by J. S. Cook
And then I felt something give, almost like the bowl had split in two.
It had. The round indentation had parted along a central seam, revealing a flat panel beneath, fitted with a tiny door carved out of a separate piece of diorite. I got a fingernail under the flap and pulled it up.
There, shining like a new piaster, was a tiny brass key no bigger than my thumbnail.
I was wondering what it unlocked when the phone rang. It was Tareenah Halim, and she sounded upset. “Mr. Stoyles, I must ask you to desist in your inquiries. Please.”
This was new. First, she asked me to look for Sam, and now she was telling me not to bother? “Mrs. Halim, are you sure this is what you want?”
“I cannot explain. Please.” She was on the edge of tears. “Do not ask more questions about my husband. In fact, it is best if you return home as soon as possible. I can say no more than this. Good-bye.”
There was a click and my ear was full of dial tone. But I didn’t have too much time to wonder what she meant. Just then, the door of my hotel room blew in with a noise like a hundred pounds of dynamite, and everything around me was suddenly in flames.
Chapter 3
I DON’T remember much after the room blew up, but the next thing I knew I was roaming the native quarter, wearing my tunic and trousers from Mrs. Halim’s party, and holding that tiny brass key in my hand. It must have been well after midnight, maybe two o’clock in the morning, and the native quarter was still and quiet. I felt like people do when they’re dreaming, like I was walking in an unfamiliar landscape, moving slowly through some alien dimension that had nothing to do with me one way or the other. I had no idea where I was and no clue how I’d gotten here. The important thing was to keep walking. As long as I kept walking, I would be all right.
The streets in this part of the city were narrow and very old, the buildings hanging over and forming a sort of tunnel. There weren’t a lot of cars parked anywhere, and the style and general condition of the houses indicated the native Egyptians didn’t fare nearly as well as the rest of Cairo. Even the flood of wartime prosperity, so abundant elsewhere, was scarcely in evidence here. This part of Cairo resisted the march of time, its face turned stolidly toward the east, its future uncertain and its present consumed with necessary day-to-day concerns. There wasn’t much to hope for, not here among these shabby buildings with their tidy lines of clean laundry drifting in the warm night breeze. Hope was something that happened on the other side of town, in the imagined cultural heartland of the Ezbekieh or at Shepheard’s palatial hotel, where army officers from various nations met for cocktails while their troops were dying horrific, flyblown deaths in the merciless desert.
I guess I walked for close to two hours.
How I’d managed to dress myself and flee the hotel, I didn’t know. I’d taken nothing with me except the little brass key—no wallet, no passport, no valid form of identification that might help me out if I was stopped by Cairo’s often overzealous police. Dawn had just begun to lighten the sky when I remembered something I’d read in one of my guidebooks, about how the muezzin would soon be making the first call to prayer.
I ducked into a doorway and sat down, resting my head against the wall and letting my tired eyes close. It seemed like weeks had passed since I’d been at Tareenah Halim’s party, instead of only a few hours. I ached everywhere, my feet worst of all, and a spot over my right eyebrow throbbed painfully with my heartbeat. Who wanted me dead so bad they’d bomb my hotel room? Tareenah Halim and Ibrahim Samir knew I was in Cairo, as had Shiva, who had greeted me by name practically the first time we met. Mrs. Halim had deliberately sought me out to ask if I’d help find Sam. I’d left a trail behind me on the plane, in the taxi, in the hotel, at Sam’s house. If anybody wanted to find me, they wouldn’t have to look hard, I’d practically announced my presence the minute I set foot in Cairo. I figured the explosion in my hotel room wasn’t some random act of violence, but a deliberate attack, set up by somebody who knew why I was here, who intended to try and stop me.
