Next
Costas Calcanis sat in an armchair in the living room, struggling to regain focus. Finally forcing his eyes open, he slowly looked around.
The Levantine was standing a few feet away, training a pistol on him. Her face was calm and determined. She would kill him without compunction. The other, shorter girl, the Greek, was watching him with a look of hatred and fear.
As soon as she'd opened the apartment door, the man had rabbit-punched him. In the time he'd been unconscious, he'd been stripped to his underpants and roped to the armchair.
The man was standing with his back to Calcanis. Suddenly, the room was filled with Danny Nagier's sat-message to phone Tel Aviv.
The man turned around, holding the MRT in one hand, Calcanis' gun in the other. He obviously knew enough Hebrew to recognize the words were Yiddish. The expression on his face revealed his suspicions; Calcanis was either a Zionist, or associated with them. A danger.
The man held up the MRT. "What is this?"
Calcanis forced himself to stay calm. Chernow had always said if caught stick to a simple story --- and one as close to the truth as possible. "My pager. I'm a private detective, specializing in divorce. That's why I carry a gun. Adultery can be a violent business." He looked at the man. There was no response, not a flicker of doubt, no acknowledgement there might be some truth in what he'd said.
Nagier's voice once more filled the room.
The man switched off the MRT. When he spoke, his voice was impersonal and cold. "Who is Gabriel?"
"It's a Zionist name!" shouted the Greek girl. The Levantine raised the gun so that it pointed at Calcanis' head.
"Who do you work for, Jew?"
Through his pain, Calcanis could hear the man's growing anger. Anger and nervousness, a dangerous mixture. The man was not wholly in control.
"I work for myself. And I am not a Jew. If you will release me, I will call my office and you can speak to my secretary. She will confirm what I have told you." If he could get to a telephone, he could call the Israeli Embassy's unlisted number. Once the duty security officer heard him asking to be put through to his secretary, the man would try to trace the call. "Secretary" was the current Mossad codeword for an emergency.
The man spoke in a low, hard voice. "You think I am stupid? Long ago, I learned never to trust a Jew. A Jew's word is worth nothing. Less than nothing! Now --- who do you work for?"
Without turning her head, the Levantine spoke. "Ha-Zoafim is what the Zionists call the great rock overlooking the Prophet's Mosque in Jerusalem."
Calcanis struggled to stop his fear from showing. "It's the name of the birthplace of the my client's wife is having an affair with. He lives in this building. I was only trying to find him..."
"Don't lie to me, Jew! You work for Zionist terrorists!"
The man's voice had risen. Calcanis stared into his face. He had seen that look before. It was that of someone with a need to kill. "I have nothing to do with Zionist terrorists," he said.
"Why were you following these women?" shouted the man.
Calcanis shook his head. Even the slightest movement produced excruciating pain. "I wasn't."
"You followed them from the square to the airport. Why?" shouted the man again.
Calcanis felt his hope melting like frost in the sun. "You are mistaken. I was not following them. I was looking for the man my client's wife is sleeping with. They sometimes meet in the square or at the airport."
"He lies!" said the Levantine suddenly. "He was following us."
Calcanis looked into her face. The terror of the past few minutes had been a mere precursor for the real fear he now felt. She wanted him to die.
"He's a Zionist," said the Greek girl. "Only a Zionist would be so frightened."
"I'm a Greek!" protested Calcanis. "And yes, I'm frightened. Anyone would be." His voice rose. "Please, sir. Let me call my office..."
"Do you think I am stupid, Jew?" shouted the man. "You think you can treat me with the contempt you show for my people? You think you can come here and spy on me?"
"Please, sir..."
"Shut up, Jew!" The man turned away. He was certain now. Even that camel's whore could see this was a frightened Zionist. When he turned around and spoke, it was in a voice from which all emotion had been drained. "Why did Chernow send you?"
Calcanis felt a great wave of nausea rise from his stomach to his throat. He fought to keep it down. "I have never heard of such a man. Who is he?"
The man stepped closer so that he was standing almost alongside the Greek girl. "Do you know who I am?"
Calcanis shook his head. "No, sir. I have never seen you before..."
The man stared at Calcanis out of flinty, emotionless eyes. There was a moment of total silence in the room before he spoke again. "I am Khalil Raza."
The silence returned, broken only by the sound of Raza releasing the safety on the gun. He began to nod. The pig had recognized his name.
Nadine saw the madness blazing in Raza's eyes. Nothing would stop him now. Anna was staring fixedly at Calcanis, her mouth working to control her trembling. She saw Raza's gun come up.
"Anna," said Raza softly. "You are like this pig. You are very stupid."
Raza fired twice, both bullets entering Anna's head through her left ear and exiting above her right. For a moment, she remained upright, a spume of brain and blood arcing toward the ceiling. Then, already dead, yet her eyes still fluttering like a china doll's, she sagged to the floor. She jerked once, the little spasm causing her hand to touch the sash, her fingers moving over the gold lettering. The tremor passed and she was still.
Raza glared at Nadine. "She died quicker than she deserved."
The madness was still there, burning and glowing in his eyes. He addressed Calcanis once more. "Why did Chernow send you?"
Calcanis said nothing. He could feel urine running down his thighs.
"It does not matter," said Raza. "You will avenge Al-Najaf." He raised the pistol and shot Calcanis three times in the chest in quick succession. Calcanis slumped against his bonds.
Raza turned and looked at Nadine. She lowered her gun. As suddenly as it had appeared, his look of madness had gone. When he spoke next, his voice was normal. She found that both terrifying and yet exhilarating. A man who could change so quickly was a man in complete control.
"Come, we have work to do."
Together, they went to the kitchen. Anna's camera and the Polaroid prints, along with Nadine's pouch, were on a worktop. The bag still contained a few bottles of perfume.
"Throw them away," ordered Raza.
She emptied the contents down the sink and dumped the bottles in a trash can.
Raza spread out the photographs showing Nadine with Nancy Carson. "Here, you choose one!" he said cheerfully. His mood change was total.
Nadine selected a print. Raza gathered up the others and tore them into small pieces. He told Nadine to flush them down the sink. While she did so, he opened a cupboard and pulled out a fax machine. He plugged it into one of the power outlets in the wall and connected the phone line.
With adhesive he took from a drawer, he fixed the snapshot to a sheet of photographic paper from a box on the counter. He then dialed a series of numbers on the machine's handset, at the same time feeding in the paper. The connection made, the machine gave a short high-pitched noise and the paper began to pass through.
