Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

Then he was out the door, and after a moment, Sinan was scrambling after him, out into the hall, running to catch him at the elevator. Matteen was already inside, glaring at him angrily, one foot holding the doors open, and he yanked it clear as soon as Sinan was in with him.

"Keep talking to her," Matteen said. "Find out where she is."

Sinan put the phone back to his head, heard Nia saying his name, but dropping out, the signal suddenly weaker in the elevator.

"-Sinan? Are you-ere, I cou-oice ight now."

"I'm still here, Nia," he said. "I'm still here."

"-inking about-ared-inan, it's not right."

He realized the mute was still on, switched it off as the elevator reached the lobby and Matteen rushed out, heading for the street. Sinan raced after him, trying to keep himself from shouting into the phone.

"Nia? Nia, can you hear me?"

"When did Allah tell Muhammad that there were six pillars, Sinan?" Nia asked. "You've studied, you're smart. I looked all through my Qu'ran, and I couldn't find where the Prophet says it is the Sixth Pillar."

"It's not in the Qu'ran, not like that." They were out on the street now, Sinan chasing after Matteen's wake as he threaded through the crowds on the sidewalk, heading north.

"But that's what I mean, Sinan. It's not there, that's what I'm saying. The Prophet told us to love and to honor and to respect. He told us to live in peace, even with those not like us. He told us to pray, to be pious, to be charitable, to honor Allah, the One God. He told us to make the Hajj, that we might see the world as he saw the world, and to fast during the days of Ramadan. But he never told us that jihad was the Sixth Pillar, Sinan. He never spoke those words."

They'd reached the corner, turned east, heading toward the Midan Simon Bolivar, with its monument and roundabout. Matteen was still ahead of him but slowing, scanning both sides of the street, straining to find her through the traffic.

"Nia, think about what you're saying," Sinan urged. "The Prophet was a great man, he taught us many things, but to raise him, to elevate him too far, that's idolatry, that's mushrikun."

"Why was it so frowned upon in the camp to speak of Muhammad, Sinan? When did acknowledging the Prophet become a sin?" Her voice was clearer now, her words spoken with more volume, with more certainty, and Sinan could hear her thoughts crystallizing.

"The Prophet was a servant, Nia, just as we are servants. Glory is to Allah, praise Him, not His servants."

"I don't think Allah is so hard-hearted, Sinan. I don't think Allah who taught Muhammad the True Religion thinks so poorly of His creation, of His children. Even the children who do not share the Truth, even them, we are taught to respect the People of the Book, to honor Jews and Christians, not to kill them."

"The Jews were turned to apes and swine, Nia, because they turned away from the Truth. The Christians forsook the One God and now worship many, their money, their possessions-"

"But they aren't, Sinan! They aren't pigs or apes, they're not animals! They don't worship their money, they only have money!"

Matteen, ahead of Sinan, turned south, now heading down Sharia Amerika al-Latineya. Sinan tried to spot her, looking about frantically, and he saw the grounds to the American Embassy down the block, the guards and barricades, and he slowed as he reached Matteen, trying to conceal his anxiety, lowering his voice again.

"Nia, listen to me," Sinan said. "You trust me, right?"

"Of course I do, Sinan."

"You had a friend, you told me about him. You loved him. Think about him, Nia, think about what happened to him, and what he would want from you."

There was silence, and Sinan thought that maybe he'd reached her.

Then Nia said, "He wanted peace, Sinan. More than anything, he wanted peace. As all Muslims want peace."

Matteen had stopped, looking at him with anxious curiosity. The remote was still in his hand.

"Where are you, Nia?" Sinan asked.

"I'm on the corner."

"Which corner?"

"Sharia Maglis Ash-Shaab."

"I can't see you."

"I know." Nia's voice quavered. "I can't do it, Sinan. It's wrong. I'm sorry, but if I am going to go to Paradise, I want to earn it through good works and good words, not like this. Not as a martyr. I'm sorry, Sinan."

"As am I," he said, and he reached out to the remote in Matteen's hand, and he pressed the two buttons in quick succession, the right, then the left.

They heard the explosion, and then the screams, and Matteen stared at Sinan, dumbstruck, as Sinan lowered the phone, turning it off. He felt his eyes beginning to burn with tears, saw frantic people running past him, crying and yelling, heading both toward and away from the site of the explosion.

"What did you do?" Matteen asked him hoarsely.

"I saved her," Sinan answered, and started down the block again, to see who Nia had claimed on her way to Paradise.

Egypt-Cairo, Islamic Quarter, Sharia Muski 20 September 1018 Local (GMT+3.00)

There'd been a bombing in the Garden City, near the American Embassy, and, ironically, that was what allowed Chace to kill Muhriz el-Sayd.

She'd arrived in Cairo late the night before, taking a room at the Semiramis Intercontinental Hotel, known for its opulence in catering to Westerners and its hopping casinos. She was still running on the DuLac identity, and it made her nervous, because she didn't know how much longer it would last. Box would have gotten the passenger list for the Eurostar train she and Wallace had caught, would have gone over every name with a microscope, then put out a watch, seeing if any of those travelers appeared anywhere else. If they suspected she had headed to Israel, it wouldn't take them long to find Monique DuLac on an Air France passenger list.

So she was quite possibly running blown.

After waking early, Chace bought two city guides from the hotel gift shop and a copy of the Cairo Times, an English-language weekly, more an oversized magazine than a newspaper. She spent her breakfast poring over the guidebooks, ignoring the paper for the time being. Borovsky had given her three possible locations to look for el-Sayd, places he was rumored to frequent, all of them in the Islamic Quarter, cafes and restaurants where he hid among sympathetic owners and employees, shielded from the Cairo police. None of the locations appeared on her map, and with a resigned sigh, Chace resolved to check each by foot.

Finishing her meal, she went to the desk and checked out of the hotel, then tossed one of the guidebooks in the trash on her way out-the weaker of the two-sliding the other into her hip pocket.

The newspaper she rolled loosely and tucked inside her jacket. • It wasn't yet nine in the morning, and Cairo was already accelerating to full bustle. She threaded through the thickening pedestrian traffic to the nearest Metro station, then took the subway into the Islamic Quarter. When she came aboveground again, it was just past eight-thirty, and the streets were much quieter than in downtown. She took in the medieval architecture, orienting herself to the Mosque of Mohammad Ali, its silver domes shining in the morning light, atop the Citadel, then made her way on foot toward the Khan al-Khalili, the commercial heart of the quarter.

Vendors were already laying out wares, beginning to line the streets and alleyways, selling everything from spices to souvenirs. Chace passed a stand of beautifully crafted glass bottles, another of handcrafted waterpipes, a third of children's toys, cheap plastic robots with flashing red eyes and mechanical shouts that urged her to halt. It was growing noisier, voices raised to be heard over the traffic.

Chace stopped on the east side of the market, opposite the Mosque of Sayyidna al-Hussein, checked her guidebook. A passerby stopped, a man in his late forties, asking her in French if she was lost, if she required any assistance. She answered him in English, and he surprised her by asking the question again, also in English.