The Sinai Secret

FORTY

Four Seasons Hotel at Nile Plaza

1089 Comiche el-Nil

Cairo

Twenty Minutes Later

Lang had gone from the airport straight to meet bin Hamish, detouring only to entrust his single bag to the hotel's concierge before heading across the river. Now he had returned to a flurry of excuses and promises as to when he might occupy his room. His expectations were not enhanced by the marble-pillared lobby's growing line of disheveled arriving guests who were also looking forward to a shower, a shave, and perhaps a nap to bring their frayed psyches more in line with local time.

Although Lang had spent little time in the Arab world, he understood far better than most of his tired, jetlagged, and irritated fellow travelers how things worked. Deeply apologetic, the desk clerk pleaded an abnormal number of late checkouts and the lack of trained help.

He leaned toward Lang conspiratorially. "It is difficult to get these people to work," he confided with a patronizing smile that said he was sure someone of Lang's sophistication would understand the abhorrence with which local women regarded labor. "But we do have the presidential suite available right now. Only a few hundred pounds more than yours."

Lang wasn't falling for the old upgrade trick, one common throughout the Middle East. Instead he crossed the ornate lobby to press against the concierge desk so that those behind him could not see the ten-Egyptian-pound note he spread out on the varnished wood.

Smiling, he said, "I would like my room as soon as possible."

"Of course," the man said with an oily grin as he reached for the bill.

Lang stepped back, returning the money to his pocket. "It will be yours when you deliver the room key. I'll be in the bar."

Lang was uncertain whether the hotel's bar was supposed to be contemporary with an Egyptian flair or was just overdone. A round window of dark blue was reflected in twin crystal obelisks. He sat in one of the gold- lacquered chairs that vaguely resembled something he might have seen at Versailles.

A waiter who looked like he might have just left a meeting of the local Shriners, complete with fez, appeared as though from Aladdin's lamp. Already full of caffeine so early in the day, Lang ordered a large orange juice, leaned back, and went over the meeting he had just left.

Add to a Moses who was not Hebrew but a king and Israelites who were not Jews but Egyptians a weapon of ancient origin that, quite likely, had toppled a modern empire. Was it this device that the unknown "they" sought? More likely they were trying to suppress it. If someone were trying to prevent its proliferation, presumably that would be a power that already had it.

As far as Lang knew, that included only the United States.

But weapons systems tended to be like popular songs: Once performed, everyone whistled or hummed along. If America had the Ark… what? Ray? Laser? Whatever. Star Wars. If the United States had it, it was certain to have been tested; and, if tested, its existence was at least known to the other major players.

But which ones?

"Mr. Reilly?"

The smarmy concierge was looking down at him, suitcase in hand. "Your room is ready."

The view of the river one block west and the island he had just left were impressive, but Lang pulled the curtains against the glare, took a long shower, and stretched out on the king-size bed. He tried to take up the thought process that had been interrupted in the bar but was soon asleep.

He had no idea how long he had slept. The sun was now making the room brighter despite the curtains. For an instant he hung between the reality of this world and the gauzy consciousness of dreams. He had been… somewhere, and there had been a sound… a noise. But what?

A very real knock came from the door to his suite.

"A minute!" Lang called, struggling into his pants and shoes. "Who's there?"

"Room service."

Lang stopped halfway to the door. He hadn't ordered anything, nor was he going to. Another common scam in this part of the world was to post room service items at one price while charging nearly-double that for delivering them.

Lang pressed an eye to the peephole. Outside his door was the concierge. Now what?

The instant he unlocked the door it flew open. Two burly men stepped into the room from the hall and slammed the door shut while the concierge, his mission complete, slunk away.

Both men wore dark suits despite the heat; both faces were hidden behind sunglasses.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

They could have been the men outside bin Hamish's house. The two took their time inspecting the room and Lang's suitcase while Lang cursed himself for not making arrangements for the weapon he could not have carried past airport security.

"If you gentlemen are from the tourist bureau, I'm perfectly satisfied with the room."

Neither intruder gave a sign of having heard.

Instead they completed probing the lining of Lang's single bag before the shorter of the two turned and asked in accented English, "What did you discuss with the Jew bin Hamish?"

