by Gregg Loomis
The blow came so fast Lang barely had time to roll with it, an openhanded slap that made Lang see double. Apparently these goons weren't fond of Lewis Carroll.
The man was immobile, as though he hadn't moved at all. "Once again, Mr. Reilly…"
"My name is Couch," Lang snapped. "You've obviously gotten the wrong room."
The man allowed himself the beginnings of a smile. "We are aware of the name on the passport you presented upon arrival at this hotel, Mr. Reilly. Now, for the last time, what did you and the Jew talk about?"
If the man were anything other than a hired thug, he would not have stood quite so close. Nor would he interrogate a possibly hostile subject with his gun still in his shoulder holster, where Lang could get at it.
"Go fuck yourself."
This time the blow was with a closed fist, delivered with the assailant's full weight behind it.
Just as Lang had anticipated.
Easily sidestepping the fist, Lang placed his leg across the man's knee as he grabbed the wrist, using his opponent's forward inertia to jerk him forward. An almost simultaneous twist of his own leg bent the other man's knee backward, sending him stumbling with a yelp of pain. As he fought for his balance, Lang's hand was inside the man's jacket, emerging with the automatic.
The whole thing was over before the other man could clear his weapon. Instead he was now looking down the muzzle of what had been his companion's pistol. He warily moved his hand away and held both out in front of him.
Lang edged toward the door, the pistol's barrel alternating between the two. "Okay, guys, here's what's going down. First, you." He gestured toward the man with his hands outstretched. "You. Take off your suit coat and throw it on the bed. Then, using only your left thumb and forefinger, remove that gun from the holster and toss it on the bed. Now!"
The man sneered at him, "Come take it. A shot in this hotel would draw the police like a dung heap draws flies."
Lang knew he was right. He took a step closer, as though he were, in fact, going to get within range of an attack. Instead he delivered the toe of his shoe into the man's crotch with as much force as he could.
With a single grunt, the man folded like a beach ball from which the air had suddenly escaped.
Lang knelt over the writhing, moaning form on the floor, sighing as he reached into the jacket and removed the pistol. "Well, I tried jt the easy way."
He stood, a gun in each hand, and motioned to the one favoring what was quite likely a shattered kneecap. "You: Pick up the stuff you took out of my bag and repack it. Unless you want to join your pal there in indefinite celibacy, I suggest you make it quick."
He did.
"For your continuing amusement, gentlemen, our next game is going to be a contest to see who can tie the other up most securely. Start ripping the bedsheets into strips."
Five minutes later the two intruders were secured firmly to the bed.
Lang let himself out the door, carefully pulling it shut until he heard the lock snap into place. He slipped one of the two pistols out of his waistband and started to put it under the cushion of a chair, part of a furniture grouping in front of the bank of elevators. He stopped and stared. He was holding a Desert Eagle.
Damn. He'd seen more of the bulky automatics lately than he had in a lifetime. Some arms merchant must have had a sale-a real sale to convince the Mukhabarat to switch over from the Russian knockoff of the Walther PPK, the Stechkin. Unreliable, but cheap and plentiful.
In the lobby he stepped to the front of the line of protesting guests waiting to register.
A ten-pound note in hand, he spoke to the clerk. "An emergency checkout. My passport, please."
The increasingly angry queue was still grumbling as he quickly strode across the lobby, noting the surprise on the face of the concierge, who quickly disappeared into a room behind his stand.
On the street the afternoon's heat hit Lang like a hammer's blow. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back as he searched for a cab, surprised there were none at the hack stand outside the hotel.
He was trying to decide the quickest way to the airport when his mind was made up for him.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee shoved through the hotel's revolving door. The sheets must not have been spun from the finest Egyptian cotton, and the blow to the knee must have been much less severe than Lang had thought.
Lang was running just as they spotted him.
Without surprise, he stood little chance against both of them unless he used the heavy automatic, something that would quickly bring the police.
Straight ahead was the opera house, and across the street the red M in a blue star, the emblem of Cairo's Metro.
Lang nearly knocked a woman and child over as he took the stairs two at a time.
He was in luck: A train was stopped, disgorging passengers. Even in his rush he noted how much cleaner the station was than the streets above: Thankful he had conserved his change, he slid coins into a slot until a ticket appeared with a whir and a click. He knew the price varied depending on how many stops he intended to travel, but he didn't care. Jumping the turnstile would have alerted the uniformed policeman on the platform.
He lunged for the nearest car and stopped, realizing the first two were reserved for women. He gave the now interested cop a weak smile, the look of a Western tourist making a typical cultural error.
He wedged himself and his suitcase into the third car and turned just in time to see Tweedledum and Tweedledee burst into the station. One pointed to the window through which Lang was looking. Lang couldn't resist a wave as the train jolted forward and gained speed.
Lang had no idea where he was going, only that he was putting as much real estate between him and those two as possible. At the next stop he edged through the packed car to inspect the diagram of the Metro system, labeled in Arabic and English. He gathered he had boarded at the Gezira station, the one closest to the opera house. Ahead, the two legs of the system intersected. He could transfer to the other or remain on the present line. He saw no indication that either went to the airport.
