“I’m no good at writing that kind of letter,” he told her, lamely. “I can say what I want to say, but I can’t write it!”
“You can’t!” she agreed; but the grey eyes were dancing with mischief. “Maybe it’s just as well. You might be prosecuted for libel! But tell me all about what you’re doing, Brian. Is Sir Denis all you expected him to be? Does he match up to your memories of him?”
“Well——” He frowned thoughtfully “He looks older. That’s to be expected, I guess. And of course he’s been through hell since I saw him in Washington. I have a hunch he’s lost some of his pep. But I’ll tell you he can still get things done. He’s great alright.”
A waiter came to serve the first course, and when he had gone:
“What did you do in Cairo?” Lola wanted to know. “Any perilous adventures? I mean—male or female?”
“Nothing much.” Brian spoke hastily. “Except that I was tailed everywhere I went.”
“Tailed? By whom? What for?”
“Because they knew I was with Nayland Smith, I suppose.”
Lola buttered a roll. “Who are they, Brian? I don’t understand.”
“Well . . . from all I can make out, Lola, it’s a Communist plot Sir Denis is up against.”
“How exciting! What’s the plot?”
“Even if I knew—and I don’t—I couldn’t tell you, Lola.”
“It must be something to do with this country, Brian. Is Sir Denis with you?”
“Sure. He’s right here, in the Babylon-Lido.”
“But Brian, dear, you must know what for. Is he looking for somebody?”
Brian realized that he was on perilously thin ice. Secret agents were expected to keep their secrets from everybody.
“Let me make one thing plain, Lola. I’m not in on the master plan. I get my orders from the chief and ask no questions. All I know is that it’s something very big. . . .”
During the rest of dinner they talked about London and the happy days they had spent there. Every minute Brian knew more and more how much Lola meant to him. She was in a category widely different from that of the alluring Arab girl, Zoe. He had always known it, but tonight his last doubt left him. . . . He was sincerely in love with Lola.
A page appeared at his elbow. “Mr. Brian Merrick?”
“Yes.”
“Wanted on the phone.”
He excused himself and went to a box at the end of the grill-room. Even before he heard the voice he knew that this delightful interlude with Lola had come to an end.
“Thought I’d find you there, Merrick,” Sir Denis snapped. “Don’t bolt your dinner, but come up when you finish.”
Lola knew before he spoke. “Wanted by the chief?”
She smiled—that slightly one-sided smile which made him want to kiss her, because it was part invitation and part mockery.
“You’ve guessed it, dear. But he was good enough to tell me not to hurry.”
“In the case of Madame Baudin—that’s Mrs. Michel—this would mean twenty minutes. But never mind. There’s all my packing to do, and we have lots of time ahead. . . .”
* * *
Brian found Nayland Smith pacing up and down their large living-room. The air was foggy with tobacco smoke. He turned as Brian came in; spoke without taking his pipe out of his mouth.
“News for you, Merrick. Your father’s coming tomorrow.” “That’s fine! I mailed a letter to him only this afternoon.” “The Senator is bringing some brass-hat from the Air Service. But they’ll both be disappointed if they expect to see Dr. Hessian. He declines to receive any visitors until his model is ready for a demonstration.”
“Why is the Air Service interested?” Brian wanted to know. “Because Hessian claims that his invention will put ‘em out of business!”
“What! That doesn’t make sense, Sir Denis.” “Think not?” Nayland Smith shot a quick glance at him. “You’re going to be surprised.” “What is it? A guided missile?”
“No. Something to make guided missiles a waste of time. I’m not a physicist, Merrick, so I can’t explain the thing. But it means immunity from every from of air attack—including H bombs!”
“Good Lord! But can he really do it?” Nayland Smith stared at Brian with a grim smile. “Why do you suppose I risked my neck to get him here?” It was a sound argument in its way; and, “I begin to see,” Brian admitted, “some reason for all the precaution.” “Particularly now that Dr. Fu Manchu has traced him!” “I still don’t understand where Dr. Fu Manchu comes in.” “Then I’ll explain. I was retained by the United States government to get Hessian out of the hands of the Communists, to enable him to use his phenomenal brain for the side he belongs to. Dr. Fu Manchu has been retained by the Communists to see that he doesn’t do it!”
Brian was reduced to stupefied silence for a moment. He remembered saying to Lola, “All I know is that it’s something very big.” How big he hadn’t dreamed! Nayland Smith went on pacing about like a caged animal.
“Can you tell me one thing more, Sir Denis?” Brian ventured. “If you’re sure that agents of Dr. Fu Manchu are actually in New York, why don’t you have them arrested?”
Sir Denis turned, fixed him with a penetrating stare.
“Have you any idea, Merrick, how long I tried to trap Fu Manchu himself during the time I knew, as all Scotland Yard knew, that he was in London? Six years! And he’s still free! As for his unidentified agents, New York is an even tougher problem than London.” He knocked ashes from his pipe into a tray. “Dr. Fu Manchu is president of an organization known as the Si-Fan. It has members throughout the East, Near and Far. It has agents in every city in Europe and every city in the United States. Its power is second only to that of Communism if not equal.”
He began to stuff some sort of coarse-cut mixture into the hot bowl of his pipe. Brian said nothing.
“Its greatest strength, Merrick, is in its secrecy. Few people have even heard of the Si-Fan. As a result, there’s never been any concerted action against it. If they can’t have Hessian’s invention themselves, the Reds don’t intend to let anyone else have it. Heaven knows what they’ll try. But it’s our job to guard Hessian until he passes his plans over to the United States. ...”
Chapter
10
In Egypt, not long afterwards, on a night when there was no moon in Cairo, something happened designed to have an important bearing upon affairs in New York.
A small, lean man, very dark-skinned, was discarding his cloak upon the doorstep of the house in which Brian had once taken shelter from the student rioters. When he stepped out on to the narrow street he wore only a black loin-cloth and a small, tightly-wound black turban.
The quarter had sunk into silence. Except for the distant sound of a pipe and the barely audible thud of a drum, nothing disturbed its stillness. The little man glanced once to right and left, then crossed the narrow street to the gate of the courtyard opposite. He peered through the bars. He could see the house opposite. He peered through the bars. He could see the house of the Sherif Mohammed, its projecting windows outlined against starlight. The windows were dark. Nothing stirred.
He clasped the metal bars, bare toes and fingers, and with the agility of a monkey climbed to the top. He dropped lightly on the other side, moved across the courtyard and surveyed the front of the building. Hesitating for a moment, he ran to the end and looking up, saw what he wanted.
A sturdy bougainvillaea covered the south wall. On the floor above were several windows. He mounted to the first of these at incredible speed, but found it securely fastened. He swung to another. It was slightly open. He held his ear against the narrow opening, listening intently. Then, inch by inch, he raised the window and dropped noiselessly inside the room.