leaving the hotel until you have seen him?”
“Of course.”
“Then I must leave you. I have urgent business to deal with, concerning Sir Denis’ future plans. Concerning your own duties, no doubt he will inform you.”
Brian wasn’t sorry when Mr. Ahmad went. Whatever might be the position Ahmad held in Nayland Smith’s organization, he couldn’t shake off a feeling of distrust of the man. He took a book out into a shady corner of the garden and settled down to do nothing until cocktail time. He had little exercise these days, apart from a morning swim, and so far had found no time to do any sightseeing. He wondered how much longer he would be in Cairo. There were so many things he wanted to do.
He was half dozing over his book when a boy came to look for him. He was wanted on the phone.
It was Zoe. “Oh, Brian, I am so sorry. My uncle from Luxor will be here this evening and I cannot see you. Perhaps I will have to go back with him. I don’t know.”
“I hope not, Zoe. I doubt if I could find time to get up to Luxor, much as I’d like to. But as it happens,
I’m
tied up this evening, too. I have to wait here for Sir Denis.”
“So he found you! I knew he would. You may give him my love, but don’t tell him how much love I give
you
!”
Brian heard her musical laugh. “When shall I know if you’re going to Luxor?”
“As soon as I find out. Perhaps tonight.” She wafted a kiss over the wire.
Brian returned to his seat in the garden. He thought about Zoe, tried to read, tried to keep himself awake by watching other visitors who strolled about. But at last the restful, warm air and the drone of the insects conquered, and he fell asleep. He dreamed he was being bitten by thousands of mosquitoes and woke up to find that the dream was based on fact.
A boy was shaking him by the shoulder. “Phone, sir.”
And when he got there and said, “Hello?” a snappy voice replied, “Brian Merrick, Junior?”
“Yes.”
“Nayland Smith here. How are you, Merrick? Don’t bother to tell me. Listen. I’m in a hell of a position, and you’re in it with me. At eight o’clock—exactly
eight o’clock
—wait in your room. Leave the door ajar. Don’t tell me the number—I know it. At eight o’clock, with the door ajar. Good-by.”
After an early dinner, Brian went up to his room. A bottle of Scotch, a supply of soda water, and an ice bucket were there by his orders. Feeling oddly taut, he sampled the whisky while he waited.
At three minutes to eight he heard the elevator stop at his floor, the clang of the opening gate. Someone stepped out, walked briskly toward his door… and passed it. Another door was unlocked some distance away, and closed.
Silence.
And this almost unbearable silence remained unbroken until a very slight creaking disturbed it—and the slit of light shining in from the hall began to grow wider.
Brian shot up from his chair. “Who’s there?” he challenged.
A man came in and closed the door. It was Nayland Smith.
He wore a light topcoat with the collar turned up and a soft-brimmed hat, the brim pulled down. Brian sprang to meet him.
“Sir Denis! At last!”
“One moment, Merrick. Wait till I get to the window and then switch the lights off.” He crossed the room. “Lights out!”
Brian, utterly confused, obeyed the snappy order. Complete darkness came, until it was dispersed by faint streaks of light as Nayland Smith moved the slats of the Venetian blind.
“What’s, the idea?” Brian asked.
“Lights up. Wanted to know if you’re overlooked.” The room became illuminated again. “We’re dealing with clever people who mean to stop us, and I’m Target Number One. Ha! Scotch! Just what I need.”
He dropped, his coat and hat on the carpet beside a cane chair and started to sit down. Then, as an afterthought, he stretched out his hand.
“Glad to see you, Merrick. How’s your father?”
Brian grinned as he grasped the extended hand. This was the Nayland
“Of course.”
“Then I must leave you. I have urgent business to deal with, concerning Sir Denis’ future plans. Concerning your own duties, no doubt he will inform you.”
Brian wasn’t sorry when Mr. Ahmad went. Whatever might be the position Ahmad held in Nayland Smith’s organization, he couldn’t shake off a feeling of distrust of the man. He took a book out into a shady corner of the garden and settled down to do nothing until cocktail time. He had little exercise these days, apart from a morning swim, and so far had found no time to do any sightseeing. He wondered how much longer he would be in Cairo. There were so many things he wanted to do.
He was half dozing over his book when a boy came to look for him. He was wanted on the phone.
It was Zoe. “Oh, Brian, I am so sorry. My uncle from Luxor will be here this evening and I cannot see you. Perhaps I will have to go back with him. I don’t know.”
“I hope not, Zoe. I doubt if I could find time to get up to Luxor, much as I’d like to. But as it happens,
I’m
tied up this evening, too. I have to wait here for Sir Denis.”
“So he found you! I knew he would. You may give him my love, but don’t tell him how much love I give
you
!”
Brian heard her musical laugh. “When shall I know if you’re going to Luxor?”
“As soon as I find out. Perhaps tonight.” She wafted a kiss over the wire.
Brian returned to his seat in the garden. He thought about Zoe, tried to read, tried to keep himself awake by watching other visitors who strolled about. But at last the restful, warm air and the drone of the insects conquered, and he fell asleep. He dreamed he was being bitten by thousands of mosquitoes and woke up to find that the dream was based on fact.
A boy was shaking him by the shoulder. “Phone, sir.”
And when he got there and said, “Hello?” a snappy voice replied, “Brian Merrick, Junior?”
“Yes.”
“Nayland Smith here. How are you, Merrick? Don’t bother to tell me. Listen. I’m in a hell of a position, and you’re in it with me. At eight o’clock—exactly
eight o’clock
—wait in your room. Leave the door ajar. Don’t tell me the number—I know it. At eight o’clock, with the door ajar. Good-by.”
After an early dinner, Brian went up to his room. A bottle of Scotch, a supply of soda water, and an ice bucket were there by his orders. Feeling oddly taut, he sampled the whisky while he waited.
At three minutes to eight he heard the elevator stop at his floor, the clang of the opening gate. Someone stepped out, walked briskly toward his door… and passed it. Another door was unlocked some distance away, and closed.
Silence.
And this almost unbearable silence remained unbroken until a very slight creaking disturbed it—and the slit of light shining in from the hall began to grow wider.
Brian shot up from his chair. “Who’s there?” he challenged.
A man came in and closed the door. It was Nayland Smith.
He wore a light topcoat with the collar turned up and a soft-brimmed hat, the brim pulled down. Brian sprang to meet him.
“Sir Denis! At last!”
“One moment, Merrick. Wait till I get to the window and then switch the lights off.” He crossed the room. “Lights out!”
Brian, utterly confused, obeyed the snappy order. Complete darkness came, until it was dispersed by faint streaks of light as Nayland Smith moved the slats of the Venetian blind.
“What’s, the idea?” Brian asked.
“Lights up. Wanted to know if you’re overlooked.” The room became illuminated again. “We’re dealing with clever people who mean to stop us, and I’m Target Number One. Ha! Scotch! Just what I need.”
He dropped, his coat and hat on the carpet beside a cane chair and started to sit down. Then, as an afterthought, he stretched out his hand.
“Glad to see you, Merrick. How’s your father?”
Brian grinned as he grasped the extended hand. This was the Nayland
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