by Peter Vegas
Strolling calmly along the crowd barrier, Sam put on his best “been here, seen this” look, but despite his obvious disinterest, he still received a “Taxi! Taxi!” from every face he passed. He didn’t take it personally, it was just how the place worked, and he really had seen it all before. After running the “Taxi! Taxi!” gauntlet he would reach the end of the crowd barrier, and standing there in a hideous Hawaiian shirt and old faded blue cap, with a face full of white whiskers, would be Uncle Jasper. After a rib-crushing hug, Jasper would grab Sam’s bag and usher him to the door, swatting off “Taxi! Taxi!” related inquires as he went.
That was how it had always happened.
But not this time.
2
THE POLYESTER WALL
THE TRICK WAS TO KEEP moving. If you stopped, even for a moment, the “Taxi! Taxi!” men would take it as a sign that you were contemplating their message. Then it was down to who would get the job. Closest man to the victim was the way that worked. In seconds you’d find yourself surrounded by a tightly packed group of drivers, all trying to grab a piece of you. Literally. The problem was, Sam had to stop. He was at the end of the crowd barriers. This was where Uncle Jasper always stood. Always.
The cries of “Taxi! Taxi!” were becoming more urgent as competition for Sam’s business increased. Eager hands grabbed for his bag, and as Sam wrenched it free, he scanned the crowd for a glimpse of a garish Hawaiian shirt. Instead, he was confronted by an ever shrinking circular wall of stinky polyester.
Suddenly, a smiling face topped with a mop of greasy black hair appeared at Sam’s feet. Even by Cairo standards, tunneling between the legs of the other drivers was a cheeky move. Howls of protest rippled through the group as the teen forced his way to his feet. Sam’s first thought was that he looked way too young to drive a taxi.
The boy leaned in close so he could make himself heard above the racket. “Your name is Sam, yes?”
Sam let out a sigh of relief. “Yes. Yes, it is. Did my uncle send you?”
“I know nothing of your uncle, but there is a man looking for you. He has your picture.”
Sam was confused. “Okay. Maybe my uncle sent him. Can you take me to him?”
The boy shook his head. “No, my friend. This is not a man you want to see.”
“Why not?”
“He is police. In this town, that is not good. Come, come.” The young driver picked up Sam’s suitcase and began burrowing through the crowd.
“Why are the police looking for me?” asked Sam, but he already suspected it had something to do with his uncle. “You need to take me to him,” he said more forcefully.
“No, no. You come with me,” the boy insisted as he squeezed through a gap in the polyester wall. “It’s better.”
The faint trace of panic building in Sam since he’d gotten to the end of the crowd barriers now threatened to overwhelm him as he watched a complete stranger disappear with his gear. “Stop! Take me to the police,” he shouted, lunging for his suitcase.
The mention of the P-word had a magical effect on the taxi drivers. They melted away in an instant, stepping away from both Sam and the rather surprised Egyptian boy who was holding the suitcase. Sam saw a flicker of worry in the boy’s eyes, and he spun around to see a chubby, middle-aged man in a faded brown suit waddling toward them. “Is that the man who has my picture?” Sam turned back for an answer, but the boy had made like a taxi driver and disappeared, leaving the suitcase on the ground.
“Sam Force?” wheezed the man in the brown suit. “You are Sam Force, yes?”
“Yes, I am. Where’s my uncle?”
The policeman either didn’t hear Sam, or chose to ignore him. Wrapping a pudgy hand around the suitcase, he motioned toward the far end of the arrival hall. “Come with me, please.”
* * *
SAM FOLLOWED THE POLICEMAN AND his bag through a door with a large sign that read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. They shuffled down a long white corridor, up two flights of stairs, and down another identical corridor. At the far end was their final destination: a small room with a battered steel table and two matching chairs.
“Please have a seat,” said the policeman as he collapsed into his. The walk from the arrival hall had exhausted him. His forehead was covered in beads of sweat that sparkled like little jewels under the naked bulb hanging above the table. He made a show of flicking through the papers in the file that had been waiting there, but Sam suspected this was an excuse to get his breath back.
