Tongues of Fire by Peter Abrahams Read Free Book Online Page B

down.” Krebs sat. Armbrister resembled a fish in any case, with his thick red lips and slightly bulging eyes, always bloodshot because the central heating dried his contact lenses. He made a very poor physical impression, Krebs thought. It was one of the reasons he disliked Armbrister—he preferred his superiors to look more distinguished.
    â€œOf course I won’t forget,” Armbrister was saying. He picked up the sheet of paper and read from it. “Four salmon steaks, butter, eggs, parsley, and a bottle of Aligoté.” He listened, nodded, kissed the mouthpiece, and hung up.
    He turned to Krebs. “It’s a new code,” he said with a laugh. He laughed a little more in case Krebs wanted to join him. Krebs tried to smile.
    Armbrister stopped laughing and began pushing papers around his desk. “I’ve got something here that should be right up your alley.” He opened a drawer and rummaged inside. “If I can ever find it.” He loathed Armbrister. They had been in the same class at MIT.
    â€œHere we go.” Armbrister held up a yellow file. “There was a bit of contact last night.”
    â€œSerious?”
    â€œProbably not. But there might be some interesting angles. It seems they were after a man named Fahoum.” Armbrister turned his red fish eyes on Krebs. He was waiting for Krebs to say something.
    â€œI’ve never heard of him.”
    Armbrister smiled. “Abu Fahoum,” he said. “He was a commando leader. British educated. Also a cultured and witty man. Right now he’s attached to the Palestinian legation at the UN.”
    â€œBut he’s in the business?”
    The fish eyes opened wide in puzzlement. “The business?”
    â€œOur business,” Krebs said.
    â€œOh, very much so.” If Armbrister had heard the impatience in his tone he chose to ignore it. He handed Krebs the file. “Give him a call. I’m sure he’ll have a few ideas.”
    â€œHow much can I tell him?”
    â€œAs much as you like. We’re allies, after all. Just make sure he gets the impression that this job is very high priority.”
    Krebs stood up.
    â€œOne more thing,” Armbrister said. “It might make things smoother if you mention my name.”
    Krebs spent the rest of the day working on the yellow file. It was a thin file: no identification of the body, no autopsy results, no suggestion of who the young woman was, or where she had gone. There was a police report that included a diagram of the restaurant showing two X s, almost touching, and a statement of the blood types of the young woman and the busboy. They were both O positive.
    Krebs began making telephone calls. He tapped the keys of the computer terminal, wrote on the note pad. He didn’t go to lunch. Once the girl brought him sandwiches, later a pot of coffee. Both times he watched her closely as she turned and walked away, but he recovered his concentration quickly and returned to work.
    Snow turned to rain and back to snow. Deep shades of pink and orange blended into the gray light, meaning night had fallen on the city. Krebs had made the file much thicker, but he hadn’t learned anything he wanted to know. The dull ache from cheap sandwiches and too much coffee descended slowly through his intestines. He stared for a while at the diagram of the restaurant. Then he sat back, stretched, cracked his knuckles one at a time, and telephoned Abu Fahoum.
    The man who answered spoke a few harsh sounds in a language Krebs didn’t know.
    â€œMr. Fahoum, please,” Krebs said.
    â€œThis is he,” said the man. In English the voice sounded smooth and fancy, like the voices of British actors on educational television.
    Krebs introduced himself, and asked if they could meet.
    â€œI’m very busy,” Abu Fahoum said. “I’ve told everything I know to the police. Why don’t you talk to them?”
    â€œI have,” Krebs