“Is something wrong?” Durell asked “I am interested in the crown,” she said, uncertainly. “You know it is my only reason for going back to S-5. The antiquities departments of several European museums have backed my search.”
“Was there anything new in the old man’s tale?”
“The story of Roxana is an old one, of course, repeated in every generation. These people emphasize local pride, even after two thousand years. But the story of Xenos—” She paused. “I’ve heard it before, except for the black void that trapped the Greeks and still keeps them captive up there in the hills. That’s entirely new. It doesn’t really make sense.”
“Well, we’ll ask Omar for more details about it,” he said. Alessa still hesitated. “You’re going inside?”
“That’s what I came here for.”
“But it may be dangerous.”
“Sleeping in my own bed was dangerous,” Durell pointed out. “It can’t be any worse.”
“I do want to know if the old man can tell us more than he put into his public tale. It’s almost as if he knew we were here—”
“He’s probably waiting in there for us,” Durell said.
No one stopped them as he pushed inside the beaded curtain in the doorway. The Punjabi and the musicians and the mountain girl kept up their ear-splitting entertainment. There was a dim corridor, the walls painted blue, and a Moorish arch at the end opening into a tiny garden furnished with a rusty iron Victorian bench, a plank table under a scraggly palm. The surrounding houses towered four and five stories high, making the garden a well of darkness. But enough light came from an opposite doorway to beckon him forward. The old man stood there, bowing, his smile old and evil. “Welcome, doctor memsahib,” he said to Alessa. “It is an honor that you come to see me.”
Alessa shivered slightly. “You know of me, Omar?”
“Your fame is deserved. Mine is not.” The old man looked at Durell. “And this gentleman’s reputation is equal to his deeds.”
“My deeds are not as bloody as yours,” Durell said.
“One must live. Omar has struggled all his life, and in struggle one learns wisdom.” The old man’s white brows lifted. “You have dealt with Ali?”
“He failed you.”
“Then I hope you have killed him.”
“He will be turned over to the police or the military.”
“Ali was an expert,” the old man said. “I feel much respect for you.”
“Who ordered you to send him to me?”
“I am an old man,” Omar sighed. “I have dealt with life as it has come my way. Being full of years, thanks to Allah, I have not yet any desire to see the end. But if I answered your question, I would be as dead as Ali by sunrise.”
“One way or another, you will be dead, old man,” Durell said. “Now, or later.”
“You would not harm a helpless old man?”
“I will kill you, if it is necessary.”
Omar looked at Alessa and licked his lips, like the quick flick of a snake’s tongue over a blackened, reptilian mouth. He bowed slightly. “Come into my house, please.”
“You first,” Durell said.
The rooms beyond the little garden were decorated with rich silken hangings, brass plates, ancient Saracen armor, jade vases that would have graced any Western museum. There was a low couch in the second room, and as the old man sank down on it; a young veiled Arab girl came in silently and took off Omar’s slippers and rubbed the gnarled old feet with an oily paste taken from a brass jar. Another young woman came in silently and brought a brass samovar and poured steaming tea. There were rattan chairs, a smell of incense, a drifting hint of bhang; he wasn’t sure. The girl at the old man’s feet began to chafe and massage the skinny calves of Omar’s legs, working up above the bony knees under the green gown toward the old man’s thighs. The old man smiled and patted her head.
“Not now, my dear,” he said in Arabic.
“Yes, father.”
Durell said, “She is your daughter?” as the girl went out.
“I have many daughters. They are kind to me.” Omar looked at Alessa with brooding, speculative eyes. “You are the doctor memsahib who wishes to find the crown of Alexander?”
“Do you have any information more than you tell the public?”
“Perhaps. It could be for sale.”
“For how much?”
The old man shrugged. “Perhaps only for your mercy, in exchange for my life. Mr. Durell says he will kill me, because I cannot tell him who wishes his death enough to have me hire Ali.”
“The crown,” Alessa said, ignoring Durell. “What more do you know of it? Does it still exist?”
