7
That night Quinn once again was woken by what he thought was shouting. This time he was sure it was a woman’s voice, but though he lay awake for a while, it did not come again. He went to the window and parted the drapes and looked out across the shifting waters―the endless silver warp and weft, dimpled by shadows. What did Zahir have in store for him today? he wondered. He knew that, whatever it was, this was the beginning of his real task here.
Next morning, as he went down to breakfast, he stopped on the stairs and sniffed. Behind the now-familiar odors of furniture polish and tropical flowers was one that brushed a silken tendril up his spine. It was sultry, spicy, smoky. Gripping the banister, he closed his eyes and shook his head a moment trying to recall it, and was suddenly roc
