Countdown in Cairo (27 page)

The roses were upright in a vase. That was the “clear” signal.

Alex walked to the table, conscious of many eyes upon her. The women stopped talking and looked up at her, though the chamber remained noisy.

“I’m a friend of Fitzgerald,” Alex said in low tones in English.

“Yes?” one of the women said. “You are Josephine?”

“I am Josephine,” Alex said.

“I’m Artemiz,” the woman answered. “Be seated. Welcome.”

“You are alone?” the other woman asked.

“I am alone.”

“You were careful when you came here?” Artemiz asked.

“I’m always careful,” Alex said.

“That’s very wise,” Artemiz said.

The women looked enough alike to be sisters. Dark eyes, round faces, black hair. Mocha skin.

Alex looked for an extra chair. There was one nearby. She reached for it but Artemiz stopped her hand.

“Wait,” Artemiz said softly.

Alex looked back at her. She knew enough not to interfere with any safety precautions. As was usual in cases like this, Alex was very conscious of the gun under her jacket, and how quickly she could get at it.

The two women spoke to each other. Alex was surprised. She realized that she had missed something. The women spoke Farsi to each other. They were, it was quickly apparent, Persians, not Arabs, though Muslim nonetheless. They were most likely Iranians in exile.

The second woman got up, went to the entrance, and stepped outside where she could see the street as well as be seen. Artemiz remained in the café. She indicated that Alex should now take the seat. Alex did.

“Sit and relax for a minute,” Artemiz said.

Alex watched as the woman on the street flipped open a cell phone and made a call. Then the nameless woman retreated from the café side of the street to the opposite side. Artemiz engaged Alex in a petty conversation, but Alex kept her eyes on the street. She then saw two burley men appear and take positions, like sentries, by the door. They were conspicuous in their size, well over six feet each, and bulked up. Alex assumed they were also armed and part of the security arrangements for the meeting. It was Alex’s first clue that she wasn’t about to rendezvous with any old broken-down street spy.

Several minutes passed. Artemiz continued a meaningless conversation about tourist sites in Cairo. Alex replied politely to each question and waited. She broke a sweat. The woman on the street stayed within view. Alex felt her anxiety level rise but continued to watch. The woman out on the street took an incoming call that lasted no more than five seconds. She then put her phone away and reached with her right hand to her left elbow, tapping it twice.

Artemiz changed subjects in mid-phrase. She reached beneath her own robe, pulled out a checkered head scarf and handed it to Alex.

“Here. Wear this,” she said. “We’re going to move. Come!”

“To where?” Alex asked.

“Voltaire is ready. He will see you now,” Artemiz said. “Put the
hijab
on.”

“I have my own,” Alex said.

Artemiz was surprised. “Then wear it,” she said.

Alex reached to a pocket and pulled out a
hijab
. She wrapped the new scarf around her head and neck. The Persian woman looked at her and then smiled, as if Alex hadn’t donned the scarf just right.

She hadn’t.

“Here,” Artemiz said. “Let me.” She reached to Alex and with a greatly bemused grin adjusted the scarf. “You have a beautiful face,” she said, staring into Alex’s eyes. “The scarf sets it off. I have a cousin who lives in America, in Los Angeles, and you remind me of her. Now, come with me and walk quickly.”

Alex stood. The Persian woman put a hand on her arm and pulled her toward the rear of the café. Alex suddenly was apprehensive and felt a fresh surge of fear.

Was she being set up? Led somewhere to be shot? Had there been a breach of security? She didn’t have time to sort out such thoughts. She only had time to go with the moment. Artemiz took Alex’s hand and pulled her quickly along. Alex kept her other hand near her weapon and followed. Artemiz weaved past the waiters and a klatch of men standing in the rear of the café, drinking and smoking dark acrid cigarettes or hookahs. Artemiz seemed to know them. She smiled and they stepped aside for her, allowing her to move toward a doorway, curtained with thick beads, that led toward a kitchen.

The two women pushed through the curtain.

Then they were in a kitchen, where several Muslim men in white labored over various dishes and grills while chattering in more high-decibel conversation. The chamber was full of conflicting cooking smells: baking fish, charred lamb, grilled chicken, steamed fruits, and spices.

