He had released the young woman’s breasts and was now stroking her through the bathing suit, his fingers on her soft, warm vulva. His cock was so stiff, it would have done a young stud proud. He’d stopped thinking, even put Cynthia’s lover out of his mind, though he might appear at any moment.
Their confused embrace lasted a few seconds. Cynthia seemed stunned by this whirlwind of lust. Then suddenly Malko felt the young woman’s tongue playing with his own. She had moved from resistance to collaboration.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pushed her hips to his.
It was all Malko needed.
He feverishly stripped off his alpaca trousers and shoved his underpants aside, freeing a penis that felt ready to explode.
Not to be outdone, Cynthia slid the bottom of her bathing suit down her long legs, revealing a trimmed, heart-shaped bush. Malko slid his fingers into her, but the young Brit lightly pushed him away, instead leading him to what looked like a cot. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she forced him to lie down on his back. Not a word had been said. It was pure sex.
Cynthia straddled Malko as if she were mounting a horse and pressed herself against him. Then she slowly began to move back and forth, masturbating him with her pussy. Malko expected her to lift herself so he could enter her, but she had other ideas. He was so hard by now, it was painful.
Cynthia calmly unbuttoned Malko’s shirt and skillfully stroked his chest, lingering over his nipples. Malko hastened to undo the top of her bathing suit.
Leaning over him, Cynthia continued to rub his penis. Suddenly she spoke for the first time.
“Grab my ass with both hands,” she growled.
He did so, and she rocked back and forth faster. With his erection pressed against Cynthia’s pussy, Malko could feel an orgasm rising. As he squeezed the mounds of her ass harder, she spoke again.
“I love your holding me like that,” she murmured, and moaned softly.
Malko tried to lift her up so he could penetrate her, but she was too heavy.
Unable to restrain himself, he suddenly came, all over his belly.
The look in Cynthia’s eyes had changed, becoming darker, more intense. Abruptly she lifted herself a bit, and, still astride him, scooted up until her crotch was level with Malko’s face. Then she lowered herself onto his lips.
“How about you take care of me now?” she asked sweetly.
Poised above him, chest erect, she trembled when Malko’s tongue began to explore her. She started moving slightly, giving little cries to encourage him. She seemed incredibly receptive to his caresses.
Cynthia had her hands on her breasts and was playing with them, stroking her nipples, eyes closed. When he stuck a finger into her anus, she shuddered but didn’t protest.
Little by little, Malko got more involved in this unexpected game. He put more energy into his caresses and could feel her start each time his tongue brushed a sensitive spot. Gradually, the young woman’s attitude began to change. She wasn’t playing anymore, but surrendering to pleasure.
Her hips gave a sudden thrust and she shoved her pussy against Malko’s mouth. Then she slowly eased herself forward.
He had another erection by now, but Cynthia paid no attention. Instead she gave him a mischievous look.
“I had no idea you could use your tongue so well.”
That was clearly the kind of erotic play she enjoyed.
Feeling a little frustrated, Malko wanted to lift her so he could slip inside her, but she pushed him gently away.
“You have to get out of here. He could come back at any minute.”
It was the voice of reason. Malko put on his pants as Cynthia slipped back into her bathing suit. When he pulled the curtain aside, she was freshening her makeup. She paused.
“Will you be in Cairo a little longer?” she asked.
“I think so, yeah.”
“So much the better,” she said with a smile. “My boyfriend has to go to Libya. I was thinking of going with him, but it would be a pity not to take advantage of your talents. What room are you in?”
“Suite 2621.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I’m free.”
The curtain fell back.
Malko went inside the hotel, still feeling a bit stunned by what had just happened. In any case, he had a valuable piece of information: Ibrahim al-Senussi was headed for Libya. Jerry Tombstone’s plan appeared to be working, though not quite the way he’d expected.
The moment he got back to his room, he phoned the CIA station chief. Tombstone hardly seemed surprised when Malko said he had a lot of things to tell him.
“I’ll pick you up and take you to dinner at one of the few good Egyptian restaurants in town.”
No sooner had Malko hung up when his cell rang again. It was Nasser.
“I’m back,” said the Mukhabarat agent. “I followed your attacker, and I know where he’s hiding.”
Malko could feel his pulse start to race. This was more than he could have hoped for. Nasser really was good.
“Where is he?”
“He went into a tire-retreading shop in a working-class neighborhood called al-Sharabi. I staked out the place for more than two hours. The shop closed and some workers came out, but the guy didn’t. I think he’s hiding there.”
“You sure they didn’t spot you?”
“Positive.”
It would be hard to investigate there without attracting attention. But if they could interrogate the man, they might find out who had ordered him to kill Malko.
“I’ll tell Mr. Tombstone about it. Meanwhile, keep the information to yourself.”
Nasser swore he would be as silent as the tombs of Luxor, but that hardly reassured Malko. The driver’s first loyalty had to be to the Mukhabarat.
Things were starting to heat up. Malko wondered if al-Senussi had returned from his mysterious meeting, but he didn’t dare call the couple’s suite to check. Besides, he was having dinner with Jerry Tombstone. He had a lot to tell him.