I’d brought nothing of value to Cairo. Even the diorite bowl Blount had insisted was a treasured Egyptian artifact had turned out to be a phony. Although, now I thought about it, there was something real funny about that whole thing. Egypt had a law that said any recovered artifact, regardless of its provenance, had to be handed over to the government. It was sometimes a problem getting people to turn things over, because more often than not, whoever found the thing could get more money for it on the black market. Your average farmer, or fellah, was going to hold out for the best deal he could get, and who could blame him? If he happened to turn up some ancient artifact with his plough, it could mean the difference between poverty and a modest increase in his personal wealth. Most people were honest enough to turn in whatever they found. And yet, when I’d brought the bowl to the Egyptian Museum, they hadn’t wanted to hear about it. It didn’t make any sense, unless that was the plan all along—and I had to admit, finding that little key hidden in the base of the bowl was surprising. It was very surprising. And Ibrahim Samir, he was pretty surprising, too. I hadn’t expected that….
The muezzin’s call pierced the early morning air like a klaxon, and my head snapped up. I was looking into a pair of vaguely familiar blue eyes. “Jack.” He touched my shoulder. “Jack, your feet are bleeding.”
Whatever I was going to say was lost for all time. I tumbled forward and the world went away.
IT WAS the feeling of cold water on my face that brought me out of it. I opened my eyes slowly and waited for the room to stop whirling. I was lying on a bed in a modest little room with all the usual furnishings: chest of drawers, bookcase, lamps. I had no idea where I was.
“Whoa there, don’t try and sit up too soon.” Gentle hands pushed me back down, just in time. I felt distinctly like I was about to embarrass myself.
“What happened?”
“Little explosion at Shepheard’s, Jack. Don’t you remember?” Tex helped me sit up and handed me a glass of water, but I couldn’t imagine drinking it. My stomach felt like a bag full of bumblebees.
“Were you at the hotel when it happened?” I downed the water anyway. My mouth was parched, as dry as the Sahara.
“Just coming off my shift. Have you been back there?”
I shook my head. “All my stuff is still there. The room is probably destroyed. Tex, what the hell happened?”
“Nobody’s really sure. All they know is a bomb was planted near your room, set to go off around midnight.” He sat back and gazed at me. “Jack, you got any enemies in Cairo?”
“I haven’t been here long enough to make enemies. Unless….” As soon as I said it, the whole thing hit me: Jonah Octavian. He was the most likely candidate for this sort of thing. There was bad blood between us, especially after that stunt he’d pulled with Picco back in St. John’s. I wouldn’t put it past him to bomb my hotel room. It was just the sort of thing he’d go for. I hesitated to tell any of this to Tex. I didn’t want to burden him with a lot of old news that had nothing to do with him, and I didn’t know him well enough to know if I could trust him.
“Tex, thanks for everything but I gotta go.” I stood up and took one step, then collapsed on the floor, groaning in pain. My feet felt like they were on fire. This was a great start.
“Jack, come on. I’ll get you a taxi.” He helped me back to the bed, and I noticed my feet were heavily bandaged. “You were wandering around the native quarter barefoot for hours. Didn’t you even notice? When I found you, your feet were bleeding. I could have tracked you all the way back to Shepheard’s just by following the bloody footprints.”
I didn’t remember any of that. I’d been with Ibrahim Samir, and just after he left, the room blew up. I couldn’t even figure out how I’d gotten dressed. When Ibrahim had left, all I was wearing was a hotel bathrobe. Who’d dressed me? How had I ended up in the native quarter? And out of all the things I might have taken with me, why had I chosen the little brass key? “I had a ke
y in my hand.” My pulse pounded in my temples, and I felt sick again. “Where is it? Did you take it?” It was conceivable I’d dressed myself and left the hotel; I just didn’t remember doing it.
“Take it easy, Jack.” He reached into his pocket and handed me the key. “I’m on your side, remember?”
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m… not myself. Look, you been awful good to me.” I felt like an idiot. “I don’t remember much of what happened after the blast. Do you think…?”
“I’ll go with you.”
We went out, and Tex hailed a cab. The morning sun cast its warm, level rays over the city, setting the Nile alight. I didn’t relish the idea of going back to Shepheard’s. There would be an investigation and the police would be asking questions; I would need to get my story straight.