Minutes passed. The silence and the man’s lack of urgency began to get to Sam. If it was some kind of interview technique, it was working. At first Sam had been glad to be free of the mad crush of taxi drivers and the insistent boy. He was with a policeman now. Everything would be all right. But the man in front of him was making no effort to reassure him. In fact, he was acting like he was barely aware that Sam was there.
Sam had been determined that he wouldn’t be the first to speak, but he couldn’t stand the silence. The fat man had won. “Where is my uncle?” He’d tried to deliver the question calmly, but he sounded like a whiny kid.
The policeman looked up from his file and smiled, but the act wasn’t meant to offer comfort. “That,” he sneered, “is what we were hoping you could help us with.”
“What do you mean? I just arrived. I was supposed to meet Uncle Jasper here.”
The cop closed the brown folder with a theatrical thump. “Yes, we are aware of that and had hoped to make contact with your uncle ourselves. But it seems he has decided not to show his face.”
Sam’s mind raced. “Why would he do that? I mean, maybe something is wrong. Maybe something happened to him.”
“Something is wrong, all right.” The policeman thumped the folder again to make his point. “Your uncle has disappeared, along with a great deal of his employer’s money. A great deal of money,” he repeated, then looked down at his notes. “And a metal detector.”
“From the EEF?” Sam shook his head. “He took money from the EEF? They don’t have any. That’s the problem. My uncle is always complaining that his work is underfunded.”
The policeman’s eyes sparkled like the sweat on his forehead. He thrust a chubby hand inside his jacket for a pen. Throwing open the file, he began to scribble furiously. “I see. So you are saying your uncle has had money troubles with the EEF?”
Sam had a feeling things were getting out of control. “No . . . I mean, well, he works for them. The Egyptian Exploratory Fund . . . they fund his work. It’s what they do!” Sam sat back and took a deep breath, aware that the policeman was writing what he was saying, word for word. “Listen,” he said calmly. “My uncle wouldn’t steal money. If you knew him, you’d know how stupid that idea is. He just wouldn’t. There must be some mistake.”
The policeman made a show of slipping his pen back into his pocket, as if to let Sam know he wasn’t interested in his theories. “Young boy, the evidence speaks for itself, so perhaps I would say to you there are things you do not know about your uncle.”
“What evidence?”
“You don’t need to concern yourself with that. Now, before we conclude the interview, there is something you can help us with. We are having trouble locating your uncle’s residence. It seems the EEF has no record of it.” The pen was produced again, placed on the folder, and slid across the table. “If you would be so kind as to write down the address, then we can proceed with organizing your departure.”
“Departure?”
“Naturally, you cannot stay in Egypt. Arrangements will be made to return you to your boarding school in Boston.”
“But what about my uncle? You’re not listening. My uncle wouldn’t steal money. If he’s disappeared, then he must be in trouble. You need to find him.”
The policeman leaned across the table, a trace of menace tainting his tone as he spoke. “We will do everything necessary to find your uncle and bring him to justice. You can be sure of that.”
“You’ve already decided
he’s guilty.”
“He is guilty!” The policeman heaved himself to his feet. “Your uncle will be hunted down and put in jail for a very long time. Do you understand? Now give me his address.” He rammed a chubby finger into the folder.
The sudden outburst caught Sam by surprise, and the fright must have showed on his face. The policeman smirked and lowered his considerable bulk back on his seat. He was about to say something else when he was interrupted by a polite knock.
“Excuse me, sir. Ahmed from the front desk needs to see you. Your car is about to be towed away.”
Sam was in a daze, but the voice in the doorway registered somewhere in his brain. He looked up to see the boy who had tried to take his bag.
Muttering and cursing, the policeman pulled himself out of his chair again and waddled out of the room. He left without a backward glance, slamming and locking the door behind him. Sam was still trying to work out what had happened when the door opened again, and the smiling taxi driver slipped in.
The boy darted over to the suitcase. “I tell you, you do not want to speak to this man. You agree now, yes?”
“Um, I guess.”
