CHAPTER TWELVE
Haleem wasn’t the only one enjoying an unobstructed view of the four figures seated inside the convent courtyard. Had he simply glanced up and across to the adjacent Church of St. Shenute, he would’ve seen another watching with equal interest from a high window.
Standing alone in the second-floor baptistery, Heikal drummed his fingers lightly on the stone sill, wondering what to make of this curious development. The frail occupant of the wheelchair was unmistakably Oum Ghali, which only increased his puzzlement. Since this cozy little gathering was obviously meant to be clandestine—for why else the odd method of their arrival?—it only followed that whatever the old woman was telling Manning must be important to his investigation.
Even critical?
Heikal’s instinct said yes. But it presented a challenge—and not helped any by his lack of time. He was already a full day late placing the promised call to Anfushi Park. What he needed was worthwhile information to help soften the bad news of Hassan’s inexplicable debacle. Oristano wasn’t the sort who took failures lightly. He lowered his gaze, attempting to dissect what appeared to be an impossible task. Perhaps if he—
Ah, now what have we here?
He spotted a more immediate problem, and his jaw tightened as he focused his eyes on the lean, grizzle-faced man on the grounds below. This was definitely one of the two men who drove Manning out to Bulaq. So, what is this old sheikh up to? he wondered, pulling back from the window.
This must be checked out.
More curious than alarmed, Heikal retraced his steps back down to the main floor. Since no one saw him dispatch the fool Hassan—not even Manning—there was no one to point a finger at him in this or any crowd. He moved out onto the church steps, making way for incoming tourists and worshippers. If anything, the enclosure parking area was even fuller than before. He looked to his right. The old sheikh hadn’t moved from his spot, though he did appear to occasionally glance back towards the main entrance.
Now why is this?
Heikal scanned in that direction, noting for the first time the white Citroen parked off to one side. Was it there when he arrived? If so, he missed it. Two questionable men were also in evidence. Both were considerably younger, one a likely candidate for the older man’s driver of two nights before. The other fellow was less obvious, shorter, and much thinner. But neither seemed to be doing much of anything. Or were they? He watched as the skinny man slyly raised a camera from around his neck and snapped a picture of someone getting into a car—one similar to Hassan’s blue Fiat. So that’s it! Now he understood the game.
And the danger!
He cursed under his breath. Even dead, the idiot Hassan was causing him nothing but trouble. But the mistake was made. The real problem was the camera. Was he also photographed when he drove in? Probably so. This left him only one solution.
Heikal formulated a plan as he walked to the further end of the parking lot. First and foremost, he needed a disguise of sorts to mask his features. If his face was already pegged to the Fiat, which seemed likely, then he needed a way to get within striking distance. Also, it would be necessary to create a minor diversion; a means to separate these men, if only for a moment or two.
He found the answer to both his needs in a parked taxi. The owner sat behind the wheel, smoking with obvious impatience as he awaited the return of his wandering fare. Not only was he wearing a checkered ghota, but directly behind him was an empty tour buss, effectively blocking the taxi from general view.
This would suffice nicely.
He strode to the open window, letting the driver turn to him with casual interest before sending a hard, right fist squarely into his jaw. Knocked cold, the man went totally limp, his head lolling back against the seat. Heikal snatched off the headdress, then jerked the unconscious figure forward, jamming his face down against the steering wheel. The uninterrupted blare of the car’s horn drew attention even as the big man slipped between the bus and the enclosure wall. When he emerged seconds later around the other end, the stolen cloth was on and wrapped in such a way as to cover all but his eyes. The diversion was already having its intended effect, he saw, for the cameraman’s curious partner was now jogging over in response to the noisy commotion.
They crossed paths, each heading in opposite directions.
He wasted no time approaching the second man, for a quick glance towards the Church of the Virgin told him he must finish this without delay. Manning and the others had apparently finished their meeting. The woman was still in conversation with the nun and Oum Ghali, but Manning was already out of the courtyard and walking towards the old sheikh.
