his way to the corral and escape on a camel or horse, he would be pursued across a hundred miles of desert to the Mossagbahan border.
Besides, that would leave no doubt in anyone's mind that they had been harboring an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Also Slate had promised to take Konya with him.
The only realistic plan of escape was somehow to get out of his cell during darkness. There was no point in recovering the U.N.C.L.E. gun until he was ready to take off.
That night Konya visited him again.
"Did you find the little steel thing?" she whispered.
"No. It's hopeless. I have another plan, but it'll have to wait until tomorrow night."
She looked disappointed. "I am all packed to go, Abdul."
"Then you won't have to pack tomorrow night. Do you know what is in any of the other four buildings?"
Konya shrugged. "The sound of machinery comes from them. I do not know what the machinery's purpose is."
"There must be a work bench with small tools in at least one of them," Slate said. "Would you be challenged if you wandered through the buildings tomorrow?"
She pursed her lips. "I could say I was looking for the sheik. If I wait until the lunch break, there will be few in the buildings."
"Fine. I want you to steal a hacksaw blade. Know what one looks like?"
She shook her head.
"It's a slim, steel saw blade about so long," he said, spacing his palms apart about a foot. "It has little steel protuberances on either end which fit into a frame with a handle. But I don't need the frame, just the blade. Think you'd recognize one?"
"Oh, yes," she said confidently, "You describe very good."
During the morning of Slate's second day of labor a small jet plane was wheeled from the building farthest north. Ranjit Sighn, wearing a white linen suit and a jeweled turban, was accompanied by an Arab attired in a chauffeur's uniform.
They climbed into the plane. It took off and disappeared into the distance.
"Never mind the rubber-necking," Maxim Karsh yelled from below to the workers on the tower. "Get back to work."
That night Konya passed a slim metal blade between the bars. Slate was elated until he examined it. It was a scroll saw blade.
When she saw the expression on his face, Konya said worriedly, "It is not right?"
"Apparently I don't describe as good as you thought," he said kindly. "This will only cut wood. A hacksaw blade is a little wider and longer and heavier. I also should have mentioned that it will probably be blue steel."
"I saw one of those," she said forlornly. "I thought the little one would be easier to conceal."
"Want to try again tomorrow?" "All right," she agreed. "But my heart was set on going tonight."
"It's only one more day, Konya.
Where was the sheik going?"
"To Cairo. I do not know why." Slate did. April's ship was due to dock there that afternoon.
After Konya left Slate snapped the scroll saw blade in half and attempted to pick the lock. It didn't work.
He hid it beneath the pad on his bunk for future reference.
EIGHT
“THEY CAN RULE THE WORLD”
When her ship berthed at Cairo, April Dancer was a little put out to find Ranjit Sighn waiting for her at Customs. She had written him to meet her at the Royal Hotel, where she had an overnight reservation. His meeting the ship confronted her with a problem, because she had planned to stop by Cairo's U.N.C.L.E headquarters en route to the hotel.
April didn't let her irritation show, however. She clasped both his hands in hers and gave him a delighted smile. His response was just as enthusiastic. She suspected that only the inbred reserve of an Oxford education prevented him from publicly attempting to take her into his arms.
She liked the expensive cut of his white linen suit and admired the turban with a ruby in the center of the forehead. April studied Ranjit for a minute.
"You look more like a sheik than you did in England," she said. "There you merely looked like a handsome race horse owner."
"When in Rome, do as the Romans do," he said with a smile. "In England people stare at a turban. Here it's accepted as a matter of course."
"I like it," she told him. "It makes you look kind of interestingly sinister. You've surprised me, you know. I didn't expect you to meet the ship."
"I couldn't wait until this evening." Reluctantly he released hands. "Do you mind?"
"I'm glad," she lied. "You can help me through Customs."
He was a help there, so much of a help that her irritation nearly disappeared. With the sheik running interference she had no problem with Customs at all. She was bowed through with only the most cursory inspection.
The same uniformed Arab chauffeur Ranjit had with him in London loaded April's luggage into a limousine, this time a Lincoln. It also had a phone in it, she noted. As a matter of fact the sheik called her attention to it.
"We could phone the hotel from the car and cancel your reservation," he suggested with animation. "Then we could drive straight to the airport."
"I haven't seen Cairo yet," she objected. "I want you to take me night-clubbing."
