Carter Nick : другие произведения.

Cairo

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  BLOODY VENGEANCE IN CAIRO'S.UNDERWORLD.
  
  In a small, stinking African jail Nick Carter successfully carried out the first part of the assignment — the murder of a Russian agent. Now a second AXE man could accomplish Phase II — get the microfilm, the secret plans for Novigrom, Russia's fastest fighter plane, into the free world.
  
  But AXE's man was butchered in Cairo, brutally and apparently inexplicably. Now Nick has to complete the assignment-recover the microfilm and find the sadistic killer.
  
  To help him, AXE assigned Fayeh, a golden-skinned Egyptian Interpol agent… to feed Nick information, they sent Thinman, a depraved addict who walked the narrow line between the law and the underworld for his daily fix… to test Nick, they pitted him against the New Brotherhood, the Arab version of the Mafia.
  
  The New Brotherhood was the most lethal syndicate Nick had ever encountered. He only hoped he would live to tell about it…
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  One
  
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  Seven
  
  Eight
  
  Nine
  
  Ten
  
  Eleven
  
  Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Carter
  
  Killmaster
  
  Cairo
  
  aka Cairo Mafia
  
  
  
  
  Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One
  
  
  
  
  The Arusha police station was a small whitewashed room with paint flaking off the walls and a few pieces of scarred wooden furniture squatting behind a reception counter. Split-bamboo shades covered two windows and allowed a late afternoon sunlight to filter through and make yellow bars across the floor and opposite wall. A slow motion ceiling fan pushed lazily against the heavy, sticky air in the place but did not appear to move it. The door to the dirt street outside stood open without a screen, and large brown flies buzzed dully in the stinking air. In a far corner, a roach moved warily from a crack in the wall then retreated back to its dark security.
  
  I stood handcuffed before the counter, my safari shirt torn and blood drying on my lower Up. Two big black African policemen flanked me, their night sticks ready. They had arrested me for brawling in a saloon, and I was now being booked by their sergeant, a thin lanky man who sat at an old desk behind the counter studying the false papers I had given them.
  
  'You're a Canadian, I see, Mr Pryor,' the sergeant said, speaking English. 'A professional hunter.' He shook his head slowly. 'We are having much trouble with Americans and Canadians. Well, you will find that you cannot cross the border from Kenya and make trouble here without suffering consequences.'
  
  'Nani diyesema hivii!' I yelled at him. 'I didn't make the trouble! It wasn't me who started the bloody brawl!'
  
  He looked up at me impassively, pushing a pair of spectacles further up onto his dark face. 'You may tell your side to the magistrate.' He motioned to the two men flanking me. 'Take him and lock him up.'
  
  They pulled me roughly through a doorway to a long room which was a large cell with a corridor running its length. The corridor was separated from the cell by heavy iron bars. A door was set in the bars about halfway along. As they moved me now toward the door, I saw three men in the cell, sitting and lying on a damp floor. Two were Africans and the third was a white man.
  
  As the tallest of the two policemen started to unlock the cell door, I pulled momentarily free of the other man's grasp. In Swahili, I said, 'I was told I could contact a lawyer.'
  
  'Hapana!' he hurled at me, grabbing my arm again. 'Not now!'
  
  'Yes, now!' I yelled.
  
  The tall policeman had turned back to me, forgetting the door he was unlocking. 'You wish to make trouble, Mr Pryor?'
  
  'I want my bloody rights!' I said loudly. I pulled away from his partner again.
  
  Both men grabbed at me then, their hard muscular arms locking onto my arms and neck roughly. I struggled against them, trying to break free. We spun in a small circle and slammed up hard against the bars, rattling them.
  
  The men in the cell were taking an interest in the struggle and all had turned to watch.
  
  I managed to break free of the shorter guard's grip, and the tall one became quite enraged at this, striking out with his club. The blow glanced off the side of my head and spent most of its force on my neck and shoulder. I grunted under the impact of the club, then slammed an elbow up and back against the man's throat. He made a soft sound and stumbled backwards to the floor.
  
  As the other policeman raised his club to strike, I shot a short right into his face. He fell back against the bars, blood showing at his mouth. But the man was a bull, and he was not shaken by the blow. He struck out wildly with his night stick. I caught the club and pulled hard on it, taking him off balance. I jerked him off the bars, swung him in an arc past me and smashed him against the corridor wall.
  
  'Hatari!' The tall guard was yelling toward the room they had brought me from, as he struggled to his feet.
  
  His bullish pal had recovered already and was reaching out for me. I drove a knee swiftly into his groin. He bellowed in pain and doubled over, clutching at himself, dropping his club.
  
  I turned back to the tall cop just as he regained his footing. I swung at him but missed. He drove his stick at me and didn't miss — it caught me alongside the face and neck. Pain exploded inside my skull. There was a brief instance of encroaching blackness, and then I hit the floor with a jarring thud. The tall policeman stood over me, raising the club again. I grabbed at his legs and, with the little strength left in my arms, pulled hard. His legs went out from under him, and he toppled to the floor for the second time.
  
  But his partner had recovered now, and picked up his stick. I saw the club descending from the corner of my eye. I ducked, but it caught me on the back of the head and neck. Wavering blackness hit again and I slumped to the floor on my back, eyes closed, barely conscious. When I opened my eyes, the desk sergeant was standing over me with a gun pointed at my head.
  
  'That will be enough,' he said in soft Swahili to the other two.
  
  The bull, who still had his club poised to strike, moved, lowering the stick. The sergeant looked at me darkly.
  
  'Something tells me it will be some time before your case will come before the magistrate,' he said quietly.
  
  'Go to hell,' I told him.
  
  He motioned to the other two. They grabbed me roughly and dragged me into the cell. Then they turned and left, locking the door behind them, and I was alone with the other three prisoners.
  
  I looked around slowly at their faces, pain throbbing in my head. My eyes focused on the other white man, moved from him to the grinning face of the African squatting beside me. I returned the grin with a grimace and relaxed slightly. Phase one of my assignment had been successfully completed. I had come to kill the white man and here I was — locked in the same cell with him.
  
  'Bwana all too much sick from clubs,' the smiling African beside me was saying. 'Big askari he all the time use club plenty much.' The man was dressed in western clothes, ragged pants and shirt, but he wore a fetish bracelet on his right wrist and there were delicately patterned scars on his cheeks and on his upper arms where the shirt sleeves ended. He had only one good eye.
  
