To the Death

Shakira thanked him for everything, but before he left, Ahmed placed on the table a long, thin cardboard box. “This is for you,” he said. “I hope you never need it, at least not during your stay in the USA.” And with that, he hurried toward the Fifth Avenue entrance and was gone.

Shakira picked up the box and made her way up to her seventh-floor room. Once inside, she opened it and stared at a long, slender Middle Eastern dagger, its blade very slightly curved, its handle set with red, green, and blue stones. There was also a brief note, written in Arabic. Shakira translated automatically—Do not under any circumstances leave your home without this. Strict orders from General Rashood. Ahmed.

Shakira smiled. I’ll keep it inside a wide belt, in the small of my back, like Ravi. And then, thankfully, she went to bed, exhausted by the tension experienced by all subversives at the start of a clandestine operation.

Almost all transatlantic passengers from Europe wake up at some ungodly hour on their first morning in the United States, mainly because at five o’clock in the morning on the East Coast, it’s 10 A.M. in London, and the body clock has not yet adjusted.

Shakira was awake at 5:30 and spent the next couple of hours watching television, trash on three channels, which she loved. By eight o’clock, she was having a light breakfast of orange juice, fruit, and coffee. By 9 A.M., she was outside waiting for Fausi, who was right on time.

They headed down Fifth Avenue, slowly in the morning traffic, and crawled their way west toward 10th Avenue and the Lincoln Tunnel. The traffic pouring through into the city from New Jersey was extremely heavy, but not too bad outward-bound.

The line for the tunnel was slow; but once inside, everything sped up. Fausi accelerated into New Jersey, collected his toll ticket, and headed fast down the turnpike. They were past Philadelphia in ninety minutes, past Baltimore in three hours, and around Washington heading south in four.

Just after 1 P.M., they stopped for gas and coffee; then, with a little over a hundred miles in front of them, they set off for Brockhurst, arriving there after a drive on a narrow, winding road in hot, clear weather at 4:35.

Fausi parked the car on a deserted street six hundred yards from the Estuary Hotel, and Shakira, who was dressed in light blue jeans, an inexpensive white shirt, and flat shoes, walked the short distance.

The front door of the Estuary led into a wide, rather dark interior hall, carpeted in dark red. There was a long wooden reception area, behind which was a middle-aged man, fiftyish. To the left was an obvious bar, with the same carpet, soft lighting, and bar stools. It was completely deserted. To the right was the dining room/restaurant, with a desk at its entrance. Unoccupied.

Shakira looked doubtful. No customers. They wouldn’t need any staff. Nonetheless, she walked hesitantly to the front desk and said, politely, “Good afternoon.”

The man looked up, smiled, and asked, “And what can I do for you?”

“Well,” said Shakira, “I am looking for a job, here in Brockhurst, and I wondered if you had a vacancy. I can do almost anything — maid, waitress, receptionist.”

The man nodded and stood up. He offered his hand and said, “Jim. Jim Caborn. I’m the manager here. And you?”

“I’m Carla Martin. It’s nice to meet you.” Shakira had been well versed in American niceties.

“Well, Carla,” said the manager, “I’m afraid I don’t have anything right at the moment. However, I do have a barman leaving in a week. Can you do that kind of thing?”

“Oh, yes. I worked in a bar in London for three months. Does this place get busy?”

“All the time,” replied Jim. “From about 5:30 in the evening onward. And especially on weekends in the summer.” He stared at her very beautiful face and swept-back raven hair, and wondered about her background; he asked, “Do you have an American passport?”

“Oh, yes. I’m American. I’ve just been away for a few months.”

“And what brings you here to Brockhurst?”

“I’m visiting an aunt near here in a little place called Bowler’s Wharf, and I think this is the nicest and biggest town.”

“Honey, it’s not Washington, trust me.”

Shakira smiled. “Well, I like it. And I’m fed up with big cities.”

“Listen, Carla, running a bar in a busy place like this is not easy. You understand how quick and accurate you have to be, and how you must understand the drinks, and the cocktails, and be able to make Irish coffees and all that.”

“Jim, I worked in a really busy bar in Covent Garden — that’s downtown London. But if you will employ me, I’d be happy to put in a week, at my own expense, working with the man who’s leaving. That way I’d be organized for when I was on my own.”