Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 103, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 625 & 626, March 1994

Egyptian Days by Edward D. Hoch

© 1994 by Edward D. Hoch

Retired from Britain’s secret service, Mr. Hoch’s sleuth Jeffrey Rand is free to find his cases where he may, without the constraint of involvement by Concealed Communications. As a result, his adventures are as fresh as today’s headlines, as in this tale of terror in Egypt...

It was in the Old City section of Cairo that Rand first encountered the Egyptian astrologer Ibn Shubra. He had wandered the crowded streets for an hour before finally locating the narrow alleyway he sought, part of the elaborate labyrinth of fragile old structures of wood and brick. A century ago, rich and poor had lived together in the Old City, but now only the poor remained among the piles of rubbish and leaking sewers.

Rand had been told to look for a weathered wooden sign with a half-moon on it. He found it near the end of the alleyway, where a bearded man wrapped in rags was asleep on the bottom step. He made his way up to the top floor of the building, knocked, and waited until a tall man in black answered.

“I am looking for Ibn Shubra,” Rand said. “I was sent by Max Zeitner, a bartender at the Nile Hilton.”

The faint aroma of jasmine reached his nostrils as the tall man stepped aside and motioned him to enter. “I am Shubra. Have you come for a reading?”

“In a way, but not for myself. Max said you could tell me more than anyone about the Egyptian Days.”

“The Days. Yes, I can. Come in.” He switched on a dim light by a small table. The room was growing dark in the late afternoon, lit only by the sun filtering through the fine latticework of a meshre-beeyeh bay window. “Have a seat please, Mr. Rand.”

“You know my name.”

“Max Zeitner called to say you were coming. I had expected you sooner, but the alleys are like a maze to the uninitiated. Might I offer you some tea or a glass of wine?”

“Tea will be fine. I admit to a thirst after my search for you.”

He disappeared through beaded curtains and returned in a moment with a cup of strong tea, obviously already prepared. “What do you wish to know about the Days?” he asked, seating himself across the table from Rand. Perhaps for some customers he produced a crystal ball as well as a cup of tea.

“What are they? What effect do they have on people?”

He placed his hands together as if in prayer. Rand could see that the apartment, and perhaps the whole house, had once been the domain of a wealthy merchant or perhaps a lawyer. Had this man lived in such luxury, or had he only acquired the place during its present days of decline?

“I am an astrologer,” Ibn Shubra began, speaking in the soft, precise voice of a teacher who begins by stating the obvious. “It was a long time ago that my native predecessors named the unlucky days, days on which no business should be transacted. These became known as the Egyptian Days. Astrologers named two in each month.”

“Max was able to tell me that much,” Rand persisted, “but I understand that three days each year are especially unlucky. Even people who ignore the others view these as especially baneful.”

The tall man nodded. “They are the last Monday in April, the second Monday in August, and the third Monday in December. The worst days of all. The Egyptian Days.”

“Next week is the last Monday in April.”

“I know that,” he replied with a slight smile.

“What can be done to ward off the evil influence?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “True believers will remain at home and do no work.”

Rand leaned forward. “Are you a true believer, Mr. Shubra? Will you be casting horoscopes next Monday?”

Shubra’s eyes raised to meet his. “I do what must be done, Mr. Rand, for the good of my people.”

It was almost evening when Rand returned to the Nile Hilton where he was staying with his wife Leila. It was a return visit for them both, more than twenty years after they’d first met there. In those days Leila had been in graduate school, Rand had been in British Intelligence, and the Russians had been in Egypt. His first sight of her had been in his hotel room. She was twenty-five years old, studying archaeology at Cairo University.

Now, as he entered their room and found her resting on the bed, it all came back to him. “Been out shopping?” he asked.

She opened her eyes and nodded. “It’s hot for late April. And I don’t remember the city being this crowded.” Then she sat up on the bed. “I was just resting. Are we going out to dinner?”

“How about eating downstairs? They have a nice dining room. It’s a bit late, and the other good restaurants might be crowded on a Friday night.”

Leila gave her sardonic chuckle. “And besides, you hate Egyptian food. Here at the hotel you can dine just as if we were back in London.”

“I suppose so,” he admitted with a smile. She was still the small, dark-haired woman he remembered from that first night in a different Cairo hotel room, with the pleasing Middle Eastern features that came from her father rather than her English mother.

“What about the astrologer?” she asked after a moment, perhaps only just remembering where he’d been. “Did you locate him?”

Rand nodded. “It took me forever in those Old City alleyways. I was almost ready to give up. His name is Ibn Shubra and he lives in a fancy old place that’s been carved up into apartments. There was a ragged man asleep on his doorstep.”

