Assignment Afghan Dragon by Unknown Author

Khwajerabi Avenue, in the northeast quadrant of the city between the park and the railroad station. It was an area of modest homes and narrow lanes, and the houses facing the street showed only blank courtyard walls with small doors recessed into the plaster. The afternoon was beginning to wane, but the accumulated heat of the day’s unrelenting sun had built up within the city. Durell took a taxi to the park and walked back along Khwajerabi, threading his way through the impatient crowd, and turned off to find No. 55 Kough Road. There was a small cafe on the comer and an Indian store crammed with cheap general merchandise. He circled the irregular block twice, checking for vehicles, watchers, those who might be waiting here for his arrival. He saw nothing suspicious. Finally he went up a narrow stairway between two ochrous plastered walls and rapped on the blue-painted doorway, using a bronze knocker shaped in the hand of Fatima that was an emblem of good luck. It occurred to him that Homer Fingal had not had much luck at any time in his short life.
    After his second rap, Sarah Fingal opened the door about two inches, recognized him, and threw back several bolts and chains to admit him. One glance at her, and he knew that she had already been informed about the death of her husband in the Seistan. She was a small, darkhaired woman with the faded blue eyes of her Irish father and the self-sufficient manner inherited from her mother. Perhaps she was a bit older than the unfortunate Homer had been. She wore a loose, elaborately embroidered Iranian robe that concealed her slight body. Her face was attractive in an intense way. Her pale eyes had violet smudges of grief smeared beneath them. Her voice was low and husky. She wore a scarf over her thick black hair, which was coiled in a tight, prim bun at the nape of her neck. The climate was too hot for that sort of thing, but her heavy hair did not seem to bother her. She touched her cheek with her left hand as she extended cool fingers for Durell’s grip.
    “Oh, Sam. I knew you would come. I just knew it. Did Harun tell you where to find me?”
    “The silversmith? Yes. But I think you should change your address. He told me, but I think it’s the end of his work for us,” Durell said quietly. “I think he’s been bought away from us.”
    “Yes, I suppose so. Did he suggest that I might be an Israeli spy?”
    “Among other things,” Durell paused. “I’m sorry about Homer. I got there too late. It was unavoidable, but I don’t think either of us expected trouble on this.”
    She nodded, giving no answer to that. The tiny apartment was still littered with the evidence of Homer Fingal’s scholarly research. She had been packing books in Chinese, some Sanskrit manuscripts, bric-a-brac that Homer had collected to analyze and perhaps write an academic monograph about. Cartons crammed with papers and small wooden crates stood about among the sparse Arabic furnishings in the apartment. He felt a sense of utter control about Sarah that was dangerous, leading sooner or later to an inevitable explosion of sorrow and mourning.
    Sarah clasped her hands together. “Sam, I—”
    “Wait.” He lifted two fingers to warn her, then moved about quietly in a search of the apartment. There were two windows and a small door off the bedroom that opened onto an inner gallery. The little balcony overlooked an inside court of the building, floored with worn and faded tiles that had once formed a beautiful geometric design. A leashed dog down there looked up at him and began to bark. There was a stone outer stairway leading up from the balcony to the communal sleeping terrace on the roof. He went up quickly and quietly and looked about. No one was up here. Back in the apartment, he checked the bedroom and the bath and finally returned to the living room. The clutter prohibited anything but a cursory search for listening bugs or potential explosive devices. There was nothing he could do