  'I'll be all right,' I said.
  
  'You're a bleeding idiot to start something with them,' the white man said contemptuously to me. Then, as if that were the only comment worth making, he turned away indifferently.
  
  I did not answer, but I took another, better look at him. He was slightly older than me, tall and slim with a hard, straight-lined face that now had a stubble of beard. He wore a soiled tropical worsted suit and scuffed white shoes. His eyes were cold and penetrating. His name was Brian Sykes, and he was a professional killer.
  
  I dragged myself to a sitting position near him against the back wall of the cell. The one-eyed African sauntered over to the bars and sat down next to them, about ten feet from the third prisoner in the cell. This third man was a primitive African, a Kikuyu warrior wearing tribal dress of red ochre cotton and brass arm bands. He sat stiff-backed and cross-legged against the bars across from me, regarding me expressionlessly.
  
  I turned my head from all of them and closed my eyes. I needed rest — it was going to be a long night. The fight with the policemen had not helped, but I'd had to convince Sykes that I was a legitimate prisoner. The cell stank of urine and I tried to ignore it. I thought of my conversation with David Hawk, in Nairobi, about Sykes and the plans for the Russians' Novigrom I.
  
  'It's going to be the fastest fighter plane ever built, Nick,' Hawk had told me. 'But, luckily, we've stolen the plans. Agent John Drummond will be in Cairo shortly with the microfilm and will then bring it here. He will deliver the film to you and it will be your job to see that it gets to Washington safely.'
  
  'Yes, sir.'
  
  'However, there is a fly in the ointment. Our sources think the Russkies know of our rendezvous here. It's believed that they've hired Brian Sykes, a professional gun, to kill Drummond when he arrives in Nairobi with the film. They'll grab it, and we'll be right back where we started. So…'
  
  'So I get Sykes before he gets us,' I said.
  
  'That's about it. He's in Arusha at the moment and is expected to fly here for this assignment at the last moment. Go get him, N3.'
  
  But when I got to Arusha, I found that Sykes was locked up in the local jail for being drunk and disorderly and would be released just in time to fly to Nairobi. It was too risky to wait for his release. Besides, I didn't have the time. So I got myself thrown into jail with him.
  
  I forced myself to doze for a short while. When I awoke I was stiff all over and felt as though I needed a week in a hospital bed. I looked through the cell bars at the barred window in the corridor and saw that it was dark out. I could hear rain thudding hollowly on the metal roof of the place.
  
  The fight was dim, coming from a low-watt bulb in the corridor. At one end of the cell water was coming in from outside, forming a shallow puddle. It was also that end of the cell that the stink of urine came from. I glanced at the wide-awake Kikuyu across from me and guessed that it was probably he who had relieved himself. Right now he was looking down toward the opposite end of the cell. Following his gaze, I saw he was watching two rats scavenging for food down there.
  
  Sykes was stirring now and grumbling under his breath. Down a short distance from the Kikuyu, the other African was sleeping soundly, snoring.
  
  'Goddam stinking jail,' Sykes said. 'Putting a white man in here. Goddam savages.'
  
  One of the rats boldly ventured closer to the Kikuyu. He watched it carefully without turning his head. The rat moved closer. Suddenly, the Kikuyu's hand shot out and grabbed. The rat squealed loudly but only once, as the Kikuyu crushed its neck with one hand. Then, while the legs were still twitching, he tore the rat's belly flesh away and prepared to eat it. His eyes met mine for an acknowledgement of his hunting success, and I gave him a small smile. Sykes, however, was on his feet in a fury.
  
  'You bloody savage, you trying to make me sick?' he shouted. He moved over to the Kikuyu and kicked out at the African's hand, knocking the dead rat from his grasp. 'Leave the bloody vermin be, you black bastard, or I'll shove your head between those bars behind you.'
  
  He stood over the Kikuyu menacingly. He was as tall as the African and had more meat on him, but the Kikuyu showed no fear. He did not move against him either, though I could see the hatred in his almond eyes. I glanced over at the other African and saw that he had slept through the whole thing. I made a mental note of this.
  
  Sykes now moved over to me, his eyes mean. 'And as for you, Yank, you're sitting in the only dry spot in the place. Move on down the line.'
  
  I looked up at him. 'I got here first,' I said.
  
  Sykes grinned mockingly and reached into his suit He came up with a small knife and flashed its blade open. 'You want something?' he said. The grin was gone now.
  
  I shrugged my shoulders. 'Okay, you don't have to get rough about it,' I said. Grumblingly, I moved down about fifteen feet and watched Sykes take my dry spot. 'Turnabout's fair play,' I said.
  
  He gave me an ugly grin. 'That's the way to look at it, sport,' he said, pocketing the knife. 'Now you bleeding people try to keep it quiet while I get my sleep.'
  
  The Kikuyu and I exchanged looks as Sykes slumped down and closed his eyes. I glanced at my watch, which the sergeant had allowed me to keep. It was just fifteen minutes before the next check by the man on duty. I listened to the rain on the roof and watched a black and orange dragon lizard on an end wall stalk a brown moth. The skinny legs moved carefully, slowly, very much like a lioness getting her position on a gazelle. Just before the lizard could strike the moth flew away and the hunt was over. I ran a hand across my mouth and glanced at the drowsing Sykes. It would not be long now.
  
  In a few moments, the duty policeman moved into the corridor from the other room. He wore a short-barreled revolver in a holster on his belt. As he approached, I closed my eyes feigning sleep. I heard him pause at the cell door a moment, then, satisfied, turn and retreat to the other room. I opened my eyes and saw the Kikuyu regarding me curiously. I winked at him and looked at Sykes and the other African. They both appeared to be asleep. The African was snoring loudly; the sound would cover a lot of other noise.
  
  I rose quietly and glanced again at the Kikuyu. I did not think that he would interfere, and it would take a bomb to wake the other African. It was time to make my move.
  
  I walked quietly over to Sykes. He moved his lips and rolled his head sideways. I had no weapon, so I had to depend on my bare hands. I squatted in front of him. Just then, the sleeping African gave a loud barking snore and Sykes' eyes popped open. When he saw me kneeling before him, the sleepy look left the eyes in an instant.
  
