Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through Napoleon's Web

“After you,” Sammi said.

The chemist led them back to his lab room and pointed toward a row of stoppered test tubes. Next to them, the flame of a Bunsen burner tickled the bottom of a flask. “You were correct, chérie ,” Jean said, facing Sammi and turning his shoulder to Gabriel. “There were still some traces of a chemical compound in the hypodermic. Sodium pentothal.”

“Isn’t that what they use to put people to sleep?” she asked.

“It can be. It is commonly employed as a component for the induction phase of general anesthesia. In the past it was known as a truth serum.”

“Pentothal could also be used to make someone compliant, right?” Gabriel asked. “Someone who was putting up resistance?”

Jean glanced back at him over his shoulder. “Yes, in small doses. A large dose might be fatal.” He turned back to Sammi. “Now, my dear, how can I be of further help? Can you tell me where you found this? Who was injected with it? How it came to be shattered . . . ?”

“I’m sorry, Jean,” she said. “I can’t. Not yet. I will tell you more when I can, I promise.”

“But this could be quite serious,” Jean said. “In a case like this, I really ought to notify the authorities—”

Sammi put a hand on one of his meaty wrists. “Don’t.”

“But if you do not tell me at least a little about what you are—”

“For my sake, please.”

Jean considered this, then heaved a mighty sigh. He took his glasses off and let them hang against his chest. “For you, Samantha. Anything.”

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. The man’s bald head turned red and he stammered something to her in French that Gabriel didn’t catch. Sammi just laughed and said, “Jean!”

“Until next time,” Jean said. And turning to Gabriel: “Monsieur.”

His tone was as frigid as the inside of an ice chest, but Gabriel ignored it. The man’s earlier words were still echoing in his head. A large dose might be fatal .

Kasha watched Gabriel and Sammi leave the shop from her second floor bedroom window. When they were out of sight, she picked up the telephone beside the bed and dialed a number in Morocco. She spoke a few sentences in Arabic, waited until the man on the other end acknowledged her report, and then hung up.

Chapter 6

The mere name of Cairo, one of the oldest cities in the world, immediately conjures up images of pyramids, mosques, camels, and sand dunes. In reality, it is a booming modern metropolis of nearly seven million people.

But Gabriel knew if you looked you could still find traces of the Cairo that once was, especially in the section of the city known as Old Cairo. Once called Coptic Cairo, it was a center of early Christianity until the Islamic era. The sights and smells and sounds of Old Cairo combined to provide visitors with a picture to rival any fantasy they might have of the fabled city.

It was half past noon when Gabriel and Sammi arrived. The sun was blazing in the sky and the streets in the center of the city were packed with people and automobiles. The cars dwindled as they got to the narrower streets of Old Cairo, where foot traffic was the norm. Gabriel’s meeting with the Alliance of the Pharaohs wasn’t until one o’clock. He and Sammi sat in a café on the border of the famed Khan el-Khalili, the bazaar that dated back to the fourteenth century. They made a quick meal of kushari , a heavily spiced blend of rice, lentils, and macaroni smothered in a sauce of garlic and vinegar.

“Do you know how to find the stall where you’re supposed to meet them?” Sammi asked as she studied a pocket map of the market they’d picked up.

He pointed to a spot on the maze of streets. “Right there.”

“All right,” she said. “And then what?”

“I imagine they’ll want to go someplace else to talk. It won’t be out in the open, you can be sure of that.” Gabriel traced his finger along one crooked street. “Possibly here or here. One of the places tourists don’t go. Which will make it difficult for you to follow us without being noticed.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Sammi said. “I know a thing or two about getting around without being seen. I did a pickpocket act with my father—”

“I’m sure you were terrific at it,” Gabriel said, “in Nice, where you speak the language and redheads aren’t so uncommon. Here it won’t be as easy.”

As he spoke, she dug through the shoulder bag she’d hung from the corner of her chair. She pulled out a headscarf similar to the one Kasha had worn. In seconds, every lock of her hair was neatly tucked away beneath it. “Don’t worry about me,” she repeated. “You just take care of yourself.”

Gabriel took the cell phone from his jacket pocket and turned it off. “I don’t need this thing going off while I’m meeting with them.”

She took it out of his hands, turned it back on again.

“What are you doing?”

She waited for the screen to light up and then pressed a button on the side. A loud tone was followed by a quieter one, then a quieter one still, and finally no sound at all. “Just turn the ringer off. That way I can at least send you text messages if I need to.”

“How would I know you’ve sent one?”

“Look at it once in a while,” she said. “If I’ve sent one, you’ll see it.”

Gabriel didn’t argue, just tucked the phone back in his inside pocket, where it nestled next to his Zippo lighter.

“Suppose they take you inside a building,” Sammi said. “How long do I give you?”

Gabriel thought about it. “Two hours. If I’m not out by then, I want you to go back to the hotel and call Michael. You have his number, right?”

“You’ve given it to me twice.”

“Well, use it. If anything goes wrong, I don’t want you coming in after me by yourself.”

Sammi gave him an exasperated look.

“I mean it,” he said. “I don’t want you getting hurt, or worse.”

“Neither do I,” Sammi said, “believe me. There are few things I like less.”

“Good.” Gabriel looked at his watch and got to his feet. “Now remember, you follow from a distance . Understand?”

“It’s what I’ve got these for.” She pulled the pair of binoculars they’d bought on the way into the city from her bag and slung them around her neck. “Or does that make me look too much like a tourist?”

It did make her look like a tourist. But he thought that was a good thing, on the whole. They were less likely to do anything to a tourist. “You look fine,” he said.

Sammi took his hand, gave it a squeeze. “Be careful, Gabriel.”

“Always,” he said. He walked out of the café, crossed the busy street, and entered the bazaar. Sammi gave him a half-minute head start, then gathered her things, left a few bills on the table, and followed him.

Gabriel walked purposefully through the twisty streets of the souk. On either side, an endless variety of shops and food stalls advertised wares both ancient and modern, the owners calling out to him as he passed and urging him to come and buy. Clothing, jewelry, spices, perfumes—if you knew what you were looking at, some authentic bargains could be had. You even came across the occasional rare piece of real value. Invariably stolen, of course, and bound to be confiscated if you tried to carry it out through customs at the airport. At another time, Gabriel might have enjoyed exploring a bit, maybe even haggling with a vendor or two (nothing here was for sale at fixed prices). But that would have to wait for his next visit. If he had a next visit.

He found the location he was looking for, a store labeled with a sign in Arabic and English. The English portion identified it as Jumoke’s . The store was built into the ground floor of a two-story building. Elaborately patterned carpets hung from poles outside the shop and also served as an awning. It was one of the larger venues in the souk.