Relative Danger (17 page)

Chapter 21

“We met over breakfast, it’s only fitting that it is over breakfast that we say farewell.”

A formaldehyde hangover isn’t much different from an alcohol hangover, except for the undulating band of visual distortion. It snakes through the air, disrupting solid objects, like a confined heat shimmer or bad tracking on a VCR. Doug was watching one of these lines roll across his plate while Sergei explained his itinerary.

“The train ride to Alexandria is much safer and more comfortable than the Egyptian Air flight, and it’s usually an hour or two faster. The ship to Cyprus leaves quite early tomorrow morning but I have a cabin so it should be pleasant enough. Then a day trip to Paphos. By this time Saturday I’ll be sipping wine on the terrace, working on my tan.”

Doug had noticed the flashing message light on his hotel room phone when he got out of bed to throw up, but couldn’t figure out how to get the message out of the damn thing until six, when the dry heaves made it impossible for him to continue trying to sleep. He showered for an hour and met Sergei in the Nile Dawn breakfast buffet lounge, which was actually the Nile Sunset with tablecloths covering the beer ads.

“I think you should tell your Canadian friend that you are just
certain
that the Jagersfontien Diamond made a side trip to Cyprus and join us for a week or so.” The “us” part was the big surprise Sergei had mentioned in his phone message. He had run into an old friend while visiting the Islamic Arts Museum and the two had decided to run off to Paphos “like giddy teens.”

“The weather will be a tad warm but that will only mean less in the way of clothes, I imagine.” Sergei raised and lowered his eyebrows suggestively, which only made Doug feel nauseous again.

“We spent a torrid July together in Barcelona some time ago and swore that we’d relive it one day. You should come along, you’d have a great time.”

As much as Doug admitted that he enjoyed Sergei’s company, the thought of spending a week with him and his “companion” on an island—Cyprus was an island, wasn’t it?—didn’t sound like fun. “So what’s there to do at Paphos?” he asked, trying to change the subject a bit.

“Absolutely nothing. And that’s what we’ll do. Well, not
absolutely
nothing.” The eyebrows bounced up and down again. “We shared some…moments, you could say, in Spain. We hope to share them all again. And some new ones, I suspect.”

“So…you leave this morning?” Change the subject, please, Doug prayed.

“My train was scheduled to leave twenty minutes ago, so I’ll leave for the station in an hour and only have forty minutes to wait. My friend leaves for Cyprus Friday, her husband has business in Beirut and won’t be leaving till tomorrow.”

“Her
husband?”
Doug didn’t drop his fork or anything so dramatic, but he was nonetheless stunned. The wavy formaldehyde band jumped off his plate and clung to the Texaco gas pump.

Sergei smiled a tight-lipped smile and lowered his eyes in mock shame. “I’m afraid you now know my dark side, Douglas. I hope this doesn’t lower your opinion of me.”

“Sergei,” he said laughing, “what am I going to do without you?”

“Well Douglas, you seem to be keeping yourself quite busy. And, by the looks of you this morning, not using your time to catch up on your sleep. I trust that you’ve made a few friends here in Cairo?”

“And a few enemies,” Doug added, imitating Sergei’s eyebrow gesture.

“And what about you? Still looking for that diamond? Hot on the trail, as they say?”

Good question, Doug thought. Now what? He’d killed a man—well, sort of—and possibly caused something bad to happen to Aisha’s uncle. He could track down Aisha and take it from there, or look for Abe and see what he suggested. Or he could call Edna and find out how she wanted him to spend her money. He didn’t have any real idea what to do.

“Me?” he said, pushing his half-eaten eggs into a pile with his fork. “Eh, I’ll think of something.”

“I’m going to miss you, Douglas. You’ve become quite the
bon vivant
,” Sergei said, holding up his tea in salute.

“If that means hung over, I agree,” he said and raised his orange juice in reply.

***

Cairo is more than just the pyramids, more than the mosques, more than the old souks. But since the new parts are not nearly as interesting, or as well built, as the ancient ruins, most visitors to the city never see it. There are thousands of shops that never see a tourist, that don’t sell tiny pyramids, and whose owners don’t stand in the doorway, enticing you to come in with claims of insanely discounted prices on unspeakably valuable items. For three hours Doug wandered around in one of these areas, hoping for inspiration, waiting for the wavy band to disappear, and trying to decide if he needed a rubber stamp.