Moments later, the facsimile was emerging in the Connecticut mansion of Rachid Harmoos.
When he received the acknowledgement that the fax was well received, Raza used the handset to make another international call.
"Oui," answered Faruk Kadumi in London.
Raza gave him the number of Bill Hardiman's flight to Luton and added an order. "You will use the alternative arrangement."
Raza made a final call, a local one, arranging for the cabal's local representative to dispose of both bodies. "Leave him where he can be found. It will serve as a warning. Leave her where she will never be found."
"It will be done to perfection," promised the voice.
Two hours later, Raza and Nadine flew out of Athens.
Dawn was beginning to creep through the windows as Jacob Chernow and Tyreen Mackenzie walked around the Athens apartment.
The Concorde had made the flight from Northolt in a hundred minutes. They had spent most of them monitoring the hunt for Raza and the killers of Costas Calcanis. His body had been discovered outside the El Al office in downtown Athens an hour before the plane landed.
By the time they had reached the apartment, the Athens police crime scene technicians had made progress. Working with a set of Raza's prints Danny Nagier had faxed from Tel Aviv, the fingerprint men had matched them with those found in the apartment.
Other technicians had established that two people had died in its main room. Blood analysis confirmed one had been Calcanis. The other, from hair samples, pointed to the other victim being a woman.
From time to time, Tyreen paused to watch the technicians. They were good, taking their time, missing nothing.
A couple of uniformed men were taking down the portrait of Ayatollah Muzwaz. The entire contents of the apartment was being systematically removed in the search for evidence.
Chernow stopped at a window. A few hours ago, Raza could have stood here. It was almost as if he could still smell his presence.
Behind him, a voice growled. "I've closed down the whole country. He couldn't even get out through a sewer."
Chernow turned and looked at Zak Constantine, the head of Greek Internal Security. "He's gone by now, Zak. As fast as you still get off the baseline."
Constantine nodded in acknowledgment that at fifty, he still played killer tennis.
"You checked the passenger flight manifests?" asked Chernow.
"Of course. Not one showed up as even having a parking violation."
Chernow nodded, accepting the limitations of technology.
Constantine growled, "That night watchman was slow." The Israeli duty guard at the El Al office had failed to get the car's make or registration.
"From tomorrow, he'll have plenty of time to practice, for sure --- spotting camels in the Sinai," promised Chernow.
They stepped to one side as two uniformed patrolmen carried away an armchair. Dark patches of blood covered the fabric.
"First they shoot Costas with his own gun. Then chop off his balls Nice people," remarked Constantine. The police pathologist had confirmed that the bullets had come from Costas' handgun, and that he had been dead before his testicles had been removed and shoved in his mouth.
"They learn fast, Zak. The KGB did that to their people when they kidnapped a couple of Russian diplomats in Beirut. The Russians just grabbed two of the local Hizbollah leaders and deballed them. When word got around, the diplomats were back the next day."
Constantine grinned. "Think we should go and deball a few of those faggots in that radio station?"
"They're telling the truth, Zak. That tape was just dropped off." After he'd formally identified Calcanis, Chernow had visited the radio station with Constantine, with Tyreen in tow. The staff said the tape had been found in the program request box in the lobby. No one had seen who had put it there. Chernow had obtained a copy. It had been transmitted to Tel Aviv from the Concorde's communications center.
He'd spent an hour questioning Calcanis' police contact. The man had still been on duty when Calcanis' body was brought in. The Greek had been smart enough to make two and two add up to no more than four. Following his tip where Calcanis had been heading, Constantine had sent enough men to the apartment to win a small war.
"I've put out a general pickup for everyone with the remotest connection with this place," growled Constantine. "But it probably won't get us very far."
"It's worth a try, Zak. But the chances are that Muzwaz will have covered his tracks. He's good at that."
A technician emerged from the kitchen carrying a refuse sack. "Thought you ought to see this, sir." He turned the sack out on the floor. Half a dozen bottles fell out and rolled across the carpet.
Chernow bent and inspected them. He picked one up, sniffing the open top, before passing it to Tyreen. Picking up another bottle, he rose, handing this one to Constantine. "Can we find out if this is a regular brand, Zak?"
Constantine squinted at the label. "Grecian Nights? Never heard of it. But we'll soon see. Since we joined the EEC, all brand names on luxury items have to be registered." He beckoned to an aide and told him to check the bottle.
Chernow told Constantine about the intercept that Danny Nagier had traced to Athens. "I'd like you to get your people to test for content, and see if they can match the glass with those fragments they found in the tanker explosion."
The security chief looked pensive. "You think the woman was carrying the anthrax in bottles like this when she was fried?"
"Let's see what your people come up with, Zak."
"I'll go over there myself," said Constantine. "I'll take the other bottles with me." Stooping, he put the bottles back in the sack and straightened up.
"Leave us one, Zak." He gestured to the bottle in Tyreen's hand and then started walking with Constantine toward the door, giving additional instructions.
Tyreen took another sniff of the bottle. It had a sweet, cheap smell. It was definitely not the kind of perfume she would ever use, no matter how pretty the dark green bottle. But then, an Arion woman seldom needed to use perfume to attract a Terran man. Still holding the bottle in her hand, she walked into the kitchen.
A technician was dusting the fax machine for prints. Another was inspecting the Polaroid camera. He paused and raised his head, looking at Tyreen.
She held up the bottle. "I want to get this label off."
The man shrugged his shoulders and went back to his work, either not understanding English or else too busy to cater to the whims of the girl.
Before she could switch languages, Tyreen's sensitive nostrils detected the same smell coming from the sink as she'd sniffed from the bottle. Why had someone poured away their contents? Raza wouldn't need to run another field test after Trekfontein. And he certainly wouldn't waste his precious anthrax poisoning the sewers of Athens. She walked over and looked into the sink.
There was something stuck to the side of the waste pipe just below the plughole. Tyreen reached in but her slender fingers couldn't quite reach it. She asked one of the technicians to fish it out. The man used a pair of long-handled tweezers to ease up the paper. It was part of a photograph of someone's face.
Tyreen opened the cupboard under the sink. There was the usual deep trap in the waste pipe with an inspection seal, which could be opened to deal with a blockage. There were miscellaneous cooking utensils, but no plumbing tools.
