| General Fiction posted August 22, 2019 | Chapters: |
...80 81 -82- 83... 
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Chapter 82: Rescued by Rasheed
A chapter in the book The French Letter
An Explosive Situation
by tfawcus
| Background Seconded by MI6, Charles and Helen arive in Pakistan to accomplish an assignment in the Hindu Kush, to neutralise Abdul Jaleel Zemar, the leader of an international network of terrorist cells. |
Closing paragraphs of Chapter 81
I walked out of the store with two over-priced rings and a hole in my pocket, but with the satisfaction of having beaten him down by a few hundred rupees. Helen would have been so proud of me.
When I returned to the clothing store, she was nowhere to be seen. The shopkeeper shrugged helplessly. "She's out the back, sahib. Trying on a salwar kameez." I sighed, then settled down to wait.
Chapter 82
While I waited, I idled away the time, browsing through a catalogue of dresses - though focusing, I confess, more on the shape of the models than their apparel.
When Helen finally emerged, the sight made me catch my breath. A purple kameez hugged the contour of her body and was intricately embroidered in silver thread at the waist, neck, and sleeve. It left everything, and yet nothing, to the imagination. At her throat, a filigree necklace held tears of lapis lazuli like drops of dew. Her pendant earrings were of the same design.
She swayed forward with sinuous charm, a half-smile playing around her lips. The matching dupatta draped over her arm fell gracefully like the drooping wing of an angel. It brushed against the loose-fitting salwar that swathed her legs, cuffed at the ankle to reveal exquisite khussa slippers.
"Well, what to do you think?"
"I think it is very beautiful, very beautiful indeed, but not entirely practical in present circumstances."
"It isn't bought for present circumstances."
"Then what for?"
"For my wedding."
My heart skipped a beat. This was an alarming new development. Without thinking, I slipped one of the rings in my pocket onto my finger, perhaps hoping to disappear. Alas, it was not a ring of power. At the price I'd paid, how could it have been?
I covered my confusion by saying, "Isn't it considered unlucky for the groom to see the dress before the ceremony?"
"Only if you're superstitious."
I crossed my fingers behind my back and gazed at her midriff. More to change the subject than anything else, I said, "What's that curious design on your bodice? It looks half woman and half snake."
"How observant of you. And there was I, thinking that you were just ogling my breasts. It is Shahmeran, goddess of wisdom and guardian of secrets. Do you not remember the story of Jemlia, in The Arabian Nights? The man who eats of her flesh inherits her gifts."
"Really? Hmm... You do look rather succulent. I must admit I wouldn't mind a little nibble."
Every inch the mistress of theatrics, she raised an imperious eyebrow and hitched up her dupatta. For a moment I felt as if I were in the presence of a Maharani and ought to be falling to my knees and shuffling backwards out of the door. Then, with a disdainful look, she twirled around and sashayed back to the fitting rooms with her raven tresses cascading over her shoulders and her bottom wiggling provocatively beneath the folds of silk. I was mesmerised.
After a short while, she returned with her purchases neatly boxed and her body more suitably attired for a bustling market. Her arrival coincided with a thunderous boom. The windows shook with the force of a distant explosion. Then the screaming started.
A distraught figure dashed past the shopfront, dragging a small child behind her. One old man, pushed aside in the panic, fell heavily against the glass. His look of terror was etched in my mind as he slid to the pavement. I raced outside.
"Here, let me help you."
He clutched at my sleeve as I steered him out of harm's way and into the shop. Together, we lowered him into a chair. The shopkeeper rushed over with a glass of water. Helen dipped a wad of tissues into it, and started to dab his bruised temple.
"May the blessing of Allah be upon you, child." He reached up to clasp my hand. "And on you, too, my son." A tear of gratitude fell from his rheumy eye.