The hotel had thoughtfully provided a copy of
Cairo!
magazine in every room, and, mixed in among the lengthy restaurant “reviews” written by the restaurant owners and the three color maps pointing out the locations of these highly praised establishments, there were real articles, reprinted each month, about life in Cairo. Squeezed in between mouthwatering descriptions of specially selected and masterfully prepared braised lamb chops, and accounts of how heads of state, when they are in the city, always dine at Maroosh, was a piece on the tradition of the souk. According to A. Carieen, Arabic rulers required like shops to be located together in the same part of town to encourage competitive pricing and make shopping easier. “No need to traipse from shop to shop, across town and back again, to find what was needed. Oh, the ease of shopping then!” Whether by tradition or a still enforced law, whole streets were dedicated to one product. As Doug walked the half-mile of the rubber stamp and small engraved signs with no borders souk—quite separate from the rubber stamp and small engraved signs
with
borders souk—he wondered how any of these places could stay in business. There were no hordes of price conscious shoppers traipsing from shop to shop, keeping the area financially healthy. There were, however, hordes of underemployed rubber stamp and small engraved sign makers wandering about. Doug tried to picture the entire Reading mall selling only one thing—say, truck-bed liners or sneakers—but it just didn’t make sense. Sort of like the rubber stamp and small engraved signs with no borders souk.

Mixed in with the specialty shops, perhaps by that same ancient decree, were small restaurants and at one of these, in the middle of the electrical motor and arc welding supply souk, he stopped for a Coke. The electrical motor and arc welding supply community sees itself as a cosmopolitan crowd, unlike those commoners over in the lead-based paint souk, so Doug didn’t attract too much attention.

On the paper placemat he wrote the heading
What To Do Now
and, for two Cokes and a Snickers bar, he made boxes around all the letters in
What To Do Now
, turned the boxes into three-dimensional cubes, shaded in all the Os, rewrote the heading in fancy cursive, shaded in all the Os in that heading, and copied the Arabic letters used to write Coca-Cola. With the mat nearly filled, he checked his pants pockets for something else to write on, this list being too messy now to use for any real work. On a folded, round paper coaster used by the coffee shop near the Bab al-Badistan was the phone number Abe had given him yesterday morning.

“Where the hell are you?” Abe said. Even over the phone Doug could tell Abe’s teeth were tightly clenched.

“I’m sorry, have I reached the home of Charlton Heston?” Doug asked.

“Cut the crap, where the hell are you?”

“I’m not sure. Want me to pick you up some welding rods?”

“What the hell are you talking about? We’ve been trying to reach you all day. The hotel said you were at breakfast but nobody’s seen you since.”

“Calm down, I went for a walk. Who’s we?”

“Me and Aisha. She called here about ten this morning. She went to the hotel to look for you but you were gone. And don’t tell me to calm down, asshole.”

“What’s going on?” Doug asked but was thinking about Aisha going to his hotel room.

“You’ve got to get the hell outta Cairo, that’s what’s going on. There’s some mean motherfuckers looking for you and they’re going to kill you if they catch you.”

“What?” Doug could feel his testicles retreating up into his stomach. Instinctively, he looked up and down the street. “What did Aisha say?”

“She said that there’s some mean motherfuckers looking for you and they’re going to kill you if they catch you, that’s what she said. Where the hell are you?”

“I said I don’t know. I’ll catch a cab back to the hotel….”

“No man, don’t go there,” Abe said. “She checked out for you and dropped your stuff off here.”

“How’d she get my passport from the front desk?”

“It’s Aisha. How do you think she got it? Look,” he said, and paused long enough for Doug to think the line was cut, “get a cab and meet me at T.G.I. Friday’s, the one on the boat.”

“They got a
Friday’s
on a boat?”

“Oh Jesus,” Abe said, his teeth clenching again, “just get there.” Now the line did go dead, but Doug had clearly heard Abe slam the phone down.