While she didn't have the strength of an Arion Prime such as Marlen, she was strong enough. Looking to make sure none of the technicians were looking at her, she squatted down, shielding herself from view with the cupboard door. She turned a large pan right side up and placed it under the seal. Reaching in and using her fingers as a wrench, she attempted to remove the seal.
It wouldn't turn. Adjusting her grip, she tried again.
This time, it began to turn. She quickly disassembled the pipe. Pieces of torn photographs, which had remained in the bottom of the trap, fell into the pan.
After glancing back to make sure she was still unobserved, she reassembled the waste pipe then took the pan and spread the pieces on the worktop. She began to fit them together.
By the time Constantine returned, Tyreen had reassembled several snapshots of two young women. One was holding a perfume bottle identical to the one she'd placed on the worktop beside her photo collage.
"... matches that found on the peddler's remains," Constantine was telling Chernow as they came into the kitchen. "Forensic has so far identified the contents of each bottle as a perfume, an aftershave, eau-de-Cologne, and what they think is mint tea." Constantine shook his head. "Why mint tea unless you were running a scam? The one good news is that Forensic didn't find a trace of anything suspicious."
"They could have used the tea to make things stretch. Maybe they had a lot of bottles to fill," suggested Tyreen, looking up from her collage.
Constantine glanced down at the assembled photos. "What you got there?"
Tyreen explained where she'd found the photos. She didn't explain how she had gotten them out.
Constantine studied them more carefully. "The one on the left looks Lebanese. The other could be a tourist."
"And neither looks like a hawker, Zak," said Chernow.
"Maybe they're tied in with Raza and the peddler in some other way," suggested Tyreen. "Then, after she died, Raza tried to remove any evidence. That could be why he dumped the stuff from the bottles."
Chernow began to nod. "I don't know if one of these is the woman who died in the explosion. But given our intercept and your people's match of the glass, I think there's a strong probability that your tanker woman was carrying a quantity of Anthrax-B-C, which was incinerated with her. There's no way we'll ever know how much was destroyed. But Raza must have some left. What he could have done is removed this concoction from the bottles and filled them with anthrax. But if he lost some in the tanker fire, he may not have enough to fill them all. So he dumped the spare bottles."
Constantine shook his head. "But surely he'd need lab conditions in which to make the exchange? There's no sign of anything like that here."
"He could have done it elsewhere. This place was probably a distribution center," sad Tyreen.
The aide who had gone to check the perfume manufacturers came into the kitchen to report there was no listing for Grecian Nights. Constantine ordered him to have police search every laboratory in the country for evidence.
"I'd like to use a phone, Zak," said Chernow.
"Use this one," said the technician who had finished fingerprinting the fax machine.
Chernow called Nagier in Tel Aviv. "Listen, Danny. I think we've located a potential vector. Bottles of perfume labeled Grecian Nights. Get Wolfie to alert the ACC to have his rummagers stop any bottle with that label. Warn them not to open a bottle. Have Matti and Lacouste alert their Customs people. I'll fax you a sample label. Also a photo. Tell everyone it's priority to get an ID on the women. Once you've got the Brits, Americans, and French moving on the bottle, put out a global Double Flash so that everyone's on the lookout for one like it."
"Will do," acknowledged Nagier. "Is Costas there with you? If so, put him on. It's kick-ass time for him."
"Too late, Danny," said Chernow quietly. He then explained what had happened to Calcanis.
While the men spoke, Tyreen held the perfume bottle under a sink tap to free the label. She patted the paper dry with a cloth and handed it to Chernow. He stuck it to a sheet of photographic paper that one of the technicians had found in a box in a cupboard. Then he stuck one of the photos Tyreen had assembled on another sheet and faxed them both to Tel Aviv.
Then he dialed the direct-line number of the telephone on the flight deck of the Concorde and ordered the pilot to file an immediate flight plan to Frankfurt.
The Double Flash, the photocopy of the Grecian Nights label, and the reassembled photo reached the Foley Street safe house nine minutes after Chernow's call to Nagier. It was just after four in the morning in London. There were now less than four full days left before Raza's deadline expired.
Michelle was on watch in the safe room; Wolfie had gone off duty at midnight.
Since then, fax traffic had been light. General Yertzin had sent a message that his Spetsnaz were deep in the Afghan mountains, and had checked a dozen Mujaheddin encampments without a sign of Raza, his men, or the woman. The weather was slowing down the Russian's progress.
Shortly afterward, Admiral Burness' office faxed to say that the ground satellite link with the Spetsnaz had been interrupted by a severe blizzard. The NSA weather satellite positioned over Afghanistan predicted that the whiteout could last twenty-four hours.
Lester Finel had reported that his mutes were halfway through the search for Japanese and Asian associates of Raza. So far, none had been discovered.
Humpty Dumpty had sent another handwritten note saying his specialists had narrowed down the time the tapes had been made to between ten and fourteen days ago.
Michelle had placed the reports in Chernow's file --- along with others from Interpol, the CIA, FBI, and a score of other police agencies. In the end, they came down to much hard work producing very little.
The Double Flash triggered an alarm bell on the fax machine loud enough to wake Wolfie in the bedroom across from the safe room. He arrived in time to read the message as it came off the machine. He began to swear softly when he saw the news about Costas Calcanis.
"Let's get this out fast," said Michelle in an unusually loud voice. It was her only reaction to Calcanis' death.
Removing Chernow and Nagier's names as the source of the Double Flash, Wolfie replaced them with the standard prefix for all messages sent outside the agency: From Uppermost. Tel Aviv. He then typed the message into the computer and keyed it, the label photocopy, and the photograph to the ACC's personal fax machine.
The machine was beside the camp bed the ACC had installed for the duration in his office on the seventh floor of New Scotland Yard. The message awoke him shortly after he'd fallen asleep at the end of a twenty-hour day.
The ACC struggled to his feet and switched on the desk lamp. He read the text and studied the label and began to frown. The faxed photo was of poor quality; it would be a small miracle if it produced a lead. And thirty years of police work told him that spotting the bottle would now largely be a matter of luck. Despite Chernow's insistence on a body search and a full baggage check for one in two of all travelers arriving in Britain, a bottle could still easily escape detection.
At every entry point, Customs officers were already stretched to the limit. Many were working double shifts; a number had collapsed on duty. On top of that, they continued to face angry scenes with travelers delayed by the security restrictions.