A man in a worn business suit stood to get off at the next stop, and Lang took his seat.
Something wasn't right.
If the two Mukhabarat men knew he was on the train, why didn't they simply have it boarded at the next stop?
One answer was ominous: They didn't want the law enforcement people to know anything, thereby preventing inconvenient questions if Lang disappeared into the black hole of some secret prison.
Or perhaps they simply hadn't had time to position the police at the various stations.
Either way, it seemed expedient to get off while he could.
He was stepping down from the car when Tweedledum and Tweedledee came down the steps from the street. No doubt they had been more successful than Lang in finding transportation, and it had taken them this many stops to get ahead of the train.
Too late to wish he'd gotten off earlier.
Shielding himself amid the exiting horde, Lang almost made it to another set of stairs before one saw him and they both broke into a run.
Shoving cursing passengers aside as he galloped upstairs, Lang made it to the top and glanced around.
He still didn't know where he was. He bolted for the nearest corner and the one after that.
He was standing in the middle of a souq, a large Arab bazaar. Small stalls crowded the narrow street, compressing the crowd of tourists, merchants, and customers into a space less than five feet wide. The mixture of languages was straight out of the biblical Tower of Babel. A woman wearing a soiled chador squatted in front of him, offering a drink with one hand and shooing flies from it with the other. Several were floating in the rose-colored liquid. From where he stood he could see copperware, blown glass, spices, and tacky souvenirs for sale. Manure, rotting vegetables, and wood smoke were the three smells he could identify.
There was a tug at his pants leg. "Scarab, Mista 'merican?"
Lang looked down to see a youn
g boy, sans front teeth, in traditional bedouin headdress and robes, proffering a small carving of the Egyptian dung beetle that symbolized resurrection.
"Come from tombs in the valley. Very, very old. Only five dolla 'merican."
Lang shook his head and started twisting his way down the street. He paused to let a procession of earphone- wearing American tourists follow the leader, a woman carrying aloft a handkerchief tied to an umbrella as she spoke into a headset.
The stop was enough for the young scarab seller to catch up. Three dolla, Mista 'merican. You take for three dolla?"
Lang shook his head and started off again.
A series of what were undoubtedly curses made him look over his shoulder. Tweedledum and Tweedledee had knocked over the old woman's drinks, and she was expressing her disapproval in what Lang guessed was most unladylike terms.
His small bag held like a football to a running back's chest, Lang shoved aside a tourist in shorts and hideously European sandals as he ducked between two stalls, but not before the young souvenir salesman approached the newcomers.
"Scarab, mista? Only five dolla 'merican."
The souq was a maze of rickety stalls and sagging tents. Lang had little room to run, but his determined pursuers could go no faster. He ducked between a wooden kiosk where turquoise jewelry was hanging and the ropes holding up an adjacent tent under which dates were stacked in boxes.
Then he stopped.
One of the men was no longer there.
A quick look told him where he had gone. Somehow he had gotten in front. Lang was hemmed in by stalls, canvas, and two men who certainly bore him no goodwill. His hand went to the Desert Eagle in his belt.
No. Too crowded. Customers or purveyors were as likely to get hurt as his targets.
FORTY-ONE
2110 Paces Ferry Road
Vinings, Georgia
7:38 a.m.
Two Days Earlier
Alicia was humming an old show tune as she stepped out of the shower. Last night with Lang had been every bit as wonderful as she had fantasized. Smiling at the thought, she swaddled herself in the thick terry-cloth robe from the Willard Hotel in Washington, the one she had swiped the time the cheapskates at the Department of Justice had allowed her to stay there instead of the usual out-of-the-way Sheraton or Marriott. She was wrapping a towel into a turban around her hair as she walked into the bedroom and stopped.
For an instant she thought Lang had come back to reclaim some forgotten item. But there were two men she had never seen before standing between her and the door to the hall.
The one closest was of slender build, over six feet, mid- thirties, dark hair cut slightly shorter than currently fashionable, and freshly shaved, as though he had just put down his razor. He looked out of place in the landscaping service's uniform he wore.
Her first reaction was anger rather than fear. "How did you get in
…?"
He held up a thin black wallet with a badge fixed to one side, a photo ID on the other. She had seen hundreds just like it. "Special Agent Witherspoon, Federal Bureau of Investigation."
The other man was holding up similar creds.
Her anger not even slightly mollified, she snapped, "You're not from the local office. I hope to hell you've got a warrant."
Witherspoon returned the black wallet to a pocket. "We understood Langford Reilly was here."
She stepped to the bedside, reaching for the phone. "I don't care if you thought Osama bin Laden was here- you don't have a warrant, your ass is grass, as you're about to find out."
She picked up the receiver and had punched in the first four digits of the local FBI office, a number any assistant U.S. Attorney knew by rote, when she felt a slight prick in her arm.
"What the hell do you think…?"
Her knees suddenly gave way and she was lying on the floor, looking at a pair of men's shoes. Above her she heard the phone being replaced on its cradle.