“What about the Egyptian Days?”

“Monday is the next one.”

“Does that mean Rynox—?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to call London?”

“I don’t work for them anymore,” he reminded her, though in truth he’d done so several times since his early retirement. This job had come about not in London but in Cairo, when he’d been recognized by a belly dancer named Emira at Sahara City. It was Emira who’d told him about Rynox and the Egyptian Days.

“Did we come back to Egypt just so you could flirt with a belly dancer?” Leila had asked that night on the way back to their hotel.

“She’s almost your age,” he said, trying to reassure her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leaned over and kissed her in the back of the taxi. “She met me once in Athens, years ago. She just happened to remember.”

“You do make lasting impressions, Jeffrey.”

“She didn’t know I was retired. She wanted to tell me about a man called Rynox.” He remembered the taxi driver and lowered his voice. Later, in their hotel room, he’d continued the conversation. “This fellow Rynox, according to Emira, is bringing a shipment of plastic explosives from Europe to sell to terrorists here. She thought I could stop him.”

“Don’t get involved. We’re here on holiday.”

It was good advice and he might have heeded it except that the very next morning a terrorist bomb went off on a tourist bus, killing three people.

The belly dancer had mentioned a bartender at the Nile Hilton, Max Zeitner, and it was no inconvenience for Rand to seek him out. He was a scowling German who worked the afternoon shift in his own version of the hotel’s bartending uniform — an open red jacket worn over a hairy chest and tight jeans. Rand guessed him to be in his late thirties, though trying to appear younger.

“Emira over at Sahara City said you might be able to help me,” he said when Zeitner had poured him a beer.

“The dancer?” His eyes showed immediate interest. “Haven’t seen her around in a while. How is she?”

“Well enough. I’m looking for a fellow named Rynox and she said it might be difficult to find him this weekend because of the Egyptian Days, whatever they are.”

The German snorted. “Superstition, nothing more! You need an astrologer to tell you about the Egyptian Days. I’ve been here ten years and I still don’t understand which ones are important.”

“What about Rynox?”

Max Zeitner studied him for just a second before replying, “Never heard of him.”

When Rand had finished his beer he asked about an astrologer. The bartender gave him the name and address of Ibn Shubra. Leila was out shopping and he’d left her a note in the room telling where he’d gone, in case he didn’t get back. It was a habit of too many years in the trade.

Now, as she prepared to accompany him down to dinner, Leila asked, “Do you really think this man Rynox is a menace?”

“You read about the bombings. If he’s really supplying explosives, he’s a menace.”

“Why would she tell you about it rather than the police?”

“The Egyptian police can be corrupt. They have a reputation for torture, and people like to avoid them. The British, on the other hand, had troops here until nineteen fifty-one. Some Egyptians still view us as their guardians. Remember the war — we kept Rommel out.”

Leila said no more about it during dinner, and when Rand suggested later that they pay another visit to Sahara City she didn’t seem surprised. Neither did she seem too agreeable. “Wasn’t one night enough? That’s the worst sort of tourist trap.”

“Perhaps that’s what Cairo has become, only with these terrorist bombings there soon won’t be many tourists to trap.”

“You go without me,” she suggested.

“I’d look suspicious. Together we’re just two more middle-aged tourists.”

“Why don’t you just call London and be done with it?”

“There may be nothing to call about. I have to speak with Emira again.”

“All right,” she agreed finally, reluctantly.

Sahara City was one of Cairo’s best-known nightspots, famous for its belly dancers. It was really an open-air complex of nightclubs located just south of the Giza Pyramids, its name spelled out in garish lightbulbs in both Arabic and English. The place held a bizarre fascination for Rand and he always included it on his Cairo itinerary. Perhaps it was the outlandish mix of customers, or the haze of cigarette smoke that hung in the night air, or the sweaty flesh of the dancers.

This night the place was packed with a Friday crowd, tourists and locals. Leila took one look at them and muttered, “So much for a pleasant night at the hotel.”

“I promise we won’t stay long. I just want to speak with Emira again.”

After they were seated in a row of tables a few back from the dance floor, Rand excused himself and circled around to the backstage curtains. A dozen women of varying ages, all voluptuous and heavily made up, waited for their turns to perform. Rand knew from his last visit that they would dance separately and in various combinations, vying for tips from men at the ringside tables.

“Emira!” he called out, spotting her near the back. She stepped forward quickly, wearing a bright green costume with matching tassels.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have to speak to you again about Rynox.”

“Not tonight! Do you want to get me killed?”

“What—?”

“Get out, the show is starting!”

“I’ve seen Max Zeitner. He sent me to an astrologer—”

That stopped her. “What astrologer?”