Artemiz pulled Alex through the kitchen and to a rear door. Then they were out into a back alley where the footing was treacherous.

“Follow, follow,” Artemiz said with urgency. “Fast, fast.”

They went several paces down the alley. Rubbish and who-knewwhat crunched underfoot. Artemiz turned sharply and led Alex into the back office of another café, where another big man sat by the rear door—an armed sentry, Alex assumed—and then into another kitchen. It all happened so fast that Alex could have been being kidnapped and wouldn’t have known it until a pistol was placed to her head. Then they were through the kitchen and next arrived breathlessly in the back of the café, this one slightly more presentable.

There was an empty table in the rear. It was in the corner, and there was a bench behind it, big enough for two. The Persian woman led Alex to it.

“Sit,” said Artemiz.

“Where’s Voltaire?” Alex asked.

“One minute,” Artemiz said.

“Where—?”

“Don’t speak. Don’t say names. Wait here. Keep quiet.”

Cautiously, Alex eased into the seat. Artemiz turned and departed, vanishing back through the kitchen, leaving Alex alone at the small table, quite astonished. Less than two minutes earlier, she had been sitting in another café on a different block.

Alex’s gaze swept the room. She saw no one she recognized. Her hand settled upon her Beretta, just in case. Her heart was thundering, and her eyes measured not just the distance to the front door but the impediments to it also. She felt as vulnerable as she had at any time in her life. She didn’t even speak the language. The palm on her weapon was pouring forth a flood of sweat.

Then a tall, sturdy man at the end of the bar turned around. His gaze crashed into Alex’s. Their eyes locked.

He was a handsome man, Caucasian with blunt features, probably about fifty, maybe past fifty but very fit. He wore a beige Western-style suit and a light blue dress shirt, open at the collar. He was just over six feet, she reckoned, and after turning to appraise her he stood rock still as he looked at her. He too wore a
hijab
, but his eyes were blue and his face more German than anything. Distantly, and perhaps absurdly, he reminded Alex of Peter O’Toole in the old
Lawrence of Arabia
movie posters.

He established eye contact with Alex. Then he walked to her, calmly, without menace, and with great confidence. Alex checked his hands. They were empty. She looked for a bulge under his jacket and found it on the left side.

He came up directly to her table, stood politely but assertively, and looked down at her through keen but saddened eyes. Then he grinned and his face became ten years younger.

“May I join you, my dear?” he asked.

“It depends on who you are and what you want,” Alex said.

“I’m a Sagittarian,” he said. “Does that make it any better?”

“It might,” she said. “I’m a Capricorn.”

“So was Sadat, so was Stalin, so is Dolly Parton, and so was Jesus. So maybe then I should sit down,” he said.

“Maybe you should.”

A moment passed, and a small wave of relaxation washed over her. “So good of you to come to Cairo,” he said in perfect English that could have been from anywhere. “You see, we have a crisis here with someone you used to work with. You might want to consider becoming totally obsessed with it. I know the rest of us are.”

“Talk to me,” Alex said, settling in.

The spy known as Voltaire reached easily into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. “Filthy habit, smoking,” he said. “I wish I could kick it. Then again, like a lot of my filthy habits, I rather enjoy it.”

He offered one to her.

“No, thanks,” she said.

“Not even one?”

“Not even a puff of yours,” she said.

“Smart,” he said.

But he lit one and blew out the smoke. Then, just as easily, he began to talk.

THIRTY-SIX

You’re going to help us bring home a renegade intelligence agent,” Voltaire explained. “That’s why you’re here. But part of the way I work is to be seen as little as possible by anyone who knows exactly what I do. So for our purposes here, you’re going to be the point person, the person who’s on the front line to bring in Michael Cerny. Does the operation make sense to you so far?”

“From what I know of it, yes,” she said.

“This operation has more than one goal, as you’ll discover. I’ll tell you right now that there’s more going on here than you already realize or than you’ll perhaps ever know.” He paused. “Think of yourself as a colonel in artillery in the D-Day invasion. You have authority, but do you really know what the generals are doing? Of course not.”