Then her world went black.
Should a neighbor have been leaving his house for work a minute or so later, he would have seen nothing unusual at 8:10. Two men from the community association's landscaping service were carrying a large bag, no doubt full of grass cuttings or fallen leaves, to their truck. The only thing unusual was that the sack seemed to weigh more than such material should. Both men were struggling with the weight. It would have been comforting to know residents were getting their money's worth.
FORTY-TWO
Khan al-Khalil
Cairo
Lang didn't see many options. Even if he could literally push through the crowd, he would wind up confined by more stalls. The only good news was that for whatever reason, the Mukhabarat men had not yet called for backup or summoned the local police to join in the chase.
Lang moved sideways under the tent, pretending to examine a small carton of dates. The tent's proprietor smiled, showing yellowed teeth, and extended a hand with one of the fruits. He was offering a sample of the merchandise.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, anticipating success, had slowed to a walk. As they approached, the angle for an escape right or left, never good, diminished even more.
Lang accepted the proffered date, nibbling tentatively as he backed slowly to stand beside one of the ropes supporting the canvas. Four guy lines wrapped around rocks held the tent against a peaked pole that looked less than steady. Lang guessed it was rigged for easy removal once the day's business was complete.
Tweedledee ducked as he stepped under the edge of the tent. From where he stood, Lang watched as Tweedledum did the same.
With a forced nonchalance, Lang took a step, as though to speak with the date seller. The two men anticipated his move and came further under the canvas.
Lang suddenly spun, exiting the shade of the sailcloth, and snatched the rope from its tethering rock. One corner of the canvas now hung limply. Repeating the move, he slipped the second line free, cutting himself off from the view of the two. He gave the corner a hard pull and the entire structure collapsed, to the screams and curses of those inside, who were blindly shoving one another to get out from under the confines of the enveloping canvas.
Lang fled.
Two blocks away he finally succeeded in waving down a cab and was on his way to the airport. He would take the first flight out to anywhere.
Then he had some very specific questions he needed to have answered.
The sound of his BlackBerry's beep startled him. It could be only one person.
"Yes, Sara?"
"Lang? I can't hear you."
Cairo's traffic intruded even through the cab's windows rolled up to contain air-conditioning of doubtful value; horns honking, as many mufflers missing as were still working, the driver's radio blaring something Lang supposed was music. He tapped the man on the shoulder, motioning him to lower the volume.
"Okay, Sara, try again."
"Lang, someone slipped a package through the mail slot last night."
"The mayor can't afford stamps?"
"Lang, I'm serious."
"Okay, what's in it?" "Makes no sense. A ring with an emerald in the shape of a heart."
It took Lang three tries to Alicia's personal office number before someone else answered.
No, Ms. Warner was not in her office. No, she had not called in. The anonymous coworker was certain Alicia had an appointment out of the office and had simply forgotten to tell anyone.
Lang was less sure.
FORTY-THREE
British Airways Flight 721
Somewhere over the Mediterranean
That Night
Lang usually enjoyed British comedy, with its understated humor and cleverly absurd situations. Tonight, though, he watched the Hugh Grant movie on the individual screen without really seeing it. Instead he saw the shadow in the mist, a figure now recognizable.
Maybe.
His rush from the Khan al-Khalil to the airport had gotten him there only twenty-five minutes before a departure for London's Heathrow. W
hen he'd been told by an unconcerned ticket agent that the plane was full, a wad of bills provided enough baksheesh to purchase not only a ticket but also an avoidance of time-consuming if indifferent security. The ease with which he evaded supposed protection against bomb-toting candidates for Islamic martyrdom du jour did little to make him feel safe, but it did get him to the gate in time. A bored glance at his forged passport, a nod from the accompanying ticket agent, no doubt signaling a willingness to share the newfound wealth, and he eased himself into a first-class seat.
He tried not to think of the righteous indignation of whomever he had displaced.
Instead he utilized his flight-induced insomnia to review the few facts he knew about whoever it was that wanted him dead. He had concluded that the reason was the white powder, the manna, or whatever it was with such amazing chemical and physical properties. The stuff simply didn't answer all the questions, though. If two scientists working for the foundation an ocean apart had discovered it, it could not have been such an impossible secret. In his mind he replayed the morning's conversation with bin Hamish and the revelations of Dr. Shaffer in Vienna.
Perhaps it was not the powder; perhaps it was…
He shook his head to decline the offer of a beverage by a flight attendant, regulation smile in place. The noun drink apparently did not exist in the airlines' lexicon.
The scene at the marketplace had added another riddle: Why didn't Tweedledum and Tweedledee call for backup from the local police?
There was only one reason he could think of in retrospect.
Somewhere between that thought and the glare of the next morning's light, the weariness that was the dregs of the day's adrenaline surge took over.
FORTY-FOUR
New Scotland Yard
Broadway
London
The Next Afternoon
Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam scowled at the grainy photograph on his desk, the product of an airport security camera. The man tendering his passport might have been traveling under the name of Joel Couch of Macon, Georgia, but face-recognition technology revealed him to be Langford Reilly.