“A man named Ibn Shubra.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “It was a mistake talking to you. Get out — someone is here!”

One of the other dancers passed her and said, “Tell him to give us some kunafah, honey.”

Emira ignored the remark and turned quickly away. She sought shelter among the other girls and Rand could do nothing but retreat as the first dancer went into her act.

“Did you find her?” Leila asked back at their table.

“Yes. She’s frightened to talk. I’ll try to see her later.”

The first dancer was undulating to the music, weaving slowly like a snake emerging from a basket. As the music increased in tempo she began to twirl her tassels and move among the ringside tables. Like the others, she wore a tasseled bra and a low-slung gauzy skirt that seemed about to slide off her hips with every violent undulation. The appreciative males at the front tables were stuffing folded Egyptian pound notes and other currency into the band of her skirt as she danced by.

Rand and Leila watched two other dancers perform before Emira finally appeared. Her bright green costume caught the light, shimmering like a wave over her breasts and hips. The crowd roared its approval.

From every side men reached out to stuff folded bills into her waistband. She seemed to shake more vigorously with each bill, flashing a smile that dazzled. Completing her circuit of the ringside tables, she moved back toward the rear of the stage. It was then that her hand dropped toward her waist, and Rand thought later that she must have felt something rather than seen it.

There was a blinding flash and roar that seemed to come from her gut, and instantly everyone was screaming, running, tumbling over each other in blind panic. The sound of it drowned out the final terrible screams from Emira in the seconds before she died. For her, the Egyptian Days had arrived early.

Leila stood staring out the window of their hotel room at the black serpent that was the Nile by night. “My God, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that for as long as I live,” she said, as much to herself as to Rand.

“Nor will I.”

“What was it? What killed her?”

Rand had been trying not to think about it, but now he forced himself. “Probably a thin layer of plastic explosive, molded to the size of a credit card, and with a radio-controlled detonator embedded in it. One of the men at ringside wrapped a pound note around it and slipped it into the band of her skirt. Then when she was far enough away from him, he pressed a tiny transmitter in his pocket and the thing went off. It was not a very big explosion, just enough to—” He saw her face and left the sentence unfinished.

“Who would do such a thing?”

“The killer obviously escaped during the panic following the explosion. It might have been this man Rynox, but more likely it was someone he hired. When I spoke to her earlier she seemed afraid of someone, but I doubt if she’d seen Rynox himself.”

“Will you call London now, or talk to someone at the embassy?”

“And tell them what?”

“You can’t just ignore what happened to that poor woman!”

“Believe me, I won’t ignore it.” He started pacing the floor. “It might have been my presence there that caused her death, or the fact that I visited the astrologer Ibn Shubra. Someone knew she was talking, and they shut her up in a way that would be a lesson to others.”

“But you know nothing about this Rynox. What can you do?”

“I know some key facts about him. He’s bringing in a large shipment of plastic explosives, he’s superstitious about these so-called Egyptian Days, and if he killed Emira he’s utterly ruthless.”

“You think he’ll wait till after Monday to complete his deal?”

“More likely he’ll move before Monday. There’s a sense of urgency now that Emira’s been killed.”

In the morning Rand was awakened by the ringing of the bedside telephone. He glanced at his watch before answering it, noting the time as two minutes after eight. “Hello?”

“Mr. Rand?” A woman’s voice, speaking softly.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I was a friend of Emira’s. I saw what happened last night. I must talk to you.”

He hesitated only an instant. “When?”

“This morning? In an hour?”

“Where?”

“In front of the Egyptian Museum. That’s in Tahrir Square, very close to your hotel.”

“I know,” he told her. Beside him in bed, Leila had come awake. “I’ll be there in an hour. How will I know you?”

“I’ll find you,” she assured him and hung up.

“Who was that?” Leila asked sleepily.

“A friend of Emira’s. She wants to meet me in an hour.”

“Jeffrey—”

“I’ll be careful.”

The museum was a large stately building more than a hundred years old. It shared the square with the city’s central bus terminal where hundreds of people waited along strips of concrete for their crowded but inexpensive transportation to appear. On Saturday morning there was not the bustle of weekdays, but Rand still found the elevated walkway that circled the area to be the fastest way around the square to the museum. From above he tried to pick out the woman who had phoned him, but it was impossible among the variety of faces and skin tones, with Mediterranean and Levantine types mingled with the darker Sudanese immigrants.

When he descended to street level and paused by the museum steps, he quickly realized that the woman on the phone had been none of these. She appeared at his side almost at once, young and lithe and with the pale skin of the Turko-Circassians who had once been Egypt’s ruling class. “I phoned you, Mr. Rand,” she said simply, falling into step beside him.