  'Hey! What the blinking hell you…?'
  
  I reached out, grabbed his neck with both hands and pulled him off the wall. In the next instant he was on his back on the floor with my fingers squeezing his throat. His face reddened and his eyes bulged. His sinewy arms tried to break my hold. He was, I noted, much stronger than he looked. But his arrogance was gone now. Fear came into his face and then comprehension. He tried to speak but couldn't.
  
  Suddenly, with the hidden strength of desperation, he broke my hold and drove a forearm into my face. When I jerked backward from the blow, he brought a knee up between us and threw me violently off him.
  
  I landed on my back as Sykes struggled up quickly on one knee. 'So that's it,' he gasped.
  
  I did not bother to reply. I kicked out with my foot and my shoe cracked into his shin, knocking him sideways. A cry of pain came from him — luckily not a loud cry. I dived at him, but he rolled away from the attack and scrambled to his knees again. This time he came up with the small knife.
  
  He held the blade out in front of him, the evil grin returning to his hard face. 'Looks like you've saved me some time and effort,' he said. Then he sprang at me.
  
  I moved to my left, avoiding the knife-thrust at my stomach, catching his knife hand in the same movement. The force of his rush carried both of us to the floor where we rolled over twice, struggling for the knife.
  
  Sykes got on top of me momentarily and I found myself wishing desperately that I had managed to sneak my stiletto Hugo into the cell with me. But Hugo had purposely been left behind, along with Wilhelmina, my 9 mm Luger. Sykes savagely pushed my arm aside and made another stab with the four-inch blade. I caught his arm again but not until he had inflicted a shallow wound in my shoulder. When he saw the blood on my safari jacket, the awful grin came back.
  
  'I've got you, Yank. I'm going to cut your liver out.'
  
  I gripped the knife arm tighter, straining. I had to disarm him or he would find a way in with the blade eventually. I released his other arm and smashed a left fist into his face.
  
  Sykes was not prepared for a counterattack. He lost his balance and fell on to his side. I fell on him then, grabbing the knife hand with both hands and twisting hard. Another yell came from him. The knife went skidding along the floor of the cell, out of reach.
  
  He hit out at me wildly and landed a hard right on the side of my head. I fell to one side and he scrambled to his knees, preparing to go after the knife. But I dived into him from the rear and he went down under me.
  
  The Kikuyu watched all this coolly and calmly from where he sat by the bars. The other African, though no longer snoring, was still asleep. There was no evidence that the guard on duty in the other room had heard anything yet.
  
  I chopped hard at Sykes' neck, simultaneously slamming my knee into a kidney. He grunted and grabbed me and threw me to the floor in front of him. I came up quickly and saw the fear back in his face again. He turned, opening his mouth to yell for the duty man.
  
  I slammed the side of my hand against his Adam's apple with a crunch, cutting off the shout before it could leave his throat. He stumbled backward, gasping and gagging.
  
  I closed the distance, avoided a wild right he threw at me and grabbed at him from behind, my hands closing hard over his mouth and nose.
  
  He tore desperately at my hands, but I held on like a bulldog. He kicked and flailed about. His face darkened and the veins swelled in his neck. His hands sliced air trying to find me. Muffled, choking sounds strained from his throat. His right hand raked across the back of mine, the nails drawing blood.
  
  The hand that had drawn blood closed twice in a spasmodic fist and then the whole body went limp.
  
  Brian Sykes was no longer a threat to agent Drummond or anyone else.
  
  I looked over at the Kikuyu and saw that he was grinning silently. The other African was still asleep, but moving restlessly. There was no sound from the room at the end of the corridor where the duty officer was.
  
  I got Sykes' knife, wiped my prints off it and slipped it back into his pocket. Then I pulled the body up over to the wall and propped it in a sitting position, closing the dead eyes.
  
  Now came the part of the operation that could be touchier than getting Sykes. I had to break out of this East African excuse for a jail. I unbuttoned my safari jacket and examined my bleeding shoulder. As I thought, the wound wasn't deep. I reached under my arm, peeled away a bit of skin-colored plastic and removed the small length of metal it hid. It was a lock pick.
  
  I had just started toward the cell door when I heard a sound from the room beyond the corridor. I moved quickly back to the wall near the corpse and hid the metal pick. I closed my eyes as the duty man came through the door and moved down the corridor.
  
  Keeping my eyes closed, I listened to the footsteps. They stopped and I knew the guard was at the cell door. There was a long pause. I wondered if Sykes looked asleep — or dead. Another thought hit me. Suppose the duty man wanted to speak to Sykes about something? I might be in trouble.
  
  I kept my eyes closed. Then I heard the guard pull the string on the weak bulb and the footsteps retreated back down the corridor.
  
  I got up cautiously and moved to the cell door. The only light now came from the window in the corridor and the office doorway at the far end. It was hard to see the lock at first but finally I manipulated the pick into it. The Kikuyu watched with interest. The tumbler was large for the pick I had and at first I couldn't move it. I swore under my breath after five minutes of unsuccessful effort. I did not have all night. Soon policemen would be reporting in from their rounds and that would complicate things.
  
  I wiped my sweaty hands on my trousers and tried again, working more slowly. I felt carefully for the tumbler, got the pick in good position and twisted it sharply. The lock sprang open.
  
  I opened the door just inches and stuck the pick into my pocket. The Kikuyu was watching me closely. I nodded to him, gestured silently to see if he wanted to leave with me. He understood and declined with a movement of his head. 'Santa sana,' I said softly, hoping he spoke enough Swahili to know I was thanking him for minding his own business. He nodded.
  
  I moved through the cell door and stood in the corridor. The whole Sykes thing would turn out to be a poor gamble if I did not get out of here. If I didn't make it, I would undoubtedly rot in an African prison for life.
  
  There was only one way out and that was through the office where the armed duty guard sat. I moved toward its light, debating my next move as I approached. When I got to the doorway, I sneaked a look inside the office. The guard sat at the desk reading what appeared to be a comic book. The gun on his hip looked big and ugly.
  
  I ducked back into the shadows beside the door. Well, it was now or never. I turned away from the doorway and shouted so my voice would carry back down the corridor.
  