He made no effort to conceal the butt of a pistol in the holster under his left arm.

Lang pursed his lips and squinted, a man desperately trying to recall something. "We spoke of many things: of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings."

The blow came so fast Lang barely had time to roll with it, an openhanded slap that made Lang see double. Apparently these goons weren't fond of Lewis Carroll.

The man was immobile, as though he hadn't moved at all. "Once again, Mr. Reilly…"

"My name is Couch," Lang snapped. "You've obviously gotten the wrong room."

The man allowed himself the beginnings of a smile. "We are aware of the name on the passport you presented upon arrival at this hotel, Mr. Reilly. Now, for the last time, what did you and the Jew talk about?"

If the man were anything other than a hired thug, he would not have stood quite so close. Nor would he interrogate a possibly hostile subject with his gun still in his shoulder holster, where Lang could get at it.

"Go fuck yourself."

This time the blow was with a closed fist, delivered with the assailant's full weight behind it.

Just as Lang had anticipated.

Easily sidestepping the fist, Lang placed his leg across the man's knee as he grabbed the wrist, using his opponent's forward inertia to jerk him forward. An almost simultaneous twist of his own leg bent the other man's knee backward, sending him stumbling with a yelp of pain. As he fought for his balance, Lang's hand was inside the man's jacket, emerging with the automatic.

The whole thing was over before the other man could clear his weapon. Instead he was now looking down the muzzle of what had been his companion's pistol. He warily moved his hand away and held both out in front of him.

Lang edged toward the door, the pistol's barrel alternating between the two. "Okay, guys, here's what's going down. First, you." He gestured toward the man with his hands outstretched. "You. Take off your suit coat and throw it on the bed. Then, using only your left thumb and forefinger, remove that gun from the holster and toss it on the bed. Now!"

The man sneered at him, "Come take it. A shot in this hotel would draw the police like a dung heap draws flies."

Lang knew he was right. He took a step closer, as though he were, in fact, going to get within range of an attack. Instead he delivered the toe of his shoe into the man's crotch with as much force as he could.

With a single grunt, the man folded like a beach ball from which the air had suddenly escaped.

Lang knelt over the writhing, moaning form on the floor, sighing as he reached into the jacket and removed the pistol. "Well, I tried jt the easy way."

He stood, a gun in each hand, and motioned to the one favoring what was quite likely a shattered kneecap. "You: Pick up the stuff you took out of my bag and repack it. Unless you want to join your pal there in indefinite celibacy, I suggest you make it quick."

He did.

"For your continuing amusement, gentlemen, our next game is going to be a contest to see who can tie the other up most securely. Start ripping the bedsheets into strips."

Five minutes later the two intruders were secured firmly to the bed.

Lang let himself out the door, carefully pulling it shut until he heard the lock snap into place. He slipped one of the two pistols out of his waistband and started to put it under the cushion of a chair, part of a furniture grouping in front of the bank of elevators. He stopped and stared. He was holding a Desert Eagle.

Damn. He'd seen more of the bulky automatics lately than he had in a lifetime. Some arms merchant must have had a sale-a real sale to convince the Mukhabarat to switch over from the Russian knockoff of the Walther PPK, the Stechkin. Unreliable, but cheap and plentiful.

In the lobby he stepped to the front of the line of protesting guests waiting to register.

A ten-pound note in hand, he spoke to the clerk. "An emergency checkout. My passport, please."

The increasingly angry queue was still grumbling as he quickly strode across the lobby, noting the surprise on the face of the concierge, who quickly disappeared into a room behind his stand.

On the street the afternoon's heat hit Lang like a hammer's blow. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back as he searched for a cab, surprised there were none at the hack stand outside the hotel.

He was trying to decide the quickest way to the airport when his mind was made up for him.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee shoved through the hotel's revolving door. The sheets must not have been spun from the finest Egyptian cotton, and the blow to the knee must have been much less severe than Lang had thought.

Lang was running just as they spotted him.

Without surprise, he stood little chance against both of them unless he used the heavy automatic, something that would quickly bring the police.

Straight ahead was the opera house, and across the street the red M in a blue star, the emblem of Cairo's Metro.

Lang nearly knocked a woman and child over as he took the stairs two at a time.