The ACC read the message once more. There was nothing to say the bottles would be hand-carried. They could just as easily be hidden in freight. On an average day, twenty-seven million separate items of merchandise arrived in Britain by air and sea. To check each one properly would effectively throttle the nation's commercial life. It would require a Cabinet-level decision to authorize such a dramatic and unprecedented step --- even if there were trained rummagers available to conduct such a hunt. And already a number of Ministers were protesting about the latest security clampdown.
There'd been questions about what should be done with the millions of bottles already confiscated. Even with every available scientist and laboratory mobilized, it could still take weeks to check them. There was talk of simply incinerating all the bottles. But no decision would be taken until the Department of the Environment was satisfied about the level of pollution risk. A report was due in four days' time --- the day Raza's deadline expired.
The ACC scanned the message again. He respected Chernow's instincts. But this warning could be the work of anyone in Mossad. There were people there who sometimes overstepped the limits of conjecture. Nor was there anything in the message that conclusively said the bottles actually contained Anthrax-B-C. Nor any hard evidence that they were even on their way to the United Kingdom.
He came to a decision. He called in a duty secretary and dictated a summary of the fax, under the heading of Advisory. After she had typed it, he attached the copy of the label and instructed her to take it to the senior duty officer in the Yard's Operation Center.
The Chief Superintendent scanned it and passed it to his assistant.
"This'll lose us more friends," predicted the Inspector. "As it is, Customs are kicking up hell because we haven't enough men to put alongside them to keep Joe Public in order."
"Anyone else but the ACC and I'd dump it," said the senior officer. "But treat it strictly as no more than an advisory."
The Inspector passed the paper to a sergeant who ran off copies on paper with the bold red heading Scotland Yard: Advisory Only.
The copies were simultaneously faxed to the Home Office, MI5 and MI6 headquarters; the fourteen Regional Crime Squad headquarters; Customs at Heathrow, Gatwick, and London's new City airport in the heart of the Docklands.
The other airports that served the capital, Luton and Stansted, would receive the advisory through their own county police forces: Bedfordshire in the case of Luton, and the Essex Constabulary for Stansted.
The advisory arrived in the Luton airport administration block and was taken to the night duty manager. This was the third night he had spent coping with complaints from furious travelers over the stringent Customs checks.
All the manager knew was that the seizures were connected with the recent terrorist outrages. But increasingly, it sounded like another security overkill --- especially when no one would answer his repeated question of what was he supposed to do with all those bottles? The airport Customs confiscation room was close to overflowing.
The manager glanced at the advisory. In his world, the word was way down the ladder of priorities. Right now, his immediate concern was the arrival of the last flight before he went off duty --- Britannia 16 from Athens.
It was four hours late, having put down in Frankfurt with an engine malfunction. In a few minutes, there would be over two hundred very tired and, the manager had no doubt, some very irritated passengers arriving in Customs. A specific search for these bottles would further delay them --- and undoubtedly lead to more complications. He dropped the advisory in the day manager's tray. He could decide what to do when he came on duty.
In the airport's arrivals hall, Customs officers braced themselves to face the passengers from Britannia Flight 16. There was a growing feeling among several of the stressed officers that rather than endure more hostility, they would exercise their own discretion over confiscations. They too felt the blanket impounding of bottles was an overreaction.
Below in the cavernous confiscation room, the graveyard shift was manned by Asians or Arabs, the only ones willing to toil through the night for modest remuneration.
One was Saleem Arish. In the year he had worked here, he had quickly discovered that his pay could be supplemented by theft. He had become expert at stealing only items that could be concealed on his body. He'd found a ready market for them in London's thriving ethnic underworld.
Six months ago, one of his contacts had introduced him to a man he still knew only as "Effendi."
He had questioned Arish closely about the items easiest to steal, and then promised him a hundred pounds a week to telephone every day before going to work in case Effendi wanted something stolen.
For months, Arish had received his retainer for doing nothing. Then a week ago, Effendi had asked him to steal a bottle of French perfume, and deliver it to a contact man in the parking lot of a service station on the M1 motorway near Luton.
For this, he would receive an additional hundred pounds. He had repeated the operation twice more, and was paid the same amount by the contact man.
His fellow Arab had a misshapen body and a bloated face with a twisted lump of a nose. Yet the few words he had spoken had been in a soft, cultured voice.
Arish was neither curious about the man, nor cared why Effendi should spend such exorbitant sums for perfumes he could easily have purchased from any store --- and no doubt was paying the contact handsomely to collect in this way.
Last night when he had called, Effendi had said he would pay two hundred pounds for each of three specific bottles of perfume he expected to be among those confiscated from Britannia Flight 16. Effendi had carefully described their distinctive shape and had made Arish repeat several times the name on the labels: Grecian Nights.
When he had come on duty, Arish had volunteered for the job of off-loading the baskets as they came down the chute. It was backbreaking work no one really wanted.
Arriving in the Customs hall, Bill Hardiman's irritation over the late arrival of his flight turned to concern when he was diverted into one of several cubicles. Fiona would already be worried where he was; she had never become used to the vagaries of air travel. The sooner he could get this latest delay over, the better. An elderly Customs officer stood beside a stack of wire baskets in front of a moving conveyor belt.
Hardiman smiled at him. "First time I've been stopped."
"Nothing personal, sir. We're checking one in two."
The officer asked Hardiman to place and open his luggage on a table. Hardiman did so.
The officer expertly worked his hands through the layers of neatly folded clothes. "Pack them yourself?"
"Yes."
"You must be married. Only a wife could have taught you that!"
"Bit unusual, all this, isn't it?" asked Hardiman.
The officer glanced up at him. "We live in unusual times, sir. The poor bastards in South Africa and those hotels prove that."
Hardiman looked puzzled. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't seen a newspaper in the last three days."
The officer briefly told him about the hotel explosions and Trekfontein.
"My God! Now, I understand! Search away!"
The officer smiled; it was a change to get an understanding passenger. "Let me just have a dekko in your briefcase, then you can be on your way."
Hardiman opened the briefcase.
The officer removed the three bottles of Grecian Nights and looked at Hardiman. "I'll have to keep these, sir. For a start, you're way over your allowance --- and secondly, we're supposed to confiscate all bottles. It's all connected with what's happened."
In his years of globetrotting, Hardiman had learned the only way to handle a Customs officer was to remain polite and tell the truth. He explained exactly how he'd acquired the bottles. "Let me keep just one," he urged. "Otherwise, my wife will never believe she's going to get invited to this perfume launch."