"Of course,
" he said instantly. "I am being selfish. It is only that I am eager to show you the wonders of Mossagbah's desert."
He told the chauffeur to drive to the Royal Hotel.
It was only three when they arrived at the hotel. April said she wished to take a shower, and afterward a short nap so that she could stay up late for a night on the town. She suggested that Ranjit return for her about six.
Obviously he had been prepared to monopolize her every minute, because he had the afternoon all planned.
"You won't want to miss the bazaars," he said. "And they won't be open tonight.
"I would rather miss them than the night clubs," she told him. "And it's a choice of one or the other. Honestly, I'll be unable to keep my eyes open tonight if I don't have a nap. We had a ship's party last night which lasted until all hours and if you must know, I had a little too much French champagne."
He gave in gracefully. With a parting hand squeeze the Sheik said he would return promptly at six.
On the way up in the elevator with the bellhop, April slipped the flesh-colored earplug from her bag and fitted it into her ear.
THRUSH still wasn't trusting her completely, she discovered when the bellhop keyed open her room door. The moment she stepped inside, a low humming started in her ear.
When the bellhop had been tipped and had departed, April casually moved about the room until she located the bug. This time it was in the lower left corner of the dressing table mirror.
She sat at the dressing table and creamed her face, at the same time unobtrusively studying the device from the periphery of her vision. The mirror was fixed to the wall by decorative glass-headed studs in each of its four corners. The lower left one was slightly different. It was the same design, but there was a tiny glass lens in its center.
A visual bug, she thought indignantly. The peeping Toms! Since she was relatively sure THRUSH didn't really suspect she was an U.N.C.L.E. agent, and this was merely a routine check ordered by the suspicious Maxim Karsh, the only reason for a visual bug was that some lecherous agent hoped for an eyeful when she prepared for bed.
She would stymie that little peep show, she thought. And right now.
A box of tissues lay on the dressing table for the convenience of the guests. April picked it up, drew out a handful of tissues and carefully wiped off the cleansing cream. When she was finished, she carelessly tossed the tissue box down. It landed at an angle, so that she was still in view of the lens as long as she was seated at the dressing table, but the view of the rest the room was blocked.
April let her eyes droop and stifled a yawn. Then she rose, went over to the phone and called the desk.
"This is Miss Dancer in room 312," she said. "I'm going to take a nap and want to get up at five. Will you please ring me?"
The desk clerk said he would be glad to.
Hanging up, April crossed to the bed, sat down just hard enough to make the springs creak and removed her shoes. She dropped them to the floor one at a time. They landed on the carpet with two subdued but distinct thumps.
When she flopped back on the bed, the springs creaked again. She emitted a tired sigh.
Slowly and silently she rolled to the edge of the bed, eased her stockinged feet to the floor and stood erect without allowing the springs to creak this time.
Stooping for her shoes, she tiptoed to the door.
She took a good fifteen seconds to open the door, turning the knob slowly so that there would be no giveaway click. Just as slowly and quietly she turned the small catch which would leave the door unlocked. When she returned, she didn't want to risk the sound a key would make in the lock.
Easing the door closed behind her and allowing the knob to turn so slowly that the catch re-engaged without sound, April slipped on her shoes. Then she took out her compact and replaced the makeup she had removed with cleansing cream.
Although she considered it unlikely, it was possible that a THRUSH agent was stationed in the lobby. To circumvent the possibility, she located a fire stairs, walked down three flights and came out in an alley. Then April Dancer jammed a match folder between the door and the frame next to the spring catch of the fire exit so that she could get back in the same way.
Four blocks from the hotel she entered a small book store. When a dark-haired female clerk politely asked what she could do for her, April said, "Do you have Alexander Dumas Pere's Three Musketeers?"
Momentarily the dark-haired woman's eyes hooded over. Then she said with a smile, "In the original French?"
"No, in Greek," April said, "That will be in the classical section," the woman murmured. "Come this way, please."
She led the way to the rear of the shop and through a curtained doorway into a smaller room whose walls were lined with bookshelves. At the rear of the room she stooped to touch something on the underside or a lower shelf.
A section of bookshelf swung aside to reveal a divided black curtain.
When April stepped through the curtain, the bookshelf automatically swung back in place.
She found herself in a lobby nearly identical to that of New York's U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. The clerk on duty glanced up, and, failing to recognize her by sight, asked, "Name and assignment, please?"
"April Dancer, Section Two, New York headquarters."
