Flicker of Doom

by Paul Kenyon

  The Baroness flashed a smile and sprang to her feet. "The only thing I'm getting from on high, darling," she said, "is a tan."

  A thousand miles away, in Munich, Inga returned to the cafeteria table. Her hair was a little untidier from the combing she'd given it, and she would have scored another five points on the dowdiness scale. Werner sprang up as she approached, knocking over his coffee.

  "Perhaps," he said, after he'd fetched them both another cup, "you would allow me to show you around Munich tonight. I could take you to a typical beer hall, and then there's a chamber music concert at the Goethesaal. I could give you more information for your thesis."

  She smiled shyly at him. "Danke, sehr gern," she said. "I'd love to."

  8

  They were wandering through the Medina, shooting pictures as they went. A horde of giggling children was at their heels, following them through the narrow labyrinthine alleys, skipping nimbly out of the way whenever the native guide raised a threatening fist.

  "Siboonee fihahlee!" he shouted apoplectically. "Go away! Whoresons!" He was a plump, scraggly bearded man in a striped jellaba and red fez. He'd attached himself to them at the entrance to the Medina, and was doing his best to earn his fee.

  "No, wait," the Baroness said. She turned to Skytop. "How about a picture of me surrounded by children, with the coppersmith's stall in the background?"

  Skytop squinted at the scene, his professional eye taking in angles. "Yeah," he said, "that'll be a good shot."

  With the guide's disapproving help, they explained to the children what they wanted. The children suddenly became very shy and quiet, and trooped over to the positions that Skytop assigned them.

  She struck a model's pose, with the urchins in their colorful tatters all around her. She was wearing a vivid green caftan with its hood thrown back to show the dark sweep of hair. The cool, crisp cotton material molded her curves subtly, transforming her into a primal image of sensuality. Underneath she wore nothing but the bikini she'd donned for the beach shots earlier.

  "Beautiful, beautiful," Skytop said, dancing around her like an awkward bear, snapping one picture after another. "The agency'll love these."

  The children followed them, subdued now, while they posed with an itinerant snake charmer from the hills; with a trio of Rif women swathed in bright-printed fabric, who had come to the market with donkeys loaded with produce; with an elderly leather worker, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his stall. The guide led them deeper and deeper into the maze of winding streets.

  They were working their way toward the Casbah when the Baroness saw a familiar long skinny figure at one of the tables of an outdoor cafe. It was Don Alejandro, dressed uncharacteristically in a white suit and black string tie. Sitting next to him was a bald man with very broad shoulders — the same man, she was sure, who'd been with Don Alejandro at Marietta's party. She smiled and walked over, the urchins trailing her.

  Don Alejandro stood up as she approached, making a courtly half-bow. The other man continued sitting until Don Alejandro gave him an annoyed glance.

  The bald man slid from his chair, and Penelope got a shock.

  He'd looked to be of normal size while he was sitting down, but that must have been because he was propped up on a thick cushion. He wasn't much more than four feet tall, with the top of his head reaching her midriff. She'd been fooled by the thick torso and large head and bull neck, by the overlarge hands that had rested on the table.

  Now, standing on his bowed legs, his long arms trailing, he resembled nothing so much as a chimpanzee.

  "Baroness," Don Alejandro said, "this is my colleague, Dr. Otto Funke."

  The bright simian eyes stared up at her. Now she knew what that ape-like figure in her bedroom had been.

  The shrewd little eyes continued to fix on her. He had a fairly good idea of what she was thinking.

  "Charmed, I'm sure," he said in a guttural German accent.

  "Won't you join us?" Don Alejandro said, gesturing at the table.

  "Just for a moment," Penelope said, sitting down. "I want to catch what's left of the light."

  "Ah, yes," Don Alejandro said vaguely, "catch the light."

  "The light is everything," she said.

  "Very important in your line of work," he said.

  "And yours, too, isn't it, Dr. Otero?"

  The hooded eyes closed for a moment, like a lizard's. "Please," he said, "call me Don Alejandro."