  'Guard!'
  
  A chair scraped the floor and I heard the man grumble. Then footsteps approached the doorway. I flattened back into the shadows as the guard moved past me.
  
  I struck out swiftly, chopping at the base of the man's skull. My aim was slightly off and I hit more bone than I had intended. The man grunted and fell to his knees, dazed.
  
  Before he could recover, I clasped my hands together and brought them down hard into his thick neck. He grunted loudly and sprawled forward on his face, motionless.
  
  I grabbed his gun, stuck it into my belt and stood up tiredly. It had been a very long evening. Quickly I moved through the brightness of the office to a door in its back wall. I opened it, stepped cautiously through it. Outside there was a cool blackness and the cheering sound of crickets. Just a block away was a stolen Land Rover that would carry me over back roads to the border in a couple of hours.
  
  I moved swiftly into the dark…
  
  Hawk chewed on his dead cigar pensively, staring down at the small table between us. I had just joined him at the Thorntree Patio of the New Stanley and sensed immediately that something was wrong.
  
  He took the cigar from his thin lips, turned those icy gray eyes on me and managed a half-hearted smile.
  
  'That was excellent work at Arusha, Nick. Sykes had been giving AXE and the CIA fits for some time.'
  
  I studied the thin, tired face below the gray shock of hair. 'But something has gone wrong, hasn't it?' I prompted.
  
  Hawk gave me that look that seems to see right through you — and behind. 'That's right, Nick. I'm sorry to tell you this, after your successful foray into Tanzania, but — John Drummond is dead.'
  
  I looked at him incredulously. 'Where?'
  
  'In Cairo. Day before yesterday. We just got word.' His spare, stringy frame seemed to settle further into itself.
  
  'The Russians had an assassin there too?' I asked.
  
  'Maybe, maybe not. All we know at the moment is that Drummond was found in his hotel room with his throat cut. And the microfilm is gone.'
  
  I shook my head slowly. 'Damn, Drummond was a good man.'
  
  Hawk punched the dead cigar into an ashtray. 'Yes. And we need that film, N3. The Novigrom I is the most sophisticated fighter plane ever designed, far better than anything we have in the planning stage even. It will give the Russians an intolerable military advantage over the free world when it's operational. I don't have to tell you that stealing the plans for it was our biggest intelligence coup in years. And now we've lost the plans before Drummond could get them to us. The President will not be happy…'
  
  'No,' I said.
  
  Hawk looked up at me. 'I'm sending you to Cairo, my boy. I don't like to put this on you so soon after Arusha, but I have no choice. You're our best hope, Nick. Find out exactly what happened to John Drummond and the microfilm. And if you can, get the film back.'
  
  'Are you willing to spend money for it?'
  
  Hawk grimaced. 'If that's what it takes.'
  
  'Good. When do I leave?'
  
  He said, almost apologetically, 'There's a BOAC flight out of here late tonight.' He reached into his pocket, took out an airline ticket and handed it to me.
  
  'I'll be on it.' I started to stuff the ticket into my jacket when he caught my hand.
  
  'This is a tough one, Nick,' he said carefully. 'Look over your shoulder now and then.'
  
  I pocketed the ticket. 'If I didn't know you better, sir,' I told him, 'I'd swear that I just glimpsed a paternal interest in my welfare.'
  
  He grimaced. 'What you glimpsed was a proprietary interest, not a paternal one. I can't afford to lose my whole staff in one operation.'
  
  I grinned and rose from my chair. 'Well, I have a few affairs to put in order before I go.'
  
  'I can imagine,' he said dryly. 'Whoever she is, give her my regards.'
  
  My grin broadened. 'I'll do that. And I'll be in touch as soon as I can manage it.'
  
  Hawk let a small grin move the corner of his mouth and twitched in a small smile as he delivered one of his favorite parting speeches: 'I'll see you when I see you, Nick.'
  
  I went directly to my room in the hotel, packed the small case I always carried with me and advised the management that I would be checking out later. Then I took a taxi to the Norfolk where a very lovely Belgian colonial named Gabrielle kept an apartment. Whenever I was in Nairobi I made a point of spending some of my few leisure hours with her, and I always said goodbye when I was able. This time she was quite petulant about my sudden departure.
  
  'But you said you would be here for a while,' she protested. She had an utterly charming French accent.
  
  I slumped down onto a long sofa in the middle of the room. 'Are you going to be difficult and spoil our goodbye?'
  
  She pouted a moment. She was a small girl but what there was of her was choice. Her hair was brown, worn in a pixie cut, and her eyes were huge, wide-spaced and dreamy. She had lived in Africa almost from birth, migrating from the Congo to Kenya with her parents when she was in her teens.
  
  When her parents were killed by the Mau Mau, Gabrielle had faced a difficult adjustment. She had been, for a short time, a highly paid prostitute in Mombasa. But that was all in her past and now she held a responsible job in a government agency. Fortunately for me, she still liked men.
  
  'It's just that you come here so infrequently,' she said slowly. She turned those big eyes on me. 'And I like to have you for a while.' She was wearing a tight sweater and miniskirt. Now she pulled the sweater casually over her head and dropped it onto a nearby chair. She looked spectacular in a bra.
  
  'You know I'd stay if I could,' I said, studying her appreciatively.
  
  'I know what you tell me,' she said, still sulking. She unbuttoned the short skirt and let it drop to the floor, then stepped out of it. White lace bikini panties covered almost nothing. She turned away from me for a moment, kicking the skirt away from her and displayed the delicious curves of her backside. 'And what you tell me is very little, my lover.'
  
  I grinned at her and knew that I liked Gabrielle very much. Maybe my quick departure was for the best. She kicked her shoes off and moved over to me languidly, turning her back to me.
  
  'Help me with the bra.'
  
  I stood up and undid the hooks and let the bra slide to the floor. Over her shoulder, I could see the full breasts thrust outward in their new freedom. I reached around her and moved my hands slowly over those breasts. Gabrielle closed her eyes.
  
  'Mmmm,' she breathed. 'I suppose I am going to have to forgive you.' She turned to me. Her hungry mouth found mine.
  
  When the kiss ended, she reached down and slipped her panties off over the swell of her hips. She pressed her nakedness against me and my hands caressed the softness of her skin.
  
