The girl stopped. "They also were able to find St. Pierre and kill him," she said slowly. "Kill him at a time when they might have been able to kill the two of us also."
I nodded. "Inside information from a lot of sources in the French government. What, and who, does that suggest?"
Our gazes met.
"OAS," she said simply.
"Right. The Secret Army Organization that had led a revolt against President De Gaulle and tried several times to assassinate him. Remy and I worked against them together. Akhmed had a son working as bodyguard for De Gaulle, a son who was killed in one of the assassination attempts. We foiled those attempts, but we didn't destroy the OAS. We've always known that. It's very much alive…"
"And still has highly placed sympathizers," she finished forme.
"Right again."
"But what would they want with my father?"
"That," I said, "is one of the things we're going to find out."
I climbed the rest of the stairs, went through the bar, and opened the door to Akhmed's living quarters in the rear.
"But — how?" said the girl, in back of me. "What information do we have? Did your friend tell you anything before he died?"
I stopped in front of a bedroom.
"He told me several things. I'm not going to tell you any of them. Not for now, anyway."
"What? But why?" Her tone grew indignant. "It's my father who has been kidnapped, isn't it? I should certainly think…"
"I've seen no real proof that you are Duroche's daughter." I threw open the door to the bedroom. "I'm sure that you need a shower and a change of clothes just as much as I do. Akhmed has a daughter, going to school in Paris. You should find some of her clothes in the closet. They might even fit. Not that I don't like what you're wearing."
She flushed.
"The water should be hot," I said. "Akhmed has the only modern plumbing in the medina. So have fun. I'll be back in a few minutes."
She went inside and closed the door without a word. I'd hit her where she lived — her feminine vanity. I went back into the bar and picked up the telephone. Five minutes later, I'd made three calls: One to France, one to an airline, and one to Hawk. When I got back to the bedroom, the bathroom door was still closed and I could hear the shower running. I grabbed one of Akhmed's robes and, kicking off my shoes and socks, padded down the hall to the other bathroom. The hot sting of the shower almost made me feel human again. When I got back to the bedroom this time, the bathroom door was open. The girl had found one of Akhmed's daughter's robes and was wearing it. There wasn't much to wear, and what there was merely emphasized what wasn't covered. What wasn't covered was nice.
"Nick," she said, "what do we do now? Shouldn't we get out of here before someone comes and finds those bodies?"
She was sitting on the bed, combing out her long, thick black hair. I sat down beside her.
"Not yet," I said. "I'm waiting for something."
"How long will we have to wait?"
"Not long."
She shot a sidelong glance at me. "I hate waiting," she said. "Perhaps we can find a way to make the time go more quickly," she said. There was a peculiar tone in her voice, a husky, languorous tone. A tone of pure sensuality. I could smell the freshness of her white, soft flesh.
"How would you like to pass the time?" I asked.
She raised her arms above her head, pushing forward the voluptuous outlines of her breasts.
She said nothing, but looked at me from under her lowered eyelids. Then, in one fluid movement, she brushed aside her robe and slowly ran her palm down the velvety skin of her inner thigh, down to her knee. She dropped her eyes to follow her hand as she repeated the movement. "Nick Carter," she said softly. "Surely a man such as you allows himself some pleasures in life."
"Such as?" I asked. I ran one finger down the back of her neck. She shivered.
"Such as…" her voice was husky now, her eyes closing as she leaned heavily against me, turning her face toward mine. "Such as this…"
Slowly, with excruciating sensuality, her sharp nails lightly scratched upward along the skin of my legs. Her mouth darted forward and her white teeth nipped at my lips. Then her tongue curled outward, toward mine. Her breath was hot, fast. I pressed her backwards onto the bed, and the heavy, full curves of her body molded to mine as she writhed underneath me. Impatiently, she pushed off her robe as I slid from mine, and our bodies came together.
"Oh Nick!" she gasped. "My God! Nick!"
Secret female places of her body opened to me. I tasted her flesh, rode on her crest. She was moist all over. Her mouth was as hot as her flesh. She was burning, everywhere — merging with me. We came together like a whirlwind, her body arching and tossing in rhythm to mine. If her dancing had been torrid, her lovemaking was enough to burn down most of Tangier. I didn't mind being burned this way. And minutes after the fire had died down, it sprang up again. And again. She was a total woman, and totally abandoned. Screaming with desire then fulfillment.
It was, all things considered, one hell of a nice way to wait for a telephone call.
The call came with dawn. I disentangled myself from eager, still-demanding limbs and walked along the cold stone floor into the bar. The conversation took less than two minutes. Then I went back into the bedroom. She watched me come in with drowsy, but still hungry eyes. She held out her arms to me, her luscious body inviting me to continue the feast.
"No," I said. "Playtime is over. I have three questions for you to answer. Answer them correctly, and I'll know you're Michelle Duroche."
She blinked, then sat up straight.
"Ask," she said, her tone suddenly all business.
"One: What was the color of your first childhood pet?"
"Brown." she said promptly. "It was a hamster."
"Two: What gift did your father give you on your fifteenth birthday?"
"None. He forgot. The next day, he brought me a motorbike to make up for it."
I nodded.
"Correct so far. One more. What was the nickname of your best friend at boarding school when you were twelve?"
"Tee," she said immediately. "Because she was English, and always wanted tea in the afternoon."
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Well?" she said. "Do you believe me now?"
"According to RENARD, that establishes you as Michelle Duroche beyond any reasonable doubt. And what's good enough for RENARD is good enough for me."
She smiled, then yawned and stretched her arms above her head.
"Time to get dressed," I said. "You and I are going to take a little plane ride. A man named David Hawk wants to talk to you. And to me."
Her eyes became businesslike again. She nodded silently and slipped out of bed. She began looking through the clothes in the closet. I swallowed hard, watching her voluptuous nude body. There are times when being a businesslike secret agent isn't easy.
"One more question," I said.
She turned. I swallowed again.
"How," I asked, "did the daughter of Fernand Duroche learn to do the most erotic belly-dance I've ever seen in my life? Lessons?"
She smiled. Her voice dropped four octaves.
"Oh no," she said. "Just talent. Natural talent."
I had to agree.
Four
Air Maroc has a fast, comfortable, convenient morning flight from Tangier that arrives in Madrid just in time for a leisurely lunch, before connecting with an equally fast, comfortable and convenient afternoon flight to New York via Iberia.
Fine for tourists. Wonderful for businessmen. Superb for diplomats.
Bad for secret agents.