  She turned to the little bald man. He'd hopped back into his chair. She'd been right; there was a thick cushion.

  "And are you a neurologist, too, Dr. Funke?" she said.

  He squirmed on his seat. "Nein… no. I am not that kind of a doctor."

  "Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were a colleague of Don Alejandro's."

  "Dr. Funke is not a medical doctor," Don Alejandro said. "He is an electronics specialist. We have been associated together in a number of research projects."

  The little man was staring at her bust. He was perspiring. Don Alejandro gave him a swift, sardonic glance.

  "Is something bothering you?" Don Alejandro said.

  Funke took out a large checkered handkerchief and mopped his brow. "The sun," he muttered. "It's too hot today."

  Skytop glanced at his watch. "We ought to get going, Baroness," he said.

  The guide was standing off to one side, fidgeting. The children were gathered, grave and silent, at the fringes of the cafe, getting shooed absentmindedly by the waiters every time they hurried past.

  "But you have not had anything," Don Alejandro said.

  "Another time," she said, standing up. "When are you going to invite me to see your paintings?"

  A look passed between Don Alejandro and Funke. "My dear Baroness," Don Alejandro said, "forgive me for not having invited you sooner. Of course, I shall be delighted to have you pay a visit. This weekend, perhaps? When you are not so occupied."

  "I'll look forward to it," she said. "Is the Velazquez still out being cleaned?"

  Again there was that flash of fury, contained by the rigidity of his posture and revealed only by the whitening of his nostrils.

  She'd had Inga do a routine check on Don Alejandro after that first transmission from Munich. She'd found that Don Alejandro, despite his villa and the opulence of his life style, was strapped for cash. The Spanish government had expropriated most of his property in Spain. The Moroccan villa was the much-reduced remnant of what had once been a large estate, owned by his family for generations. He'd been existing by selling off his priceless collection of paintings, one by one.

  But lately, according to Inga's informants, Don Alejandro seemed to have come into some money. He'd abruptly canceled the sale of a Murillo to a private collector, and turned down an offer of a half-million dollars by the Metropolitan Museum in New York for a large Zurbaran.

  But the loss of the Velazquez must still have rankled him. The fact that it was an ancestral portrait must have seemed particularly humiliating.

  "Cleaned," he said. "Yes."

  She twisted the knife to see what he'd do. "Perhaps I can see it some time in the future?"

  He looked as if he wanted to kill her. "Certainly," he said.

  "Good." She smiled. "I hate a dirty Velazquez."

  She turned to Dr. Funke. He was staring at her bosom again. He jerked his eyes away guiltily.

  "So nice to meet you, Dr. Funke. No, don't bother to get up."

  The parade of silent urchins followed her. One of them snatched a honeycake off Don Alejandro's table and ran away with it before the waiter could cuff him.

  "What're those characters doing in the Arab quarter?" Skytop said.

  "Look," she said.

  He followed her glance. A scruffy young Arab in army surplus clothes had seated himself at Don Alejandro's table. The three heads were bent together.

  "Looks like they had an appointment," Skytop said.

  Their guide was getting impatient with them. "I take you weavers' quarter now
. See carpets. Very nice."

  "How far?" Skytop said.

  "Not far."

  "That means it's a long way off," Skytop said. He looked at his watch. "I ought to get back and get these developed," he said. "There isn't much light left, anyway."

  "You go ahead," Penelope told him. "I'll take a look at the weaving sheds. I want to buy a Moroccan rug, anyway, for the Rome apartment. If it looks good for pictures, we can come back tomorrow."

  Skytop set off in the wrong direction, and was immediately corrected by the guide. The man was reluctant to leave Penelope, but the problem was solved when the children volunteered to show him the way. He tousled a couple of heads, promised them all an ice cream and passed out cigarettes. They paraded happily after him, chattering and competing to give directions.