“So, I come get you. But we must hurry,” the boy urged. “The policeman will be back soon.”
It was Sam’s turn to spring from his chair as the boy and suitcase disappeared out the door. “Is the policeman’s car really being towed away?” he asked as they raced down the corridor.
“No,” the boy answered over his shoulder. “I don’t even think there is a front desk. So we need to hurry before that policeman finds out.”
* * *
AS THEY CAME DOWN THE stairs, the door that opened into the terminal seemed a long way off to Sam. Surely, the fat policeman would bust them before they made it out. The boy had reached the same conclusion. At the bottom of the staircase he slipped around behind Sam, motioning for him to follow.
“Come, come. We wait here.”
“What’s your name?” asked Sam as they squeezed into a space that made Harry Potter’s bedroom look big.
“Hadi,” he whispered.
“Why are you doing this?”
The door at the other end of the corridor opened.
“Quiet,” hissed Hadi, pushing Sam’s head down into the shadows behind the suitcase. The sound of shoes slapping on concrete got louder. Sam didn’t need to see to know it was the policeman. It was probably the most exercise he’d had in years. The heavy footsteps and labored breathing faded as he climbed the stairs.
“Let’s go, my friend,” said Hadi. “The big man will discover you have gone very shortly.”
That thought propelled Sam out of their hiding place, and he led the way toward the door. He grabbed the door handle and pulled. It didn’t move, and his panic must have shown.
“Push,” said Hadi calmly. “And do not rush. We don’t want to draw attention.”
Sam’s heart was beating so fast it felt like it was going to burst out of his mouth. He took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the bustling terminal. The gaggle of “Taxi! Taxi!” chanters had formed around the arrival gate again. Nobody gave the two boys wandering toward the main doors a second glance, but it still took all Sam’s self-control not to break into a run. Hadi must have sensed this, because he spoke softly from behind. “Slowly, slowly, my friend. We have plenty of time. The fat man is far behind us.”
The airport’s cool air dissolved as the sliding glass doors parted for the boys, and they were engulfed by the hot, humid Cairo summer. Hadi took the lead now, crossing the road into the huge airport parking lot. As they moved deeper into the sea of dusty late-model cars, Sam couldn’t help checking over his shoulder for a sign that they were being pursued.
The third time he did it, he walked straight into Hadi, who had stopped next to a battered old purple Skoda. Nearly every taxi in Cairo looks like it had just taken part in a demolition derby, but they all had the same color scheme—and it wasn’t purple.
“I thought you were a taxi driver,” Sam said as Hadi tossed the suitcase into the trunk.
The boy shrugged. “I drive. People pay money. That makes me a taxi driver, yes?”
“Fair enough. But why go to all that trouble to help me?”
Hadi opened the passenger door for Sam. “I don’t like the police. They make much trouble for everyone. That man with your picture, I know he is police straightaway, so when I see you, I decide to make a little trouble for him.”
“Lucky for me.”
“And maybe lucky for me if you decide to reward me.” Hadi beamed a choirboy smile as he shut Sam’s door and skipped around to the driver’s side.
* * *
IT SEEMED ODD TO SAM that after going to all the trouble of getting him out of the airport, Hadi was going to kill him before he got paid. But that was how things looked as the young Egyptian coaxed the Skoda to a crazy speed down the main road into the city.
Hadi swerved from lane to lane, hunting the empty spaces between cars and trucks or making his own by nudging his car across the painted line and forcing the driver next to him to brake.
Sam thought their mad dash was over when they caught up to two huge trucks blocking both city-bound lanes. Hadi thumped his horn impatiently as he raced up behind them, like an angry dog harassing two lumbering elephants. One of the trucks drifted out of its lane, and a narrow gap appeared, but it was too small for the Skoda. Or so Sam thought.
He watched wide-eyed as Hadi slotted his car in between the moving walls of steel with just inches to spare. The stereo roar of truck engines drowned out the sound of Hadi’s horn as they raced up the truck canyon. Sam gripped the faded old dashboard so hard that cracks appeared around his fingers. The gap of sunlight ahead shrank alarmingly, but just as Sam readied himself for the screech of metal on metal they popped out onto open road.