The officer held up one of the bottles. The seal hadn't been tampered with. "You're certain this hasn't been out of your sight?"
Hardiman nodded. "Absolutely, officer. Just let me keep one for my wife."
The officer shrugged. This idea of confiscating bottles was probably the brainchild of someone in Whitehall. And what was the point of it all? Now, there was this rumor that all the bottles were going to be incinerated --- without even being opened. That would be typical of Whitehall.
The officer came to a decision. "Okay. Just one!" He handed the bottle to Hardiman and placed the other two in a basket. While Hardiman closed his case, the officer wrote in a docket book that two bottles of Grecian Nights had been taken off Britannia Flight 16. He tore out the top copy and placed it with the bottles in the basket. As Hardiman walked out of the cubicle, the officer put the basket on the conveyor belt.
In the confiscation room, Arish removed the baskets coming down the belt and stacked spirits, wines, and perfume on a trolley. The bottles of Grecian Nights were wedged between a basket of gin and whiskey and another filled with liqueurs.
After making sure no one was watching, he quickly pocketed both bottles. But there was no sign of the third. He glanced at the docket. Only two bottles had been confiscated. Effendi must have made a mistake when he said there would be three. Arish pocketed the docket and continued to unload the trolley.
When he had done so, he wheeled it to the far end of the room. A couple of loaders began to stack the bottles on shelves. They logged each item as they did so, checking that they matched those on the dockets.
His shift over, Arish punched his card in the time clock and walked out of the Customs area.
Forty minutes later, he drove into the service station on the M1 and waited in his car.
Ten minutes later, the Arab tapped on the window. He held an envelope in his hand. "You have my three bottles of perfume. And I have your money."
"There are only two bottles," explained Arish. "Customs must have missed the other one." He produced the docket. "Here, see for yourself."
The Arab read the docket and shoved it in his pocket. "Give me the two bottles," he said. "I will still pay for three."
The exchange was made.
Faruk Kadumi continued to stare into the car. The Browning pistol with its silencer was a hand movement away, in his pocket. This was the moment he should kill this miserable petty thief. How and where, Raza had left to him. Only that it must be done --- and done by him and no one else. Kadumi had thought about little else on the drive here. One shot would be sufficient.
But the last vestige of medical ethics that had once governed his life made him balk at personally committing cold-blooded murder. Instead, he had debated whether to call Effendi and have him arrange the killing. But the risk was too high. Effendi was the cabal's representative in Britain whom Ayatollah Muzwaz had assigned to be Raza's contact man. He might check with Raza first for confirmation. And once Raza knew he had failed to obey his clear instruction, Kadumi also knew his own life would be forfeit.
He continued to stare at the grinning fool. Then he abruptly turned and walked back to his car.
For most of the long flight from Athens to New York, Nancy Carson had slept. An hour out of JFK, a cabin announcement reminding all passengers to fill in a US Customs Declaration Form awoke her.
Nancy had placed hers in the bag of other gifts she was carrying, along with the two bottles of Grecian Nights. Checking her wrapped purchases, she realized she was just over the limits on the form.
The elderly matron sitting beside her had a suggestion. "Open one or two of your presents, honey. Just tell Customs they're for your personal use. You can always rewrap them."
Nancy smiled her thanks.
The woman glanced into the bag. "Those perfume bottles look expensive. Open them."
Nancy explained the conditions under which they had been given to her.
The woman smiled indulgently. "Honey, whatever they told you in Athens, I can assure you there's no such regulation about anything having to remain unopened until you've cleared US Customs. I should know. My late husband was an inspector with the service, God rest him. You go ahead and open the bottles."
Nancy took out one of the bottles and went to the toilet to freshen herself. Then she broke the seal on the bottle and dabbed the perfume on her neck and behind her ears. The aroma seemed muskier than the sample she had tried in Constitution Square.
On the ground at JFK, a Customs inspector signed Nancy's form without checking her baggage. He looked at her kindly and asked if she was okay.
She nodded and smiled. But the truth was she felt very tired. And the skin on her neck and behind her ears was beginning to itch. It must be the perfume. She wouldn't use it again.
Suitcase in one hand and bag of gifts in the other, she came out of Customs and made her way through the terminal to catch a bus into New York.
Muktar Sayeed had been waiting for several hours, constantly comparing faces with that of the woman standing beside Nadine in the photo faxed from Athens.
Nadine had not changed from those weeks he had spent in the training camp learning to fight and kill. But instead of joining other Feydeheen in attacks on Israel, he had been sent to the United States to work for Rachid Harmoos.
Originally, he was employed as a driver in the Day-Nite Cab Company owned by Mr. Harmoos. Later, he became a courier, traveling the country, delivering and collecting messages and packets too sensitive to be sent by phone or mail.
Now, Muktar was in the terminal to steal the bag from the woman walking a few yards ahead. He'd sighted her the moment she'd emerged from the Customs hall.
Keeping a steady, loping stride, knitted hat pulled tight on his head, collar of his windbreaker pulled up, Muktar kept his hands loose at his side. His eyes continued to judge distance and everything else that went with a successful hit.
There had been a security guard at the automatic doors when he'd come in. The man had gone. A steady stream of passengers were exiting to the taxi line. Only a few were heading, with the woman, to the door for buses. Most were elderly. No problem there. He began to increase his stride, his hands clenching and unclenching.
Nancy saw the bus pulling in as she stepped through the doors onto the curb.
Suddenly, she felt a tremendous punch in the back, which sent her sprawling onto the sidewalk. She glimpsed a man running with her bag of gifts in his hand. Then he'd darted around the bus and was lost to sight. Someone was screaming.
An elderly man was bending over her, trying to help her to her feet. He was saying the same thing over and over again. "He didn't get your case, miss. You're gonna be okay. He didn't get your case."
The suitcase had skidded out of Nancy's grasp. It lay on its side about five feet away.
People were gathering around, discussing among themselves whether she should be moved. A guard from inside the terminal forced his way through them to her side. "You okay, miss?"
Nancy hated fuss; she nodded. She just wanted to get home and sleep. Her feeling of tiredness just wouldn't go away, like the itch on her skin.
The guard helped Nancy to her feet and then retrieved her suitcase. When she explained what had happened, he spoke into his mobile phone, "The lady thinks he could be black, and on foot."
