“she said, and smiled. “A gun is not polite.” “Inside. Quickly.” 9 He did as he was told. He had his own .38 in his waistband, and he did not intend to give it up. The dealer in carpets, a Khorasan farmer turned merchant, was haggling with a pilgrim trying to sell a Shiraz rug in order to make an offering at the holy shrine. The bazaar man simply nodded to Freyda and went on bargaining. The blond woman urged Durell into the darker shadows at the rear of the open stall, which was curt...ained by more carpets hanging on horizontal display poles. She had been here before and knew the way. It was like a maze, moving between the corridors of dusty carpets, but Freyda kept close behind him, the gun in his ribs urging him on. Finally he came to a wooden wall and a wooden door. Freyda reached past him and knocked briefly in a sharp, coded series of taps. The door was opened immediately. Beyond it was a small room, a cubicle made of rough boards like a shed behind the bazaar rug shop.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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