“Yes, doctor memsahib. So they say.”
“Who says?”
Omar shrugged. “It is said; that is all.”
“Can it be found?”
“It is in an accursed place. The Pakhustis would not go there. To enter this place brings death.”
“Why? Where is it?”
“There is a cave the Pakhustis call the Cave of a Thousand Skulls. It can be seen if one stands on Roxana’s breast and watches the sun on her golden belly in the hours of the morning,” Omar said.
“You speak in riddles.”
“I can say no more.”
“You can tell me,” Durell said, “who hired your man Ali.” “It was directed that I send him to his destiny.” Omar’s black eyes flickered to Durell. “And I did as I was bidden.” “Who gives a man like you orders to do murder?” “Who wishes to die by having a tongue that wags too much?” The old man laughed thinly. “You can kill me, but you know I would not talk to you. You are foolish, like all Americans. You are an imperialist spy, here on a mission of capitalistic espionage—”
“Cut out the garbage,” Durell said. “That’s fine for your mobs in the street, to whip them into a frenzy for the glorification of Islam. But you have no god and no politics, only money, old man.”
“You may speak the truth.”
“How much will loosen your tongue?”
“Ten thousand American dollars.”
“I haven’t got that much.”
“Can you get it?” Omar asked eagerly.
“There isn’t that much time.”
Omar said, “There is no more time for you now, sahib.” His eyes looked beyond Durell. Durell turned. The fat Punjabi had entered the room from the garden. He was not alone. From the doorway where the girls had gone, two Arabs appeared. Another man came in behind the Punjabi. They were all armed.
Omar clapped his bony hands.
“Kill the man,” he said.
chapter ten
DURELL ignored the others and jumped for the old man. Omar shrieked and tried to wriggle away, rolling over the silk-covered couch. His flailing arm struck a lamp vase and it fell from an ivory inlaid taboret and shattered on the tiled floor. Durell caught the flailing arm, wrenched it around without mercy, jumped on the couch, and hauled the old man around in front of him.
The rush of men came to a dead halt as the old man squawked something in Arabic. Knives glittered in a semicircle around Durell. He backed away, trying to reach Alessa. But she stood dumb-struck, not realizing the danger in staying apart from him. If he could reach her and use the old man to shield them both—
Omar was like a rattling bag of bones in his grip, steadily shrieking Arabic curses that Durell ignored.
“Alessa, get over here,” he called in English.
She looked dazed. Unfortunately, the Punjabi understood English. His big arm shot out, his ringed finger caught her wrist and yanked her sprawling across the room, away from Durell. Grinning, the fat man put Ms knife at Alessa’s throat.
Again the room was silent. One of the oil lamps made a faint fluttering sound. The Punjabi’s grin showed teeth stained by betel juice.
“Shall I kill the lady, Omar?”
Durell squeezed a little on the old man’s neck. He could feel the brittleness of ancient bones in Omar’s throat and
chest.
“You will die, too, Omar,” he said softly.
“I am ready to die.”
“Tell him to let the lady go.”
“I will not. If you kill me, she dies. You cannot prevent it. You are an American, and Americans are sentimental about women. You will not let the Punjabi kill her, eh? Now let me go, or Admidi will slit her throat as a butcher slaughters a lamb.”
Alessa’s eyes were huge, terrified. She whispered, “I’m sorry, Sam, I didn’t think—my mind was on what Omar said about the crown—”
Durell released the old man.
Omar jumped away, gown flapping, and shrieked orders to the waiting men. Durell was not sure what might happen. He had put Alessa’s safety above his own, and in his business there was no room for sentimentality.
The Punjabi pushed Alessa to Omar, who thrust her through the curtained doorway across the room. The other men signed for Durell to follow. Someone pushed him in the back and he stumbled, saw something glitter above his head, descending in a swift, brutal arc. Pain exploded in him. He went to his knees, was surprised to find himself at the foot of a stone stairway. Omar and Alessa were already at the top. The old man turned and cried in Urdu, “Let him live! We shall see who talks. There will be many rupees for all!”