  The guide led Penelope further into the Medina. The shadows were getting longer in the narrow streets. She stopped at one of the covered booths from time to time to buy something: a silver bracelet, a handsome pair of Moroccan slippers, a small embroidery — all small things she could stuff into her big straw bag. She took her time bargaining, enjoying the ceremonial haggling with the shopkeepers. Her guide seemed unaccountably nervous. He kept trying to hurry her.

  "This way, this way," he whined.

  They pushed their way through the thick crowds. There seemed to be fewer tourists in the direction they were going. A Blue Man from the desert peered at her over his veil. A tall Berber in tattered robes gave her an unfriendly glance as she brushed past him.

  Somebody was following her. She was sure of it. It was hard to tell in the bustle of the marketplace, but once or twice she'd seen a darting figure dodge into an alley or step quickly into a doorway when she looked back. Her guide was becoming more and more nervous.

  "Balek, balek!" he fussed at people blocking the way.

  She remembered now seeing the guide in earnest conversation with a young Arab in a white shirt while she'd been talking to Don Alejandro. The Arab had hurried off, as if on an errand. She hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but now she decided to make a small test.

  "I don't think I want to see the weavers," she said. "Take me to the Casbah, instead."

  "No, no, you must see!" he said, very agitated. "Very nice! Very special!"

  She sighed and decided to go along with it, whatever it was. That was what she was here for. Perhaps she'd find out something.

  The weavers' shed was fronted by a row of competing stalls. There was a magnificent array of Moroccan carpets on display on racks and on every square foot of the walls that were visible through the open shutters. Penelope stepped up to a hanging rug in the flaming red and ochre favored by the Chichaoua of the High Atlas.

  "Bekatn?" she said. "How much?"

  The rug merchant looked frightened. He refused to quote a price.

  "Bekam?" she said impatiently.

  He quoted an impossibly high price — higher than any possible starting point for a bargaining session. It was plain that he wanted to discourage her.

  She tried the next stall. The merchant there seemed nervous, too. He kept looking over his shoulder.

  The guide was beside her. "More inside," he said. "Very nice. You see how rugs are made."

  She gave a cynical smile and let him push her ahead of him to a low, dark door between the booths. She stepped inside.

  It was a big, warehouse place, the size of a barn. A dirty gray light filtered in from windows set high overhead. There was no sound but the click and whir of looms.

  The looms stood in rows from one end of the floor to the other, great frames of worn and polished wood that were at least twelve feet high and twice as long. Small, dark, frightened girls sat at each of them, fingers blurred as they tied knots with incredible speed. Half-finished rugs were suspended like tapestries on towering racks, their brilliant colors making the place gay. Up above, darting back and forth on scaffolding, an army of small barefoot children unwound spools of yarn in a rainbow of colors and passed it down to the girls.

  The door closed behind her. She heard it click. The guide had remained outside. He'd done his part.

  She walked down the aisle between the rows of looms. Nobody paid any attention to her. Up above, the chattering children had grown silent.

  There was a man waiting at the end of the aisle. He wore army fatigues and a checkered headdress that was draped to cover the lower part of his face.

  "Come with me," he said.

  He was holding a pistol that looked like a Luger. It was an irresistible invitation.

  Two more men with covered faces stepped from beneath the tents made by two of the hanging carpets. They carried submachine guns. One of them prodded her in the back.

  She offered no resistance. These fanatics were quite capable of spraying the entire place with machine gun bullets to get her. She didn't want those silent, slaving girls or the solemnly watching children to get hurt.

  They took her up a flight of rickety wooden steps to a loft. They pushed her through a door. As it closed behind her, she could hear the children chattering again.

  Nobody — not the rug merchants outside or the weavers inside — would dare show any curiosity about what had happened. These violent young men who moved like sharks among them were not to be opposed. It hardly mattered what they called themselves — Arab Liberation Front, Black September, Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. One looked away and kept one's mouth shut.

  She found herself in a large, dusty room with drawn curtains. An antique rolltop desk, piled high with account ledgers, was pushed carelessly against the wall. A dozen cots were scattered about. The organization, whatever it was, was using the place as a temporary local headquarters. There was a big shortwave radio in the corner, with an antenna wire leading up through a hatch in the ceiling.

