from her Jeep, a small brown Cadillac.
Drawing a slow breath, she started to walk. Maybe it was Bill Ellery. Maybe he'd come early. She began to move casually toward the car, picking out details beyond. A shrub-screened path cut away toward what, by the sound of it, was one of the pools. She kept her eyes down, prepared to sweep across the license plate without slackening her steps. The last three digits were 321. Her thoughts raced in the disciplined confines she imposed on them. She moved toward the pool, saw someone appear from the sheltered path, looked up, and fought for breath.
The man facing her had piercing blue eyes. Straight blond hair. Aristocratic features except for rather thick earlobes. His face wore a studied pleas antness that might hide any emotion. It was Henri Ballieu .
He was looking directly at her, as though his eyes were taking a photograph. Channing felt the sudden and chilling realization that she was all on her own. Bill Ellery didn't arrive till tomorrow. She had no way of contacting him, or Oliver Lemming.
"Lovely afternoon," she said, summoning a lazy smile.
Prepare the ground for later, when she made contact, she decided.
A fraction of a second passed, and then Ballieu moved aside. Her nerves tingled as she entered the winding path without looking back, knowing he was behind her. Her ears strained, and for the first time, on a gut level, she understood what Bill Ellery had tried to tell her about this man: He was a killer. As likely to strike as she was to brush her teeth. And probably noiseless.
What was he doing here? He wasn't due till to morrow.
By the time she emerged into the noise and hot concrete of poolside, her palms felt cold.
She found her way through the pool complex and past tennis courts down to the bungalows, locating hers by the number on the key Wilbur had handed her. Serafin , ensconced in the smaller of their unit's two bedrooms, was watching TV.
"No going out without me," she said, and made her face a blank so he couldn't see her worry. She didn't like this, being here on her own with Ballieu . Should she start the plan into motion? Prudence told her not to, without a backup. Besides, she hadn't been given the names of Yussuf's contacts that were supposed to establish her authenticity.
Closing the door to her room, she showered and changed. Then, removing the large piece of film from her purse, she started to practice. The cotton underpants helped. Or she was getting better. Maybe both. But her movements weren't as deft as she wanted. It had taken fifty hours of practice, at least, to perfect that trick with the coins she'd learned for Yussuf . She didn't have a hundred hours for this one. Grimly she repeated her movements over and over, the part that would make one piece of film vanish, the part that would make another piece take its place.
Outside, the sky grew dark. Stars pricked their way into being. From the other side of the door Serafin's voice, apologetic, broke into her concen tration.
"Channing? Should we get some supper?"
She glanced at the clock.
"Oh, Serafin ! I'm sorry."
She opened the door.
"Just let me hang up a few things."
Her everyday clothes could wait, but her care fully rigged jackets and her black dress ought to go on hangers. She hung the black dress first, smooth ing its seams and straightening its pockets. Her fin gers hit something and she stopped, remembering, as she drew out a cassette tape.
"Instructions for a trick of Yussuf's ," she said to Serafin's look of curiosity. "He gave it to me." She turned it in her hand. "I'd forgotten ... and I don't think I feel like hearing it just now. Maybe never." She stuffed it down into the side lining of her suitcase. "Come on. I'm starved."
* * *
Still seething from Ballieu's tongue-lashing -- and from her own failure -- Khadija watched the woman and the boy who seemed to be with her leave their bungalow.
Now.
She had to find the tape or Ballieu would report
Drawing a slow breath, she started to walk. Maybe it was Bill Ellery. Maybe he'd come early. She began to move casually toward the car, picking out details beyond. A shrub-screened path cut away toward what, by the sound of it, was one of the pools. She kept her eyes down, prepared to sweep across the license plate without slackening her steps. The last three digits were 321. Her thoughts raced in the disciplined confines she imposed on them. She moved toward the pool, saw someone appear from the sheltered path, looked up, and fought for breath.
The man facing her had piercing blue eyes. Straight blond hair. Aristocratic features except for rather thick earlobes. His face wore a studied pleas antness that might hide any emotion. It was Henri Ballieu .
He was looking directly at her, as though his eyes were taking a photograph. Channing felt the sudden and chilling realization that she was all on her own. Bill Ellery didn't arrive till tomorrow. She had no way of contacting him, or Oliver Lemming.
"Lovely afternoon," she said, summoning a lazy smile.
Prepare the ground for later, when she made contact, she decided.
A fraction of a second passed, and then Ballieu moved aside. Her nerves tingled as she entered the winding path without looking back, knowing he was behind her. Her ears strained, and for the first time, on a gut level, she understood what Bill Ellery had tried to tell her about this man: He was a killer. As likely to strike as she was to brush her teeth. And probably noiseless.
What was he doing here? He wasn't due till to morrow.
By the time she emerged into the noise and hot concrete of poolside, her palms felt cold.
She found her way through the pool complex and past tennis courts down to the bungalows, locating hers by the number on the key Wilbur had handed her. Serafin , ensconced in the smaller of their unit's two bedrooms, was watching TV.
"No going out without me," she said, and made her face a blank so he couldn't see her worry. She didn't like this, being here on her own with Ballieu . Should she start the plan into motion? Prudence told her not to, without a backup. Besides, she hadn't been given the names of Yussuf's contacts that were supposed to establish her authenticity.
Closing the door to her room, she showered and changed. Then, removing the large piece of film from her purse, she started to practice. The cotton underpants helped. Or she was getting better. Maybe both. But her movements weren't as deft as she wanted. It had taken fifty hours of practice, at least, to perfect that trick with the coins she'd learned for Yussuf . She didn't have a hundred hours for this one. Grimly she repeated her movements over and over, the part that would make one piece of film vanish, the part that would make another piece take its place.
Outside, the sky grew dark. Stars pricked their way into being. From the other side of the door Serafin's voice, apologetic, broke into her concen tration.
"Channing? Should we get some supper?"
She glanced at the clock.
"Oh, Serafin ! I'm sorry."
She opened the door.
"Just let me hang up a few things."
Her everyday clothes could wait, but her care fully rigged jackets and her black dress ought to go on hangers. She hung the black dress first, smooth ing its seams and straightening its pockets. Her fin gers hit something and she stopped, remembering, as she drew out a cassette tape.
"Instructions for a trick of Yussuf's ," she said to Serafin's look of curiosity. "He gave it to me." She turned it in her hand. "I'd forgotten ... and I don't think I feel like hearing it just now. Maybe never." She stuffed it down into the side lining of her suitcase. "Come on. I'm starved."
* * *
Still seething from Ballieu's tongue-lashing -- and from her own failure -- Khadija watched the woman and the boy who seemed to be with her leave their bungalow.
Now.
She had to find the tape or Ballieu would report
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