Durell was pulled to his feet by a sweaty Arab, who swiftly took his gun from him and then stabbed at his eyes with both thumbs. Durell knew the trick. He ducked, caught one grimy wrist and twisted, heard bones snap like brittle wood. The Arab screamed in pain. Durell ran up the stairs after the old man and Alessa. His only hope was to get to the girl where he could act in defense without sacrificing her. But the Punjabi, for all his fat, caught at his leg and hauled him back. Durell kicked with his free foot, but the next moment he was pulled down, struggling against the vindictive weight of Omar’s men.
The next moments were a nightmare.
He let himself go limp under the rain of blows and kicks, then felt himself lifted to his feet and shoved up the stairs by the Punjabi. Dim lights showed the way through a scented apartment. An Arab woman in black, with the prostitute sign on her rouged cheeks, shrank away, tittering. He was in a warren of corridors and small, crib-like rooms. Here and there a door opened and a man looked out cautiously, then hastily slammed the door again. One larger room, with a tiled balcony overlooking an inner court, held three naked women sprawled in a tangle upon colorful cushions, with an unmistakable, but anonymous white man. There were little cries and shrieks, a rapid untangling of fleshy hips and buttocks, and then Durell was hurried on into another corridor, down more steps, across a vile-smelling alley, down another flight of steps.
A door slammed. He heard the Punjabi grunt, draw in a preparatory breath, and then there was an explosion in the back of his head, and Durell pitched forward into darkness. . . .
He was aware of the cold first, and of a trickle of water over his left leg. He did not open his eyes or move. There was pain in his forehead and another that pulsed and ebbed at the base of his neck. He thought of Omar and the Punjabi and tasted dismay like coppery metal in the back of his throat. He had made a mistake, taking Alessa here with him; she had been a danger factor, hampering him. But he could not have left her at the bungalow, either, since he could not trust her.
The thought of the girl made him open his eyes. But everything was utterly dark. There was nothing to see. He tried to sit up against the pain, and bit back a groan between his teeth.
“Oh, Sam—I’m so glad—”
He spoke her name, his voice harsh. Her hands touched his face, then withdrew. He could not see her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes.” She paused. “But what they did to you—”
He could see something, after all—a faint yellow line glimmering in the blackness. He could not make it out, or guess its distance from him. He touched his jaw, felt crusted blood on his cheek, and tried to focus on the yellow line. There were no reference points in the darkness. He felt his body, was astonished to find he was stripped naked. It explained the chill. When he sat up, he found the floor was simply dank earth, with a little ooze of water running across his legs. He shivered. Alessa put her arm around him, and the scent of her skin was like something from another world, fragrant and civilized. He touched her shoulder, her waist. She still wore her skirt and blouse. His nakedness did not trouble her, apparently.
“How long was I out?” he asked, speaking into darkness.
“I can’t guess. About an hour, I think,” she whispered.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“So far. But I’m afraid of the old man.” She paused for a long time. “What kind of place was that, where they took us through. With all those—women?”
He grinned, and it hurt his face. “An Arab whorehouse. Our Omar the Storyteller is an enterprising old gentleman.”
“He makes me shudder,” Alessa said.
He stood up. The line of yellow fell far below the level of his vision. He walked carefully toward it, and it turned out to be exactly four steps. He bumped into a wooden door. The light came from beyond, seeping under the bottom. He felt the door all over with his hands, trying to orient himself. The door had iron hinges, an iron lock. He felt his way along the walls, judging the size of their cell. It was about twelve by twelve. He bumped into Alessa again. Now his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, utilizing the faint glow from under the door. He could make out her face dimly.
She said awkwardly, “They left your clothes here, Sam.”
“Where?”
She handed him his shirt, trousers, shoes. For some reason, his socks were gone. He searched for his wallet and gun. They were gone, of course. Five thousand in expense money, receipted to Henry Kallinger. He didn’t worry about that. He regretted the loss of his gun. His ID card and passport were missing, too, of course.
