nxious for a closer look at some of these shops. How about you?"

"Ali Moustafa's seems pretty good to me," Scotty replied. "Look at that stuff." He pointed to leather goods displayed in one window. "It's beautiful. Go on in and deliver kitty while I see what some of these things are."

"I tell you," Hassan offered. "Then I help bargain so prices be low. No bargain, prices too high."

Rick walked in through the open door, his eyes taking in the amazing collection of stuff sold by Ali Moustafa. The store was a big one, especially compared with most in the bazaar, and there were several clerks. The walls were lined with shelves that held copperware, brassware, silver, and inlaid boxes. He saw rolls of tapestries, collections of brass camels and donkeys, and glassed-in cases of jewelry. Crowding the floor space were huge vases of brass or pottery, camel saddles, metal trays on low stands, and huge leather hassocks.

The clerks eyed him with interest, then all eyes focused on the package under his arm. For a moment Rick felt a current of tension run through the store, but he dismissed it as imagination. He walked toward the rear counter, trying to identify Ali Moustafa, but none of the clerks fitted the description Bartouki had given.

He addressed his question to the clerk behind the rearmost counter. "Is Mr. Moustafa here?"

The clerk's dark eyes flickered, and his face became expressionless. "Please to be seated. I will get him."

The clerk vanished through a curtained door at the rear of the store, and Rick turned. He was sensitive to impressions, and he was again conscious of the tension. As he turned he saw that all the clerks were watching him, their faces impassive. His eyes went to the front of the store. Scotty was with Hassan in the doorway, discussing some object in the display window.

A voice spoke from behind him. "You wish to see me?"

Rick turned. The