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“Could be,” said the engineer. “Want we should go down there?”
“No,” said Collins. “He never talks in the bedroom anyway. Just lies on his back and thinks. Anyway, we have the other, the one in the wall outlet.”
That night, the twelfth since Zack’s first call, Sam came to Qui
“What was that?” asked one of the FBI men sitting through the night watch beside the engineer. The technician shrugged.
“Qui
Qui
Qui
Still without a sound he took the big club chair from the corner, upended it, and placed it over the tape recorder and against the wall, using pillows to stuff into the cracks where the arms of the club chair did not reach the wall.
The chair formed four sides of a hollow box, the other two sides being the floor and the wall. Inside the box was the tape recorder.
“We can talk now,” he murmured.
“Don’t want to,” whispered Sam and held out her arms.
Qui
In the embassy basement the engineer and two FBI men listened idly to the sound coming from the baseboard outlet two miles away.
“He’s gone,” said the engineer. The three listened to the steady, rhythmic breathing of a man fast asleep, recorded the previous night when Qui
“I do not understand,” said Patrick Seymour, “how that man can sleep like that with the level of stress he’s under. Me, I’ve been catnapping for two weeks and wonder if I’ll ever sleep again. He must have piano wire for nerves.”
The engineer yawned and nodded. Normally his work for the Company in Britain and Europe did not require much night work, certainly not back-to-back like this, night after night.
“Yeah, well, I wish to hell I was doing what he’s doing.”
Brown turned without a word and returned to the office that had been converted into his quarters. He had been nearly fourteen days in this damn city, becoming more and more convinced the British police were getting nowhere and Qui
Chapter 8
Qui
She had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep, the first time in a fortnight she had slept so well, when Qui
“It’s only a three-hour tape,” he whispered. “It’s going to run out in fifteen minutes.”
She kissed him again, slipped into her nightgown, and tiptoed back to her room. Qui
Zack called at half past nine. He seemed more brusque and hostile than on the previous day-a man whose nerves were begi
“All right, you bastard, now listen. No more sweet talk. I’ve had enough. I’ll settle for your bloody two million dollars but that’s the lot. You ask for one more thing and I’ll send you a couple of fingers. I’ll take a hammer and chisel to the little prick’s right hand-see if Washington likes you after that.”
“Zack, cool it,” pleaded Qui
Zack seemed pacified by the thought that there was someone with nerves more ragged than his own.
“One more thing,” he growled. “Not money. Not in cash. You bastards would try to bug the suitcase. Diamonds. This is how…”
He talked for ten more seconds, then hung up. Qui
At the time, Andy Laing was having lunch in the executive canteen of the Jiddah branch of the SAIB. His companion was his friend and colleague the Pakistani operations manager, Mr. Amin.
“I am being very puzzled, my friend,” said the young Pakistani. “What is going on?”
“I don’t know,” said Laing. “You tell me.”
“You know the daily mail bag from here to London? I had an urgent letter for London, with some documents included. I need a quick reply. When will I get it? I ask myself. Why has it not come? I asked the mailroom why there is no reply. They tell me something very strange.”
Laing put down his knife and fork.
“What is that, old pal?”
“They tell me all is delayed. All packages from here for London are being diverted to the Riyadh office for a day before they go forward.”
Laing lost his appetite. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach and it was not hunger.
“How long did they say this has been going on?”
“Since one week, I do believe.”
Laing left the canteen for his office. There was a message on his desk from the branch manager, Mr. Al-Haroun. Mr. Pyle would like to see him in Riyadh without delay.
He made the mid-afternoon Saudia commuter flight. On the journey he could have kicked himself. Hindsight is all very well, but if only he had sent his London package by regular mail… He had addressed it to the chief accountant personally, and a letter so addressed, in his distinctive handwriting, would stand out a mile when the letters were spread across Steve Pyle’s desk. He was shown into Steve Pyle’s office just after the bank closed its doors for public business.