Falconer's Quest (14 page)
He could not say whether he disliked the way his blood ran faster or his muscles bunched with the danger-tension that had saved his life on so many occasions. Only that it was so.
A new man,
he silently repeated. One created in a higher image.
He hoped and prayed that when challenged, the words would prove true.
They paused at a point where the alley began a steep incline. A crossroads permitted a sharp lance of sunlight, strong as a golden pillar. In the blinding light Falconer made out a series of stalls where young boys sat and pounded brass into a myriad of bowls and saucers and carafes. The scene was drawn from a hundred other ports, down to the dusty djellabas the boys wore, and the hats called fezzes worn by the overseers. Even the Frenchmen he saw wore the Arab hats. At least, Falconer assumed they were French.
One of the sailors muttered, “Never thought I could be this lost this close to the sea.”
“The harbor is a thousand paces directly behind you,” Bivens told him. “If we lose contact, use the sunlight as your compass and aim south by west.”
“Aye, sir.”
The banker pointed into the sun-splashed lane. “Directly across from here is Raban’s caf
e. His office is the rear corner table, beside the door leading to the upstairs rooms.”
“What happens upstairs?” Bivens asked.
In reply, Bernard Lemi simply looked at Falconer. Falconer grimaced his understanding. The banker was no longer smiling as he asked, “Shall I proceed and introduce you?”
“I would rather keep our alliance a secret,” Falconer said. “At least for now.”
The banker looked somewhat relieved. “When shall we meet again?”
“Tonight,” Falconer decided. “Join us on board for dinner, if you will.”
“With pleasure.” He cast another glance across the thoroughfare. “Be on your best guard in there. When it comes to the beast known as Raban, little is as it seems.”
The café’s exterior was like most buildings Falconer had passed in the Panier district. The second floor was rimmed with wrought-iron balconies. The building’s ancient stone was cloaked in centuries of yellow dust. He spied the top floor’s adornment and stopped at the edge of the thoroughfare.
“What is it?” Bivens demanded.
Falconer pointed across the lane. “They call that a harem perch. I have never seen them outside Arabia. I would say this is confirmation that Raban is our man.”
Falconer and Bivens squinted at the long balcony silhouetted against the sky and encased in intricately carved wood. Slender slits permitted whoever sat inside to observe the world and remain unseen. The lieutenant’s features were taut and sweat stained. “My gut tells me we’re walking into the dragon’s lair.”
Falconer heard the sound of a man in pain. “What does your shoulder tell you?”
“That I carried too much too soon after the storm,” Bivens confessed. “I fear my injury has been aggravated.”
The nearest sailor, a rock-solid man of few words, said, “Told you to let me shoulder that load, I did.”
“And you were right.” Bivens gave the sailor a half grimace, half smile. “You’ll have to watch my weak side in there.”
“With my life, sir,” the sailor replied, and meant it. Bivens was well liked by all the men.
Falconer asked, “Does your gut tell you that we should go no further?”
Bivens, taking the question seriously, gave the harem perch another careful inspection, his focus so stern he might pierce the shadows. “I shared the skipper’s promise to bring Byron home. The little girl too. Even if it means fighting a hundred dragons.”
A hand signal from Falconer was enough to plant the two sailors inside the café’s front door. The café lay just three steps below the street, yet it felt to Falconer as though he entered a man-made cave. The windows were high and curved like half-moons, and the sunlight filtered through faded, dirty curtains such that the interior was in a constant state of gloom.
The café was drawn from a distant land. Falconer walked down the carpeted central aisle and felt himself entering a realm of veiled women and daggers shaped like scythes.
All conversation ceased at their passage. Men in robes sat or lay upon low divans. Wooden shutters carved in arabesque designs separated the tables, forming the suggestion of alcoves. The air was pungent with the fragrance of mint tea and tobacco smoldering in water pipes.
The man they sought sat in the café’s only Western-style chair, which was drawn up to an octagonal table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. At first glance, the man looked ordinary enough. Of slender build and wearing a pale suit with a white shirt buttoned to his neck, his ring with a diamond the size of a fingernail caught even the dim light. His eyes were cold and so gray they appeared as colorless as his close-cropped hair. A conical Arab hat with a flat top rested upon the table beside a thimble of coffee and a beaker of water. He tapped the ring upon the tabletop as he listened to the man standing on the opposite side. The man whined an entreaty and tugged at the shapeless hat in his hands. Raban appeared to nod at the man’s words, but his eyes remained upon Falconer and Bivens. He halted the supplicant with an upraised finger. He spoke one word. The man’s whine rose an octave.
The seated man murmured a single word. In response, another man took a step out of the shadows behind the table. Falconer was astonished he had not noticed the man before.
The guard was as tall as Falconer and outweighed him by a hundred pounds. His arms were as large as the supplicant’s thighs. His wrists were banded by broad sword guards of burnished copper. His neck was as thick as a tree trunk, his head carefully shaved. He wore a leather vest across his massive chest, and two jeweled daggers were tucked into a broad belt. The belt’s buckle was white jade and the size of Falconer’s palm.
Falconer addressed Bivens so softly that the supplicant’s final whining pleas hid his words. “You do the talking.”
They stepped to either side of the supplicant, who stumbled as he backed from the table, still beseeching Raban. But the café owner was no longer listening. He addressed them in English. “Let me see. You must be Lieutenant Bivens, yes? Second-in-command of the Langston vessel. But you, sir, I have yet to know your name.”
Falconer did not answer. Instead, he stepped around the table and slipped into the shadows. The same shadows into which the guard had again vanished. Falconer did not look at the giant.
The guard growled a warning in a tongue Falconer did not need to understand.
Raban raised the same finger. The guard subsided, grumbling. Falconer could feel the enormous man’s menace like heat.