The guard was joined by an airline Customer Relations agent. He turned to Nancy. She had begun to rub her skin. "A lot of people's skin dries out after a long flight. A nice cool shower when you get home will usually do the trick. To get you there that much quicker, I'd like to offer you a courtesy limo."
Nancy smiled her thanks. Getting home as quickly as possible sounded good. This tiredness was turning into full-blown exhaustion, and she felt cold and clammy.
As the limo entered Manhattan, Nancy felt increasingly unwell. The painful throbbing in her back was probably from the punch. But the other symptoms had now been joined by a headache and a persistent shiver.
By the time the limo dropped her off at 510 Park, her symptoms had worsened.
Crossing the lobby, Nancy felt hot and faint, but by the time the elevator reached the fourteenth floor, her shivering had worsened. She barely had the strength to turn the key of the apartment and drag her suitcase inside. Even closing the door was an effort. Her eyes blurred as she read the note from her landlady propped against the hallstand, saying she had been called away to a family emergency in California and would not return for at least a week. The note was dated the previous day.
Nancy staggered to her room and flopped on the bed. She was too weak to even undress.
Once Muktar had placed the bus between himself and immediate pursuit, he had slowed to a walk. He'd parked the Day-Nite cab at the end of the line, close to where the airport limos parked. Their drivers gave him no more than a passing glance as he drove away. At the airport exit, there were already a couple of patrol cars. Their crews were waving down all vehicles except taxis. A patrolman waved him through.
On the Connecticut Expressway, Muktar took the Sweetmont exit. Fifteen minutes later, he turned off the highway on to the private road, marked by a sculpted signboard that bore the word Harmoos.
Muktar drove for a mile between pastures grazed by horses and cattle, and fields of ripening corn. He passed the first buildings. On the left was the barn where the estate staff lived. There were forty altogether, all Arabs. Mr. Harmoos employed only Arabs.
Beyond the barn, sheltered by trees, was a repair shop. Parked outside were several cabs bearing the same blue Day-Nite logo on their doors as Muktar's cab.
He continued on for another half-mile between more cornfields before reaching a checkpoint. An Arab stepped out of a guard hut, waved him on, and stepped back inside. He had a pistol stuck in his waistband.
A quarter of a mile further on, a belt of conifers provided protection for the mansion. Muktar could think of only one other like it --- the White House in Washington. Hr. Harmoos' house had the same colonnaded central frontage and wings on either side. Formal gardens and lawns led to a turning circle before the massive double front door. Unlike the White House, the windows here were fitted with steel roll-down shutters.
As he parked, Muktar saw a curtain move. Mr. Harmoos was watching and waiting in his study.
Five floors above where Nancy Carson was becoming increasingly ill, Matti Talim sat beside Miriam Cantwell on a couch and listened as she continued to describe her past three days at City Center dealing with the casualties from the hotel bombings. Apart from short breaks, she'd been on duty nonstop.
"The first twelve hours were the worst," she was saying. "It was like a casualty clearing station. They just died before we could get them on the table."
He hadn't heard her sound so tired or look so drained.
"The worst were the kids. I lost three in a row. A couple of sisters and a little boy."
"You did your best, Miriam."
She laid her head against his shoulder and fell asleep. He sat for a while listening to her steady breathing. Then he carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed. She did not stir.
Closing the door behind him, he went to the safe room and resumed checking the names of Arabs Chernow had sent. He had programmed the computer to search for any links they had with Rachid Harmoos.
The only sound was the squeak of the swivel protesting under the weight of Rachid Harmoos as he moved in his custom-made chair.
He continued to divide his gaze between Nancy Carson's bag on the desk before him and Muktar. The other two men sitting on upholstered chairs either side of Muktar continued to follow every eye movement Harmoos made.
"You are certain no one followed you?"
"Certain, Mr. Harmoos," replied Muktar.
There was another groan of protest from the chair as Harmoos leaned forward and tipped out the bag's contents on to the desk. Nancy's packages made a smile pile. He picked up one in his fleshy fingers and tore off the paper. He held a small doll dressed in traditional Greek costume.
"Americans have such poor taste," he sighed.
His voice was surprisingly light for someone of his massive bulk. Not even his handsome suit could contain the pear-shaped mass of cosseted flesh completely. The cloth strained in a dozen places. Folds of flesh covered his cheeks and neck and deep pouches filled with fat were suspended under his eyes.
"This girl, does she need to be taken care of, Nuri?" Harmoos stared at the young Arab with the hard, knobby look of a street fighter.
"I've run a full check. She's a junior high school teacher. She won't associate what happened in Athens with the loss of her bag. I recommend no further action in her case, Mr. Harmoos."
"Very good, Nuri." Harmoos dropped the doll in a wastebasket behind the desk. He continued to gaze at his aide. "Of course, there may well be no need for us to do anything now that she's opened that bottle, Nuri." He gave another, longer sigh. "If only people would do what they're told."
All three men nodded at Harmoos.
In one unbroken movement, astonishingly swift for a man of his size, he swept Nancy's other gifts into the bin.
"Such things offend my sense of values," he murmured. He glanced quickly around the oak-paneled study. Two of its walls were covered with shelves filled with rare books on the Islamic world. On the others hung originals by Matisse, Picasso, and Turner.
Harmoos turned to the tall, thin man on Muktar's left. He had a mournful face. Heavy horn-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his long nose. Ismail was an Egyptian research chemist on a year's sabbatical at New York State University. His tuition fees and living expenses were being paid by the cabal.
"You have everything?"
"Yes, Mr. Harmoos. But I cannot start until the bottles have fully frozen. It will take another five hours to reach the required temperature."
"Very good, Ismail. Remember, the Ayatollah is depending on you."
Ismail gave a quick, weak smile. "For all his wisdom, the Magnificent One is not a scientist. This is very delicate work."
Harmoos gazed at him, smiling pleasantly. "That is why you were chosen." He scratched behind one ear, continuing to smile, then sat back and rested his hands on his stomach. He glanced at a sheet of paper on the desk and was lost in thought for a moment. Then he nodded his enormous head as he stared across the desk. "You may go."
The men rose to their feet. As they began to walk to the door, Harmoos motioned for Nuri to wait.
After the door had closed, Harmoos shook his head sadly. "A pity about Muktar. I'd become quite fond of him."
"I already have a replacement in mind," said Nuri.
Harmoos picked up the paper. It was Raza's order that everyone on the periphery of the operation must be killed once they had completed their work. "When?" he asked, putting down the paper.
