is
his
pleasure. Certainly you can understand the necessity for—”
It was as far as the ponderous guard got before snapping his head toward the pavement outside. The undercurrent of noises from the dark street had suddenly erupted. A man screamed; others roared, their strident voices echoing off the surrounding stone.
“
Elhahoonai!
”
“
Udam!
”
And then piercing the chorus of outrage was a woman’s voice. “
Siboni fihalee!
” she cried frantically, demanding to be left alone. Then came in perfect English, “You
bastards
!”
Evan and the guard rushed to the edge of the stone as two gunshots shattered the human cacophony, escalating it into frenzy, the ominous rings of ricocheting bullets receding in the cavernous distance. The Arab guard spun around, hurling himself to the hard stone floor of the entranceway. Kendrick crouched; he had to
know
! Three robed figures accompanied by a young man and woman dressed in slovenly Western clothes raced past, the male in torn khaki trousers clutching his bleeding arm. Evan stood up and cautiously peered around the edge of the stone corner. What he saw astonished him.
In the shadows of the confining street stood a bareheaded woman, a short-bladed knife in her left hand, her right gripping an automatic. Slowly, Kendrick stepped out on the uneven layersof stone. Their eyes met and locked. The woman raised her gun; Evan froze, trying desperately to decide what to do and when to do it, knowing that if he moved quickly she would fire. Instead, to his further astonishment, she began stepping backward into the deeper shadows, her weapon still leveled at him. Suddenly, with the approach of excited voices punctuated by the repeated penetrating sounds of a shrill whistle, the woman turned and raced away down the dark narrow street. In seconds she had disappeared. She had followed him! To kill him?
Why?
Who
was
she?
“
Here!
” In a panicked whisper the guard was calling him. Evan whipped his head around; the Arab was gesturing wildly for him to come to the heavy, forbidding door in the recessed entranceway. “
Quickly
, sir! You have gained admittance.
Hurry!
You must not be observed here!”
The door swung open and Evan ran inside, and was instantly pulled to his left by the strong hand of a very small man who shouted to the guard in the entranceway. “Get away from here!” he cried. “
Quickly!
” he added. The diminutive Arab slammed the door shut, slapping in place two iron bolts as Kendrick squinted his eyes in the dim light. They were in some kind of foyer, a wide, run-down hallway with several closed doors set progressively down both sides of the corridor. Numerous small Persian rugs covered the rough wood of the floor—rugs, Kendrick mused, that would bring very decent prices at any Western auction—and on the walls were more rugs, larger rugs that Evan
knew
would bring small fortunes. The man called El-Baz put his profits into intricately woven treasures. Those who knew about such things would be instantly impressed that they were dealing with an important man. The others, which included most of the police and other regulating authorities, would undoubtedly think that this secretive man covered his floors and his walls with tourist cloth to avoid repairing flaws in his residence. The artist called El-Baz knew his marketing procedures.
“I am El-Baz,” said the small, slightly bent Arab in English, extending a veined, large hand. “You are whoever you say you are and I am delighted to meet you, preferably not with the name your revered parents gave you. Please come this way, the second door on the right, please. It is our first and most vital procedure. In truth, the rest has been accomplished.”
“Accomplished?
What’s
been accomplished?” asked Evan.
“The essentials,” answered El-Baz. “The papers are prepared according to the information delivered to me.”
“What information?”
“Who you may be, what you may be, where you might come
his
pleasure. Certainly you can understand the necessity for—”
It was as far as the ponderous guard got before snapping his head toward the pavement outside. The undercurrent of noises from the dark street had suddenly erupted. A man screamed; others roared, their strident voices echoing off the surrounding stone.
“
Elhahoonai!
”
“
Udam!
”
And then piercing the chorus of outrage was a woman’s voice. “
Siboni fihalee!
” she cried frantically, demanding to be left alone. Then came in perfect English, “You
bastards
!”
Evan and the guard rushed to the edge of the stone as two gunshots shattered the human cacophony, escalating it into frenzy, the ominous rings of ricocheting bullets receding in the cavernous distance. The Arab guard spun around, hurling himself to the hard stone floor of the entranceway. Kendrick crouched; he had to
know
! Three robed figures accompanied by a young man and woman dressed in slovenly Western clothes raced past, the male in torn khaki trousers clutching his bleeding arm. Evan stood up and cautiously peered around the edge of the stone corner. What he saw astonished him.
In the shadows of the confining street stood a bareheaded woman, a short-bladed knife in her left hand, her right gripping an automatic. Slowly, Kendrick stepped out on the uneven layersof stone. Their eyes met and locked. The woman raised her gun; Evan froze, trying desperately to decide what to do and when to do it, knowing that if he moved quickly she would fire. Instead, to his further astonishment, she began stepping backward into the deeper shadows, her weapon still leveled at him. Suddenly, with the approach of excited voices punctuated by the repeated penetrating sounds of a shrill whistle, the woman turned and raced away down the dark narrow street. In seconds she had disappeared. She had followed him! To kill him?
Why?
Who
was
she?
“
Here!
” In a panicked whisper the guard was calling him. Evan whipped his head around; the Arab was gesturing wildly for him to come to the heavy, forbidding door in the recessed entranceway. “
Quickly
, sir! You have gained admittance.
Hurry!
You must not be observed here!”
The door swung open and Evan ran inside, and was instantly pulled to his left by the strong hand of a very small man who shouted to the guard in the entranceway. “Get away from here!” he cried. “
Quickly!
” he added. The diminutive Arab slammed the door shut, slapping in place two iron bolts as Kendrick squinted his eyes in the dim light. They were in some kind of foyer, a wide, run-down hallway with several closed doors set progressively down both sides of the corridor. Numerous small Persian rugs covered the rough wood of the floor—rugs, Kendrick mused, that would bring very decent prices at any Western auction—and on the walls were more rugs, larger rugs that Evan
knew
would bring small fortunes. The man called El-Baz put his profits into intricately woven treasures. Those who knew about such things would be instantly impressed that they were dealing with an important man. The others, which included most of the police and other regulating authorities, would undoubtedly think that this secretive man covered his floors and his walls with tourist cloth to avoid repairing flaws in his residence. The artist called El-Baz knew his marketing procedures.
“I am El-Baz,” said the small, slightly bent Arab in English, extending a veined, large hand. “You are whoever you say you are and I am delighted to meet you, preferably not with the name your revered parents gave you. Please come this way, the second door on the right, please. It is our first and most vital procedure. In truth, the rest has been accomplished.”
“Accomplished?
What’s
been accomplished?” asked Evan.
“The essentials,” answered El-Baz. “The papers are prepared according to the information delivered to me.”
“What information?”
“Who you may be, what you may be, where you might come
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