Wailing ambulances and the rise and fall of police sirens soon broke the eerie silence following the explosion. The sharp footfall of soldiers rang out on the paved surface as khaki platoons surged through the fleeing crowd, shouting orders and ruthlessly brushing people aside. Roadblocks were set up. A grey pall of smoke drifted across a cloudless sky, carrying with it the acrid smell of death. The thwump, thwump of a hovering helicopter grew louder then faded away as it circled and swooped like a bird of prey.
"Come on, Helen. It's time we left."
"What about him?"
The lady who ran the shop said, "Don't worry. I'll look after him. You go." She ushered us out into the street, thrusting Helen's package into my hand.
We hadn't gone far before we saw the first roadblock. Police were checking everyone's ID and pulling people out, seemingly at random, for a full body search. These unfortunates were pushed up against a wall, with their hands raised above their heads while they suffered the indignities of intimate invasion. Female officers were equally thorough with the women.
I nudged Helen. "It might be wise to wear these," I said, handing her one of the rings.
"Wow! That must be the most romantic proposal a girl has ever had. How did you know what size to get?"
"I didn't. I got the jeweller to cut a bit out of the back so that you could adjust it."
"Clever."
"I know."
The police glanced at our passports and waved us through without comment. They obviously weren't in the business of identifying couples living in sin, let alone top-class international spies working for MI6. They had more important things on their minds.
Fifty yards further on, a car pulled up alongside us. The passenger window opened, and a familiar voice called out, "Greetings, bhai sahib! Rasheed here, at your service. Take esteemed visitors back to Parkway Hotel? Lahore very dangerous place today."
We climbed in with relief and sank back into the seats. Had he really waited for us on the off-chance? Clearly, he was a man who didn't give up easily.
"Rasheed like bad penny. Keeps turning up." He flashed his gold-capped teeth and, with his foot to the floorboards, set off like a greyhound out of its trap. "Not to worry, sahib. Rasheed very best driver in Lahore. Have you home in no time."
"Insha'Allah," Helen muttered.
"What?"
"God willing."
I saw Rasheed looking in the rear-view mirror, and I turned round. There was a black saloon car following us, and it was catching up.
I walked out of the store with two over-priced rings and a hole in my pocket, but with the satisfaction of having beaten him down by a few hundred rupees. Helen would have been so proud of me.
When I returned to the clothing store, she was nowhere to be seen. The shopkeeper shrugged helplessly. "She's out the back, sahib. Trying on a salwar kameez." I sighed, then settled down to wait.
Chapter 82
While I waited, I idled away the time, browsing through a catalogue of dresses - though focusing, I confess, more on the shape of the models than their apparel.
When Helen finally emerged, the sight made me catch my breath. A purple kameez hugged the contour of her body and was intricately embroidered in silver thread at the waist, neck, and sleeve. It left everything, and yet nothing, to the imagination. At her throat, a filigree necklace held tears of lapis lazuli like drops of dew. Her pendant earrings were of the same design.
She swayed forward with sinuous charm, a half-smile playing around her lips. The matching dupatta draped over her arm fell gracefully like the drooping wing of an angel. It brushed against the loose-fitting salwar that swathed her legs, cuffed at the ankle to reveal exquisite khussa slippers.
"Well, what to do you think?"
"I think it is very beautiful, very beautiful indeed, but not entirely practical in present circumstances."
"It isn't bought for present circumstances."
"Then what for?"
"For my wedding."
My heart skipped a beat. This was an alarming new development. Without thinking, I slipped one of the rings in my pocket onto my finger, perhaps hoping to disappear. Alas, it was not a ring of power. At the price I'd paid, how could it have been?
I covered my confusion by saying, "Isn't it considered unlucky for the groom to see the dress before the ceremony?"
"Only if you're superstitious."
I crossed my fingers behind my back and gazed at her midriff. More to change the subject than anything else, I said, "What's that curious design on your bodice? It looks half woman and half snake."
"How observant of you. And there was I, thinking that you were just ogling my breasts. It is Shahmeran, goddess of wisdom and guardian of secrets. Do you not remember the story of Jemlia, in The Arabian Nights? The man who eats of her flesh inherits her gifts."