Heikal went straight at his unsuspecting target, seizing him by the throat. He wrenched the camera from him, breaking the thin strap—then slammed the young man’s head hard against the brick wall. The man’s thin legs crumpled beneath him as he slid to the ground.
Camera in hand, he ran for Hassan’s car.
It was the sound of shouting that jerked Haleem’s head around. Lahib was running across the cobbled yard to aid a fallen Hakim. What in Allah’s name was— Then he saw a big man scrambling into a dark car and it all fell into place. “Over there!” he cried to David, pointing at the blue Fiat. “It’s him! That’s the man!”
David didn’t need to be told which man he meant.
Haleem grabbed his arm as he ran by. “Come on, Professor! My car’s the closest. You drive!”
They both ran to the Citroen.
David jumped behind the wheel and turned the ignition. When the engine caught, he quickly reversed out of the parking spot. Ahead of them the Fiat was already through the entrance. Shifting down into drive, he floored the pedal, the Citroen’s tires squealing on the hot stone paving as it leaped forward in pursuit.
The big man had a good hundred yards on them.
Before covering two blocks, however, the Fiat’s lead began to shrink. Either the Citroen was faster, David thought, or the man was intentionally slowing. Inexplicable as this was, it appeared to be the latter. But why? It was almost as if he wanted them to—
Further up, a bright red light suddenly began to flash, wooden arms scissoring down at an upcoming rail crossing. A long freight train began whistling its steady approach from their left, and David now realized what the man was about. The clever bastard had a good reason for slowing—and near as he could judge, his gutsy tactic stood a good chance of working!
Haleem was grinning, for he still hadn’t caught on.
“Looks like we have him, Professor!” he exclaimed. “He’ll have to turn either one way or the other.”
David shook his head. “Wrong. He’s trying to outfox us . . .”
“What? No. He’s blocked, I tell you!”
“Look again.”
Anticipating the man’s sudden acceleration, David jammed his own foot down, as well. To Haleem’s amazement, the Fiat blasted straight through the descended barriers not a hundred feet in front of the fast-moving train, showering sections of broken debris in every direction as it cleared the tracks.
“By the sacred balls of—” Haleem’s face drained of all color, now realizing David’s intention to follow. The advancing freight train had more that halved the distance to the crossing, the locomotive now less than forty feet away. “You can’t make it, Professor!”
But they did.
Rocketing over the tracks with scarcely a car length to spare, the Citroen came down with a jarring thud, straining the shocks to their limit. Haleem swore a long string of vivid expletives—yet seemed more relieved to be alive than concerned for his car.
David immediately attempted to brake, for he saw the Fiat had already turned left at the near intersection. But the Citroen carried too much speed to hold the turn. Out of control, it slid sideways off the road, stalling out as it came to rest in the powdery sand of an empty lot. Choking dust billowed through the open windows.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
David restarted the engine; th
en pulled back out onto solid pavement. Much further down, the Fiat was making yet another quick left, this time disappearing into an old industrial area of packed cinder-block structures.
Haleem also saw.
Having so far survived in one piece, the older man’s blood was now up. He braced himself as David swerved through the turn, declaring, “This time we have him for sure! This crazy bastard can’t hide. I know this place. Half the streets are blind ends.”
And a helluva lot narrower! realized David, wondering what the man’s new tactic might be. He soon learned. In a series of first braking, turning, then again accelerating, the man was taking every lane he came upon, desperate to lose them among the mass of colorless, single-story buildings.
“There!” cried Haleem thumping his fist onto the dash in glee as the Fiat made yet another careening turn. “Now the fool’s trapped himself for sure! This one has no exit!”
David followed, seeing it was so. A solid wall closed off the end. Like an ancient cul-de-sac, this narrow alley went nowhere. But the Fiat wasn’t slowing. Instead, the man had yet one more surprise left in him.