“Do you want to go inside?” he asked.

“Let us walk down to the river,” she suggested instead. “The museum is not quite open yet.”

As they walked he suddenly recognized her. “You were a dancer with Emira. You came on just ahead of her last night.”

She barely nodded. “My name is Pasha. Emira was a good friend, almost an older sister to me. I saw you come backstage last night and she told me your name.”

“How did you know where I was staying?”

“I phoned Shepheard’s first. When you weren’t there I tried the Nile Hilton.”

“Good guess. I’m terribly sorry about last night. No one should die like that.”

They neared the river and he could see the Cairo Tower on Gezirah Island across the way. A hollow cylinder of lattice walls, it carefully hid its utilitarian purpose as a television mast and revolving restaurant. “It was Rynox who had her killed,” Pasha said quietly. “He knew she was talking about his business.”

“Who is Rynox? Where can I find him?”

“She didn’t tell me that. She told me a lot, but not that. The bombings of tourists horrified her. Somehow she learned he was supplying them with plastic explosives from a plant in Europe — it might have been Czechoslovakia or whatever it’s called now. Then she recognized you the other night and asked for your help.”

“I’m retired now. I told her that.”

“You still have ties to those people. I’ve heard no one ever really retires from intelligence work.”

Rand sighed. She was still young enough to imagine it glamorous work. “I talked to a couple of people. She told me of a bartender at my hotel named Max Zeitner.”

“Max was an old friend of hers.”

“He sent me to an astrologer named Ibn Shubra to learn about the Egyptian Days.”

Pasha frowned. “That’s odd. I’m sure Max knows what they are.”

“Monday is one of them, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Tell me something. How did Emira know about this man Rynox?”

“I don’t know. They were friends, I think, but these recent bombings were more than she could stand. After she spoke to you she told me that maybe you could do something about it.”

Rand smiled sadly. “I was a glorified cipher clerk, heading up something called the Department of Concealed Communications. I was never a field agent except by accident a few times.”

“Maybe she didn’t know what else to do,” Pasha suggested. “Can you bring Rynox to justice for what he did to her?”

“I’ll try,” he promised, wondering what justice had become in the Middle East. Sometimes it was whatever suited the politics of the moment. “Tell me one thing. Did Rynox, or someone who might have been Rynox, ever visit her at Sahara City?”

“Not that I know of. Certainly there are always male customers wanting to have a drink with us between shows. Usually we don’t, unless it’s someone we know. Of course, Emira had been working a long time. She knew more people than I did.”

Rand thought about it. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “Whoever killed her deserves to be punished. I may contact you again if I need more help.”

They parted at the river and he headed back to the hotel. Leila was already gone from the room, planning a few hours of shopping before they met again in midafternoon. Rand breakfasted alone in the hotel’s dining room, reading about the Sahara City outrage on the front page of one of the city’s English-language newspapers. He was surprised when a bulky man wearing an open shirt asked to join him. When he saw the hairy chest he recognized the hotel bartender, Max Zeitner.

“Sit down,” Rand gestured. “You’ve seen the papers?”

“About Emira, yes.”

“I was there,” Rand told him. “I saw it happen.”

“Terrible, terrible!” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I knew her only slightly, hadn’t seen her in months. We moved in different circles.” It was as if he was distancing himself from the crime, or perhaps from her life.

“She told me to contact you about Rynox,” Rand persisted.

A shrug. “I know him by reputation only. A camel trader with a mean streak.”

“I think something more.”

The bartender ordered breakfast from a hovering waiter, then said, as he had about Emira, “We move in different circles.”

Rand finished his eggs and remained sipping his coffee while Max Zeitner ate breakfast, but the conversation shifted to the unusually warm April weather and the influx of tourists. “The bombings haven’t had too much effect,” Rand observed, trying to steer the conversation in the direction he wanted.

“Not yet,” Zeitner agreed. “But if the attacks are stepped up, the result could be disastrous for tourism.”

“Some say Rynox is selling explosives to the terrorists.”

The German’s eyes shot up. “Who says?”

“That’s the word I hear. The astrologer, Ibn Shubra, says he cannot work Monday if he is a true believer because of the Egyptian Days. If a deal is in the works, it must be completed before then.”

“Never believe everything astrologers tell you.”

“I was sent to him by you,” Rand reminded the man.

They paid their checks and walked out to the lobby together. Max Zeitner had the day off from his job but he was working a wedding reception in the upstairs ballroom at one o’clock. They stood looking at the cantilevered staircase that rose dramatically from the foyer to the upstairs ballrooms.

