James Becker - The Messiah Secret

‘Just hold on,’ he muttered, as he waited for the smallest of gaps in the line of vehicles passing down the street. Then he pulled out, accelerating hard. Behind him he heard a sudden squealing of brakes and the inevitable bellows from a selection of car and van horns.

‘Jesus, Chris, was that necessary? Couldn’t you have waited?’ Angela looked pale.

‘If I’d waited,’ Bronson said, with a grin, ‘we’d still be sitting there at the side of the road, and would be for some time. I was just being pragmatic.’

‘Which means what, exactly, in this context?’ Angela asked. ‘Oh, shit,’ she muttered, closing her eyes as a coach shot out of a side road directly in front of them, forcing Bronson — and about a dozen other drivers — to hit the brakes hard.

‘It means that we’re in Egypt,’ Bronson said, ‘so I think the best option is to drive like an Egyptian. And that means all the normal rules about giving way and leaving a safe distance behind the car in front — all the stuff I was taught as a police driver, in fact — go right out of the window. Over here, if you leave a gap of more than about three feet in front of you, a driver will absolutely force his way into it.’

‘Aren’t there any rules here?’

Bronson nodded. ‘I checked,’ he said. ‘Basically, there’s just one — the car in front has right of way. So if the guy next to us gets his bumper one inch ahead of mine, and then swings across in front of me, he’s in the right. That’s why they never give way, and never leave a gap.’

Angela dragged her unwilling gaze from the melee in front of them and glanced across at her ex-husband as he changed lanes, braked hard, accelerated and changed lanes again before pulling the car to a halt behind a line of unmoving vehicles which were somewhat surprisingly waiting at a red light. Traffic lights only appeared in Egypt in about 1980, and most of the locals still tended to ignore them.

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ Angela said accusingly.

Bronson took his eyes off the road for an instant and grinned at her. ‘Absolutely. It’s like dodgems, but with full-sized vehicles; great fun. Now, stop complaining about my driving and tell me where you want me to go.’

About a hundred yards behind them, a Mercedes with tinted windows was following. In the driver’s seat, JJ Donovan flipped open a pack of Marlboros and extracted one, then pressed the dashboard lighter. Once he’d lit the cigarette, he cracked the window slightly to let the smoke escape, and concentrated on the traffic in front of him.

He’d watched Bronson and Angela Lewis step out of their hotel that morning, followed them to the car hire agency and then sat waiting in his own vehicle until they drove out. Then it had been a simple case of keeping tabs on them as they headed towards the centre of Cairo.

In fact, ‘simple’ wasn’t quite the right word. Donovan was used to driving in the States, but even fighting his way through the Los Angeles traffic a couple of times every day hadn’t prepared him for the reality of the morning rush hour in downtown Cairo. The two good things were that the Merc had an automatic box, so all he had to do was steer the big car, and he was used to driving on the right-hand side of the road, though Egyptian drivers seemed to drive more or less wherever and however they wanted.

Donovan knew Bronson was driving, and it looked as if he was pretty competent. A couple of times the smaller Peugeot had nipped through gaps that the Mercedes wouldn’t have fitted in, and were barely large enough for the French car, but there was so much traffic that losing sight of his quarry had never really been likely.

And, even if he did lose contact with Bronson’s car, it wasn’t going to be that much of a problem. Donovan just loved technology. After he’d questioned Jonathan Carfax in the kitchen of the old house in Suffolk, he’d walked out of the room, taking Bronson’s mobile with him. Out in the hall, he’d quickly opened the phone and installed a sophisticated GPS tracking chip, then gone back into the kitchen and replaced the Nokia on the table. He didn’t think Carfax even noticed what he’d done.

Powered by the phone’s own battery, and virtually undetectable unless the user knew exactly what his mobile’s circuit board should look like, the chip computed its position from signals received from the GPS satellites, and radiated that position to the GSM cellphone network. Donovan could then monitor the chip’s signal from his laptop using a combined tracking and mapping program. The chip was one of the latest generation, and allowed him to pinpoint the position of the phone — and by implication its owner — to within about thirty feet anywhere on the surface of the earth.

The chip had allowed him to follow them to Heathrow, and because neither Bronson nor Angela Lewis had even seen his face, he’d been able to get close enough to hear what they were saying to each other. He had actually flown out to Cairo with them on the same plane.

He settled down to follow Bronson’s Peugeot. He had a full tank of fuel, his laptop was sitting in its case on the seat beside him, and built into the computer was a WWAN adapter — a wireless wide area network card — that meant he could access the mobile phone network to surf the internet. So wherever Bronson went, he would be able to follow, as long as he was within range of a cell.

Donovan leaned back in his seat, picked up a bottle of water from the cup-holder in the centre console and took a swallow. He was deliberately trying to avoid drinking too much, because he didn’t want to have to stop until Bronson and Angela Lewis also pulled up. He needed to find out as soon as possible where they were going and what it was they were looking for.

Angela studied the map of Cairo, then looked out of the window. ‘Where are we now?’ she asked.

Bronson glanced away from the road for the split second it took to register a direction sign.

‘That sign said we’re just about to reach Abbassiyya,’ he said. ‘If I were you I’d forget about road names and numbers and just work out the districts we need to drive through.’

‘Good thinking,’ Angela said, and looked again at the open map. ‘If you’re right and we are in Abbassiyya, it means we must have been heading south-west, more or less. When you can, take any street on the left, because we have to cross the main road, the Salah Salem. Failing that, just follow the signs to Al-Gebel al-Ahmar, obviously, or the Northern Cemetery, Manshiyet Nasr or even Muqattam City. Any of those will get us into the right general area.’

A few seconds later, a slight gap opened up in the traffic on their left and Bronson slid his car expertly into the space. He was rewarded with a cacophony of blasting horns. Then he swung down a fairly narrow street, dodging parked cars, dogs and children, and at the end turned right. Here the road was wider, better surfaced and properly marked, and almost entirely full of virtually stationary traffic.

‘Bugger,’ Bronson muttered. He was completely surrounded.

‘It doesn’t matter. Once we get off the main road, I’m sure there’ll be a lot less traffic.’

‘Well, there could hardly be more traffic, could there? This is supposed to be a three-lane road but I can see four lanes of traffic heading in each direction.’

Just then it all started moving again — slowly, but it was moving — and Bronson eased the car forward, keeping it no more than eighteen inches behind the battered rear bumper of the vehicle in front. They came to a stop again, then began inching forwards once more.

‘It’s more modern here than I anticipated,’ Bronson said, after a few moments, looking at the slightly grubby skyscrapers that lined both sides of the road.