It was only at the last possible second that the brake lights blinked on, the Fiat suddenly swerving hard to the right and smashing out of sight through two partially closed wooden doors. An almost simultaneous sound of crashing metal followed, telling them the car didn’t get much further.
David also braked, skidding the Citroen to a stop twenty feet back from the jagged opening. Both men scrambled out, Haleem now holding a revolver as they rushed through the splintered remnants of the garage doors. The back end of the Fiat was visible in the dark interior. The driver’s door was open, a tall figure not only out, but heaving something towards them.
“Look out!”
They both ducked as a flying metal box struck the wall behind them, spilling tools onto the dirt floor. The packed earth was heaped with everything from worn tires, old greasy crankshafts, and stripped engines—and too, David saw, a dazed teenage boy in a state of shock. He had obviously been working with an oxy-acetylene torch near the doors when the Fiat burst through. The Fiat had narrowly missed him, slamming full-tilt into a partition running three-quarters the building’s width. Pulling off his protective goggles, the frantic youth began screaming in Arabic, pointing at his fallen torch, his eyes wide in terror.
“What’s he saying—?”
“There are drums of old gasoline back there! They use them for cleaning parts!”
David saw and smelled the pools of liquid working rapidly across the hard ground. It was gushing though the ruptured partition, heading straight for the burning flame of the worker’s dropped torch. No wonder the youngster was frantic. Beyond, he could just make out the outline of the big man moving even deeper into the dark building.
“Come on!” screamed Haleem. Both he and the young man were already running. “It’s going to blow!”
David bolted after them. Directly behind, he heard the thin river of fuel ignite with a thunderous whomp as it made contact with the torch. In his mind’s eye he saw the flame now racing back towards the storage area until it—
The entire building exploded.
Propelled forward to the street, David narrowly escaped the enormous eruption of flame that burst from the shattered doors. Being closer than the other two, he caught far more of the heat and blast wave. He rolled away from it, covering his face with his hands to protect himself from the shower of particles rained down.
When he got to his feet, Haleem grabbed his arm, half dragging him towards the Citroen. “Get in,” he urged, opening the passenger door. “Quickly!”
“Where’s the boy?” asked David.
“Safe. Still running, I think. We must leave—and fast!”
Haleem took the wheel. Engine started, he threw it into reverse, backing rapidly away. David watched the retreating conflagration through the windshield until they reached the connecting street. Here Haleem spun the vehicle around and tramped on the pedal. Only when he believed them in the clear did he say, “A terrible way to die, but he brought it on himself. That crazy devil only got his due. It’s over, Professor.”
* * *
It was two hours after sunset when David finally drove alone to the suburb of Heliopolis to confer with Gobeir and Rashidi on the day’s extraordinary events. The long delay was unavoidable, for other matters demanded his immediate attention. But at least he didn’t leave them totally in the dark. He called Gobeir three hours earlier from a public phone at the Sheraton, imparting the bare bones of what took place. Now the specific details must be told, and this something best done in private.
He did so over strong coffee in Gobeir’s book-lined study.
“At this point,” David concluded, “I have to agree with Haleem. It’s almost a given the man was killed outright in the explosion and fire. He and Sharif intend to verify this through their police contacts, but that will take a few days. Until then, all they have to work on is the Fiat’s licence plate—and there’s no real guarantee that’s going to identify him.”
“You’re certain it was the same man who killed Hassan?” asked Rashidi. “The one with the knife?”
“Considering his size and the description of the car, I don’t think there’s any real doubt of it.”
Gobeir shook his head, clearly troubled by it all. “Well, I can tell you one thing, old boy,” he said, “it’s a bloody miracle nobody else was injured or killed. I’m familiar with the area. The Misr al-Qadimah is almost exclusively a Coptic community—which means if this happened on any day but Sunday, that street and garage would’ve been filled with people. We’re just damned lucky the only innocent bystander in all this was that lone worker.”
“No argument there, Lewis. At most, he suffered a few bruises. The poor kid’s probably more in shock than anything else. Considering the speed at which everything happened, I can’t imagine he really knows who or what he saw.”