“That staircase is the reason this hotel is so popular for weddings,” Zeitner explained. “Everyone can see the arrivals making their grand entrance. We often have two or three wedding receptions or engagement parties on the same day — more than four hundred a year.”

“That’s a great deal of extra work for a bartender.”

“It is indeed! Some don’t drink, of course, because they’re strict Muslims, but others want it at their weddings. Come by here about one o’clock and you’ll see a real sight. The bride and groom will be escorted in by bagpipers.”

“Really?”

“It’s something left over from British colonial days. The people really like it for special occasions. The entertainment often includes a belly dancer too. That’s how I met Emira. She sometimes earned extra money performing at weddings.”

“I’d like to see one of them.”

“Come ahead! If anyone questions you tell them you’re from the newspaper. They won’t bother you.”

Rand followed him up the impressive staircase to the ballroom floor, then into one of the large rooms where preparations for the wedding reception were already underway. A huge wedding cake, five tiers tall, was being placed carefully on a low table which raised its top at least seven feet off the floor. “How will they reach it?” Rand wondered.

The caterer who’d supplied the cake, a small Egyptian with a moustache and glasses, was busy positioning it just right on the table. “This is Sher Wahba,” the bartender said by way of introduction. “Mr. Rand here is writing about your wedding customs.”

Wahba turned his eyes toward Rand, always eager for publicity. “How will they reach it, you wonder? With a short stepladder, of course!” He bustled around to the other side of the cake, checking it out. “A large confection like this is a sign of wealth. The groom’s family pays for the wedding here and they want the guests to know nothing is too good for them. There will be two hundred here this afternoon, and I have another wedding tomorrow.”

“Two hundred!” Rand stared up at the cake. “This would feed a thousand!”

The caterer chuckled. “The center core and every other tier are artificial, made of cardboard and a bit of plaster decoration. Everyone does it with large cakes.”

Rand only shook his head. “Everything is illusion these days!”

Promptly at one o’clock the sound of bagpipes and drums was heard from the staircase. The happy couple entered the foyer and made their way up the stairs to the ballroom. Rand mingled with the invited guests as the pipers were dismissed and a twelve-piece orchestra took over on the bandstand. The room was decorated with hundreds of balloons, with the bride and groom presiding over the festivities from a ceremonial dais at one side of the dance floor.

Rand found a spangled belly dancer preparing to perform after the singer. Her name was Mustafa and she admitted to sometimes working at Sahara City. “Emira?” she repeated. “I’ve met her. I read what happened. But she never went out with the other girls.”

“Did she know an astrologer named Ibn Shubra?”

“I do not believe in astrologers. Some of the girls go to them. I do not.”

“Thank you for talking to me,” he said, though he’d learned nothing from her.

As he turned away she said, “Emira didn’t come with the other girls because she had a lover.”

“Who was he?”

“I do not know. She would go to meet him sometimes after work.”

Rand met Leila as planned, and looked over the things she’d bought. One, a replica of the painted limestone bust of Nefertiti, had become a symbol of ancient Egypt throughout the world. “I have just the place for it at home,” Leila promised. “What have you been up to today? Did you meet that woman who phoned?”

He told her about it, and about the wedding reception at the hotel. “I talk to these people and I get nowhere,” he admitted.

“I still think you should call London.”

“Who? Parkinson? I don’t owe him anything.”

There was a show at a Parisian nightclub that Leila wished to see, and they went there in the evening. He spent the time trying not to think of Emira and the man known as Rynox, but by the end of the evening he had decided to pay a return visit to the astrologer on Sunday morning. Leila wished to attend mass at one of the Coptic Christian churches in Cairo, and he planned to go then.

Sunday was another day of mid-eighties temperatures and sunny skies, more suited to summer than the last week in April. Some shops were closed, others open, and as he made his way through the twisting alleys of the Old City he wondered why anyone would choose to live there when so many more colorful areas of Cairo were available. The inhabitants, like many of the houses, had seen better days.

At the house where Ibn Shubra resided, Rand could see on his approach that the latticework screens on the upper windows were open, indicating the astrologer was probably at home. A beggar in rags sat across from the entrance to the house, perhaps the same one who’d been sleeping there on Rand’s first visit.

The tall astrologer, dressed in black as he had been earlier, answered his knock and stepped aside to let him enter. “I had been expecting your return, Mr. Rand. Our first conversation was not completely satisfactory.”

Rand took the same seat he’d occupied on his earlier visit, and once again accepted a cup of tea. “Tomorrow is one of the Egyptian Days,” he said. “I thought I should visit you before then. I am seeking a man named Rynox who may be closing an important business deal before tomorrow.”

“Rynox— An odd name.”

