Countdown in Cairo

SIXTEEN

Alex was about to change and shower for bed when her doorbell rang. It gave her pause. Normally, visitors didn’t show up at the door unexpectedly, and they never did this late. Her friends normally knew better to drop in on her unannounced.

She glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes past 11:00 p.m. Who was in the hall?

An emergency of some sort? She wondered. A problem in the building?

She stood and walked to the door. She thought of taking her weapon with her. One could never be too careful in her line of work, but she decided against it, maybe out of pure laziness.

She arrived at the door and looked through the peephole. A little wave of relief swept across her. It was her neighbor, Mr. Thomas, the older gentleman she affectionately called “Don Tomás,” the retired diplomat. He was definitely a friend.

With him stood a young woman, a girl maybe a third his age.

Alex suppressed a mischievous smirk. Maybe the old boy wanted to borrow a bottle of champagne. Then she suppressed her smile, undid the latch, and opened the door.

Immediately, before Alex could speak, Don Tomás held up a finger to his lips to indicate silence. Then he spoke in a barely audible whisper.

“Good evening, Alex,” he said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” His tone was serious. She picked up on it right away.

She shook her head to indicate that, no, he was not disturbing her at all.

“I have some new music that I downloaded,” he said, continuing a low tone tinged with a conspiratorial air. “I wondered if you’d like to come over and take a listen. Some of them might be of interest to you. I’d be glad to lend you a few of my bootleg CDs if you’d like to rip them.”

Alex was about to open her mouth to respond softly when Don Tomás moved his firm finger from his lips to a few inches in front of Alex’s. At the same time, the young woman held forth a note scrawled on the open pages of a writing tablet.

Alex glanced at it and her eyes widened. Her heart skipped as she read. The note said,

I used to work for the CIA

I once planted a listening

device in your apartment

I think it’s still there

Alex raised her gaze and looked into the girl’s eyes. The girl looked frightened and agitated, hunted, like a doe in deer season. Her appearance also rang a distant bell to Alex. It took a second, but Alex realized that she was Don Tomás’s niece. Her name was Janet; Alex had seen her from time to time in the building and had even been introduced briefly once in the hallway.

Abruptly, Janet turned the page of the writing tablet and presented a second written message.

I used to work for Michael Cerny

We need to talk

Alex blinked in surprise and looked back up. She saw more fear in the girl’s eyes.

Alex raised her own finger to indicate they should wait for a moment. She ducked back into her apartment, found her pistol, and clipped it to the right side of the belt on her jeans. Then she returned to her door and followed her neighbor across the hallway to his place.

As she crossed the hall, Alex saw no one other than Don Tomás and Janet. The corridor was as quiet as a tomb, although there was a strange scent of something cooking, or, more accurately, overcooking.

“Mrs. Rothman down the hall has gone complete daffy,” Don Tomás said as explanation. “Poor old woman burns food at all hours. Puts stuff in the toaster and forgets. One of these days an onion bagel is going to turn this whole place into an inferno.”

They entered Don Tomás’s apartment and closed the door.