Ibrahim al-Senussi was in a foul mood. After they’d hung around the Ramses Railroad Station for nearly two hours, Nabil had been forced to recognize that the person they were going to meet must have changed his plans. He hoped the next meeting to set al-Senussi’s departure would be the right one.
Back at the hotel, al-Senussi found Cynthia relaxing in a bubble bath. She seemed in a very good mood and wasn’t even bothered by his abrupt disappearance.
“Let’s have dinner at the Cairo Tower,” he suggested. “They say there’s a beautiful view from the top.”
“A beautiful view of this lousy town?” she asked, pouting. “I’d be surprised.”
Al-Senussi didn’t argue. He was wrestling with a different problem: whether he should alert the Cairo MI6 representative about his going to Libya.
He helped himself to a scotch from the minibar and tried to relax.
Cynthia unwittingly helped distract him when she came out of the dressing room a little later. Made up like the queen of Sheba, she was wearing one of those figure-hugging silk dresses she liked.
“Let’s go, love!” she said cheerfully.
Things weren’t all gloom and doom.
Tombstone and Malko were practically the only diners on the Sofitel terrace by the river.
Blue eyes narrowed in concentration, the CIA man listened as Malko described his afternoon. When he reached the murder attempt, Tombstone exclaimed:
“God, you were lucky! But it’s strange. The al-Istiqama mosque is a Brotherhood base, all right, but I can’t see them attacking you at this point.”
“No one could have known that I would follow Ibrahim,” said Malko. “Not even Cynthia. It could only be a plan hatched by people who don’t want me close to him. Probably the same ones who tried to shoot down his plane with the Strela.
“It was a trap, and it wouldn’t have worked if I hadn’t gone to the mosque—though in that case I wouldn’t have found out about it. I think the killers are still watching a
l-Senussi. They tried to eliminate me, and they’ll try again.”
The mezzes came, and Tombstone tore into them hungrily. When he’d had his fill of hummus and dolmas, he asked:
“So you don’t know where al-Senussi went?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” admitted Malko. “Just as we don’t know who he met in Marsa Matruh. But people are aware that I’m working for the Agency.”
“Is that all?”
“No, it isn’t,” said Malko in a neutral tone. “My relationship with Cynthia has moved to the next level.”
The American’s handsome blue eyes took on an almost salacious gleam.
“You slept with her?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“I won’t ask you for the details,” said Tombstone, whose avid expression suggested he was dying to.
Malko picked at a stuffed grape leaf.
“It was happenstance,” he said. “She was feeling unsatisfied. You could call it a simple sexual impulse, a momentary lapse. She’s bored, and I don’t think she’s in love with al-Senussi.”
“Bit of a slut, isn’t she?”
Malko smiled. “You’re being too hard on her. Women often act on complicated motives.”
“Anyway, well done!” approved Tombstone. “You’ve carried out the first part of your assignment.”
Then he sighed.
“You’re lucky to be able to seduce a woman as beautiful as Cynthia Mulligan. It’s never happened to me.”
“Thanks to the ‘slut,’ I’ve learned something interesting,” said Malko. “Al-Senussi is planning to go to Libya, and he wants to take her along.”
“Now, that’s news!” said Tombstone, cheering up. “And it would explain the attempt to kill you. They don’t want you following him. What’s he going to do in Libya? And when is he leaving?”
“She didn’t tell me, and she probably doesn’t know.”
Silence fell, broken by the blaring loudspeaker on a tourist boat.
After mopping up the last of the mezzes, Tombstone looked across the table at Malko.
“You have to take your relationship with Cynthia to the next level,” he said. “And if they go to Libya, follow them.”
“That won’t be easy. They know me.”
“We’ll see. I’ll talk to the MI6 cousins tomorrow and find out if al-Senussi told them about this trip. If he hasn’t, that means we also have to be wary of him. He’s keeping some things from us.
“You know, this trip surprises me. Al-Senussi told MI6 in London that he didn’t want to go to Libya right now, that it was risky. Wanted to wait a while before stating his intentions. He planned to have his old supporters come to Cairo first.
“At that point, we could launch Operation Sunrise: introduce al-Senussi as a credible figure with a historic background to represent the new Libya. Of course, for that to work, we have to keep him alive.”
Tombstone thirstily downed half his Strella beer.
Malko had saved the best for last.
“I think you should give Nasser a bonus,” he said. “Not only did he save my life, but he says he found the man who tried to kill me.”
When he described Nasser’s phone call, Malko expected Tombstone to jump for joy. That didn’t happen.
“Shit, shit, shit!” swore the CIA man. “I hope he hasn’t gone and blabbed about this.”
Tombstone already had his phone out and was dialing a number.
Then he shook his head, looking disappointed.
“He isn’t answering. I just pray he hasn’t told his agency. As brutal as they are, the Mukhabarat could react like a bull in a china shop. I’ll phone General Mowafi first thing in the morning.”
A felucca silently glided by, sailing down the Nile—a classic, postcard-perfect image of Egypt. But then a singer, covered from neck to ankles in a black dress, planted herself in front of a nearby microphone and started belting out a song.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Tombstone. “This business with Nasser worries me. It’s too soon to take action. We want to roll up the whole network.”
