Judas Country

*

'You see?' Mitzi said bitterly. 'He must have the sword already.'

'No, no, no. That document itself is worthless until you have found the sword. Butthen – it ensures that I share in the profit. That must be fair, no?'

It sounded like it – assuming you believed the man, of course. I looked at Ken to see how he was taking it, and he was frowning uncertainly. – Then he said: 'But that cuts out Mitzi completely if you find the sword yourself.'

'I am hardly likely to, am I?' Aziz spread his neat pudgy hands. 'But I will also promise that she shares in the profit in any case. Half and half.'

We all looked at Mitzi, still sitting rigidly upright. She said:'Scheisse.'

Azizstiffened where it hit him, then sighed and picked up the desk phone and said a few words.

Ken looked at me and I stayed slumped in the low chair. I had a good idea of what was coming and no idea at all of what to do about it.

It came in about twenty seconds. The heavy door jerked open and a man the shape and size of a concrete gatepost walked slowly in. He had dark emotionless eyes in a square jowly face, sleeked-back dark hair and a greasy grey suit that bulged where it touched him, which was most places.

'This is Pietro,' Aziz said, almost apologetically. Then he told Pietro something in Arabic and Pietro took out a fat stubby revolver and just held it, not pointing anywhere special.

Still with a hint of apology, Aziz said:'Pietro is going to search you.'

Pietrodid. First Ken, then I stood up for it. He did it efficiently, knowing what he was looking for. He passed all my papers to Aziz, now behind his desk, who just glanced through the documents about the Queen Air and its cargo and then stacked them neatly.

Our shoes, too. I was careful not to catch Ken's eye, partly because I didn't want to see what he was feeling, but mostly because I hadn't any bright ideas to pass on and I didn't want him to think I had.

Then Pietro turned to Mitzi.

She stood up with the slow, quivering stiffness of any angry kitten. 'If you make that… that creature touch me, I will scream until-'

I said: 'Look, love, women have screamed before in this house and it hasn't done any good. Just relax;'

'Please, Mr… er, Case,' this time Aziz looked really hurt. 'This is just a matter of business.'

So Pietro searched her, just as efficiently, running his fingers down here, squeezing there, feeling for the crackle of paper. It was about as sexless as being kissed by an alligator, but I don't suppose she enjoyed it any more.

When Pietro stood back, Aziz – who'd been searching her handbag – sighed again and said: 'I expected nothing, but… one has to be sure. Now please, everybody sit down.'

So we sat while he dialled an outside number on the phone, then started giving what sounded like orders. I thought I heard the name 'St. George'.

Mitzi sat and steamed like a leaky pressure cooker, Ken was slumped almost horizontal, chin on chest but staring out from under his dark eyebrows at Pietro's gun. It had a thick short barrel, a long ramp foresight and the generally oversized look of a magnum calibre.

Ken muttered. '.357 Combat Smith.'

I nodded; he was probably right. The end of the butt sticking out of Pietro's fist had the typical Smith amp; Wesson shape, otherwise it could just as well have been a Colt to me. A pretty daft gun, mind you. In a two-and-something-inch barrel a bullet just doesn't have the time to work up the m.p Ji. that a magnum cartridge can give, and you can hire somebody to whack your hand with a crowbar much cheaper than.357 ammunition costs.

For all that, Pietro looked as if you could mount a siege gun on him and he'd absorb the recoil.

Aziz finished his phoning, stood up and smiled tentatively at us. 'Now I really must join my other guests. I hope it will not be long before I have good news and you can go, but meanwhile…' he shrugged delicately and gave Pietro more orders. 'I have told him that you may help yourself to more drinks -but only one person to stand up at a time. You understand the problem, I am sure.'

He smiled once more, went out – and locked the door behind him. The click of the big key made me wince – and then I realised what it must do to Ken.

His face was pale, the muscles at his mouth and jawline bunched in white knots and his hands squeezing the sharp chair-arms.

I had to say something. 'Nice comfortable place we've got here,' I gabbled. 'All we want to drink, for free, feminine company, plenty to read, we'll be out of here in half an hour and I've spent longer waiting to be served in some bars.'

He took a deep breath and relaxed a fraction.

Mitzi said: 'But how can he do these things? We should go to the police straight away.'

I shook my head. 'This is the Middle East, love, and he's an important man. We're small-scale; we've got no family behind us.'

"They cannot have gangsters likehim' and she flicked her hand at Pietro.

'A bodyguard. Everybody who's anybody has them. Aziz must have three or four; they're as much status symbols as chandeliers. This is a gun-toting area. Your father knew that.'

'But they searched me – and locked us up! '

Ken stiffened again. I said quickly: "They'd say they searched us for guns, of course. It may not be an offence anyway. As for shutting us up – so prove it. Like another drink yet?'

She shook her head and relapsed into broodiness. When we were all quiet, Pietro walked across and sat down behind the big desk and laid the pistol in front of himself, within easy grab.

I said: 'Is your name Aziz or do you just work here?'

It took him a moment to realise I was speaking to him. Then he just grunted. I'd been pretty certain he didn't speak English, but wanted to be sure as I could.

I stood up carefully; Pietro put his hand on the gun – not nervously, just as a gesture. I waved my empty glass and looked thirsty and he nodded at the cupboard, and I went over and found myself a Scotch and a vacuum flask of chilled water.

That put me about ten feet from the desk, and the size of the desk itself made it another five feet to Pietro so I wasn't going to try throwing a drink in his face.

I just said conversationally to Ken: 'Nice big desk that. You could play table tennis across it.'

He looked up and there was a tiny light in his eyes. I went back and sat down and sipped. And studied the situation.

The desk was planted diagonally across a corner and well out from it. Ken was sitting a bit in front but almost in line with its length; nearly in line at the other end was the drinks cupboard and floor-to-ceiling shelves of expensive-looking books.

I left it for ten minutes and the room grew quiet and cool, almost cold, around us. Ken had his eyes shut and looked as if he was dozing.

Then I stood up, and Pietro put his hand back on the gun. I said: 'Can I get a book to read? Book -livre -libro-' I pointed at the shelves. 'What's the Arabic for "book"?'

'Koran?' Mitzi suggested uselessly.

'For God's sake.' I walked over and patted a row of books. 'May I?'

Pietrofrowned slightly, as if he was thinking, then nodded heavily. I smiled graciously and began reading titles. It seemed to be solid history of the Middle East, and I do mean solid. A lot was in English, the rest in French or German, but I was picking for size rather than language. I took one or two down, pretended to glance at them, then chose a nice leather-bound volume a bit smaller than the average encyclopaedia format. I think it was about Schliemann at Mycenae; anyway, it was in German. I opened it up and turned around.