  'Well?' she said into my ear. 'Don't you think you should get undressed?'
  
  She helped me off with my clothes and seemed to enjoy it. She pressed her lips against mine again and I kissed her savagely, my tongue exploring. I held her easily to me as the pleasure and sensuality of the love-making increased.
  
  'Oh, Nick! Nick!' she gasped.
  
  'Let's go to the bedroom,' I said huskily.
  
  'Mmm. No, right here. I can't wait.' She dropped down to a sitting position on the thick rug at our feet and pulled me down beside her. 'All right?' She lay back on the rug, the full breasts pointing at me. 'All right?' she repeated.
  
  I did not bother answering. I moved onto her quickly. A sudden, sharp gasp escaped from her lips. I took her savagely, brutally, with no thought of finesse, because she had really gotten to me and there was no other way. The sounds in her throat grew louder and louder. I could feel her nails but I was oblivious to pain. We exploded together in a brilliant dazzling climax.
  
  I lay weakly on her. Her eyes were still closed, but her lips parted in a smile. 'Mon Dieu,' she said softly.
  
  It had been a wonderful way to say goodbye. And I had not thought of Cairo at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two
  
  
  
  
  Cairo is not a civilized city. Not by Western standards at least. I sensed it, as I had on previous visits, in my first contact with the place at the airport. Arabs rudely pushed and jostled each other and the tourists — jamming elbows into ribs, shouting obscenities, fighting for position at the reception desks.
  
  It took me two hours to get checked through, but my phony papers passed inspection. I took a taxi into town. We passed through the old town and the bazaar area where the streets were full of dragomen and pimps and tourists with their guides. There were also dark veils and kaffiyehs hiding sullen faces and legless beggars asking for alms for the love of Allah. Over it all rose a persistent kind of belligerent clamor, an unnerving chaos. I remembered that you do not walk the streets of Cairo at night, and in the daylight, you keep your hand on your wallet.
  
  At the New Shepheards Hotel I checked into my room and then visited the fifth floor. Drummond had been killed in 532. The corridor was quiet. I removed Wilhelmina from my shoulder holster, checked the Luger for ammunition and slipped it back. I moved down to room 532. Listening briefly at the door, I concluded that no one was inside.
  
  Taking a master key from my pocket, I inserted it into the lock and turned it. The lock clicked and I pushed the door open. Silently I moved inside and closed the door after me.
  
  The room was in partial darkness because of the pulled draperies at the windows. I moved over to them and pulled them open, admitting bright sunlight. Then I turned and surveyed the room. The hotel had apparently decided not to rent it out yet. Maybe the police were not finished with their investigation. I moved over beside the large double bed, to the spot where Hawk had said the body had been found. I grimaced when I saw the slash of dark blood stain still on the carpeting. I dislike messy killings.
  
  The room seemed to have been left pretty much as it was found by the police. The bed covers were pulled down, as if Drummond had been ready to call it a night. On the woodwork and doors I spotted several places where the police had made an attempt to lift fingerprints. A straight chair near the bed was overturned, but there was no other evidence of a struggle.
  
  I recalled my last sight of John Drummond, back at Langley, just a few months ago. He was tall with sandy hair and had an athletic look about him. One of the last things he had said to me was, 'Nobody fives forever in this business, Nick.' But standing there grinning at me in the sun, tanned and fit, he had looked as if he just might be the exception.
  
  I sighed heavily and moved slowly around the room. It was days like this that made an agent take a good hard look at what he was doing for a living. It made you look at the odds, something you did not like to do very often.
  
  I moved to an old desk against the wall and pulled the long middle drawer open. It was a meaningless gesture. The police would have found anything worthwhile, and I could not go to them. I stared into the empty drawer. Who had killed John Drummond? Did he suspect trouble before he was attacked? If so, he would have tried to leave some kind of message for us, if he had the chance. I had checked our only dead-drop site in Cairo and had come up empty-handed. But maybe Drummond had not had time to get there.
  
  Then I remembered something. Drummond had read about an agent leaving a message attached to the back of a desk drawer. He had thought that was pretty imaginative, though Hawk had not agreed with him. I looked again at the drawer. Feeling a little silly, I pulled it all the way out and inspected its backside.
  
  My mouth fell open. There it was, a paper taped to the back of the drawer. It had to be a message left by John Drummond!
  
  I tore the note off and slid the drawer back into place. I sat down at the desk, excitement building inside me.
  
  The message was in code, but Drummond had used the Key Book code, with no complications or variations. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a paperback book titled The Black Continent, the eighth edition. Since Drummond had used page 30 in his last message to AXE, I turned ahead twenty-five pages to page 55 and looked back down at the coded message.
  
  It was a jumble of unrelated digits, in one line after another, in Drummond's hurried scrawl. I glanced at the first two digits and combined them into one number. I went to the top line of the page, began at the left margin and counted letters and spaces adding up to my first number to the proper letter — which was the first letter of the first word of the message. Then I continued in the same manner on the second line of the page. The message continued on.
  
  Deciphered, it read:
  
  Case with film taken at airport. Believe accidental switch of luggage. Found out here at hotel. Substitute case contains uncut heroin. Have contacted local underworld, hope to recover our case tonight. NT.
  
  I had just finished reading the message when I heard a sound in the corridor outside the room. I listened, but it wasn't repeated. I folded Drummond's note carefully and stuffed it and the paperback into my jacket. Getting up from the desk, I reached for Wilhelmina as I stood. Silently I moved to the door and stood there a moment, arguing with myself in a moment of indecision.
  
  If it was a hotel employee — or the police — skulking in the hall, I did not want to be caught here. But suppose it was somebody who knew something about John Drummond's death and the luggage switch? I could not afford to let him get away.
  
  I had just decided to open the door when I heard footsteps outside, retreating quickly back down the corridor. The prowler had heard me, or perhaps seen my shadow under the door. I grabbed the knob and swung the door open, stepping into the hall.
  
  Looking to the left, in the direction of the sound of the footsteps, I saw a figure disappear around the corner of the corridor. I didn't get enough of a look for identification; I only knew that it was a man. Closing the door behind me, I raced down the hall.
  
  When I turned the corner, I got another glimpse — but saw no more than the first time. The man was rushing down a stairway.
  
