‘What about my ticket?’ Simmons called after him. ‘When will I be released? I want to get out of here!’
Mr Ambrose stopped. Slowly, he turned. When he was facing the cell again, both Simmons and I couldn’t help but gasp. He had a knife in his hand.
‘No! Please don't!’ Simmons croaked. ‘I’ve done everything you asked! Please…’
‘Be quiet and hold still, man!’ Mr Ambrose commanded. ‘I nearly forgot - there’s something I still need from you.’ With two quick steps he was back at Simmons' side and grabbed him by the hair. The knife flashed in the darkness as it shot towards Simmons' head.
And then it was over, and Mr Ambrose’s hand came away holding a lock of blond hair he had severed from Simmons' head.
‘That was all.’
I stared at him incredulously. For once, Karim seemed to share my feelings. He was looking at Mr Ambrose as if he’d grown three additional heads.
Pointing to the blond lock in my employer’s hand, I hissed: ‘What’s that supposed to be? A memento?’
‘In a way.’
He turned away again and said, sparing neither me nor the ghost-white Simmons another glance:
‘Somebody will be along to bring you a change of clothes soon. You can’t be seen coming out of my building in the filthy rags you’re in right now. The man will show you to the street and give you everything you need. Our business is concluded, Mr Simmons. Our paths will not cross again.’
Without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the cell. Karim and I followed him, the former grim and silent, the latter, that is to say my good self, twitchy and curious to the point of madness.
‘What did you do to him so that he’d spill the beans?’ I blurted out as soon as the metal door had closed behind us. ‘And who was it that ordered him to spy on you? And why should anybody want to spy on you anyway?’
Mr Ambrose had already started up the corridor again. He didn’t turn around or, God forbid, stop to let me catch up.
‘Mind your own business, Mr Linton!’
‘I work for you, so your business is my business. What’s the point of someone spying on you?’
‘It is commonly referred to as “industrial espionage”,’ he called. Blast! That way of his to talk into the opposite direction of where you were standing was really annoying. ‘It means the stealing of secrets of one businessman by another businessman.’
‘What’s that good for?’
‘It’s not only nation states that seek to discover each other’s secrets. Secrets mean faster development and more money. Always remember: Knowledge is power is time is money!’
I frowned. Something seemed to be wrong with that sentence. ‘I thought it’s “knowledge is power” and “time is money”.’
‘I combined the two to save time.’
‘Oh.’
I lapsed into silence again for a moment. But then I remembered.
‘Wait! That wasn’t my only question. I had others! You were trying to distract me.’
‘Oh yes. Karim’s innovative torture methods.’
That hadn’t been the question at the top of my list, and I was about to tell him that actually I was more interested in the name of his mysterious enemy, but then… this was something I was pretty interested to hear, too.
‘Tell her, Karim,’ Mr Ambrose commanded.
Good God! Did he just use a feminine pronoun to refer to me? Whoever is behind all this, hearing their name must really have gotten to him!
‘Tell her?’ The bearded mountain’s eyes bugged. ‘Sahib! You do not mean that!’
‘Have I ever given an order that I have not meant?’
‘No, Sahib, but…’
‘Have I ever fallen into the habit of joking or making other kinds of remarks that were not of a serious and literal nature?’
‘I must admit, Sahib, no, but in this case…’
‘Tell he- I mean, tell him!’
Karim lowered his head.
‘As you wish, Sahib.’
With a few longer strides of his massive legs he had caught up to me and was marching next to me. I looked sideways. His face was trying for impassivity, but I could see the wrath of seven hells burning under the surface.
‘After I failed in my attempt with the Chinese water torture,’ he said in a voice that was supposed to be detached, ‘it came to me in a divine stroke of inspiration that a less classical approach might be more effective. So I stripped Simmons of all his clothes, including his undergarments, and threatened that if he would not divulge his information, I would drug him, dress him in a pink French ballet dancer’s costume, and tie him to the fountain in Trafalgar Square for the crowd to discover in the morning.’