“I’d rather not stay at Shepheard’s if I can help it.” I hoped Tex wouldn’t ask too many questions. I wasn’t up for lengthy explanations.
“Sure thing. You want somewhere off the beaten path, am I right?”
Or maybe he already knew more than I suspected.
“Uh, sure.” I shrugged. “Anywhere’s okay.”
As it turned out, Tex was really helpful. He was familiar with Cairo, and knew where all the decent hotels were. He explained to the desk clerk at Shepheard’s that I’d been in the room where the blast had occurred, and within half an hour, they had retrieved my luggage and the rest of my belongings, apologizing profusely all the while. They assured me that measures were being taken, everything was being done, the police had been called, this sort of thing would not go unpunished, and so on. I offered my good-byes to the desk clerk, and within half an hour, I was installed in a clean little room at the Acacia Court with a wonderful view of the Citadel. The Acacia Court was nowhere near as fancy or luxurious as Shepheard’s, but the bed was comfortable and there was lots of hot water. “I’ll be back later to check on you,” Tex promised. He grinned, winking at me. “Try not to blow yourself up.”
“Wait a second.” I laid my hand on his arm. “There’s something about this I just don’t get.”
He’d been about to step out into the corridor but now he came back in and closed the door. “And?”
“I order a massage at Shepheard’s and you show up.”
He grinned. “That’s my job, Jack.”
“Yeah, I know that.” Christ, I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe that this big, good-looking kid was somehow watching out for me. “But now, with everything that’s happened, here you are again. Cairo is a big place. How long had I been wandering in the native quarter? And who comes to my rescue? You do.”
“Jack, I—”
“It’s all a bit too convenient for coincidence. That’s what I’m saying.” I felt like a real heel. Maybe I should have been grateful he’d found me, instead of bellyaching about it. “I don’t mean—”
“I can’t tell you anything.” He spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “Jack, I wish I could.”
“That sounds pretty final.” Strangely enough, I didn’t blame him.
“You’re right about the watching out for you part, but that’s all I can tell you.” He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Why don’t you get some rest? You’ve had a tough day.” The door swished shut behind him, and I was alone.
I stripped off my scorched, filthy clothes and collapsed into bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay there in the artificial darkness, turning the tiny key over and over in my hand. Who had put the key in the base of the bowl? Was I meant to find the key or was it meant for someone else—say, someone at the museum? Or had it been placed there before I’d left Newfoundland? I didn’t understand what was going on with Tareenah Halim, either. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to secure my help and now she didn’t want it. The more I thought about things, the more confused I got.
Finally I got up and, taking a pad of paper and a pen, wrote the words CAFE HEARTACHE. Samir said the decoded message from Sam had consisted of only these two words. My cafe was called the Heartache Cafe, which identified me as the intended recipient, but Sam hadn’t provided much to go on. If this were a puzzle, I would assume the juxtaposition of those two words, for starters. I fiddled around with it awhile, arranging and rearranging the letters. I came up with things like A A A CHEER FETCH and A A A CHEF ETCHER and A A A EH REC FETCH—none of which helped me one little bit. On impulse, I struck off the A A A and the EH from the last one and was left with REC FETCH, which didn’t mean anything to me. Then I swapped places and had FETCH REC, and that kind of gave me an idea. Was Sam trying to say “fetch records”? It was a long shot, but maybe that was what the key was for. It was too small to fit in any door I’d ever seen, but maybe a filing cabinet or a safety deposit box…?
I fingered the tiny mark stamped into one side of the key. It was the image of a bowl, with three straight, downward strokes; I’d never seen anything like it. On the opposite side was the number 28, obviously a reference to a cabinet or box. I got hold of the phone and called the concierge. “What bank uses the image of a bowl with three lines on it?”
“A bowl? Three lines?” He was clearly confused, but polite about it. “A bank, sir?”
“Yeah. It’s a… what do you call it? A motif? A symbol?”
