Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

"Only those things that deserve it."

"Do I? No, wait, I don't think I want the answer."

"Hear it anyway. Yes, Ms. Warner, very seriously. Now, do I get to set your penance?"

"As I said, it depends."

"How 'bout we have dessert in bed?"

She stood. "Direct, aren't you?" "I try."

"I suppose I should worry that you won't respect me in the morning." She was already moving inside.

He stood. "Don't forget 'I don't know you well enough.'"

She turned with a malicious grin. "Why is it I feel that if I knew you better, I wouldn't do this?"

Lang didn't leave the town house until the next morning.

His mind was too occupied with promises unspoken and consequences just now considered to notice that the landscape crew paring already manicured grass was the only one he had seen in years that included no Hispanics.

It was only after he was almost a mile away that the workers, four large, muscular men who acted with the concert of military personnel, packed up their equipment and crossed the street to Alicia's residence.

Near Intersection of Hassan Sabry and Sharia

26th of July

Zamalek District

Garden City

Cairo, Egypt

0920, Two Days Later

Gezira had been a mere sandbar in the Nile until it was built up as an island site for a royal palace. The northern part, Zamalek, was now a leafy, upscale residential district much like those found in Paris, London, or Rome. It was far enough away that little of the noxious air and even less of the noise of the Central City invaded its neat, palm-lined streets. Lang's first impression of the Egyptian capital had been seemingly random traffic, the stench of animal offal combined with exhaust fumes, and air so dirty it made Los Angeles's worst days seem pristine.

He sat on a rickety stool at the bar in Simonds, one of the oldest European-style cafes in Cairo, trying to ignore eyes stinging from both lack of sleep and pollution. He munched a croissant that rivaled any he had enjoyed in Paris. He hoped the bitter, black Turkish coffee would help clear a head still dusty with two days of jet lag, even if it was stripping away his stomach lining.

Atlanta-Dallas-New York-London-Cairo, all with tight connections. If anyone had been following him, they would have been obvious as he passed briskly through one terminal after another.

At least he had been lucky. Only one screaming child, and no seatmates exhibiting what might be the symptoms of a terminal and highly contagious disease. Not bad, considering each aircraft had contained, what, one hundred and fifty-plus passengers? All those people, with the only commonality being that no two of them had paid the same price for their ticket.

The Couch passport, multiple reservations, and having the Gulfstream fly to Stockholm had reduced to negligible the chances of his being followed to Egypt.

Before leaving Atlanta, he had used an Internet cafe to e-mail Amid bin Hamish to confirm that he had the right man, the name given him by Dr. Shaffer, and made an appointment. Bin Hamish had suggested meeting here.

Lang glanced around the dimly lit interior. Although the savage desert sun had not yet risen completely above the cluster of modern office buildings across the river, the cafe's lowered blinds were already lowered, giving a zebra effect to the newspapers of the few remaining breakfast patrons. Dust motes spun for seconds in the streaks of light before disappearing into darkness like planets out of orbit. The hum of air- conditioning muted but did not block the cries of muezzin, recorded, amplified, and blasted from the minaret of a nearby mosque, calling the faithful to the second prayer of the day.

As far as he could tell, Lang was just one more European in the most Westernized part of a Muslim city.

That was precisely as he wanted it.

He used a linen napkin to wipe the last crumbs from his mouth.

The waiter behind the bar pointed to Lang's nearly empty cup. Lang allowed him to refill it.

His mind went back, what, less than two days since he had sat on Alicia's deck in Vinings? He saw her face in the highly polished wood of the bar's surface, heard her laugh in the wheeze of the AC. For the first time since Gurt had left, he was not just looking forward to coming home; he was excited. Love, lust, attachment-he knew better than to try to quantify what he felt. Just enjoy it, just…

"Mr. Reilly?"

Lang turned to look into eyes almost as dark as the coffee. A round face perched above a pink knit shirt displaying an alligator on the left breast and buttoned to the chin. Even seated on the stool, Lang was half a head taller. The man's dark skin made guessing his age difficult, even if a few gray strands were clearly visible scattered among the jet-black.

"Langford Reilly?"

Lang nodded. "Amid bin Hamish?"

White teeth were made even brighter by the dark skin as the man extended a hand. "As you English say, Any friend of Dr. Shaffer's…"

"American. And Dr. Shaffer is dead."

The smile disappeared. "Dead?"

Lang slid off the stool and groped in his pocket for change. "I'm afraid so. Murdered in Vienna. Were you close?"

Bin Hamish shook his head slowly. "We never met, just exchanged ideas on the Net, wrote each other."

Lang was grateful to come up with a handful of piastres, one hundred of which made up the Egyptian pound. He had already learned the hard way that so few coins were in circulation that exact change was rare. He started to leave them on the bar top, thought better of it, and left an Egyptian note instead. At the current exchange rate, the coffee had been a bargain compared to, say, Starbucks.

"You have euro, dollar?" the waiter asked hopefully.

Egypt's chronic currency problems caused many hotels and restaurants not to accept the national money.

Bin Hamish snapped something at the man, who sulked as he picked up the Egyptian bill.

The little man turned his attention back to Lang. "Murdered? By whom?"

Lang noted the correct grammar. "I'm afraid I don't know. I'm sure the Austrian authorities are working on finding out, if they haven't already."

Bin Hamish glanced uneasily around the cafe, as though one or more of the killers might have followed Lang to Cairo. "Perhaps we should talk elsewhere, perhaps my house."

Why meet at the cafe if they were going to bin Hamish's house to talk?

As Lang took his light jacket from the back of the stool and started for the door, bin Hamish put a hand on his shoulder. "No, this way."

They walked out the back door into an alley fetid with garbage that smelled like it was a permanent part of the environs. Flies buzzed angrily at the disturbance, and rats boldly surveyed them from atop piles of refuse. An occasional skeletal dog paused in rooting through piles of waste to snarl territorial claims.

As though by magic, a turn at the end of the alley brought them onto a street that could have been in Beverly Hills or Palm Beach.

Cairo, it seemed, was unaware of modern zoning. Or public health.

Lawn sprinklers made rainbows over lush grass medians lining high walls. Through the occasional gate Lang could see lavishly landscaped grounds with driveways winding to tile-roofed mansions.

The preferred mode of travel was by chauffeured Rolls-Royce, the less fortunate making do with highly polished Mercedes limousines.

The contrast was enough to make Lang look over his shoulder to be certain he had not imagined the squalor of the alley. "Any reason we couldn't take the front door?"

Bin Hamish turned to look up and down the street behind them, a gesture performed so frequently, Lang was beginning to think of it as some sort of nervous tic. "They would have followed, just as they would have noted your arrival at my home."