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forgotten…"
    I grinned again.
    "I hadn't," I said. I pulled off my jacket and handed it to her. "We have to get out of here, and you're going to attract enough attention in the street as it is. I wouldn't want to start a riot."
    Even in the dim moonlight that filtered through the dirty windows, I could see her blush as she twisted into the jacket.
    "But where can we go?" she asked. "I was sleeping in a small room on the floor above the club, which Remy had arranged for me with his friends, the owners. He was afraid…"
    "…that if your father was kidnapped, and he didn't cooperate with his kidnappers, you might be next on the list. A hostage for your father's cooperation." I finished for her.
    She nodded. "Exactly. But we cannot return to the club now. There will be police, and the gunman who escaped might come again."
    I put my hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the door.
    "We aren't going anywhere near the club," I assured her. "I have a friend. His name is Akhmed and he owns a bar. I've done him a few favors." Like saving him from a life-term in a French jail, I could have added, but didn't. "Now he's going to do me a few."
    "Then you do believe that I am Michelle Duroche?" she asked. Her voice was pleading.
    "If you're not," I said, looking down at the view between the lapels of my jacket, which was highly improved on its present wearer, "you're an interesting substitute."
    She smiled, looking up at me as I opened the door and we went through.
    "I feel better," she said. "I was afraid…"
    She gasped again. It was more of a muffled shriek.
    "Your face… your face…"
    My mouth tightened. In the full glare of moonlight, I could imagine what my face, hands, and shirt must look like, splattered and smeared with Remy St. Pierre's blood. I pulled a clean handkerchief from a pants pocket, dampened it with rum from my flask, and did the best I could to clean up. When I'd finished I could tell from the look of controlled horror on her face that I still resembled something out of a nightmare.
    "Come on," I said, taking her arm. "We both need a hot shower, but that'll have to wait. In a few hours there'll be an army of cops around here."
    I guided her away from the port area, away from the vicinity of the club. It took me a few blocks before I knew exactly where I was. Then I found the Rue Zhirana, and turned right, into a long, twisting alley which led toward Akhmed's bar. It smelled like any other Tangier alley, of urine, damp clay, and half-rotten vegetables. The decaying clay houses pressing in on either side of us were dark and silent. It was late. Only a few people passed us, but those who did took one quick look and averted their heads, scurrying away quietly. We must have made a disturbing picture: A beautiful and voluptuous long-haired girl dressed only in translucent harem pants and a man's jacket, accompanied by a grim-faced man whose skin was streaked by human blood. Passersby avoided us instinctively: We had the smell of bad trouble on us.
    So did Akhmed's bar.
    The Marrakesh Lounge was the most posh, expensive, glamorous bar in the medina. It catered to the rich, sophisticated Moroccan businessman, and to the knowledgeable tourist who wanted neither a hashish dive nor a phonied-up tourist trap. Akhmed had saved his money for a long time to buy it, and now he ran it very carefully. He paid his protection money to the police, of course, just as he paid it to certain other powerful elements on the other side of the law. But he also kept out of trouble with the law by making sure that the bar didn't become a hangout for dope dealers, junkies, smugglers, and criminals. Part of ensuring his position consisted of his set-up: The bar was on the far side of a courtyard. The courtyard had a high wall topped with broken glass set into the concrete and a heavy wooden door. Beside the door was a buzzer and an intercom. Customers buzzed, gave their names, and were admitted only if Akhmed knew them, or the person who had