He was in luck: A train was stopped, disgorging passengers. Even in his rush he noted how much cleaner the station was than the streets above: Thankful he had conserved his change, he slid coins into a slot until a ticket appeared with a whir and a click. He knew the price varied depending on how many stops he intended to travel, but he didn't care. Jumping the turnstile would have alerted the uniformed policeman on the platform.

He lunged for the nearest car and stopped, realizing the first two were reserved for women. He gave the now interested cop a weak smile, the look of a Western tourist making a typical cultural error.

He wedged himself and his suitcase into the third car and turned just in time to see Tweedledum and Tweedledee burst into the station. One pointed to the window through which Lang was looking. Lang couldn't resist a wave as the train jolted forward and gained speed.

Lang had no idea where he was going, only that he was putting as much real estate between him and those two as possible. At the next stop he edged through the packed car to inspect the diagram of the Metro system, labeled in Arabic and English. He gathered he had boarded at the Gezira station, the one closest to the opera house. Ahead, the two legs of the system intersected. He could transfer to the other or remain on the present line. He saw no indication that either went to the airport.

A man in a worn business suit stood to get off at the next stop, and Lang took his seat.

Something wasn't right.

If the two Mukhabarat men knew he was on the train, why didn't they simply have it boarded at the next stop?

One answer was ominous: They didn't want the law enforcement people to know anything, thereby preventing inconvenient questions if Lang disappeared into the black hole of some secret prison.

Or perhaps they simply hadn't had time to position the police at the various stations.

Either way, it seemed expedient to get off while he could.

He was stepping down from the car when Tweedledum and Tweedledee came down the steps from the street. No doubt they had been more successful than Lang in finding transportation, and it had taken them this many stops to get ahead of the train.

Too late to wish he'd gotten off earlier.

Shielding himself amid the exiting horde, Lang almost made it to another set of stairs before one saw him and they both broke into a run.

Shoving cursing passengers aside as he galloped upstairs, Lang made it to the top and glanced around.

He still didn't know where he was. He bolted for the nearest corner and the one after that.

He was standing in the middle of a souq, a large Arab bazaar. Small stalls crowded the narrow street, compressing the crowd of tourists, merchants, and customers into a space less than five feet wide. The mixture of languages was straight out of the biblical Tower of Babel. A woman wearing a soiled chador squatted in front of him, offering a drink with one hand and shooing flies from it with the other. Several were floating in the rose-colored liquid. From where he stood he could see copperware, blown glass, spices, and tacky souvenirs for sale. Manure, rotting vegetables, and wood smoke were the three smells he could identify.

There was a tug at his pants leg. "Scarab, Mista 'merican?"

Lang looked down to see a young boy, sans front teeth, in traditional bedouin headdress and robes, proffering a small carving of the Egyptian dung beetle that symbolized resurrection.

"Come from tombs in the valley. Very, very old. Only five dolla 'merican."

Lang shook his head and started twisting his way down the street. He paused to let a procession of earphone- wearing American tourists follow the leader, a woman carrying aloft a handkerchief tied to an umbrella as she spoke into a headset.

The stop was enough for the young scarab seller to catch up. Three dolla, Mista 'merican. You take for three dolla?"

Lang shook his head and started off again.

A series of what were undoubtedly curses made him look over his shoulder. Tweedledum and Tweedledee had knocked over the old woman's drinks, and she was expressing her disapproval in what Lang guessed was most unladylike terms.

His small bag held like a football to a running back's chest, Lang shoved aside a tourist in shorts and hideously European sandals as he ducked between two stalls, but not before the young souvenir salesman approached the newcomers.

"Scarab, mista? Only five dolla 'merican."

The souq was a maze of rickety stalls and sagging tents. Lang had little room to run, but his determined pursuers could go no faster. He ducked between a wooden kiosk where turquoise jewelry was hanging and the ropes holding up an adjacent tent under which dates were stacked in boxes.

Then he stopped.

One of the men was no longer there.

A quick look told him where he had gone. Somehow he had gotten in front. Lang was hemmed in by stalls, canvas, and two men who certainly bore him no goodwill. His hand went to the Desert Eagle in his belt.

No. Too crowded. Customers or purveyors were as likely to get hurt as his targets.