"When he leaves here," replied Nuri. "His cab has been fixed to make it look like a pure accident."
"There will be no problem with the insurance?"
"No. They will pay out."
Harmoos laughed softly, his belly heaving. "Very good, Nuri. It's not often I make a profit out of doing something for Raza. I shall fax him to say everything is in order." Then his face grew dark. "Ismail concerns me, Nuri. I find his presence disturbing. When he is finished, deal with him quickly."
Nuri nodded and left the study.
In a sparsely furnished flat in West London mostly used by the cabal's foot soldiers when they had business in Britain, Faruk Kadumi continued to hesitate over the fax he was composing to Raza. Once more, he put down his pen on the pad and went over to the window.
Should he report that only two bottles had arrived? But if he did that, it could result in Raza contacting Effendi and discovering that the thief was still alive.
Despite the double-glazing, the noise of traffic below on the Great West Road was loud. It made it difficult to concentrate. Yet he knew he could not delay much longer. There was only fifteen minutes before the prearranged transmission time.
He turned from the window and walked into the kitchen. Since he had equipped it as a makeshift laboratory, the blind on the window had been permanently drawn. Most of the counter space was covered with test tubes and bottles of saline he had purchased from a medical supplier in Soho.
The British Army decontamination suit he had acquired at a store selling military clothing hung on the back of the door. After the Gulf War, they had become a fast-selling souvenir.
In the cupboard over the sink was the shoebox in which he kept the Browning. It had been waiting for him when he'd arrived.
Beside the box was the last remaining bottle of ether. He must buy some more. Sniffing was the only way to steady his nerves in the stressful, hostile environment of a city whose police were everywhere. Each day he spent here, he felt the risk of discovery grew greater.
Kadumi uncorked the bottle and held it under his nose. He breathed in slowly and gently, allowing its fumes to rise into his head. For a moment, he felt dizzy. Then the sensation was replaced by a warm and comforting feeling. Recorking the bottle, he was filled with a new resolve. He knew it would not last long. But for the moment, he felt determined and decisive.
He lifted the lid of the freezer chest in the corner of the kitchen. Both perfume bottles were covered with a crust of ice. He checked the thermometer. Another hour and he could begin. He closed the lid, returned to the table, and started to write.
When he had finished, he read back the words. Satisfied, he took the sheet of paper to the fax machine on the sideboard and started to dial Libya.
When Miriam Cantwell awoke, Matti Talim took her to breakfast at the coffee shop on the corner of the block. Walking back to the apartment, Talim saw that one of the porters was out on the sidewalk and waving urgently at them.
"Muy malo." the Mexican shouted when they reached him, pointing into the lobby.
Talim recognized the crumpled figure lying half out of the elevator. "Nancy Carson. Teaches junior high. Sublets from a widow," he told Miriam as they ran across the lobby.
She glanced at him. "You keep everybody in this block on file?"
He grinned.
The grin disappeared when they reached Nancy. Her face was chalky and bathed in perspiration. The porter continued to explain how Señorita Carson had called down, saying she was ill. He'd been on the way up to see her when she'd collapsed out of the elevator. He'd rushed into the street hoping to see Señor Talim and Señora la doctora...
"Call an ambulance," Miriam ordered the porter.
"Let's make her more comfortable," suggest Talim, pointing to the nearest of several couches furnishing the lobby.
Miriam shook her head. "She may have broken something." She kneeled beside Nancy. "What happened?"
"Sick... need doctor... feel bad..." groaned Nancy.
"I'm a doctor. Jut tell me where it hurts, Nancy," said Miriam.
"Everywhere." Despite the heavy coat she wore over a long winter nightdress, Nancy was shivering.
"Where's it hurt most, Nancy?"
A cough exploded in Nancy's chest, and then another --- deep, rumbling, wet coughs.
Miriam continued her quick and careful look at Nancy while she checked her pulse. It was erratic. The coughing could do that.
"How long have you been feeling like this, Nancy?"
"Yester..." Another deep cough broke loose inside Nancy. "... getting worse..." She struggled to sit up. "... all the time..." She sank back on the floor, exhausted.
Miriam noted the small dark pustules on Nancy's neck and behind her ears. They were also on her legs and arms. Could be bug bites that had ulcerated, or the result of an infected needle. But there were no track marks visible. And Nancy didn't look like someone who would have lice in her mattress.
"Help... help me... please..."
Nancy's plea was interrupted by another deep wet cough. Blood-stained phlegm oozed from her mouth. Talim fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. Miriam took it and carefully wiped away the phlegm.
Nancy's bubbly breathing showed her lungs were filling with liquid. Miriam wondered how far the organism producing it had advanced into the spleen and lymph nodes. Her tan had probably made it much easier to slide under the girl's first line of defense, her skin --- tanning opened the pores.
"Where were you on vacation, Nancy?" Miriam asked gently.
"Greece... came back... yester..." Another welling cough was followed by more purulent matter dribbling from her mouth.
"Were you unwell on vacation?"
Nancy shook her head, too exhausted to talk.
"How long were you in Greece?"
Nancy managed to raise two fingers.
"Days?"
Nancy's head shake ended in another raw cough.
"Two weeks?"
Nancy nodded.
Miriam tried to remember what she'd learned about tropical infections and contagious diseases. Undulant fever was still prevalent in Greece from drinking infected goat milk. Incubation time was five to twenty-one days, but no cough. Typhus had the same incubation time, and this feverish shivering, but no cough. Same with sand fly fever and the even more deadly yellow fever. But none would have produced those ulcers. She had never seen anything quite like them.
"Did something bite you on vacation?"
Nancy tried to shake her head. Another cough filled the lobby with its deep uneasy sound.
"See if you can hurry up that ambulance," Miriam told Talim.
He ran to the porter's desk, while Miriam remained kneeling beside Nancy, holding her hand and wiping her mouth. There was not much else she could do. Amoebic dysentery was a possibility --- so was malaria --- but again, neither presented with a cough or those ulcers. Nor did smallpox, typhoid, nor any of the other fevers she'd read up on, and now only half-remembered, have such indications.
Another deep cough burst from Nancy's mouth. She was trembling uncontrollably when the ambulance crew arrived with a stretcher.
"Madre de Dios!" said the porter, crossing himself as they wheeled Nancy out to the ambulance.
