I maneuvered the conversation to Sherima’s househunting agenda for the day, graciously offering my services as a guide — with Her Highness’ permission, of course. Just as graciously she accepted the services of a helpful fellow American. Candy’s foot was rubbing against mine, slowly and sensuously. When I glanced at her, she gave me an innocent smile, then turned to offer Sherima more coffee, her foot never stopping for an instant.
I was finding it hard to concentrate on Maryland real estate.
The husky bodyguard had the limousine door open the instant he saw Sherima and Candy appear in the hotel entryway. Then he suddenly noticed me trailing close behind and his right hand let go of the door and automatically darted toward his belt. Sherima’s words stopped him before he could draw the gun that I knew must be concealed there. She, too, obviously had realized what his sudden action meant.
“It’s all right, Abdul.” she said quietly, adding as she turned to me, “Mr. Carter is with us.” I stepped up beside her and Candy and she continued, “Nick — Mr. Carter — I want you to meet Abdul Bedawi, who looks after Candy and me. Abdul, Mr. Carter will be coming along with us today. He’s a friend and he knows the area where we’ll be going.”
I couldn’t decide if the expression that flooded Abdul’s face came from suspicion, recognition of my name, or plain dislike. But in an instant, he covered it with a broad smile, although his eyes continued to appraise me from head to toe as he bowed. Even as he spoke to Sherima he was watching me intently. “As you wish, my lady.”
I stuck out my right hand and said, “Howdy, Abdul. Nice to meet you. I’ll try not to get us lost.”
“I, too, shall endeavor to keep us from going astray,” he replied.
There was a moment’s hesitation on his part before he finally took my hand. For another brief instant, we tested each other’s strength, both without being obvious about it. His grip was a crusher and he seemed surprised that I didn’t attempt to pull away from it. No one watching would have suspected our little combat, however, from the smiles on our faces or from his cordiality as he finally let go, bowed and said, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carter.” His English was formal, precise, and typical of those Arabs who have been raised in nations where the British and Americans have had a strong influence.
Bedawi held the door until we were settled in the back seat of the car, then went around and took his place behind the wheel. I noticed the first thing he did was to lower the window that separated the rear compartment from the chauffeur’s seat, something that normally would have been done by the passengers when ready to speak to the driver. He wasn’t taking any chances on missing a word that was said.
As we started off, Sherima, looking around the car, said, “A different car today, Abdul?”
Contempt was evident in his voice as he replied, “Yes, my lady. I don’t know what is going on at the embassy. They can’t seem to get it straight that we are to have our own car. I spent two hours after we returned last night checking out the other car to make certain that we wouldn’t have trouble today again. Then, when I got to the embassy this morning, they had this car ready for us. The other one was gone.”
It crossed my mind that perhaps Hawk was playing games with the car again, but I was reasonably sure he would have mentioned it to me. Was there somebody in the embassy involved in the Sword’s plotting, I wondered, as I directed Bedawi through Georgetown onto M Street and toward Canal Road. It was difficult to play navigator and tourist guide at the same time, but I managed to point out some of the interesting shops and fine restaurants in that charming old sector of the capital as we passed.
“This is Canal Road, Abdul,” I said as we swung off M Street and headed along the scenic highway. “We stay on this road for some time now. It eventually becomes the George Washington Parkway, and that takes us just where we want to go.”
“Yes, Mr. Carter,” the chauffeur replied coldly. “I spent some time this morning studying the maps.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked.
“I need very little sleep, sir.”
Sherima interrupted, sensing, I felt, the tension that was growing between us. “Why do they call it Canal Road?”
“Well, you see that big ditch out there filled with water,” I said, pointing out the window. As they nodded automatically, I went on, “That’s what remains of the old C and O — the Chesapeake and Ohio — barge canal. Barges loaded with goods and passengers used to be towed along by mules. You can still see the towpath. It’s that bare strip on the grass beside the canal.
“As I recall someone telling me, the canal used to run the whole way up to Cumberland, Maryland, which must be almost two hundred miles. At this end, it was connected by some sort of viaduct over the Potomac to Alexandria. For a hundred years, the barges ran along the canal, then it was closed just about the time World War I ended.”
“What do they do with it now?” Candy asked.
“It’s been preserved by the National Park Service,” I explained, “and people just use it for hiking or bike riding along the towpath. I don’t know whether they still do it or not, but when I was down here a few years back, there was a barge that still ran on the canal for sightseeing. It wasn’t one of the original ones, of course, just a replica. They tell me it was a real fun trip, complete with a mule to pull the barge. It must have made a great day’s outing.”
As the women looked out the window, exclaiming again and again over the beauty of the scenery along the canal route, I was keeping an eye on the way Bedawi was handling the big car. He was an excellent driver, despite being on unfamiliar roads, alert to every passing sign or turn-off. At one point, he caught sight of me watching him in the rear-view mirror and a tight smile crossed his face.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Carter,” he said stiffly, “I shall get us there safely.”
“We’ll be coming into the George Washington Parkway soon,” I said, as if to explain my attention to him and the road. “We keep right on going on it until it becomes MacArthur Boulevard. Then we can swing off it at just about any point and head into the horse country up around Potomac, Maryland.”
“My lady,” he said quickly, “wasn’t there someplace you wanted to go for sightseeing up that route?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Great Falls. It’s supposed to be beautiful there. Is it out of our way, Nick?”
“Not at all. MacArthur Boulevard leads right to it. And it’s really something to see.”
In a few minutes the car was swinging smoothly into the parking lot of the Great Falls recreational area. There were surprisingly few cars. I suddenly realized it was a weekday and most of Washington was at work.
Sherima, Candy and I headed for the Falls. Bedawi stayed behind. When I turned to see what he was up to, he was leaning over the open hood, apparently tinkering with the motor.
As we started for the walkway over what once had been a canal lock, three men who had been standing near the Park Service office in an area that was formerly the site of a canal rest-stop and inn, began heading that way, too. From the almost compulsive way they had been taking pictures of each other in front of a nearby sign, and from the collection of cameras that hung around the neck of each of them, I had suspected they were Japanese. I saw I was right as we got closer and they crossed to the other side of the canal.
“Come on,” one of them called to his companions, looking at his watch. “We must hurry if we are to take pictures of the Falls and still get to the city in time to photograph the Capitol and the Washington Monument.”
I smiled to myself, thinking how typical was their drive to record everything they saw on film. Then it suddenly struck me that what was unusual about the scene was that the apparent leader of the trio had spoken in English rather than Japanese. As I watched them hasten along the canal bank and head into the budding trees and shrubbery, a little warning bell rang at the back of my mind. While Sherima and Candy crossed the walkway over the canal, I stopped and looked back toward the spot where Bedawi was still tinkering under the upraised hood. I realized that ours was the sole car in the big lot, with the exception of a Datsun parked at the far end. Apparently, the group of tourists who had returned from the Falls as we arrived had departed in the other cars. Obviously, too, Sherima’s bodyguard thought we had gone into the Park “Service building, otherwise he would have been coming after us.