Free Assignment - Karachi by Edward S. Aarons

over to Durell. “It’s for you.”
    It was Colonel K’Ayub. He spoke in Urdu, which expressed a sense of cool formality better than English.
    “We have found her, Mr. Durell,” he said quietly.
    “Alive?”
    “Yes.”
    “You have her in custody?”
    “Under surveillance,” K’Ayub said, switching back to Eng-
    lish. “She was traced in a rather erratic walking tour around the Shepsi Mosque, into Edward VII Park, then the Juno Market. She has been sitting at the Monkton Cafe Grand for an hour now, waiting for someone.”
    “Who is watching her?”
    “Zalmadar. A Pathan sergeant, my personal servant.” “Did she make any contacts?”
    “We have picked up a beggar, a Jain holy man who accosted her, a Goanese gentleman, a chi-chi named DaSilva, and the owner of a silver bazaar, a Mr. Janninin. They insist they had no business with her. They say she seemed dazed and lost. We are continuing the questioning.”
    “If she’s still sitting in Monkton’s, then she hasn’t met the man she’s expecting so far.”
    “Exactly. Shall I pick you up?”
    “I’ll meet you,” Durell said. “Tell me where and when.” “Ten minutes. At the Metropole?”
    “Right.”
    Durell hung up. Sarah Standish watched him with anxious eyes. “Is Jane all right?”
    “Perhaps,” he said. He looked at Alessa. “Would you mind asking your brother Rudi to step down here for a moment?” “I’m sorry,” Alessa said. “He left the bungalow at the same time I came downstairs to meet you.”

    The sun was lower, hazed by the steamy humidity, and it would soon be dark; but there seemed to be no relief from the heat. The crowd had thickened at Monkton’s, mostly Englishmen, shipping agents and claims and adjustment people, a few Americans on economic missions, some Portuguese businessmen. Jane’s nausea came in waves, like the thickening darkness. Her eyes searched the crowded sidewalk—the Europeans in small minority, the Pakistanis in sherwanis, pajama trousers and Jinnah caps, the Pathans and few Hindus, the Arabs, rich and poor, a Sherpa, the military in trim khaki. Traffic in motley interurban buses, packed until the vehicles bulged, rolled outward to the new urban development projects. Bicycles, rickshaws, a few camel-drawn carts fought for space on the broad avenue.
    Then she saw Rudi walking from the direction of the Metropole, tall and handsome and Nordic, at ease in the diverse crowd. He wore a white linen Italian suit, an American drip-dry shirt, a dark thin necktie. She hated him and loved him,
    despising her hand that lifted eagerly as if of its own will, to attract his attention and greet him.
    He stood at her table, unsmiling. “Jane.”
    “Sit down, Rudi,” she said humbly. “Please don’t frown at me like that. I’m sorry, but I simply had to see you, and you avoided me at the house, from the moment we came to Karachi yesterday—”
    “We will    be    together for several weeks,” he said coldly.
    “Must you    be    so melodramatic?”
    “Why do you avoid me?” she insisted.
    “You make a fool of yourself.”
    She bowed her head. “But I can’t help it. I’m desperate.” “Desperate?”
    “I’m in trouble.”
    He did not ask what she meant. Perhaps he knew, or at least suspected. He said impatiently, “Come with me, Jane. People are staring at us.”
    “I don’t care. I must talk to you.”
    “Then let us talk in private, not here. I have rented a car, a Ferrari.” His sudden change in tone when he mentioned the motorcar was almost childlike, she thought. “It belongs to a member of the Italian legation, Count Pucci. He’s up in the Northwest Territory for the summer. We can enjoy a drive, perhaps out to the Karachi Country Club.”
    “All right,” she said meekly.
    She gathered up gloves and handbag clumsily, aware of his critical eyes. When she was ready, he did not move. “Where are Sarah’s glasses?”
    “Oh, I took them off. Mr. Durell said I shouldn’t go on