Bill Hardiman heard the sound of small feet running urgently across the hall carpet as he opened the door of the terraced house overlooking the Thames at Putney. A century ago, the row had been workmen's cottages. Now, they were occupied mostly by television executives, and budding tycoons who commuted to the City by river. Hardiman owned the corner house, which gave him a good view of the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race as it swept beneath Putney Bridge.
Opening the door, he was engulfed first by Amy, unashamedly affectionate at seven, then by Dervla, who had reached the stage of appearing grave now that she was eleven.
Dropping his bags, he swept them both off their feet, feeling the hearts pumping beneath their school blouses. He crushed them to him and stepped inside as Fiona emerged from the kitchen. She was impossibly beautiful, like Amy was going to be, and had passed on her own gravity to Dervla.
"Bill! I was getting worried with all that's been happening."
He kissed her on the mouth and quickly explained about the delays at Frankfurt and Luton. Then he kissed her again.
"Daddy!" Amy whispered in a gleeful rush of excitement. "Mummy loves to be kissed."
"Shhh!" said Dervla. "Miss Fortescue says it's wrong to embarrass people!" Miss Fortescue was the headmistress at the private school both girls attended.
Their father looked down at them and smiled ruefully. "They took away your presents."
"Oh, Daddy, no," they chorused in disappointment. "What were they?" added Amy before her older sister.
He told them about the perfume he'd won --- and the chance they could all be flown back to Athens for the launch.
Amy began to cheer and even Dervla began to lose her serious look. There mother shook her head in wonder.
Hardiman turned, opened his briefcase, and produced the remaining bottle of Grecian Nights.
"Oh, Daddy!" cried Amy. "It's a lovely bottle!"
"It's Mummy's, Amy," he said, handing his wife the bottle.
"Let's all try some," suggested Amy.
Dervla shook her head. "Miss Fortescue says we mustn't wear perfume to school."
Her younger sister looked disappointed.
Fiona looked at them both. "Listen, if I don't get you to school, Miss Fortescue will have something else to say!"
She turned to her husband. "Go and have a nice long shower, and I'll bring you breakfast in bed when I get back. Leave your case, I'll unpack it."
Hardiman kissed the women in his family once more and climbed the stairs.
Amy was looking at the bottle. "Please, Mummy, can I have just a little drop? Miss Fortescue will never smell that."
Fiona smiled at Dervla. "I think that's true."
Her elder daughter nodded.
Fiona broke the seal on the bottle. Then, using the stopper, she dabbed a little perfume on each of her daughter's cheeks, and then behind her own ears. The perfume was pleasantly musky. She replaced the stopper.
"Okay, get your bags and we're off," Fiona told her daughters.
The children went into the kitchen and collected their satchels. From upstairs came the sound of the shower running.
Fiona was about to put the bottle down on a shelf above the hall radiator when Dervla stopped her. "Mummy, what have you got for our sale?"
"We're collecting to buy water for the Sudan," Amy reminded her mother.
"Not water," corrected Dervla. "A machine to make it clean."
"We still must bring something," said Amy. "Miss Fortescue said so."
"Oh, God, I clean forgot!" said Fiona. "I thought it was next week. We'll buy something on the way."
Dervla shook her head. "There won't be time, and the shops won't be open."
"Miss Fortescue will be very cross, Mummy," whispered Amy, suddenly close to tears.
Fiona glanced at the bottle. She didn't really want to give it away so soon, but the girls were looking so desperate. "How about this?"
"But it's Daddy's present to you," objected Amy.
"And it's been opened," added Dervla.
"I'm sure Daddy won't mind, Amy," said Fiona, as she carefully smoothed down the seal. Her husband would understand, as it was for the girls. She held up the bottle for inspection --- "There, it looks untouched" --- and handed it to Dervla.
Three miles away in the flat's kitchen, Faruk Kadumi prepared to complete his work. He struggled into his protective suit, checking in the reflection of the oven's glass door that the hood completely overlapped his shoulders. Breathing slowly through the respirator, he shuffled over to the freezer chest and lifted the lid.
Rows of securely corked test tubes filled several shelves. On the floor of the chest was the partly filled bottle, and the one he had already emptied.
With difficulty, he leaned down into the chest and removed the almost empty bottle. He placed it on the worktop and closed the freezer lid.
He then ran the bottle under warm water until the contents became mushy. He took a syringe and drew off a small amount of semi-frozen Anthrax-B-C. He injected this into a test tube. Next, he carefully funneled saline into the tube, corked the tube, and then sealed it with clear wax.
In an hour, he had filled the remaining test tubes and placed them in the freezer chest; he placed the second empty bottle beside the first.
He was halfway through removing his suit when the doorbell rang. Kadumi froze.
Effendi's men were not due to collect the tubes until this evening --- after he had called Effendi to confirm the number of vials. Then he would fly first to Paris, and then on to Algiers. He would be well clear of here before the collectors arrived. All he knew about them was that each one had a duplicate key to the flat.
The ringing was longer and more insistent.
As Kadumi began moving quietly as possible toward the hallway, the letterbox was pushed open and a voice called out. "This is the police. Is there anyone at home?"
Kadumi clenched his teeth and held his breath. He felt the pressure building in his head, making his temples throb. Why were they here? What did they want?
After a moment, the flap closed. Kadumi released his breath and the roar in his head faded. He could do nothing to stop his trembling.
Outside the door, voices were complaining to each other. "Nobody's at home at this hour. Stands to reason, don't it? It' a working-class area."
"It's all a waste of time, if you ask me. I mean, what are they going to do with all those serial numbers?"
Kadumi heard a grunt of agreement. Then the flap opened again. A leaflet fell on the floor. The letterbox banged shut. Moments later came the sound of knocking from across the corridor.
Waiting until he heard a woman's voice inviting in the policemen, Kadumi went to the hall and picked up the leaflet. It was headed Police Notice. Beneath was the announcement that Scotland Yard was conducting a house-to-house search to obtain the serial number of all fax machines and that the officers conducting the search were empowered to impound any machine. In each case a proper receipt would be provided. No explanation was given for the search. The leaflet ended by stating that the police, having failed to contact the householder, would return later. No date or time was given for that visit.
Kadumi's trembling increased. Somehow, they knew about the message he had sent. Now, they were looking for him. He must not use the phone or the fax again. He would make his call to Effendi from a pay phone at the airport.
Further down the corridor, he could hear the policemen knocking. He dared not leave the flat until they had left the block. But that could take hours. He began to tremble even more.