"Really? Hmm... You do look rather succulent. I must admit I wouldn't mind a little nibble."
Every inch the mistress of theatrics, she raised an imperious eyebrow and hitched up her dupatta. For a moment I felt as if I were in the presence of a Maharani and ought to be falling to my knees and shuffling backwards out of the door. Then, with a disdainful look, she twirled around and sashayed back to the fitting rooms with her raven tresses cascading over her shoulders and her bottom wiggling provocatively beneath the folds of silk. I was mesmerised.
After a short while, she returned with her purchases neatly boxed and her body more suitably attired for a bustling market. Her arrival coincided with a thunderous boom. The windows shook with the force of a distant explosion. Then the screaming started.
A distraught figure dashed past the shopfront, dragging a small child behind her. One old man, pushed aside in the panic, fell heavily against the glass. His look of terror was etched in my mind as he slid to the pavement. I raced outside.
"Here, let me help you."
He clutched at my sleeve as I steered him out of harm's way and into the shop. Together, we lowered him into a chair. The shopkeeper rushed over with a glass of water. Helen dipped a wad of tissues into it, and started to dab his bruised temple.
"May the blessing of Allah be upon you, child." He reached up to clasp my hand. "And on you, too, my son." A tear of gratitude fell from his rheumy eye.
Wailing ambulances and the rise and fall of police sirens soon broke the eerie silence following the explosion. The sharp footfall of soldiers rang out on the paved surface as khaki platoons surged through the fleeing crowd, shouting orders and ruthlessly brushing people aside. Roadblocks were set up. A grey pall of smoke drifted across a cloudless sky, carrying with it the acrid smell of death. The thwump, thwump of a hovering helicopter grew louder then faded away as it circled and swooped like a bird of prey.
"Come on, Helen. It's time we left."
"What about him?"
The lady who ran the shop said, "Don't worry. I'll look after him. You go." She ushered us out into the street, thrusting Helen's package into my hand.
We hadn't gone far before we saw the first roadblock. Police were checking everyone's ID and pulling people out, seemingly at random, for a full body search. These unfortunates were pushed up against a wall, with their hands raised above their heads while they suffered the indignities of intimate invasion. Female officers were equally thorough with the women.
I nudged Helen. "It might be wise to wear these," I said, handing her one of the rings.
"Wow! That must be the most romantic proposal a girl has ever had. How did you know what size to get?"
"I didn't. I got the jeweller to cut a bit out of the back so that you could adjust it."
"Clever."
"I know."
The police glanced at our passports and waved us through without comment. They obviously weren't in the business of identifying couples living in sin, let alone top-class international spies working for MI6. They had more important things on their minds.
Fifty yards further on, a car pulled up alongside us. The passenger window opened, and a familiar voice called out, "Greetings, bhai sahib! Rasheed here, at your service. Take esteemed visitors back to Parkway Hotel? Lahore very dangerous place today."
We climbed in with relief and sank back into the seats. Had he really waited for us on the off-chance? Clearly, he was a man who didn't give up easily.
"Rasheed like bad penny. Keeps turning up." He flashed his gold-capped teeth and, with his foot to the floorboards, set off like a greyhound out of its trap. "Not to worry, sahib. Rasheed very best driver in Lahore. Have you home in no time."
"Insha'Allah," Helen muttered.
"What?"
"God willing."
I saw Rasheed looking in the rear-view mirror, and I turned round. There was a black saloon car following us, and it was catching up.
 Recognized |
#70 2019 |
List of Characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris. A double agent, who has infiltrated the ISIS network in France
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - Gaston's grandfather. Author of the infamous letter of 1903.
Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion) - Coordinator of an international network of ISIS cells
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris. A double agent, who has infiltrated the ISIS network in France
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - Gaston's grandfather. Author of the infamous letter of 1903.
Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion) - Coordinator of an international network of ISIS cells
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