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“I don’t have a death-stare.”
Asher laughed now. “The way you look at me right now. The only reason I don’t crap myself is because I’m not scared of you.”
“You’re not scared of me?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Not even close.”
Harry sighed and decided to take in the passing scenery instead. On many trips to many cities in different countries, he’d kept his head down, only taking note of exit routes, landmarks, police presence.
But Algiers was a pretty city, he had to admit, as they headed toward the bay where there were palm trees and immaculate whitewashed buildings. “Hmm,” Harry grumbled. “I just appreciated the architecture. Are you happy?”
Asher laughed. “Don’t get any ideas. We’re not staying in any of these.”
Harry figured as much, but as Asher turned off and weaved through the back roads, Harry realised where Asher was taking him. “‘Rock the Casbah,’ huh?”
Asher shot him a confused look. “What?”
“Never mind.”
The Casbah region of Algiers was iconic, yes. Bustling with tourists and locals, crammed, ancient buildings with narrow, winding and steep streets. Having never been there, Harry knew it by reputation alone, and the song, of course.
Asher pulled the old truck into a tight parking spot and killed the engine.
“Now what?” Harry asked.
“Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“A guide.”
Christ.
“How?” Harry asked. “How did you organise this?”
Asher gave him a sidelong glance.
“Oh right. Your informant.”
“Don’t speak of him.”
Harry inhaled deeply and sighed on the exhale. “I’m very curious about you and him.”
Harry was expecting another angry outburst, possibly another gun pointed at his head, but instead Asher raised an eyebrow. “Are you jealous?”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Youarejealous.”
“I absolutely am fucking not.”
“You wanted to know if we were lovers before.” Asher hummed, though it sounded more like a purr. “Would you really like to know just how well we know each other? What he would do to me?”
“What I would really like to know is what your brains look like splattered on the window behind you.”
Asher laughed. “You’re so easy, Harry. So quick to anger. I’d have thought you had the patience of a saint, but you have such a little, teeny, tiny”—he held his fingers close together—“fuse.”
Harry wanted to grab Asher by the throat and pummel his fucking head in, but that voice in the back of his mind, that voice of reason, his intuition that had kept him alive so far, knew what Asher had said was right.
