"Here," she said. "Now you must push upward. Move the grating."
I reached up and felt a rusty iron grate. Bracing my knees under me, I heaved upward with my back. It groaned, then moved up, inch by painful inch. When the opening was large enough, I motioned for the girl to squeeze through. I climbed after her. The grating dropped back into place with a muffled clang. I glanced about me: A large shed, dimly lit from the moonlight outside, shadows of machinery.
"Where are we?"
"Several blocks away from the club," said the girl. She was panting heavily. "An unused machinery shed for the port. We are safe here. Please, let me rest a moment."
I could have used a breather myself. But I had more pressing things on my mind.
"Okay," I said. "You rest. And while you rest, suppose you answer a couple of questions. One, why are you so certain those gunmen weren't friends of the owner? And two, why were you so hot to get away from that place before the police arrived?"
She continued struggling to catch her breath for a moment. I waited.
"The answer to your first question," she said finally, her voice still broken, "is that the gunmen killed Remy St. Pierre. St. Pierre was a friend of the owners, and therefore the gunmen could not also be friends of the owners."
I grabbed her by the shoulder.
"What do you know about Remy St. Pierre?"
"Please!" she cried, twisting about. "You're hurting me!"
"Answer me! What do you know about Remy St. Pierre?"
"I… Mr. Carter, I thought you knew."
"Knew?" I loosened my grip on her shoulder. "Knew what?"
"I… I am Michelle Duroche."
Two
I stared at her, still holding her shoulder. She was watching me intently.
"St. Pierre did not tell you, then?"
"St. Pierre didn't have time to tell me," I said. "His head was blown off just when the story was getting interesting."
She shuddered and turned away.
"I saw," she whispered. "It happened inches from my face. It was horrible. I will have nightmares about it for the rest of my life. And he had been so kind, so comforting. After my father disappeared…"
"If it was your father," I said. "If you are Michelle Duroche."
"Oh, I understand," she said quickly. "It is difficult for you to conceive of the daughter of Fernand Duroche, the eminent scientist, performing the dance-du-ventre in a Moroccan hashish club. But…"
"No. Not at all," I said. "In fact, it's just the kind of thing Remy St. Pierre would have arranged. What better place to hide you? But that still doesn't prove to me that you're Michelle Duroche."
"And what proves to me that you are Nick Carter, the man St. Pierre described to me as the most brilliant and deadly spy on four continents?" she asked, her voice growing sharper.
I eyed her speculatively.
"I might be able to prove it," I said. "What kind of proof do you want?"
"Très bien," she said. "You wish to learn if I know of your means of identification. Very well. Show me the inner side of your right elbow."
I pushed back the sleeves of my jacket and shirt. She leaned forward to read the AXE identification tattooed on my inner elbow, then lifted her head and nodded.
"I also know your code name: N3; and your title: Killmaster," she said. "St. Pierre also explained to me, Mr. Carter, that this AXE which you work for is the most highly secret agency in the United States government intelligence system, and that the jobs it takes on are too tough and too dirty for even the CIA."
"Beautiful," I said, rolling down my sleeves. "You know all about me. And what I know about you…"
"I am not only the daughter of Fernand Duroche," she said quickly, "but also librarian for project RENARD. I have the Class 2 security clearance which such a job demands. If you place a call to the RENARD headquarters they will give you a means of firmly identifying me: Three personal questions to which only I, and RENARD, know the answers."
"What about your mother?" T asked. "Wouldn't she know the answers to some of those questions too?"
"No doubt," said the girl coolly. "If, as you undoubtedly know, she had not been dead for the last sixteen years."
I grinned slightly.
"You are a very suspicious man, Mr. Carter," she said. "But even you must realize that, short of decorating myself with tattoos, which doesn't appeal to me at all, I had few places to conceal identity cards in the costume which I…"
She gasped suddenly and flung both arms over her naked breasts.
"Mon Dieu! I had completely forgotten…"
I grinned again.
"I hadn't," I said. I pulled off my jacket and handed it to her. "We have to get out of here, and you're going to attract enough attention in the street as it is. I wouldn't want to start a riot."
Even in the dim moonlight that filtered through the dirty windows, I could see her blush as she twisted into the jacket.
"But where can we go?" she asked. "I was sleeping in a small room on the floor above the club, which Remy had arranged for me with his friends, the owners. He was afraid…"
"…that if your father was kidnapped, and he didn't cooperate with his kidnappers, you might be next on the list. A hostage for your father's cooperation." I finished for her.
She nodded. "Exactly. But we cannot return to the club now. There will be police, and the gunman who escaped might come again."
I put my hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the door.
"We aren't going anywhere near the club," I assured her. "I have a friend. His name is Akhmed and he owns a bar. I've done him a few favors." Like saving him from a life-term in a French jail, I could have added, but didn't. "Now he's going to do me a few."
"Then you do believe that I am Michelle Duroche?" she asked. Her voice was pleading.
"If you're not," I said, looking down at the view between the lapels of my jacket, which was highly improved on its present wearer, "you're an interesting substitute."
She smiled, looking up at me as I opened the door and we went through.
"I feel better," she said. "I was afraid…"
She gasped again. It was more of a muffled shriek.
"Your face… your face…"
My mouth tightened. In the full glare of moonlight, I could imagine what my face, hands, and shirt must look like, splattered and smeared with Remy St. Pierre's blood. I pulled a clean handkerchief from a pants pocket, dampened it with rum from my flask, and did the best I could to clean up. When I'd finished I could tell from the look of controlled horror on her face that I still resembled something out of a nightmare.
"Come on," I said, taking her arm. "We both need a hot shower, but that'll have to wait. In a few hours there'll be an army of cops around here."
I guided her away from the port area, away from the vicinity of the club. It took me a few blocks before I knew exactly where I was. Then I found the Rue Zhirana, and turned right, into a long, twisting alley which led toward Akhmed's bar. It smelled like any other Tangier alley, of urine, damp clay, and half-rotten vegetables. The decaying clay houses pressing in on either side of us were dark and silent. It was late. Only a few people passed us, but those who did took one quick look and averted their heads, scurrying away quietly. We must have made a disturbing picture: A beautiful and voluptuous long-haired girl dressed only in translucent harem pants and a man's jacket, accompanied by a grim-faced man whose skin was streaked by human blood. Passersby avoided us instinctively: We had the smell of bad trouble on us.
So did Akhmed's bar.
The Marrakesh Lounge was the most posh, expensive, glamorous bar in the medina. It catered to the rich, sophisticated Moroccan businessman, and to the knowledgeable tourist who wanted neither a hashish dive nor a phonied-up tourist trap. Akhmed had saved his money for a long time to buy it, and now he ran it very carefully. He paid his protection money to the police, of course, just as he paid it to certain other powerful elements on the other side of the law. But he also kept out of trouble with the law by making sure that the bar didn't become a hangout for dope dealers, junkies, smugglers, and criminals. Part of ensuring his position consisted of his set-up: The bar was on the far side of a courtyard. The courtyard had a high wall topped with broken glass set into the concrete and a heavy wooden door. Beside the door was a buzzer and an intercom. Customers buzzed, gave their names, and were admitted only if Akhmed knew them, or the person who had referred them. Once in the courtyard, they were subjected to a further perusal by Akhmed's keen eyes. If unwelcome, they found themselves on the street in record time. When the bar closed, toward morning, both the courtyard door and the bar door itself were double-locked.