Chapter 22

When he got back to Pottsville, if he got back, Doug was considering looking for work in the fake antique business.

The walls of the Friday’s on the boat—yes, there really was a Friday’s on a boat—like the walls of the other two Friday’s he’d been in, and like the walls of the Nile Sunset/Dawn, and a dozen or so restaurants and bars in the greater Pottsville area, were covered in retro Americana antiques. There were signs advertising Beech-Nut Chewing Tobacco, Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup, Esso Gasoline, and one that said “Learn to like Moxie!” but gave no clue what Moxie was or why one had to learn to like it. There were musical instruments, a couple of sleds, scores of old team photos in unusual-shaped frames, a traffic light, some toy fire trucks and train tracks, and a suitcase or two. There were enough balls—National League Spalding, American League Reach
,
and sandlot no-names—bats and gloves to outfit a team, the kind that would wear the thick cotton uniform that was hanging above the men’s room door. And everything, from the wooden Adirondack canoe to the Old West sheriff’s badges, was rusted or tarnished or bent in a way that was aesthetically pleasing and sort of homey. The red Texaco gas pump, identical to the one at the Nile Sunset/Dawn, identical to the one at the Friday’s in Reading, blocked his view of the Elvis tribute section, displayed over the bright lights of the non-functioning jukebox. But that was all right, he knew exactly what he’d find there. He wondered what it must be like working at the factory that pumped out enough phony antiques to supply the world’s bars and restaurants. Probably three shifts. Probably union. “I work in the stain and tarnish section,” he could picture himself saying, “part of the weathering division.”

Doug had just finished his second Osiris when Abe pulled up a chair.

“Anybody follow you here?” Abe asked as he motioned to a passing waiter to bring the check.

“I didn’t think to look,” Doug said. “Did anybody follow you?”

“Nobody’s trying to kill
me
, Dougie. And if I work this right, no one will.” He threw some multicolored pound notes on the table. “Let’s get going, we’ve got a five-hour drive to get to Sharm el-Shiek if you’re gonna catch that flight.”

“Who’s Sharm el-Shiek?” Doug asked as they headed down the covered gangway and to the tiny street-side parking lot.

“It’s a resort town on the Red Sea. You’re catching a Gulf Air flight outta here. It’s the first flight we could get you on that didn’t fly out of Cairo.”

“Why? You think someone’s actually watching the airport for me?”

Abe stopped to unlock his car door and looked over the roof at Doug. “Yeah, Doug, I do.”

For over an hour they drove in silence, not counting Abe’s running commentary on the fucking stupidity of every driver on the goddamn road. In heavy traffic the cars bumped into each other, pushing with a fender, nudging with the whole left side of the car, but since this didn’t even elicit so much as a “bastard” from Abe, it probably meant that this was considered courteous driving in Cairo. Doug stared out the window at the identical-looking buildings that raced by, and at the other drivers every time they pulled up to a stoplight. The other drivers, however, ignored Doug, glued to the traffic light, waiting for their chance to sprint ahead a half a car length. And at every traffic light, motorcycles snaked their way up to the front of the line, so when the light did change it looked like the starting flag at a motocross rally.

Finally Doug said, “Where’s Aisha?”

“No idea,” Abe said and then yelled something in Arabic, something that probably ended in learn to drive, you dumb fuck.

“Well how’d you get the ticket?”

“I got an uncle who owns a travel agency—no smart-assed comments, Dougie—he took care of the flight. Your name won’t be officially listed until you land, too late to catch you here.”

“So where am I going?”

“I told you, Sharm el-Shiek. After that, we’ll have to see the ticket.”

***

Doug passed the time watching the darkening horizon. When the sun set in Egypt, it set fast, and all that was left of the blinding sun was a thin band of orange glow in the sky behind them. An hour later, even that was gone. He had started off trying to figure out what to tell Edna, but his mind drifted to a thousand different areas, few of them having anything to do with jewels, killers, or Egypt.

“We’re being followed,” Abe said, breaking the silence.

“Huh?”

“The car behind us, it’s following us,” Abe said as he checked his rearview mirror.

Doug turned around to look out the back window. There was nothing to be seen other than a sliver of the moon, a thousand stars and a pair of yellow headlights.