“Perhaps sir is referring to a logo?”
“Yeah, that’s it. A logo. What bank uses that?”
“I do not have that information at my fingertips, but if sir would give me but a moment, I will ring back with a reply.”
While I waited for him to call back, I sorted through my mostly undamaged luggage for clean clothes. Something told me to lock my passport in the wall safe in my room, but I put my wallet in my back pocket and made sure I was wearing a watch. My feet were still sore from my impromptu walking tour of the native quarter, so I dug out my shoes, the same worn, comfortable old pair I’d brought with me. I made sure I was dressed like I belonged here. I didn’t want to look like a tourist; I wanted to blend in with the locals or, at the very least, come across as some anonymous expatriate in town for the war. I debated whether to have some breakfast but my stomach still felt queasy, so I decided to skip it. Five minutes later the phone rang, but it was a different voice on the line.
“Mr. Stoyles, I am pleased to help you.” The accent was vaguely Greek, the voice about as soothing as an oil drum full of ball bearings. “You had a question about a logo?”
“Yeah.” My intuition prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. “I think I was talking to somebody else, though.”
“He is not here. He has gone on a little break. I am more than happy to help you.”
Nothing about this felt right, but I didn’t have a choice. “Yeah, all right. Give it to me.”
“The logo you describe is that of the National Bank of Egypt. There is a branch very near here, should you require banking services.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
I made my way to the street and had a look around, alert for trouble, but didn’t see anything besides what you’d expect to see on any given weekday. I slipped around to the front and started up the street, walking approximately parallel to the Nile with the air of someone going nowhere in particular. It stood to reason I’d be followed, and I intended to make it as difficult for them as possible. The only flaw in my brilliant plan? I had absolutely no idea where I was going. The guidebook I’d brought to Cairo with me had been destroyed when my hotel room blew up, and there was nobody around to ask—at least, nobody who spoke English. I reasoned that eventually I would come across something recognizable or somebody who could give me accurate directions.
I’d just crossed the Shari’ esh-Sheikh Rihan when the unmistakable sound of gunfire made me flatten against the nearest building. I looked up and down the street but didn’t see anything. I was trying hard to concentrate on my surroundings, but my heart was going like a trip-hammer and the heat made it hard to breathe. I crouched behind a clump of aloes and made a quick survey of nearby rooftops. There was no way a handgun
would have accurate range at that distance, which meant anybody shooting at me from up there would have to be using a rifle. I waited, counting slowly to a thousand, and then started off in the opposite direction. Again, gunfire rang out, but this time I said to hell with it and started running for all I was worth, reasoning it was harder to hit a moving target. Two or three bullets sang dangerously close to me, and flying stone chips from a building struck my cheek and drew blood.
I was within sight of the hotel when a small yellow Fiat with Cairo plates screeched to a halt beside me and the passenger door flew open. “Get in.”
I didn’t recognize her. She was wearing a headscarf and dark sunglasses, but so were about a hundred other women on the streets. “Get in!” She seemed to take my hesitation personally; she reached across, grabbed my sleeve and yanked me toward the car. I fell in, and the door slammed shut behind me; she shoved the car into gear and squealed away.
“Do you know who was shooting at you?” She took a corner at speed, and then cut down an alley, knocking aside trash cans and scaring half a dozen unwary chickens who had the bad luck to get in her way. “Did you see who it was?”
“Didn’t see a thing, lady. By the way, who are you?”
She pulled the sunglasses off and tossed them onto the dashboard of the Fiat. “I must apologize, Mr. Stoyles. I should never have left you to your own devices. I am afraid my husband will not be very pleased with me.”
“Bismillah….” Tareenah Halim. “You do this sort of thing on a regular basis?” She was making like Mata Hari, but I had no idea what the hell was going on. “First you tell me to find Sam, and then you tell me not to bother. You mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Ibrahim Samir contacted me. I have been searching for you since last night, when the bomb exploded at the hotel. At first we thought you had been killed.”
