Hunt Through Napoleon's Web (6 page)

“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.

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.

Gabriel stopped by the entrance and pretended to be interested in one of the carpets. He casually glanced back the way he’d come, but there was no sign of Sammi. That was a good thing. After a moment, a short Egyptian man approached him from the back of the store.

“Good afternoon, sir. You have a fine eye—that is our most beautiful carpet.”

“It’s very nice,” Gabriel said.

“You want it? I make you a good deal.” The man’s eyes glittered.

“I’m afraid not,” Gabriel said. “I’m just looking.”

Gabriel felt a hand land on his shoulder from behind. “Do not turn around, Mister Hunt.” The hand moved, frisking him. First one side, then the other. He felt his Colt being lifted out of its holster. The Egyptian in front of him had an apologetic expression on his face.

“I was
this
close to buying it, too,” Gabriel said.

The Egyptian shrugged. “You still can. We ship.”

But by then the frisking had ceased and Gabriel had other things to focus on. A man walked around from behind him, one hand extended. He was very tall, a few inches past Gabriel’s own six feet. He wore a lightweight white suit and a fez. His skin was olive-colored, his eyes dark brown and piercing. Beneath his lower lip he sported a thick goatee. Gabriel figured him to be in his fifties.

“My name is Amun,” the man said. “Thank you for being so punctual, Mister Hunt. You are right on time.” The man’s English was accented, but mildly; it sounded smooth and cultured, as though many hours of practice had gone into polishing it. He might have been an actor or a politician.

“You’re with the Alliance of the Pharaohs?” Gabriel asked.

“I am.” He gestured over Gabriel’s shoulder and Gabriel turned his head to look. Behind him stood a much larger man, not so much in height as in bulk. He was dressed in a suit as well, but no fez.

“This is Kemnebi,” Amun said. “He is my assistant.”

“What does he type,” Gabriel said, “ninety words a minute?”

Amun chuckled. His offered hand having gone unshaken this long, he let it fall to his side. “Why don’t the three of us go inside this shop and have a talk?”

“I’m not going anywhere until I know that Lucy is all right,” Gabriel said.

“You have my word, Mister Hunt.”

“And you have my sister,” Gabriel said. “Your word means very little to me.”

“You wish to talk to her?” Amun said.

“Yes.”

“Come inside. We will get her on the phone. It is more private, don’t you think?”

“You can get her on the phone right now.”

Amun smiled slightly. “Out here?”

“Out here.”

“Very well.” Amun removed a cell phone from his pocket and keyed in a number. He spoke Arabic to someone on the other end. After a pause, he handed the phone to Gabriel.

“. . . hello?” It was a woman’s voice. She sounded as if she’d just been awakened from a deep sleep. It could have been Lucy. Or not.

“Lucy?” he said cautiously. “It’s Gabriel.”

“Gabriel?
Gabriel!
Where are you?” She still sounded half-asleep—but it was her.

“Are you all right?” he said. “Have they hurt you?”

“I’m okay. I’m just . . . sleepy. The bastards gave me—” But her voice was cut off.

“Lucy?
Lucy!
”

Amun held out his hand for the phone. Gabriel angrily slapped it into the man’s palm. The Egyptian held it to his ear, spoke a few more words in Arabic, and then hung up.

“As you can hear, your sister is alive and well. My word is good, Mister Hunt.”

“She’s alive,” Gabriel conceded. “She didn’t sound well. What have you pumped her full of?”

“Nothing worse than people her age pump themselves full of every day. It’s probably a good deal safer, in fact, and less unpleasant when it wears off.” The man shook his head. “Please understand, we had to calm her down, or she would have hurt herself trying to get away. She might have hurt others as well. Believe me, it is better this way.”

“I ought to wring your neck right here.”

“You could try to do that, Mister Hunt. But Kemnebi would prevent it, and if he failed, you have my word that your sister would be dead within five minutes.” Amun smiled gently. “Please. I do understand how you feel; if it were my sister I would feel the same. But it is not necessary. We are civilized men. We will go inside, we shall talk and have some tea together, and you will see that what we want from you is not so terrible. You will agree to what we ask and your sister will be released unharmed, I promise.” He held out his hand again and gestured toward the entryway. “Please,” he repeated, and Kemnebi weighed in by placing a heavy palm against the back of Gabriel’s neck.

Gabriel stared at Amun for a moment and then turned and walked inside.

Sammi lowered her binoculars and cursed to herself in French. Suddenly Lucy’s kidnapping made sense.

She was standing behind a display of inexpensive jewelry in a shop across from Jumoke’s. The shopkeeper, a woman, approached Sammi and asked if she needed assistance.

“No, thank you. Sorry.” Sammi left her cover and moved out into the busy lane. She looked for another place where she could stand unnoticed and chose a doorway half hidden in shadow. Keeping one eye on the entrance to Jumoke’s, she took out her cell phone and began hastily to type out a message on its miniature keyboard. She had to warn Gabriel, had to explain to him who that man was—

But she didn’t get the chance to finish. Before she’d gotten three words into her message, the door she was propped against suddenly opened inward. Sammi stumbled and put out one hand to catch herself—but as she did, a burlap sack was thrown over her head from behind.

“Hey!” she shouted, her voice muffled. She tried to swing an elbow behind her, but her arm was seized in an iron grip. She raised one leg and brought her boot-clad heel down swiftly and heard a grunt of pain. The hold on her arms tightened. She struggled to break free, but there was no way. A moment later, she felt herself lifted off the ground and thrown over someone’s shoulder.

The quality of the light filtering through the burlap changed as she was carried inside. She felt the strap of the binoculars snap as it was yanked painfully against her neck. Her cell phone had vanished in the tussle as well. She felt two pairs of hands roughly frisking her, then her own hands were tied behind her back with some sort of narrow cord. She squirmed and fought and shouted till one of the men gave her a chop, hard, through the bag. Her head rang from the blow and she tasted blood—she’d bitten into her cheek. She was lifted again, then carried for a span, and then dumped onto a cold metal surface. She heard what sounded like the doors of a van being slammed shut and locked. The van
bounced slightly as someone climbed into the driver’s seat, then again when the other man joined him in the passenger’s. Sammi resumed shouting and kicked against the side of the van, but if anyone heard there was no sign. The driver started the ignition and drove away.