"Ah, yes, Miss Dancer. We've been expecting you. One moment, please." He noticed how attractive she was. Then, consulting his agent file, the clerk pressed a combination of buttons on a small panel before him and glanced up at a screen similar to a television screen fixed on the wall.
The screen began to glow, then front and profile portraits of April appeared on it.
"I guess you pass," he said pleasantly, flicking a switch to darken the screen. He handed her an I.D. triangle. "Last door at the end of the hall. Walk right in. Mr. Raj will know you are coming by the time you get there."
April walked down the indicated hall, opened the door and went in. It felt good to be back at an U.N.C.L.E. headquarters again. A stocky man with one of the pleasantest smiles April had ever seen sat behind a large, hand-carved desk.
Rising and bowing, he said, "Amhed Raj, Miss Dancer. Please be seated. Did you have a pleasant voyage?"
"Very pleasant," she said, taking a chair. "Has Mark Slate left any messages for me?"
Amhed Raj sank back into his desk chair. "Unfortunately, no. U.N.C.L.E. is no longer in contact with Mr. Slate. But I'll let your own chief explain the situation. He asked to be contacted the moment you arrived."
Raj pressed one of numerous buttons on a desk panel before him. Light flickered across a large glass screen on the wall and Alexander Waverly's image appeared behind a desk. Young Randy Kovac was standing beside the desk.
"Hi, Miss Dancer," Randy said eagerly. "We sure miss you around here."
In his quiet voice Waverly said, "Glad to see you arrived safely, Miss Dancer. Have you anything to report?"
"Ranjit Sighn met me at the ship," April said. "I managed to shake him long enough to get here, but he's to pick me up again at six. I probably won't have opportunity to contact you again until we get to the oasis, because I'll be with the sheik except when I'm in my hotel room, and my room is bugged."
Waverly frowned. "You're under suspicion?"
"I don't think so. I think it's just routine precaution. Maxim Karsh doesn't trust anybody. What happened to Mark?"
"He was taken three days ago, at the oasis. His last message indicated he thought he could pass himself off as a sneak thief, and we've heard nothing since."
"He's probably okay," Randy put in loyally. "Mr. Slate can wriggle out of any spot."
Waverly glanced dourly at the boy. "Before his capture he learned and reported on what THRUSH's project is at the oasis. The super rocket formula stolen from Professor Bettner's laboratory some time back is in the possession of THRUSH. They are building a space platform at the oasis, presumably with the intention of putting its individual components into orbit, then welding them together in outer space."
&nb
sp; April asked, "What advantage will a space platform give them?"
Randy, who kept abreast of all facets of the space program, said dramatically, "They can rule the world. With atomic weapons aimed at Earth, they can deliver notice to every nation that unless the reins of government are turned over to them, they will blast their cities to nothingness one by one."
Cocking an eyebrow in Randy's direction, Waverly said, "Lucidly put, young fellow, but---harumph. That obviously is their aim, Miss Dancer. No doubt they plan to blast a few cities in advance as object lessons. Probably such places as New York, London, Paris and Moscow."
April's dark eyes flashed. "What are your orders, sir?"
"First locate and release Mr. Slate, if he's still alive. If he isn't, recover the Moslem prayer emblem he was wearing around his neck. It contains microfilm photographs of all THRUSH's plans for the space platform. Contact Section Two when that is accomplished for further instructions."
"Yes, sir," April said, her eyes wide with alert understanding of her grave duty.
Ahmed Raj reached for the panel button to cut communication. Before the picture faded, Randy got in the final word."You be careful, Miss Dancer," he said.
NINE
THE EVIL PLACE
It was four-thirty when April got back to the fire door leading from the hotel into the alley. She found the match folder she had left in the crack of the door undisturbed. She dropped it in her purse and let the door click shut behind her.
When April reached her room, she kicked off her shoes and picked them up with her left hand. She turned the knob with the same care she had used when she left and cracked the door open just far enough to slip inside.
After easing the door shut, April Dancer glanced toward the dressing table. The tissue box was still in the same position she had left it, she was relieved to see. If it had been moved, it would have been sure evidence that her ruse had been discovered.
Tiptoeing to the bed, she stooped to lay her shoes on the floor without sound, then carefully eased herself onto the bed. Noiselessly she shifted over a little at a time until she lay on her back in its exact center.
The Sheik of Araby Affair Page 5