“I shouldn’t have insisted you come with me, Alessa.”
“It’s all right,” she said abstractedly.
“Are you still thinking of what the old man mumbled about a Cave of a Thousand Skulls, viewed from the breast of Roxana?”
She made a deprecating sound. “I’m afraid it stirred up my imagination. I think I know the place.”
“On S-5?”
“On the North Peak, where Bergmann went.”
“We’ve got other things to think about, at the moment. How to get out of here, for instance.”
“I don’t think it’s possible,” she said.
But he had to try. He moved slowly around the walls, his body responding slowly from the bruises of his beating. He ignored the pain and studied the cell. It had brick walls. He tried to jump, arm extended upward, to feel for the ceiling. He could not reach it. There was no furniture in the cell, no scrap iron, nothing useful. He returned to the door, his feet squelching in the wet mud floor. Pausing, he knelt and felt the floor, discovering a small, oozing stream that apparently seeped up from underground. He went to the door and considered the space under it. The wet earth extended to the very edge. At once he began to trace back on the wet trickle, digging a channel from the center of the floor toward the doorway, grateful that there was no stone in the way.
“What are you doing?” Alessa whispered.
“Digging out.”
“But we have no tools.”
“I have my hands. Help me.”
They knelt together and pulled away the soft, mucky earth from the area directly under the door, pushing it aside to make a slow, laborious excavation. The thin line of yellow light immediately grew brighter, and he saw Alessa more clearly now. There was a bruise on her face, where someone had slapped her. Her body kept bumping and brushing against him as they worked together to scoop away the wet mud.
Her eyes reflected the pale light from under the door. “You look at me, Sam, as if—”
He smiled. “You don’t look like a girl with a doctorate in ancient history. It’s unusual for someone as beautiful as you to spend your life absorbed in the de
ad past.”
“It isn’t dead for me. It’s been very exciting, stimulating—”
“You’re not at all like Rudi, are you? He has a reputation for chasing after pleasure.”
“No,” she said shortly. “We’re not alike.”
“Hasn’t there ever been a man for you?” he asked bluntly.
“I’ve been busy all my life—studying, trying to recoup the family fortune. I suppose you think that’s like an obsession. It was.”
“Do you feel differently now?”
“I’m not sure. I’m confused, and I don’t like it, because I usually know exactly what I’m doing, and why. Facts can be dealt with. Emotions are—new to me.” She paused. “A man like you is something new to me.”
He went on digging. She had stopped, staring at him as she knelt beside him. Whatever she was about to add was interrupted by the sound of footsteps beyond the thick door they were trying to tunnel under. Durell swore softly. The footsteps did not go by, as he had hoped. They halted, and a key rattled in the lock.
Instantly he was up, motioning Alessa to one side, and flattened against the wall beside the door as it opened The light that poured into the cell seemed blinding now. Omar’s old, quavering voice had a peculiar echoing quality.
“Come here where we can see you! Both of you!”
Durell did not stir.
There was a mutter of orders. Durell recognized the Punjabi’s voice in agreement. A flashlight flickered around the cell; but those outside were too wary to step in through the doorway. The light did not touch the shallow trench he had dug just inside the entrance. The Punjabi began to argue with the old man. There seemed to be no others out there. Then the old man made a snort of disgust and stepped in.
His sandaled foot came down in the shallow trench, threw him off balance, and he staggered toward Durell against the dark wall. Durell whipped an arm around him and hurled him aside as Omar began his usual shrieking; he felt the hard impact of the Punjabi as the big man rushed in. He hoped Alessa this time would stay out of the way. The Punjabi had a long knife, and he could not reach the other’s wrist. For a moment they struggled in the wet trough inside the doorway, slipping in the wet mud. The Punjabi’s fist slugged into him again and again. There was no escape from that pile driver. He was not in the best of condition, after his first beating, and he knew at once the struggle would go against him.
Assignment - Karachi Page 11