“How long have you been driving?” Sam forced out through gritted teeth.
“Many years,” Hadi replied with a beaming smile. “I drive good, yes? That is why all my clients like me. Fast man around town.”
Sam was surprised Hadi would ever get a repeat customer. Any trip in a Cairo taxi was like a turn on the bumper cars, but Hadi was taking the experience to a whole new level.
“Sit back, my friend. Relax!”
Sam suspected that Hadi was more concerned about the damage being done to the dashboard than his comfort, but he reluctantly eased his grip and sank back into his seat.
“You see that,” said Hadi, pointing at a small pendant swinging wildly from the rearview mirror.
“That is scarab beetle. It is good luck and will keep us safe.” As if to prove this theory, he gunned the Skoda into another impossibly tight gap, this time between two buses.
“You sure one is enough?”
Hadi’s laugh was punctuated by the synchronized blasts of two bus horns. “You are a funny guy,” he said.
Sam wanted to smile, but his attention quickly returned to his imminent death as the Skoda bore down on its next target: a truck loaded with goats.
“So, where do you want to go?” asked Hadi as he honked impatiently.
“Do you know Mitre Tower?”
“Next to the old souk? Yes. I live nearby. But if the police know your uncle lives there, it may not be safe.”
“They don’t.”
“Excellent. I will have you there in no time, my friend.”
“No rush,” said Sam. And he meant it.
3
CATS AND COCKROACHES
THE DROP-OFF WAS SHORT AND sweet.
When the battered old Skoda departed in a cloud of smoke, Sam was twenty US dollars lighter in the pocket. It was nearly half the cash he had, but Sam thought Hadi deserved it. Not only for the help getting him out of the airport, but also for getting him to Mitre Tower alive.
As he rode the elevator to the seventeenth floor, Sam allowed himself to entertain a small glimmer of hope. There was still a chance his uncle was hiding at his apartment until he had sorted
out the mess with the police. But as he stood in front of the door and the echoes of his knocking faded away, so did the hope.
He dumped his bag and pulled the crumpled e-mail from his pocket. Printing it out had been just a precaution, but as he reread the oddly worded note, he wondered if his uncle had had a premonition of the trouble that was to come.
From: Jasper Force [email protected]
Date: Monday, July 20, 2015 at 10:45 AM
To: [email protected]
My Sam,
Prepared for another summer of sun and sand? Research has taken me to Alexandria of late, where I am delving into the heretical past of Akhenaten. The controversial eighteenth-dynasty pharaoh. I plan to ship out shortly and barring any unforeseen holdups, I will be back in Cairo by Saturday to greet you at the airport. But prepare for any eventuality—that’s always been my motto—and so, in the unlikely event there is some kind of holdup or we miss each other, then this note will help. Simply line up at the door to gain access to my palace.
Uncle Jasper loved creating codes and puzzles for Sam to work out. On his last vacation Sam had awoken to find a treasure map on his bed. His uncle had left for work, and a note told him that the map would lead him to a special treat. X turned out to mark the spot of a movie theater, and Sam was stoked—until he got inside and discovered the movie was a documentary about Bast, the Egyptian cat god.
So, here he was again with another puzzle that no doubt contained some kind of educational twist. The only difference was Sam was in no mood for stupid games. It was late, he was tired, his uncle was missing, and he had just escaped from police custody. These thoughts began to bounce around his mind, agitating, demanding attention. But he refused to give in to them. That wouldn’t solve anything. Instead, Sam slammed the door on his worries and focused on getting through the one right in front of him.
The last line made the least sense: . . . this note will help. Simply line up at the door to gain access to my palace. It was odd, even for Jasper. Sam glanced around the dimly lit corridor. Line up where? At the door? Sam presumed the reference to “my palace” was Jasper’s apartment. Plenty of creative license there, calling a poky one-bedroom hovel a palace. The building was more than thirty years old and in desperate need of repair. But so was a lot of Cairo.