Alex watched him, his steady gaze, his steady hands, and said nothing.

“I’m not planning to give you a thorough briefing today. We have a little window of time before we close a trap on the individual in whom we have an interest. ‘Judas,’ I’d like to call him,” Voltaire said.

“Judas,” Alex answered. “Very good.”

“I operate under the assumption that you’re fully up to an assignment like this, mentally and physically,” he continued. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have been sent, nor would you have persevered to find this place. If you had any last minute trepidations, you would have disappeared in the alley. So I won’t even ask if you have second thoughts. You wouldn’t be sitting here if you did. My condolences on your loss in Kiev, your fiancé, by the way. I know the whole story.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I spoke to our mutual friend at the office in Cairo, the gentleman who directed you here. Fitzgerald.”

Alex nodded.

“He’s your guy for background information, what has already happened. One doesn’t understand the present without understanding the past,” Voltaire said. “But I’m your person for what we’re going to do, what will happen. Are you ready to get killed?”

“Not really.”

“Me, neither. That’s good. And I like you,” he said. “But if there’s a choice between one of us getting killed, I’ll choose you in a heartbeat. I’d expect you to do the same. Are you a religious person?”

“I am,” she said. “A practicing Christian.”

“I’m not anything.”

“I can tell.”

“That damns my soul to hell, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“It’s a theory,” she said.

He laughed. “You’re good. Sharp. Hungry?”

“A bit. Is food an option?”

“Sometimes.” He signaled a waiter. The establishment had kebabs, a chicken couscous, and something called a
bisteeya
, which Voltaire suggested.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a flaky pastry concocted from almonds, dates, and pigeon.”

“
Pigeon?
Like underfoot in New York?” she asked. “Feathered rats?”

“Very similar. Hemingway survived on them when he was struggling in Paris after World War I. Try one.”

“I’m not struggling, I’m not in Paris, and I’ll have a kabob,” she said. “Lamb, not mutton, right? And with rice.”

“As you request,” Voltaire said. “If they bring salad, don’t touch it. That’s how you get dysentery.”

To be clear, Voltaire translated the order into crisp Arabic. The waiter nodded, smiled, and disappeared.

“Very good,” Voltaire said. His eyes swept the room. “You’ve got some sass to you too. That helps. How do you feel about seducing a man you’ve never previously met.”

“Depends on who he is, what he looks like, and where we are.”

“Good answer,” he said. “I was in the military for six years. Not with the Americans but with a Western power. I was in a branch equivalent to your US Marines. Whenever one was asked a question of logistics and wanted to hedge on the answer, one would say, ‘It depends on the situation and the terrain.’ That’s the answer you just gave.”

“This ‘seduction’?” she asked. “This ties in with an overnight with a Russian that Fitzgerald mentioned?”

“It might.”

“This seems to be emerging as a sub-specialty of mine,” she said facetiously.

“We all have our moments and our skills,” he said.

“What are yours?”

“You’ll find out as we go along,” he said. “As you need to know. But think of me as a Swiss Army knife. I have a lot of functions other than just cutting throats.”

“Which armed forces were you with?” she asked.

“If I wanted you to know that, don’t you think I would have just told you?”

“Of course,” Alex answered. “But I figured I’d give it a try.”

“You look like you’d be a real pleasure in bed,” Voltaire continued. “Sleep with me later tonight, and I’ll tell you about my army career.”

“I don’t need to know that badly. In fact, I don’t really care.”

“Good response. How many languages do you speak?” he asked.

“You’ve seen my file. You know the answer,” Alex said. “English, Spanish, French, Italian, Russian, and I can get by in Ukrainian. I have a limited reading knowledge of German and a familiarity with Portuguese almost by default because it overlaps so often with the other Romance languages.”

Voltaire nodded. “I speak the same languages as you do, plus Greek and Arabic, obviously, but without the bloody Ukrainian. I mention all this in case it becomes an element in our communication over the next few days.”

He paused.

“The German I speak with considerable ease,” he said. “My parents were Nazis. My father and both of his brothers were in the SS.”

He looked her up and down.

“Are you shocked?” he asked.

“Shocked? No. I’m not even surprised. And I’m certainly not impressed.”