“A dealer in contraband.”

“How did you learn of him?”

“From a dancer at Sahara City. She was killed Friday night. You may have seen it in the papers.”

Ibn Shubra looked away. “A woman named Emira.”

“That’s right.”

“What is your connection with her? You were sent to me by Max Zeitner.”

“She referred me to Max. I’m looking for Rynox, now more than ever.”

The astrologer closed his eyes as if deep in thought and put his fingers together as he had on the previous visit. Finally his head jerked up as a telephone rang in the next room. “Pardon me a moment,” he said, and went to answer it.

Rand was left alone. He glanced toward the bookcase and walked over to inspect its contents. There was a large mixture of British books and some foreign-language ones, mainly on various aspects of astrology and necromancy. He glanced through one or two, working his way down the bookcase. In the next room he could hear the astrologer’s low voice on the telephone, but could make out none of the words.

On the bottom shelf were a dozen or so British detective novels from the 1930s. Most had shabby and torn jackets, if there were jackets at all. Rand recognized some but not all of the titles: The A.B.C. Murders by Agatha Christie, The Beast Must Die by Nicholas Blake, Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers, The Rynox Mystery by Philip MacDonald—

Rand held his breath as he slid that last title from the shelf and glanced through it. Rynox was the name of a corporation. It was not a book Rand had ever read, so he was unfamiliar with the plot. But that didn’t matter. It was the title that mattered.

He heard a noise behind him and turned to see the Mauser pistol in Ibn Shubra’s steady hand. “Yes, Mr. Rand,” he said quietly. “You have found him. I am Rynox.”

Rand let his breath out slowly, weighing the odds if he made a dive for the gun. At the moment they didn’t seem too good. “Why did you kill Emira?” he asked. “Or have her killed?”

The tall astrologer held his position. “Whatever you choose to believe about me, I had nothing to do with Emira’s death. I loved her.”

“What?”

“Emira and I had been lovers for the past two years.”

Rand shook his head, unable to put the pieces together. “You were the one she met after work?”

“Yes. She often stayed here with me. Do not look so disbelieving, Mr. Rand. Emira was only ten years younger than me, and even astrologers are entitled to love.”

“It’s not that. It’s— She betrayed you. She told me Rynox was selling plastic explosives to Egyptian terrorists.”

“Emira strongly objected to some of my business dealings. She told me once she’d like to stop them if she could do it without hurting me.”

“Put down that gun,” Rand said. “Let’s talk about this. If you didn’t kill her, one of your business partners did!”

“No, no, Mr. Rand. The gun is necessary. Explosives and weapons are only a small part of my business. I do not intend to sacrifice everything because you were rash enough to be browsing on my bookshelf.”

“Tell me who killed her.”

“If I knew, I would let you die with the knowledge. But I truly don’t know. Certain radical Muslim groups who want to tear down the pyramids and sphinxes for being idolatrous are also opposed to belly dancers. Her death might have been meant as a warning to others. It could have nothing to do with my business dealings.”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do. The delivery is being made today, isn’t it — before the bad-luck day tomorrow?”

Ibn Shubra nodded slightly. “But you will neither find nor prevent it, Mr. Rand. A cubic meter of plastic explosives is too valuable in this part of the world to be bartered away lightly. If Emira died because of it, I mourn her death. I will not mourn yours.”

Rand could wait no longer. He hurled the book he still held just as the astrologer squeezed the trigger, then followed it across the space between them, feeling the burn as the bullet creased his arm. Then he was onto Ibn Shubra, wrestling him to the floor, clawing for the gun before the man could get off a second shot. It had been years since Rand had engaged in any sort of prolonged bodily combat, and he felt the strength oozing out of him quickly.

Gasping, he felt Ibn Shubra roll over on top of him. He gave a mighty shove as the man stood, aiming the Mauser, and sent him backward into the latticework screen. Rand heard a breaking of glass, but the astrologer righted himself, still holding the gun.

Rand managed to kick out at his legs as he fired again, missing Rand’s head by inches. Then they were tussling again and the weapon flew free, hitting the floor a few feet away. Ibn Shubra broke loose of Rand’s grasp and aimed a kick to his head, then dove once more for the pistol. The kick dazed Rand and he was unable to bring Ibn Shubra into focus. He only saw a blurred outline reach for the gun and take a steady aim with both hands.

He had a flash of realization that this man Rynox was about to end his life, here in a dingy Cairo apartment where he might never be found. He thought of Leila as the roar of a gunshot filled his ears, somehow louder than the ones before.

Then Ibn Shubra fell dying across his legs and he looked up to see the short-barreled riot gun held in the hands of the ragged beggar from the street outside.

