Dick Stivers - Cairo Countdown

"You learn to talk like that on a kibbutz?"

"Oh, yeah, man. Kibbutzy on the Rio Grande."

Gadgets's hand radio buzzed. "Politician here. Cars coming out of the embassy."

"We can't go anywhere."

"We can. Break free when you get the chance."

On the other side of the Sharia Latin America, Cairo police stepped into traffic, blew whistles, held up white-gloved hands. The gates of the American Embassy opened. The tan-uniformed cops held traffic back as a Fiat with Cairo police department markings led two black Lincoln Continental limousines from the compound. The three cars accelerated away and swept around a corner.

Two teenagers on motor scooters darted past the officers holding traffic. One policeman blew a whistle at them. The other officer called to his partner. They hurried to return from the street to their positions at the gate. With clouds of exhaust clouding around the cars, the wall of traffic rushed forward.

As Blancanales passed in his taxi, Gadgets keyed his hand radio. "You see those two on motorbikes?"

"Looked like students."

"Big rush to get to school, too much of a rush."

"I'll watch for them."

"We'll get out of this jam as soon as we can. Later."

Weaving through the traffic, the driver of Blancanales's taxi, a taciturn, methodical young man named Zaki, kept one foot on the accelerator, the other on the brake, speeding to close the distance behind the limousines, touching the brake only when drivers ignored his horn.

Blancanales buzzed Lyons. "This is the Pol. We're going west, staying about a hundred yards behind them."

"Moving. We'll parallel you, stay out of sight. See anyone interesting?"

"Not really. Over." Blancanales watched the vehicles around him. Italian and Japanese compacts zipped in and out of lanes. Buses packed solid with commuters lurched over cracks and potholes in the pavement as men in Levi's and white robes clung to the sides. On one bus, a teenager gripped the front door's handrail while he studied a text with a German title. Faces in the bus windows stared down at Blancanales.

He checked the attache case beside him. Concealed inside was an Uzi with one hundred fifty rounds of 9mm hollowpoints. The silenced Beretta 93-R rode in an oversize holster under his jacket. He kept his hand radio covered with a map of the city. Blancanales looked up at the faces staring at him, grinned. A small boy grinned back and gave him a two-fingered peace sign.

"Motorcycles are still with the limousines," Zaki called back.

Leaning forward, Blancanales saw a teenager behind the Lincolns. Zaki pointed. The other teenager kept his motor scooter behind a Mercedes van, where the limo driver could not spot him in the rearview mirror. The second teenager lifted a walkie-talkie to his lips, spoke a few words, then concealed the radio in a handlebar basket full of books and papers.

Blancanales glanced to both sides, covered his hand radio with his jacket sleeve as he said, "One of the students on the motorbikes has a radio. I think they're running a pattern behind the limos." As Blancanales spoke, a battered and smoking Fiat sedan swerved into the lane. The first motorbike braked, cut across traffic, made a right turn. The motorbike behind the van maintained position.

Two men rode in the front seat of the Fiat. One saw the student on the motorbike, nodded. The student returned the nod.

"They are most definitely running a pattern. Repeat, a pattern. One talked on a radio, a tail car cut in, and the other student dropped out."

"This is the Wizard. I'm finally moving."

"And I'm on some side street," Lyons told them. "Going like crazy."

Traffic slowed as the wide boulevard veered to the northeast. As his taxi pulled up to the bumper of the battered Fiat, Blancanales slid low in the seat. He looked around, saw the student on the motor scooter one lane to his right. Keeping his hand radio below the window level, Blancanales clicked the transmit key twice, then twice again.

"That close?" Lyons asked. "This could get serious."

A Japanese mini-van hit the back bumper of the taxi. Zaki leaned out the window, delivered a curse in Arabic. No one answered. Blancanales looked back and saw the driver leaning through curtains screening the back of the van, speaking to someone.

Visible above the van's dashboard, protruding from a wrapping of newspaper, was a familiar assembly of steel: the front sight and muzzle of a Soviet AKM.

Wrapping the map of Cairo around his hand radio, Blancanales keyed the transmit. He leaned forward as if questioning the taxi driver. "This is the Politician. Things are now serious. There's a mini-van behind me. Driver's got an AK. The back's curtained off, and he's talking to someone there. This could be a hit squad."

"Think they've spotted you?" Lyons asked.

"They've seen us. We're parked between their cars. But I'm just one more tourist in a taxi."

"Stay with them."

Blancanales laughed. "Can't get away."

A police siren stopped cross traffic. The Cairo PD car led the two Lincoln limousines through the intersection. A wave of buses and trucks and taxis followed. As they accelerated, Blancanales pointed to the right. Zaki saw a gap in the cars and buses and whipped into the space.

The mini-van sped forward. Blancanales watched the driver and windows. The driver kept his eyes on the limousines. The curtained side windows didn't move.

"The van is on our left now. They're closing on the limos."

"I'm buzzing Katz right now," Gadgets answered.

"No!" Lyons broke in. "You'll give us away to the ones that are with him. The CIA and the Egyptian."

"He's got an earphone." Gadgets cut off.

"We're in motion!" Lyons's voice blared out. "Badman to the rescue…"

The shriek of screaming metal, shouts and a blasting horn came through the open channel.

"Are you all right? Sounded like a crash."

"Slow bus, fast taxi," Lyons answered. "But we're gaining fast again. What's going on with the limos?"

"Nothing. The mini-van and the Fiat are closing on them. The kid on the motorcycle's staying back. He's got the radio in his hand…"

Speeding bumper to bumper, the mini-van and the battered sedan approached the limousines. Only a bus separated the limousines from the two pursuing vehicles.

Blancanales leaned forward to Zaki. "Faster. Keep even with them if you can do it."

Zaki saw the curb lane open. He accelerated in a smooth sweep to the right. They passed the teenager on the motor scooter. In his peripheral vision, Blancanales saw the boy lift his walkie-talkie, then they left him behind.

The taxi passed an open-bed cargo truck and a bus. The bus slowed as a passenger stepped off. Zaki whipped the taxi to the left. They came parallel with the mini-van. Blancanales saw a face at a back window watching the traffic. In the front seat of the Fiat, the passenger spoke into a walkie-talkie. The man riding in the back of the mini-van lifted a walkie-talkie to his lips, answered.

Jabbing for the transmit key through the map that wrapped his hand radio, Blancanales shouted, "Wizard! Get Katz moving! They're making their move, they're going to do it!"

Engine screaming, white smoke pouring from the exhaust, the Fiat varoomed to the left, over the center divider. The mini-van followed, horns sounding as the oncoming traffic skidded and swerved around the two wrong-way vehicles. In the instant before the van disappeared behind the bus, the side door flew open. Two men with rocket launchers knelt in the interior.

"RPGs! Wizard, get Katz out!"

In a coordinated maneuver, both Lincolns swerved to the right and hit their brakes, thus putting the bus between them and the hit squad. The Fiat and the van carrying the rocket-launcher team raced into the open but saw no targets. The limousines stopped dead in traffic, tires smoking. Hundreds of tires squealed behind them, bumpers smashed into bumpers, headlights and taillights shattered, horns blared in one vast sound. The police car's siren wailed.