At that very moment, Nasser Ihab was in a cramped office in the Mukhabarat’s Rasiqa Avenue headquarters, typing on his computer. There was no air-conditioning and the place was stifling. Nasser was starving and eager to get home to his wife, but he had to follow an absolutely mandatory daily rule: file a report on the day he’d spent in the CIA’s service. That was the price of being allowed to pocket two salaries: one as a Mukhabarat agent, the other in the cash bonuses he got from the Agency.
Nasser’s fingers paused in the air when it came to explaining how he had run Malko’s attacker to ground. If he kept it quiet and his bosses found out, he might have real problems, maybe even find himself without a job.
In the end, he told the whole story in detail. Then he signed the report, dropped it in a box in the hallway, and went out to the Mercedes. He secretly hoped to get a bonus for this information, whose ins and outs he didn’t fully understand.
Cynthia was eating breakfast with al-Senussi, as she did every morning. The Libyan went down to work out in the gym, but not before making enthusiastic use of her body. Again, this was something that happened every morning, and even though she was bisexual, Cynthia enjoyed it. There was something very exciting about being drilled like an oil well while still half asleep.
Al-Senussi was buttering a croissant when she broke the silence.
“When are you leaving for Libya?”
“I don’t know yet. Why?”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I think I’m going to stay in Cairo.”
Al-Senussi felt a wave of relief: he wouldn’t be risking offending his Libyan friends after all. He hid his satisfaction behind a show of disappointment.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “You sure?”
“Yes. I looked at a guidebook, and I saw there are plenty of things to do here. Besides, I think the trip might be tiring. There are probably loads of mosquitoes there.”
As she talked, Cynthia was thinking of the man who had given her such a delicious orgasm. By staying in Cairo, she could hope for many more.
Al-Senussi feigned reluctance.
“You’ll be good, won’t you? Women like you are as rare as hen’s teeth here.”
“I have no intention of getting myself an Egyptian boyfriend.”
Which was technically true.
“Okay, fine,” said the Libyan. “I’ll tell you when I’m leaving. But there isn’t much for me to bring back for you from my country, unfortunately.”
“That’s all right,” she said, standing up to get more croissants.
As he watched her go, al-Senussi reflected that Cynthia really did have a beautiful rump.
Fathi el-Said, the owner of the retreading shop, felt his stomach tighten when three military police vehicles pulled up in front of his workshop. Men in red berets and GK bulletproof vests jumped out and took positions in the narrow street.
He was still clinging to a faint hope when an agent burst into his workshop and slammed him against the wall.
“Where’s the son of a bitch hiding?” the man screamed, shoving the barrel of his AK-47 into el-Said’s belly.
El-Said was mute with terror. The agents were already storming through the shop, manhandling his three workers. Swinging fists and gun butts, they forced them to lie down on the floor.
Then an officer came in, pistol in hand, glaring. He jammed the gun into el-Said’s neck and roared:
“You’re hiding a terrorist. Where is he?”
It took el-Said a few seconds to find his voice.
“I’m not hiding anybody, sidi,” he croaked. “You can check. I’m an honest Muslim and I don’t know any terrorists.”
They forced him to his knees, and the Mukhabarat officer, a captain named Saadi, went to the back of the shop. The three workers’ papers were in order, and he quickly decided they hadn’t done anything wrong. He returned to el-Said.
“One of
my men saw a killer come in here yesterday afternoon. Where is he?”
“I don’t know about any killer, sidi, I swear on the Quran. There’s nobody here. What’s his name?”
Saadi, who didn’t know the suspect’s name, kicked him in the stomach.
“You’re a liar!” he roared. “Tell us who this man is and where he is, and we’ll let you go.”
“By Allah, I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Have it your way,” said the officer. “We’re going to search the place, and if you’re lying, I’ll kill you with my own hands.”
More soldiers crowded into the workshop and started searching. It didn’t take long; the place was small. El-Said was counting the minutes and praying to God. Suddenly an agent in the little office kicked the carpet aside, revealing a corner of the trapdoor.
With a yell, they rushed in and rolled up the carpet, uncovering the trapdoor. The captain grabbed el-Said by the collar and hauled him into the office.
“What the hell is this?” he roared.
“It leads to a storage area. There’s nothing down there but junk and old tires.”
Two soldiers had already raised the trapdoor. The basement was very dark. Flashlight in hand, one started down the wooden steps. He was halfway down when a burst of gunfire from below rang out and he pitched forward.
Other soldiers rushed down in turn.
“Capture that dog alive!” yelled the captain.
A live prisoner is worth more than a corpse.
The first soldier had just reached the basement floor when it was rocked by a violent explosion—a sheet of yellow flame and smoke, then silence. Saadi, who’d been leaning over the trap, was thrown against the wall. Stunned for a few seconds, he rushed over and grabbed the shop owner by the throat, smashing his face with his pistol and swearing at him.
El-Said slumped to the floor, and Saadi kept hitting him. But when the shop owner stopped moving, the officer realized that he was more useful alive than dead. To his men, he yelled:
The Madmen of Benghazi Page 7