“No, I suppose not. More luck there, I’d say. And even if he does, you weren’t the one who did all the damage, now were you?” He shrugged. “But that’s done and over with. Tell me more about this business of Ruth Cameron. You say Mrs. Ghali actually knows her whereabouts?”
David passed on Rashidi’s offer of a second coffee.
“It seems the two of them have corresponded off and on since about the time of Paul’s death,” he said. “Her name is now Ruth Lefebvre, by the way. She married a French exporter from Marseille, living for a time in Europe. When he passed away about eleven years ago, she moved back to Egypt and is now living in Alexandria—or more precisely, the suburb of Al Gami. At least she was as of three months ago.”
Gobeir pursed his lips in thought.
“Three months, you say? Well, unless you see things different, I don’t see we’ve any real choice but to take our investigation to Alexandria.” He looked over to Rashidi. “Do you agree, Ahmed?”
“Most definitely, sir.”
David reached into his pocket. “I’m glad you both feel this way,” he said, “because that’s one of the reasons I was late getting out here. I know its damn short notice, but I took the liberty of stopping at Midan Ramses and booked the four of us on tomorrow morning’s ten o’clock Rapide to Alexandria.” He handed two of the train tickets over the desk. “I agree with you. As I see it, there’s nothing left here in Cairo to investigate. The last unaccounted name remaining on the list was Richard Bowden—and according to Mother Ghali, we can stroke him off right now. She recalls him as being a competent archaeologist, but also the oldest man at Burkhart’s dig.”
“So I guess it’s settled,” said Rashidi. “We can be ready, Professor. I hate to say it, but realistically, this Ruth Lefebvre looks like our last hope of ever solving this riddle. Shall we stop around early and pick you up?”
David saw no advantage to this.
“Maybe it will save time if we just meet at the station,” he said, getting to his feet. “Elizabeth’s already begun packing. This has all been a k
ind of nightmare roller-coaster ride for her. Despite finally hearing something positive on her grandfather, I don’t know if she can take another shocker like today.”
“And understandably so,” commiserated Gobeir. “Two men dead inside of a couple of days, both under violent circumstances. Then again, if Haleem’s analysis is correct, maybe we can start putting this whole ugly experience behind us. Which reminds me, since we’ve no idea how long we’ll be in Alexandria, shouldn’t you make some kind of arrangement for keeping in touch with Khafaghi’s people on this?”
“It’s taken care of, Lewis. That’s the other reason I was late. I spent some time at the museum with Omar Bayoumi. I obviously didn’t tell him anything about what happened in the past forty-eight hours, but he now knows I’ll be out of Cairo for a time and intend contacting him every few days. Haleem and Sharif will use him as a conduit if they come up with anything they feel I should know about.”
Gobeir also stood.
“Then let’s do it.”
* * *
Thirteen miles further to the northeast, a very much alive Sabir Heikal waited patiently in the night darkness outside the dusty slums of Matariyah. His cold, slate-colored eyes were concentrated on the only building of any significance among the low sprawl of bleak shanties. Since sunset, a single lantern had flickered inside. Now it was extinguished—and a faint smile crossed his thick lips.
His long wait was over.
He began his stealthy approach, ignoring the foul smells assailing his nostrils as he instinctively picked the least obstructed path between him and the small clinic. The odor of abject poverty wasn’t unfamiliar to him. Somewhere close in the inky dark, he knew, was a huge maqlab, a mound of rotting garbage and rubbish whose over-ripe scent hung in the night air like the smell of death, itself.
He ignored it as a minor annoyance
Something else he chose to ignore was the dull pain in his left shoulder. The bruised muscles still ached from his charging impact with the rear door of the garage. He considered it a small price to pay for being alive. Instead of killing him, the enormous outward thrust of the explosion had actually assisted in his timely escape, for it was the combined force of both that threw him out into the back alley, well clear of the roiling inferno.
The Amun Chamber Page 17
