Damascus； boys who wander alone； others who prowl in packs； stealing； begging； and joining lost causes because they will supply them with guns。 Pah！ The self…important British knew nothing of such things。
The boy is smiling。 An unsure； nervous smile。 He is lost in this huge railway station with its throngs of blank…eyed strangers。 He would be even more lost in the city itself should he step outside。 Now he assumes he has found a friend。 If only he realised。 Hah； yes； if only the boy understood。
Ajel； be quick； Youssef； do not linger on this plain of shuffling travellers and vagrants。 Policemen patrol； they search for runaways such as this one。
Now he is hesitant。 The boy is uncertain。 Perhaps it is the dark skin he does not trust。 The English nurture such intolerances； instil them in their young。
Talk smoothly； Youssef； my friend。 He looks around； the movement casual； nothing mare than a glance at arrival and departure times； a constantly changing pattern high on the station wall： but Youssef really looks to see if he and the boy are being observed。 You are not； my friend； I； Asil； have already looked for you。 I am the only one who is interested。 Besides； a man talking to a shab is familiar cares Life is too personal to these surroundings。 Nobody really He places a reassuring hand on the runaway's shoulder and the boy does not flinch away。 Perhaps money is mentioned。 Ah； I see the boy nods。 He has all the boldness and the stupidity of the unworldly。
My friend turns away and the boy follows。 They walk side by side。 Not close； not like lovers； but like associates in sin。 I see it in your eyes； Youssef； the gleam that shines from your dark soul； even though outwardly you are calm。 And the boy swaggers； but this is a self…conscious posturing； an arrogant affectation。
I must quickly go to the car。 I must be ready in the darkness of the backseat。 The boy will hardly feel the needle's sting； he will only sense my presence when it is too late。
Then； for him； sleep。 A long； deep sleep。
And when he wakes…our pleasure and the master's sustenance。
10 INTRUDER
Hurry； Youssef； ajel。 I suspect that same gleam is now m my own eyes。 My body is already aching。
Monk was surprised。 Nobody was due this time of night。 Leastwise； nobody'd told him。
The elevator was humming though。 Faint； but it was on its way up。 Sounded like the one from the chairman's suite。 No way could it be Felix's elevator； the one that slid all the way down to the basement。 Nobody else had the code for that。 Even the chick； Cora； had to wait 'til it was sent down for her。
Monk was momentarily distracted by Cora's image。 The image was naked from the waist down。
Sound's stopped。 It'd travelled no more'n four storeys。 Yeah； from Sir Vic's den。 Who the hell …？
Monk heard the doors open。
But no one stepped out。
The bodyguard laid down his magazine and rose from the chair at the end of the corridor。 He released the restraining hoop on his shoulder…holster； but stayed where he was； awaiting developments。
No mood for fuckouts tonight； he told himself。 It'd been a bad day already。 He'd been shown for a jackass that morning； a clumsy meatloaf； and he was in no mind for surprises tonight； even if some jerk had made a mistake in ing up to the twenty…second。 Just step outside； lessee the colour of your teeth。
Still no one。 But the doors weren't closing； and that wasn't right。
Monk crept down the corridor； one hand on the butt of his pistol； a big lumbering man who nevertheless approached the lift silently； soft carpeting helping his stealth。 The corridor was gloomy…dark…the way Felix liked it…and mellow light from the opening ahead stained the floor and opposite wall。
The door should've closed by now。 Unless someone had a mitt on the O button。
Monk drew out the Snaith and Wesson。
He paused； the opening only two feet away。 There were no shadows in the glow that spread from it。
He braced himself； readied to spring forwards and sideways； gun…arm pointed into the lift。 But he thought better of that tactic。 Monk wasn't stupid。 His bulk was too good a target。
So he got down on his hands and knees and crawled forward； gunbarrel almost alongside his nose； elbows digging into the deep…pile。 No one expected to see a face appear below knee level。
He was at the very corner； easing his massive head past the shiny metal ridge； the lift's interior ing into view。 His gun hand was no more than a few inches ahead of him。
Nobody there。 It looked like there was nobody there after A hand grabbed his hair and yanked him forward onto his belly。 A leg straddled him and crushed his gun into the carpet。 Iron fingers still dug into his hair making the roots scream。 Something slammed hard into his neck and his thoughts became unsettled dreams。
Janusz Palusinski sat at the kitchen's breakfast bar slapping butter on bread with a carving knife whose blade was at least nine inches long。 Beside his plate was a tumbler half…full of vodka。
He checked his wristwatch； parts of tattooed numbers showing at the edge of the broad strap； then sawed off chunks of roast beef； the red meat rare almost to the point of being raw。 As he cut he wondered if Felix…moj Pan； he mentally and with more than a degree of cynicism added…would scream in his sleep tonight。 A terrifying sound that stilled the blood of anyone who heard it。 What did the man dream of？ What fears possessed him when he slept？ How close to total madness had he e？ But no。 Janusz must not even have a negative thought about his master。 Felix would know； he would sense。
Felix； Felix； Felix。
Just the name could cause an ache in Palusinski's head。
The Pole wiped the back of his fist across his forehead； the knife he held catching light from overhead in a sudden flare。 Normally the kitchen lights； like all the others in the penthouse； would be kept low by dimmer switches； but at present Felix was sleeping； he wouldn't know。 Yet sometimes he did 。 。 。 Sometimes he would accuse them all of things that he should never have been aware of； and they would cringe； they would cower； they would be craven before him。 Still Felix…O lord； master； and oppressor…would make them suffer； sometimes the punishment cruel； other times involving a mere few hours of disfort。 Palusinski often felt that the two Arabs enjoyed that part of their servitude。 Monk's brain was too curdled to care either way； blazen that he was。
But Janusz was different； he assured himself。 Janusz was aware of certain things 。 。 。 The others were fools。 No； the Arabs were not fools。 They believed 。 。 。
Palusinski gulped neat vodka； then unscrewed the mustard jar lid。 He dug in the tip of the carving knife； sunk it four inches； then spread the dollop it came out with across the cut meat。 He slammed another thick slice of bread； also lavishly buttered； on top； pressing down with the flat of his hand so that yellow goo oozed from the sides。
Twenty minutes before the gorilla was to be relieved； he told himself as he raised the overflowing sandwich and barged his mouth into it。 Monk…a good name for an animal such as he。 flours of sitting watching an empty corridor was a fitting task for such an idiota。 But for Janusz； it meant five hours of misery to look forward to。 A torment。 Another torture imposed by Felix。 Even pain was better than boredom。
What was it that had made Felix so nervous？ The man was mad； there could be no doubting that。 But a genius also！ No doubting that； either。 Gowno！ No doubt at all。 But why afraid now； moj szef？ You； who lives in shadows； who distrusts the light unless it is for your purpose。 What fresh fear haunts you now； mgzcayana of many dreads？
Palusinski chomped on meat and bread； lips glistening from the surplus of butter。 He stilled his jaw to gulp vodka； seasoning the mushed food in his mouth with fire。 His eyes were small behind the wire…framed spectacles he wore； their lids never fully raised； like blinds half…drawn in a room where secrets were kept。 They were focused upon the rim of the open mustard jar； everything else a soft periphery； yet his eyes were not seeing that rim with its sliver of reflected li