“How do you know they are following us? They could be going to Sharm el-Shiek, too.”

“Because I thought we were being followed about an hour ago so I took a back route I know. They took it. So I took a few other back roads. They took all of them. No, they’re following us,” he said, looking out to the side mirror, “and they’re getting closer.”

“Now what?” Doug asked.

“I’ve got one more road to try, a real back route but it’ll get us around to the main road eventually. If they take that one too, I’m gonna try to lose them.”

Doug looked around the area, trying to make out something in the blackness. “I don’t see anything out there. There’s nothing to hide behind and no traffic either. How you gonna lose them?”

“Well, first with moves like…THIS.” Abe slammed on the brakes, sledding the car along the thin layer of sand like it was ice, pulled the wheel hard to his left, whipping the back of the car around, dropped it into first and shot off the paved road and onto a gravel track that ran into the desert. The car bottomed out hard and the sound of rocks hitting the axels made Doug cringe. Behind them, two headlights bounced down the short embankment and onto the gravel road.

“I knew it, I fuckin’ knew it,” Abe shouted as he leaned forward in his seat, trying to make out a road. The floorboard shook with the impact of desert rocks kicked up by the tires and the headlights behind them seemed dimmer through the dust. Dimmer but larger.

“I think they’re getting closer. Go faster,” Doug shouted over the noise of the road.

“Oh brilliant,” Abe said, taking his eyes off the road long enough to roll them at Doug. “I didn’t think of
that
.” He pushed the pedal harder against the floor, trying to force more out of the redlined engine.

The interior of the car grew brighter as the two headlights drew closer. Doug braced himself with one arm on the roof and the other on the dashboard. He twisted his neck to watch the headlights disappear behind the trunk of their car and he prepared for the impact. It was a slight nudge but enough to force Abe to wrestle the car back under control.

The headlights pulled back to ready for another hit.

“Get ready,” Doug shouted.

“
You
get ready,” Abe yelled, “they’re trying to flip us.”

The headlights came at them again, this time faster, and the hit sent Doug hard into the windshield. He looked over at Abe, who somehow kept the car straight, and saw the blood from his busted lip. Doug held on, trying to turn to see out the back window. There was less light—one of the headlights busted on the last hit—but it stayed with them, just peeking over the top of the trunk. The tires sent up a steady stream of stones and unseen holes in the road threatened to rip off a wheel.

“If I remember right,” Abe said as he stared ahead, “there’s going to be an intersection up here. If they try to hit us there I’m going to try something.”

The lone headlight kept pace but didn’t try to ram again.

“Get the gun,” Abe said, “and be ready.”

“What gun?” Doug yelled and thought oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

“There, there,” Abe said, pointing to the glove box.

Doug pulled out a handgun, an automatic, he had no idea what kind, and felt for the safety. He turned to look out the rear window and shifted in his seat.

“What are you doing?” Abe yelled. “Don’t shoot out my back window. Are you crazy?”

“Hey,” Doug said, “they’re the ones trying to kill us. And you told me to get the gun.”

“I don’t care. Don’t shoot through my windows.”

Doug twisted back around and started to open the passenger window. I’m not really going to do this, am I, he thought, but before he could decide, a slight nudge from behind forced him to hold on again.

Abe took his right hand off the wheel long enough to smack Doug on the leg. “Forget that. Here’s the spot. Hold on.”

Doug tossed the gun on the floor and braced himself.

As if on cue, the headlight backed off a few yards and lunged forward. Abe yanked the wheel one way, then back, pumping the brakes each time they were hit. Above the noise of crumpling metal and flying rocks, Doug knew he heard gunshots and tried to reach for the automatic on the floor but was thrown back in his seat by a hard hit from behind. There was one more hard hit, and the interior of the car filled with light again as the single headlight shot up over the trunk and arched away into the desert. Doug couldn’t make out the car but watched as the light bounced off the road and disappeared behind a sand dune, briefly backlit by a bright yellow flash. The sound of the explosion was just audible above the gravel and the engine’s roar.

“Holy shit,” Abe yelled, “did you see that?”

“What’d you
do?
How’d you do that?”

