Tongues of Fire by Peter Abrahams

said. He wanted to add: “Do you think I’m a goddamned amateur? We taught you everything you know.” But he remembered that Abu Fahoum had probably learned from a Russian teacher. He mentioned Armbrister.
    â€œThe name means nothing to me. Now if you don’t mind—”
    â€œJust answer one question, Mr. Fahoum,” Krebs said quickly. “It may be important: Did any of the staff behave strangely, or do anything unusual?”
    There was a brief pause. Krebs felt a powerful mind on the other end of the line. It seemed to intensify the electronic connection between them. “Staff?” Abu Fahoum said.
    â€œThe maître d’. The waiters.”
    Krebs heard a spitting sound in his ear. “I am not in the habit of noticing waiters,” Abu Fahoum said very coldly. “Now I really must say good-bye.”
    Krebs leaned forward, squeezing the phone tightly. “I wish you would think a little more about this, Mr. Fahoum. Don’t you want us to find the people who tried to kill you?”
    Abu Fahoum laughed. “For that, Mr. Kreb—”
    â€œKrebs.”
    â€œâ€”I am happy to rely entirely on your expertise.” The line went dead.
    Krebs banged the receiver into its cradle. He glared at the telephone, picked the receiver up, and banged it again. He stood up and paced around the office. Krebs was an easy name to get right.
    After a while he approached the desk and gazed again at the diagram. The two tables were so close together. Sixteen was on a slightly higher level than twenty-three. That allowed someone sitting at sixteen who wanted to shoot someone sitting at twenty-three to fire down on him. It was very convenient. He decided he needed the names of everyone who worked at La Basquaise. He filled a Styrofoam cup with cold coffee and reached for the telephone.

CHAPTER FIVE
    It was a city of wind and stone. No one roasted chestnuts on the corner, or stepped out for a quick cigarette, or walked his dog. No one made a sound. There was nothing to hear but the wind cutting its way through the stone canyons. And no one to hear it except Isaac Rehv, huddled in the little car, waiting for the night to be over. The wind had long ago found him hiding there, and worked through the cheap body of the car to blow its cold breath in his ears and up his pant legs.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Harry had said. “I’ll help you.” He had helped: He had lent Rehv his car; he had shown him the apartment hotel on the Upper East Side where Abu Fahoum lived; he had given him a gun. “Wait for nighttime,” Harry had told him: “He likes to go for walks at night.”
    â€œHow do you know?” Rehv had asked.
    â€œJoel,” Harry had explained. “He watched him for a month.” That didn’t make Rehv feel more confident. Joel was the boy with the deep red hole in his forehead.
    On the first night of grace Abu Fahoum did not appear. Perhaps it had been the snow. Perhaps he didn’t like going for walks after all. Rehv had waited. From time to time he had stepped out of the car to clear snow off the windows. Once he had made a snowball and thrown it at a tree. It had stuck to the bark of the trunk like a round white birthmark.
    Now, on the second night of grace, he waited again. He kept his eyes on the gray stone building on the other side of the street. Warm lights glowed through heavy curtains in the windows. Behind the thick glass doors walked the doorman, back and forth, back and forth, in his chocolate brown uniform. He had nothing to do. No one came in. No went went out.
    Rehv rehearsed all the reasons he had to kill Abu Fahoum. Abu Fahoum had tried to kill him. He would try again. At the very least he would send the police after him. Tomorrow. And there was Haifa. He had reasons. They were sound and logical, but his heart wasn’t in it. Rehv wasn’t sure he could bring himself to kill Abu Fahoum without his heart being in