  'Hold it!' I yelled at him.
  
  But he was gone. I ran down the corridor to the stairway, Wilhelmina in hand, and started down the steps three at a time. I could hear footsteps pounding down the stairs a couple of flights ahead of me, but did not get another glimpse of the fleeing man. As I neared the ground floor, the door leading out into the lobby was just closing. I stopped for a moment to holster Wilhelmina, then moved on into the tile-floored lobby of the old hotel.
  
  There were several tourists milling about near the desk, but my man was not visible. The revolving doors at the entrance were moving slightly. I moved quickly across the lobby to them. Outside I looked up and down the busy street, but it was hopeless. I had lost him.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  That night I visited an old friend. Hakim Sadek was a rascally professor at a local university with an unquenchable thirst for excitement and adventure. He had worked for AXE on a couple of occasions. I knew he had a certain degree of knowledge of the underworld in Cairo, so I went to him armed with my deciphered note.
  
  'Nicholas!' he greeted me warmly in his fashionable home on the Sharia Fouad el Awal. 'It has been such a very long time. As-salaam 'alaykum.'
  
  'Wa-'alaykum as-salaam,' I said. 'Peace be with you, too, old friend.'
  
  'Please,' he said, offering me a seat on a low sofa.
  
  As I sat down, he called a servant and ordered us two mint teas. I could never bring myself to tell Hakim that I disliked mint tea. He thought it was one of my favorite drinks.
  
  'Now, what brings you to my humble home?' he said, smiling. He was a tall but hunched man with the face of a slave trader. His cheeks were badly pockmarked and his thin lips looked cruel even when he was smiling. But he was an extremely well-educated man, his English better than mine.
  
  'You and I are going to rob the Museum of Antiquities,' I said.
  
  He looked at me expectantly, his eyes lighting up, and then he saw that I was joking. 'Ah, you are a funny fellow, Nicholas!' He laughed loudly, but he leaned toward me conspiratorially: 'It isn't such a bad idea, you know.'
  
  I grinned back at him. Hakim was one of the most colorful figures that AXE had hired in the recent past. In his red fez and djellaba robe, he looked very much like a treacherous desert bandit.
  
  'If I had the time, I'd like to try it with you,' I told him. 'But I'm afraid I've got trouble, Hakim.'
  
  His eyes narrowed, and he touched a finger to his caramel-colored nose. 'Ah. Let me tell you what your trouble is, Nicholas. The American found dead in his hotel room last week. He was an AXE agent, right?'
  
  'Right,' I said. I pulled out the deciphered note and gave it to Hakim. 'He left this for us.'
  
  Hakim studied the note carefully, then looked up at me. 'If the substitute case did contain heroin, Nicholas, the switch surely was an error. And if it was an error and your man tried to make it right, why was he killed?'
  
  'A good question,' I said. 'It could be that the Russians found Drummond and the substitute case is only a red herring to throw us off. But if the underworld is really involved here, there could be a dozen explanations for Drummond's death. The important thing is to recover the film he was carrying in that attaché case.'
  
  The small, thin servant with a brown walnut face, brought us our tea. Hakim stirred the green mint leaves around in the glasses for us. I declined as graciously as possible to have mine sweetened. When the servant was gone, Hakim glanced up at me.
  
  'This film is important then?'
  
  'Very important, Hakim. If you still have connections with the underworld in Cairo, I'd appreciate some help. I have to find out who killed Drummond and why. That just might lead me to the film.'
  
  Hakim slowly stirred his tea. 'I must admit, Nicholas, that I have lost contact with the criminal element here in the past year. My help would be miserable indeed. But it so happens, my friend, that I know an Interpol agent who might be able to help you.'
  
  'None of this must get into official records,' I said. 'Can he keep his mouth shut?'
  
  Hakim smiled, a smile that, if I hadn't known him, would have convinced me he was about to cut my throat. 'The agent is a girl and she is quite lovely. She is Arab with some French blood somewhere along the line. Her name is Fayeh Nasir. In Arabic, Fayeh means Flame of Desire.' The smile widened into a degenerate leer. 'She is an entertainer at the Sheherazade, a nightclub out on Alfa Bey Street. An exotic dancer. You must make your own judgment of her, of course. But she just may be able to help.'
  
  I took a sip of the tea and tried not to make a face. 'All right, I'll see her,' I said. 'I have to make a start somewhere.' I rose from the low sofa and Hakim did too. 'Now I must go.'
  
  'You must come when we can talk, Nicholas,' Hakim said.
  
  'That would be nice. And thanks for the lead.'
  
  He shook his head. 'I wish I could be more personally involved. Keep in touch. And don't let me find your name listed in the obituaries.'
  
  'Irish' Allah,' I said. 'May it be Allah's will.'
  
  Hakim's crooked grin showed again. 'You should have been born an Arab.'
  
  It was almost midnight when I left Hakim's house. I took a taxi back to the center of town. On the way there, moving along the dark streets, I could have sworn we were being followed. When we hit the Sharia Maspero with its brighter lights and heavier traffic, I dismissed the cab, planning to walk the rest of the way to the hotel. The car which had seemed to be following us moved on past when the cab stopped and turned a corner. I was probably imagining things, I told myself.
  
  I started walking, nudging Wilhelmina unconsciously with my left arm. Even on this wide street — with the Nile on my right — the buildings on my left all seemed to have narrow dark doorways and I walked by several gloomy alleys.
  
  I passed an armless beggar who chanted out a request for alms. I paused and dropped some piastres into a container between his legs. He thanked me volubly, grinning a toothless grin, and I found myself suspecting even that poor helpless man. I moved on toward my hotel, unable to shake the feeling that all was not right with my world. I'd gone another block when I heard the footsteps behind me.
  
  They were soft footsteps and most people would have missed the sound. But they were there, and they were gaining on me. I did not turn or quicken my pace. In my mind's eye I pictured the beggar behind me. He had grown arms from under his djellaba and was holding a long, curving knife tightly in his fist.
  
  But that was nonsense. If the footsteps were in fact stalking me, as they appeared to be, the culprit doing the stalking was undoubtedly from the black car that had followed the taxi from Hakim's.
  
  The footsteps were close now. I had decided to stop, turn and confront my harasser. But before I could, I reached another dark alleyway. I was so preoccupied with the footsteps behind me I paid no attention to the alley as I moved past it.
  