“I was just trying to force them off the road,” Abe said, and started to laugh but stopped himself. “Holy shit,” he added and slowed the car down, but not by much. The gravel still made it hard to hear.

“I couldn’t make out what happened. I couldn’t really see anything,” Doug said, and then said, “Should we go back?”

“Hell no, what are you crazy? They’d kill us.”

“If they aren’t already dead,” Doug said.

Abe was licking his lip, trying to determine how bad the cut was. The air conditioning was gone and they were sweating.

“No. They ain’t dead,” Abe said.

“What? Did you see the explosion?”

“They were just busted up. They’re fine.”

Doug wiped his eyes, the sweat was starting to run down his face. “Abe, how can you say they are fine? I mean, with a crash like that….”

Abe turned in his seat and pointed a finger at Doug. “
Look
,” Abe said and then paused. He turned back around to stare down the road. Doug didn’t say anything. Ten minutes later they merged onto the main road and he said, “How much farther?”

“They’re not dead, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” Doug said. “How much farther?”

“About two hours. See I told you I knew a shortcut.”

“Famous last words,” Doug said and then wished he hadn’t. “Roll down your window, it’s like an oven in here.”

The desert night air was cold and Doug had to roll the window back up part way. Abe left his window open.

“Is it worth it?” Abe said. They had been driving in silence for over an hour.

“Is what worth it?”

“This little adventure of yours, this mystery diamond, this whole uncle thing? Is it worth it?”

“Seriously?” Doug said. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what the hell is going on.” He leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms over his head. “I mean, when it first started I was like, yeah, this is going to be great. I remember thinking, when I was in Casablanca, that I was some, I don’t know, what’s the word?” and he looked around the car as if he had the right word but had dropped it somewhere. “Adventurer? Detective? Indiana Jones? I’ve never done anything with my life and here I was doing something. But now….”

“So why are you still doing it? Quit. Go home. Screw the diamond.” Traffic started to pick up and there were more road signs now as they approached Sharm el-Shiek.

“Well,” Doug said, “it’s not just the diamond, it’s Edna, that woman I told you about, and all that crap about my uncle….”

“Fuck ’em. If you don’t want to be doing this shit, go home.”

Doug ran both hands up his face and through his hair, grabbing a handful and tugging. “That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“I thought this Edna woman….”

“Not her,” Doug said, “me. That’s the story of my life. I could go home, get a job—I know enough people in Pottsville where I could get a job—that’s not a problem. A week, two weeks…it would be like I never left.”

“So there you go. Problem solved.”

Doug laughed and it startled Abe. “That
is
the problem. I’m the problem. My dull, stupid life’s the problem.” He laughed again and slapped his thighs hard.

“You’re getting weird on me Doug. I asked one simple question….”

“Okay, a quick simple answer: No, it’s not worth it.”

“But?”

“But I am.”

Abe turned to speak but changed his mind, looked back out to the growing traffic and shook his head. They drove on in silence until Abe began a running commentary on the traffic and the questionable parentage of the other drivers, all delivered in cartoon character voices. Hearing Daffy Duck shout obscenities was believable, but Doug couldn’t buy it when it came from Mickey Mouse.

Nobody, in any voice, mentioned the desert.

***

Abe swung the car into an empty spot, the airport parking lot already filling up for the start of the night flights. Half the vehicles were hotel shuttle buses, the other half taxis waiting to pick up the backpack crowd. Abe managed to get the trunk open and neither mentioned the busted taillight, missing chrome trim, or the slightly skewed bumper. Doug grabbed his bag from the trunk—who knew what Aisha packed this time—and stepped away as Abe wedged the trunk shut.

The airport was much smaller than the one in Cairo and the crowds of passengers and well-wishers were subdued and even polite, as if, unable to compete with the capital city’s airport in size, they gave up on the frenzied behavior as well. They walked through the metal detector at the door, the red light flashing and the buzzer sounding, as it did for everyone who passed through. The guard, picking up his tea from the security desk across the room, didn’t even glance up. Abe’s uncle was waiting for them by the departure board. Doug was introduced and then left out of the Arabic conversation that concluded with the passing of envelopes and kissing of cheeks.