The man who’d fired the shot identified himself as Sergeant Hani Fahmy of the Cairo police antiterrorist squad. As he tended to the bullet graze on Rand’s arm, others were already arriving downstairs. “When I heard the first shot I called for assistance,” the sergeant explained. “We wanted him alive for questioning, but when I broke in here and saw him about to shoot you, I didn’t have much choice.”

“I’m eternally grateful,” Rand admitted.

“What was going on in here? We’ve been watching the house for weeks. Saw you visit him on Friday.”

“I came looking for a man named Rynox. I’d been told he was selling plastic explosives to terrorists.”

“Ibn Shubra was Rynox,” the sergeant confirmed. “We’ve known that for some time. But we’ve never been able to catch him or any of his associates with explosives. He brings it in from Eastern Europe and somehow it finds its way into the hands of terrorists.”

There were other police in the apartment now as Fahmy explained what had happened. Rand was hustled away for a ride to the hospital, though he insisted he was all right. At the hospital they thought differently, examining the bruise on his head where Shubra’s kick had landed and speaking darkly about the possibility of a concussion.

Soon after that, Leila arrived at the hospital. “You weren’t careful,” she greeted him, and he could almost hear the relief in her voice. He didn’t look as bad as she’d feared.

“No, I wasn’t.” He tried to shrug but that made his head hurt. “What happened?”

“The Cairo police came to my rescue.”

“Someone from the British embassy is waiting to see you.”

“I don’t have time for that. The transfer of explosives is being made today. Shubra admitted as much before he died. I have to get out of here.”

“We’ll see what the doctor says.”

Rand lay back on the bed, frustrated. Before he knew it, he was being interviewed by a British civil servant from the embassy who asked endless questions and promised to contact London the following morning. It was Sergeant Fahmy who brought them the good news at midaftemoon.

“The doctors say you can go now, Mr. Rand. Just take it easy for the next couple of days.” He nodded to Leila and said, “I’ll drive you both back to your hotel.” He had changed his beggar’s rags for a white shirt and pants, possibly part of a police uniform.

They were driven to the hotel in an unmarked car which Fahmy insisted on parking so he could accompany them inside. “We appreciate your help, Mr. Rand,” he said with a smile, “but I think we’ll be able to handle it now.”

“Not unless you can find a cubic meter of plastic explosives that’s being transferred today.”

“That much?” he asked, doing some quick mental calculations. “It’s worth a great deal of money on today’s market.”

“A cubic meter could weigh hundreds of pounds,” Leila commented.

The sergeant nodded. “But it could be in several packages, and probably is.”

They were crossing the hotel lobby when Rand spotted a familiar face. It was the dancer Pasha, who’d met him Saturday at the museum. She was hurrying toward the elevator, carrying a canvas bag. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

She glanced uncertainly at Leila and the sergeant. “Emira was supposed to dance at a wedding reception this afternoon. I’m taking over for her.”

Rand’s head was buzzing. He remembered someone mentioning another wedding today. It had meant nothing to him at the time, and still shouldn’t have meant anything. They had weddings at the Nile Hilton almost every day, often two or three at a time. The bartender had told him that. So why should this one be so important?

Was it important enough that Emira had to be killed to keep her from dancing there?

“I’m going up with you,” he decided suddenly, following her onto the elevator. Leila and Fahmy exchanged glances and followed along. “Whose wedding is it?” he asked Pasha.

“The son of a Cairo banker. He is marrying a Frenchwoman.”

The wedding reception was well under way and Rand was surprised to realize that it was almost four in the afternoon. Max Zeitner was working with another bartender, pouring drinks as fast as he could, and Wahba the baker stood proudly near his latest fivetiered confection. A young woman was singing traditional Egyptian songs on the bandstand, receiving warm applause from those who took time out from their celebrating to listen.

“I’m late now,” Pasha said. “I have to change into my costume.” She ran around the back of the bandstand.

“She’s lovely,” Leila commented, gazing up at the dark-haired French bride on her dais.

“Nothing’s going to happen here,” the sergeant insisted, “in full view of over two hundred people.”

Rand didn’t reply. He was remembering that Emira had been killed in full view of several hundred people.

The singer finished with a flourish and it was Pasha’s turn. She came through the beaded curtains like a dervish, whirling and undulating to the native music, bringing cheers from the wedding guests. She was faster, younger, and more aggressively sensual than Emira had been, prompting Leila to lean over and whisper in his ear, “That’s the girl you were with yesterday?”

“She looks different with all her clothes on,” Rand assured his wife.

Even in the slower parts of her dance Pasha was careful to avoid getting too close to the tables. There was no opportunity to stick currency in the band of her shimmering skirt. She was taking no chances.