  A hand shot out of the darkness of the alley, grabbed at my arm savagely and pulled me off-balance into the blackness. I was taken completely unaware and can remember being angry with myself for being so careless as I hurtled to the pavement over a stuck-out leg. In the next instant, I was looking up from a supine position at the robed figure who had grabbed me. He was wearing an ankle-length striped djellaba and his head was covered with a desert kaffiyeh which hid his face. Then I saw a silhouette appear in the alley mouth, another big robed figure, and I knew that this was the man who had been following me. He held an ugly pistol with a heavy silencer while his comrade standing over me had a wide-bladed dagger.
  
  'What's going on?' I said. 'What do you want — my money?'
  
  But they had no intention of talking things over with me. While the man with the knife held the weapon toward me menacingly, the man with the gun raised the muzzle, aiming at my chest.
  
  There was little time to think. Just as he squeezed the trigger, I twisted away from the line of fire toward the building wall to my left. I heard the soft whunk of the silenced gun and felt fire lick at my upper right arm. The bullet had grazed me.
  
  I had landed beside a wooden crate in which considerable refuse was piled. I grabbed the crate with one hand and heaved it in a swinging arc toward the gunman. The crate and its contents hit him in the face and chest, and he staggered backwards off balance.
  
  But then the other man was on me. He threw himself bodily on me, the knife plunging toward my chest. I twisted, managing to grab the knife arm. His body hit me hard and I almost lost my grip on the arm. His face was next to mine, lean and cruel, as he struggled to thrust the knife home.
  
  I gathered my strength and pushed viciously against the robed figure. He went flying off me, hitting the pavement several feet away. But now the gunman had recovered from the collision with the crate and was again aiming his gun at me. I swore in my throat and rolled away from the wall as he fired. This time the slug chewed into the pavement beside my head.
  
  As I rolled, I contracted my right forearm and Hugo slipped into my palm. When I came up facing the gunman, Hugo was ready. I swung my arm up in an underhand pitching motion, and the stiletto slipped silently from my grasp. It turned over once and buried itself silently in the Arab's lower chest.
  
  Even in the darkness, I could see the gunman's eyes widen, and then he was stumbling toward me, clutching at the handle of the stiletto with one hand, the gun hanging loosely from the other. As he stumbled on into the alley, the gun went off twice, two dull thumps, the slugs singing off the pavement near my feet and the wall I had just moved away from. Then the man was falling. He fell like a timber tree, slowly, and he hit with a thud on his face and chest, driving Hugo in even further.
  
  The gunman lay very dead between the other Arab and me. The survivor looked at his dead companion, then turned. The cruel eyes closed down to ugly slits. Suddenly, he threw himself at me.
  
  The knife was at my throat. I struggled to keep it away. One swipe would cut the jugular. My attacker's arm trembled with his effort to get at me. I eased a foot between his legs and kicked out to my right at the same time pushing his arms and shoulders to the left. He fell off me, grunting. I rolled onto him and got a better hold on the knife arm, trying to twist it. He struck out at me with his left hand, and I lost my balance. In a moment he was on his feet.
  
  I scrambled up as he circled me. He was going to be careful now and wait until he could go in for the kill. He saw an opening and stepped in, swinging the broad knife toward my belly. I pulled back and the blade sliced through my jacket and shirt. I swallowed hard. He was very good with the knife.
  
  We circled some more. My eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and I could see better what I was doing. I did not watch the knife, I watched the man's face. The eyes changed, telegraphing the second attack, and I was ready. I grabbed the knife arm and pulled it toward me and past me. Turning at the same time, I swung the man over my shoulder and threw him down hard. He smacked the pavement audibly with his back and head, losing the knife.
  
  I pulled him to his feet. He struggled to clear his head and fight back, but I threw a punch into his face, knocking him back against a wall of the alley. I moved in on him, drove a right into his belly and heard him gasp as he doubled over, clutching his midsection.
  
  I jerked him upright and took a good look at the hard lean face. I had never seen it before; I wondered if he was the man at the hotel outside Drummond's room.
  
  'Who are you?' I said. 'What do you want?'
  
  He glanced at the man on the ground, gasping, 'Our Brothers — will find you.' He spoke in English with a strong accent.
  
  Then he broke free and stumbled out to the street. I let him go; I knew there wasn't much chance of getting anything more out of him.
  
  I moved to the dead man and turned him over. His face was unfamiliar too. And this face looked more Spanish than Arab. I pulled Hugo from his chest, wiped him on the djellaba the man wore and returned the stiletto to its sheath. Then I looked through the dead man's clothing for identification. There was nothing.
  
  I leaned against a wall near him, trying to get my strength back. These two were sent by somebody who knew I had been in Cairo to look into Drummond's death. And if I had not gotten lucky when the dead killer began firing that pistol, I would have joined Drummond in the ranks of deceased AXE agents. It was not a pleasant thought.
  
  Moving heavily to the street, I glanced out cautiously and saw that the boulevard was almost empty of pedestrian traffic. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and headed again for the New Shepheards.
  
  I had to get to the girl from Interpol quickly, that was for sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three
  
  
  
  
  The nightclub was all dim lights and incense and heavy draperies with a string ensemble under a lavender light playing a very unmelodious Egyptian song. Cigarette smoke hung acrid and thick over the heads of the customers at the small low tables.
  
  In the center of the tiled floor a girl danced a kind of belly dance. She was slim and dark with long straight hair falling over bronze shoulders. Her dark eyes were outlined with makeup to make them appear even bigger and darker. Below them was an aquiline, finely-chiseled nose and a pouting, full-lipped mouth. She was thin but she had enough flesh where it counted. Her legs were long and perfect. She wore a bra that covered the nipples of her breasts with a small triangle of cloth serving as the rest of her costume; a transparent ankle-length veil hung from the bikini-type panties. Her ankles were banded with small bells and in each hand she held tiny metallic cymbals.
  
  The cymbals issued a tinny rhythmic sound as she moved around the floor to the off-key music, vibrating the firm muscles in her lovely hips, snaking from one table to the next. She arrived at my table just as the music reached a crescendo. She moved her hips close to me, vibrating them unnervingly, and shook her shoulders so that her breasts moved excitingly in the fragile bra. All the while she smiled, a smile that was calculated to tell a man she understood his desire for her.
  
