Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

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.

2110 Paces Ferry Road

Vinings, Georgia

7:38 a.m.

Two Days Earlier

Alicia was humming an old show tune as she stepped out of the shower. Last night with Lang had been every bit as wonderful as she had fantasized. Smiling at the thought, she swaddled herself in the thick terry-cloth robe from the Willard Hotel in Washington, the one she had swiped the time the cheapskates at the Department of Justice had allowed her to stay there instead of the usual out-of-the-way Sheraton or Marriott. She was wrapping a towel into a turban around her hair as she walked into the bedroom and stopped.

For an instant she thought Lang had come back to reclaim some forgotten item. But there were two men she had never seen before standing between her and the door to the hall.

The one closest was of slender build, over six feet, mid- thirties, dark hair cut slightly shorter than currently fashionable, and freshly shaved, as though he had just put down his razor. He looked out of place in the landscaping service's uniform he wore.

Her first reaction was anger rather than fear. "How did you get in

…?"

He held up a thin black wallet with a badge fixed to one side, a photo ID on the other. She had seen hundreds just like it. "Special Agent Witherspoon, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

The other man was holding up similar creds.

Her anger not even slightly mollified, she snapped, "You're not from the local office. I hope to hell you've got a warrant."

Witherspoon returned the black wallet to a pocket. "We understood Langford Reilly was here."

She stepped to the bedside, reaching for the phone. "I don't care if you thought Osama bin Laden was here- you don't have a warrant, your ass is grass, as you're about to find out."

She picked up the receiver and had punched in the first four digits of the local FBI office, a number any assistant U.S. Attorney knew by rote, when she felt a slight prick in her arm.

"What the hell do you think…?"

Her knees suddenly gave way and she was lying on the floor, looking at a pair of men's shoes. Above her she heard the phone being replaced on its cradle.

Then her world went black.

Should a neighbor have been leaving his house for work a minute or so later, he would have seen nothing unusual at 8:10. Two men from the community association's landscaping service were carrying a large bag, no doubt full of grass cuttings or fallen leaves, to their truck. The only thing unusual was that the sack seemed to weigh more than such material should. Both men were struggling with the weight. It would have been comforting to know residents were getting their money's worth.

Khan al-Khalil

Cairo

Lang didn't see many options. Even if he could literally push through the crowd, he would wind up confined by more stalls. The only good news was that for whatever reason, the Mukhabarat men had not yet called for backup or summoned the local police to join in the chase.

Lang moved sideways under the tent, pretending to examine a small carton of dates. The tent's proprietor smiled, showing yellowed teeth, and extended a hand with one of the fruits. He was offering a sample of the merchandise.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee, anticipating success, had slowed to a walk. As they approached, the angle for an escape right or left, never good, diminished even more.

Lang accepted the proffered date, nibbling tentatively as he backed slowly to stand beside one of the ropes supporting the canvas. Four guy lines wrapped around rocks held the tent against a peaked pole that looked less than steady. Lang guessed it was rigged for easy removal once the day's business was complete.