One hundred and twenty-one

Blaine strode into Club Souterrain battered, bruised, and soaking wet. He was fearful of being discovered there but, as he reasoned it, if the money had gone, then the Falcon and his henchmen had certainly left, too.

The Russians had moved from the card tables to roulette. A pair of them were seated, mountains of coloured chips piled up on the baize.

The croupier spun as he called last bets.

Not far from the blurred wheel, Rosario was playing a Scott Joplin number, her black gown gleaming, a faint trace of perspiration on her brow.

Reeling about near the bar was the police commissioner. He was drinking with a European man. Each of them had a glass of Scotch in their hand.

Following Blaine’s instructions, Ghita and Saed had made their way out through Hotel Touring, and were soon on the street. The exit had been much easier than the route in through the tunnels.

As she scurried towards her secret apartment, Ghita felt a pang of terrible fear. She couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Blaine.

Now there were two men in her life to worry about.

Inside the club, the barman was preparing a round of Caipirinhas, rolling the limes to get them extra juicy. He had been on edge all evening, as he always was on the nights that the Falcon came in. Pouring a triple measure of Cachaça into the shaker, he began slicing the fruit.

Blaine sat down at the bar, his back to the room. It wasn’t a minute before a girl approached, and asked if he wanted some company. He slipped her fifty dirhams.

‘Go and tell the pianist to join me for a drink,’ he said.

‘Who should I say is inviting her?’

Blaine thought for a moment.

‘Coccinelle,’ he replied.

At that moment there was a commotion at the roulette wheel. The manager was called to sanction a particularly large pay-out to a monstrous bearded Muscovite.

Rosario glanced round at the disturbance, and found the hooker’s lips whispering in her ear. Slowly, she allowed her gaze to move over to the bar.

A minute later she was seated beside Blaine.

‘Good evening my dear Coccinelle,’ she said with a laugh.

The American kissed her on the cheek.

‘Good evening.’

‘How did you get so filthy, my dear?’

‘I came the long way round.’

‘Through the medina?’

The American shook his head.

‘Through the sewers,’ he said.

‘I see,’ Rosario replied tersely. ‘And what brings you down here, into the shadows?’

‘A proposition.’

The pianist giggled.

‘I’m far too old to be propositioned by such a handsome young man,’ she said.

Blaine took out an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘I’m willing to give you this,’ he said.

Rosario swallowed hard.

‘The laissez-passer?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What do you want in return?’

‘Something I imagine you can get quite easily,’ the American said.