When she’d finished her dance and the singer had done another set of songs, it was time to cut the cake. Both bride and groom climbed a short stepladder to slice the top tier as cameras and video cameras recorded the scene. Everyone cheered and trays of other confections were brought forth to supplement the thinly cut pieces of cake.

“What are these?” Leila asked Sergeant Fahmy, helping herself to a sticky confection from the tray.

“Ah, kunafah! It’s an Egyptian sweetmeat, flour paste rolled up with honey, nuts, and raisins — very popular at holidays and festive occasions. Bakers often supply them at weddings along with the cake.”

Rand tasted it at Leila’s urging and agreed it was quite good. But his mind was elsewhere. “Do you use bomb-sniffing dogs?” he asked Fahmy.

“Of course! We have them trained to detect all sorts of explosives.”

“How long would it take you to get one here?”

“It is a Sunday. I would need to get authorization.”

“See what you can do. Tell them it’s important.”

When the sergeant had gone off, Leila asked, “Do you know what you’re doing, Jeffrey?”

“I hope so. Come on, let’s get a drink.”

Max Zeitner was enjoying a respite at the bar. He winked at Rand and asked, “Enjoying yourself? The drinks are free. A bit of French champagne, perhaps?”

They settled for Egyptian beer, which Leila had always liked. Rand leaned toward the bartender and said, “You sent me to Ibn Shubra because you knew he was Rynox.”

Zeitner only smiled and said, “Maybe.”

Rand’s eyes scanned the room. Almost all the wedding cake had been distributed to the guests. By six o’clock many people were beginning to leave, but there was still no sign of Sergeant Fahmy. “How long do you want to stay?” Leila asked. “We weren’t invited, after all.”

“A few minutes longer.”

Rand caught sight of some white-jacketed men entering the ballroom. Sher Wahba was speaking to the groom’s father and gesturing toward the stand for the wedding cake, where everything edible had been transferred to paper plates on the serving tables. As the new arrivals prepared to remove the cake stand, Rand strode forward.

The baker turned, surprised to see him. “Ah, Mr.—”

“Rand. We met here yesterday.”

There was a deep-throated growl from the door and the few remaining guests turned in panic. Sergeant Fahmy had returned with his dog, a big German shepherd who headed directly for them. Wahba the baker grabbed for something beneath his tunic and Rand hit him smashing blows with both fists, sending him to the floor.

“That’s for Emira,” he said, breathing hard. “I wish it could have been more.”

It was Sergeant Fahmy who brought them the news a half-hour later, while Rand was soaking his hands. “I hope I broke his jaw,” he said as Leila opened the door for Fahmy. “I almost broke my hands.”

“You did some damage,” the sergeant confirmed. “And my dog sniffed out the plastic explosives hidden inside that cake stand — carefully wrapped packages filling the tall center core and the alternate tiers between the layers of real cake. You’d better tell me something I can put in my report, though.”

“Before you killed him, Shubra insisted he hadn’t been responsible for Emira’s death. He had no reason to lie, since he was about to kill me anyway. And yet I felt sure one of his confederates had killed her. The use of plastic explosives, even just a couple of ounces, tied it too closely to his contraband operation. And Emira was frightened by someone she knew in the audience Friday night. You see, the main reason she had to die wasn’t just that she was threatening to tell about the delivery of plastic explosives. It was that she was scheduled to perform at today’s wedding. With a shipment that large it was safer to kill her than to risk her revealing everything today. Sher Wahba was to deliver the wedding cake plus the explosives, and the terrorists were to take away the cake stand with the explosives still in place. I suppose it was easy for him to smuggle the explosives into the country in a shipment of flour or other bakery supplies.”

“They had enough plastique in there to blow up the entire hotel! Why would they risk such a thing?”

“It was so unlikely as to be above suspicion. And without a detonator the material is relatively benign. It can be molded into any shape, remember. Terrorists are used to working with it.”

“How did you know it was the cake?”

“What else did Wahba bring that was big enough?”

“But how did you know it was Wahba who killed the girl?”

“When I was backstage with her Friday night, Emira implied she was afraid of someone at the club that night. Another dancer overheard her and obviously knew whom she meant. The dancer told her to ask him for some kunafah. I had no idea what the word meant until tonight, when I ate some and you told me bakers supplied it. The dancer knew the man Emira feared was a baker. The only baker at this wedding, the wedding where Emira would have danced had she lived, was Sher Wahba.”

Rand and Leila slept late the following morning. The remainder of their holiday seemed rather bland, but perhaps it was just as well. The Egyptian Days had come and gone.