“Never mind,” Raban said. “I shall know your name soon enough.”
The finger rose another notch. Instantly a waiter appeared. Raban spoke, his words a sibilant rush. The waiter bowed and backed away. Falconer understood only one word the waiter said. It was the same as the title repeated by the supplicant.
Effendi
.
The waiter returned with a chair for Bivens and a water pipe for Raban. The waiter used tongs to hold a burning coal over the copper bowl as Raban drew hard upon the carved ivory stem. Only when the pungent smoke clouded the air between them did Raban say, “Make yourself comfortable, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you. I shall stand.”
“Sit, stand, it is of no consequence.” The water in the hubble-bubble seethed more smoke. “I see the young banker chose not to join you. That man speaks of adventure but fears his own shadow.”
Falconer felt the guard’s eyes shift over and take his measure. Falconer remained utterly still. He had positioned himself such that his scar was on the side of his face nearest the guard. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guard take a half step away, and Falconer turned slightly, ready for the attack. Good, Falconer said silently. A worried man might hesitate.
Bivens asked, “Were you behind the attack on me and my men?”
“My good sir. If I had attacked you, we would not be having this conversation.” The words seeped out with the smoke. “Why ever should I create a ruckus, since you will bring the gold to me of your own accord?”
A snake,
Falconer decided. A viper in a fine desert suit. A man who cared less than nothing for the lives of others.
Bivens said, “You know why I am here.”
“Remind me.”
“If you have what we seek, I do not need to.”
The water pipe bubbled for a time. Bivens responded with his best parade-ground stance. His eyes were steely, his gaze fastened slightly above Raban’s head. As detached as the seated merchant. And as fierce.
Raban gave first. “Is that pestering woman with you?”
“Which lady might that be?”
“The missionary.” He softly spat the word.
“Again, such information is yours only if you are the man with whom we need to speak.”
“I believe a sum of money was mentioned.”
“Was it?”
“Five thousand sovereigns. In gold.”
“Such numbers are meaningless unless we have clear evidence, sir.”
The pipe bubbled for a time longer. Then Raban spoke in a language Falconer did not understand.
The guard reached for the blade at his belt.
Falconer sprang at him with a roar.
Falconer gripped the guard’s arms by his wristbands and held on for dear life. The guard shouted his fury and bucked like a human bull. Behind him Falconer heard the table overturn. Patrons and waiters shouted protests. Another voice shrilled in panic. Falconer could only hope that Bivens protected his back. Every shred of his strength was required to keep hold of the guard. Twice the giant tried to head-butt Falconer. Twice Falconer shifted his head in time to take the blows upon his shoulder. His arm was going numb from the strikes. He did not know how much longer he could maintain control in this frantic deadly dance.
“Hold! Hold!” Raban’s voice had risen to that of a frightened woman.
“Call your man off!” Bivens roared.
“I never…” Raban switched to Arabic. At least Falconer thought it was Arabic. The giant’s dark eyes were inches from Falconer’s and burned with molten fury. But his struggle subsided.
Falconer released his hold and backed off a step. Another.
Bivens held Raban facedown upon the table. The coffee thimble, the water carafe, the pipe, all lay in shambles. The two sentinels by the door were now stationed between them and the others within the restaurant, all of whom were now on their feet. Bivens had a pistol planted deep into Raban’s ear. His voice was a seaman’s roar. “You have one chance, do you hear me? One! Give me what I want or I will—”
“No, no! I was telling my man to do just that!” He squirmed futilely against the officer’s hold. “You’re
hurting
me!”
“One chance!” Bivens ground down harder. “Is the young man alive!”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Raban frantically babbled further in Arabic. The giant glanced warily at Falconer, then reached slowly with one hand for his belt. Falconer tensed but remained where he was.
The guard pulled two small hinged boxes from a secret pocket inside his belt. Both were of silver chased in some ornate design. He reached forward and set them on the table beside his master’s face.
Bivens and Raban both tracked the giant’s hands. Falconer’s grip had been so tight the copper wristbands were both crumpled, and one was broken and hung by a slender chain.
Raban whined, “There, you see! A gift! That’s all—”
Falconer addressed Raban for the first time. “And the girl?”
“What?”
Falconer stepped forward. “The missionary’s daughter. She is alive?”
Raban sought to draw Falconer into focus. “Of course!”
Falconer nodded to Bivens. Bivens uncocked the pistol and slipped it back into his belt. He released the man and stepped back. “You will send a man to the ship at midnight. He will speak English. We will discuss how the exchange will take place.”
Now that he was released, the viper’s hiss returned. “You will pay for this insult.” The empty gray eyes sought out Falconer. “Both of you.”
The clouds began gathering a half hour after the sun melted into the western seas, so low as to crimp the earth with their shadows. The sun’s final rays turned them into a sulfurous yellow. Harkness stood upon the foredeck, joined by Bivens and Falconer and Reginald Langston, frowning at the approaching storm as he would a foe. “What say you, gentlemen? Is this a celestial warning or merely another passing squall?”
“I would call it a gift,” Falconer replied.
The three men turned about, but the captain’s response to Falconer’s remark was interrupted by a vague piping from the main deck. Falconer had returned to the vessel to learn that Matt had been assigned duty at the gangplank. Matt had not yet mastered the pipes, and his signaling of the visitor’s arrival sounded like an injured bird. Bivens hid his grin behind his hand. A sailor chuckled from the rigging overhead. Harkness coughed hard.
Matt’s voice was almost as high as the pipes. “Visitor for Captain Harkness!”
Bevins said, “It’s the banker Falconer and I spoke to you about. Bernard Lemi.”
Harkness called down, “Have him attend us on the foredeck.”