  "Who are you people?" she said. "What do you want?"

  "You are a prisoner of war of the Pan-Arab Freedom Fighters," one of the muffled men said sternly.

  "Shut up, Yassin," the leader said. "You, lady, sit down."

  He indicated a heavy oak swivel chair that went with the desk. Penelope sat down in it.

  "You are the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini," he said. He made it sound like an accusation.

  "Yes," she said. "What does PAFF want with me?"

  "We'll ask the questions. What are you doing in Tangier?"

  "Really…"

  He slapped her across the face. "We are not playing games."

  She made herself look frightened. It seemed to please the three of them.

  "Now," he said, "why are you in Tangier?"

  "I'm here on business," she said in a small voice. "I'm taking pictures for an American advertising campaign."

  They conferred in Arabic. The leader turned toward her again.

  "Why did you follow Don Alejandro today?"

  "I didn't follow him. I met him by accident."

  Again there was a slap. "Tell me another fairy tale."

  "It's the truth."

  The PAFF guerrilla sighed. "Our informant saw you talking to Don Alejandro at one of your decadent Western parties. The party was arranged specifically for the purpose of your meeting him. Later you had a clandestine meeting at your hotel with Dr. Otto Funke."

  "It was clandestine, all right."

  She wondered how hard a slap she'd get if she told him that Dr. Funke had broken into her bedroom, bent on rape.

  "You admit it!" he said triumphantly.

  One of the other guerrillas spoke. "I say kill the bitch now."

  "You're too impatient, Omar," the one called Yassin said. "We must find out about this matter. We can't take any chances where the Deathshine operation is concerned."

  "Shut up, you fool!" the leader said. "You talk too much!"

  So she wasn't supposed to hear about something called "Deathshine"? Interesting!

  "Now," the leader said, "what is your interest in Don Alejandro?"

  "We share a fondness for art," she said.

&
nbsp; He lost his temper. "Tangier is crawling with CIA agents and security men for your President! And you show up and begin to nose around Don Alejandro! Don't try to tell me that it's a coincidence!"

  He wasn't a very good interrogator. So far she'd found out more from him than he'd found out from her. He'd just told her that Don Alejandro fit into the picture involving the President's security during his visit to Tangier. And that the code name for the operation was "Deathshine." And that it involved PAFF. It was adding up very nicely. She could hardly wait for him to question her some more.

  "Yassin," said her informant, "get the wire flex over there and tie her to the chair. We're going to have to question her more seriously."

  Yassin got the wire with unseemly haste. He propped his machine gun against the rolltop desk and grabbed her by the wrist.

  This was where she drew the line. Never let them tie you up. Never.

  She jerked her wrist away. He grabbed it again. She struggled, making it difficult for him.

  "She won't keep still," Yassin complained.

  "Keep still or you'll be sorry," the PAFF leader said, waving his pistol at her.

  The hell with that! There was no point in being a good girl to buy yourself a few minutes' worth of time. Once you were tied up, there were no more plays left to make. It was better to act now.

  She'd seen too many chairs and the things that had been left tied in them. She'd rather die now.

  She half got out of the chair. Yassin pulled her back. She could have twisted out of his grip easily, but the odds were still against her. She struggled some more.

  "Omar," the leader snapped, "help Yassin."

  Omar put his machine gun down and grabbed her other wrist. That was better. The two machine guns were out of the play. Now all she had to deal with was three men and one pistol.

  They were both behind her. She pushed with her feet and tilted the swivel chair all the way back. It went over with her in it. She grabbed them by the wrists in a trapeze artist's grip to make sure that she'd take the two of them with her. She jerked sharply as she fell, and the three of them tumbled backward.

  No shot yet. What had happened still looked like an accident to the leader. She had several seconds before he'd react, and another few seconds before he'd overcome his natural reluctance to fire.