  The music was over suddenly in a burst of sound and Fayeh Nasir, the Flame of Desire, was acknowledging the scattered applause from the patrons. Then she came and sat down across the table from me. A juggler came onto the floor to follow her act.
  
  She smiled at me, showing perfect teeth. 'Did you like my dance?' she asked.
  
  Before I could answer, a turbaned waiter came and we ordered two glasses of a local wine. I realized I was staring at the way Fayeh's breasts seemed to be trying to escape that tiny bra. 'Yes,' I finally managed. 'You're very good.'
  
  She was pleased. 'Thank you,' she said. 'It is more important to me to be a good dancer than a good policeman.'
  
  I grinned. 'Some policeman,' I said. 'I'm pleased to meet you, Fayeh.'
  
  'And I you, Mr Carter. I was told to expect you.'
  
  The waiter brought the wine. I tried it, and it was surprisingly good. The girl smiled at me over her glass and then the sparkling dark eyes grew somber. 'I am sorry about your colleague,' she said.
  
  I looked down at my glass. 'He was very young.' I took another sip of the wine. 'And what he was carrying was very important.'
  
  'Hakim Sadek did not mention what it was.'
  
  I looked over into that lovely face. I was going to have to trust her to some extent or she would not be able to help at all. 'Hakim does not know what Drummond was carrying,' I said slowly and deliberately.
  
  'I see.'
  
  'I'm going to tell you, but I want you to understand that it is in the strictest confidence. You must repeat this to no one, not even to Hakim.' I watched her face closely.
  
  'I understand.'
  
  I took a deep breath. 'It's a microfilm. Drummond was carrying it in the handle of a safety razor. The razor was in a shaving kit in his attaché case.' I told her about the switch of cases and the uncut heroin.
  
  'Mr Drummond seems to have been the victim of an unpredictable accident,' she said pensively.
  
  I suppressed a smile. It suddenly seemed incongruous to me to be sitting discussing the crime with an Arabian belly dancer as if she were a Scotland Yard inspector.
  
  'His murder was not part of the accident,' I said. 'Whoever came to his room to recover that substitute case apparently had no intention of returning Drummond's case to him. Of course, it might be at the bottom of the Nile now with the microfilm because it appeared to have no value. But I don't think so. I think whoever killed Drummond has the film and knows its importance.'
  
  'Which is very great?'
  
  I regarded her seriously for a moment. She would have to know. 'Yes. We stole the plans for a Russian airplane, a very special airplane. The knowledge is of vital importance to the free world. The microfilm was of those plans, and I'm expected to get it back.'
  
  She nodded. 'If the underworld has the plans, Nick, I may be able to help you,' she said. 'I have contacts. I know names and operations. Do you have anything to go on?'
  
  'Very little.' I mentioned the attack on me the evening before. 'I don't even know if I'd recognize either of the faces in mug shots. But one of them said something strange — the one who got away. He mentioned something about his brothers — or their brothers — getting me.'
  
  She looked startled. 'Of course! That makes sense, Nick. He wasn't referring to family relations. He was speaking of partners in crime in a formidable new underworld syndicate, the New Brotherhood.'
  
  'The New Brotherhood?' I repeated. 'Sounds like a branch of the Mafia.'
  
  She gave a small laugh. 'One of the leaders is Sicilian. But the big man, Pierre Bovet, is French, from Paris. It's quite a cosmopolitan group actually. And we're beginning to think that it is the most ruthless criminal organization we have ever had to deal with. Their actions have stirred public sentiment against them even in Cairo. They are big dealers in drugs. But so far we have been unable to obtain any evidence against them. We don't even know what Bovet looks like.'
  
  'They sound formidable,' I said.
  
  She frowned thoughtfully. 'If the New Brotherhood is involved in this, you are going to have a difficult time. Do you want help from Interpol?'
  
  'No,' I said quickly. 'If you can make use of records without raising suspicion, okay. But you must confide in no one. You're now on the AXE payroll and you will discuss the assignment only with me.'
  
  She shrugged the lovely bronze shoulders. 'You are the boss. I'll do whatever you say.'
  
  I reached over and covered her hand with mine. 'That's good to know. Now, where do we start on this thing?'
  
  She hesitated a moment, then asked, 'Can you pay?' When I nodded, she went on, 'I know a man, a kind of informer, called Thinman. I believe Hakim Sadek is acquainted with him too. He makes his living by carrying information back and forth between the law and the underworld. It is a difficult business to stay alive in, but Thinman has managed to move between the two worlds successfully for several years because he has value to both sides.'
  
  'And he knows how to contact this New Brotherhood?'
  
  'Thinman has more knowledge of that organization than any policeman. Don't ask me how he comes by it. I am sure he knows things he would never tell us. But for money, he may put us in touch with them. They will decide whether they want to talk to you.'
  
  'If last night was any indication, they're not in the mood for talking,' I said grimly.
  
  'There was a report that a New Brotherhood gang member was killed the same night that your agent died,' she said, 'though the police will not verify the story. If it is true, the New Brotherhood may think Drummond killed their man and may have decided that you should pay for the death too. Or they just may not like your presence here.'
  
  'Well, they don't know I have any money to spend yet,' I said. 'Maybe that will make them see me in a more friendly light.'
  
  When Fayeh had finished her performances for the evening, she dressed and emerged from her dressing room looking like a school girl in a white sweater and blue miniskirt, her long dark hair falling over her shoulders. Most of the makeup was gone, and its removal enhanced the natural beauty of her face.
  
  'Very nice,' I said.
  
  She smiled and put her arm through mine, leading me out of the place. Outside we got a taxi, and Fayeh gave the driver an address in an area I wasn't familiar with. We drove across Cairo into the old part of town where the streets were narrow and skulking figures lurked around every street corner. She told the cab to stop in the middle of a block of decrepit old buildings.
  
  I paid the driver and watched him move away. When the sound of the car was gone, it seemed suddenly very lonely. The girl led me to the end of the block to a decaying tenement, and we went inside.
  
  The inside was worse than the outside. A dim bulb hung at the bottom of rotting wooden stairs. We climbed the stairs past peeling paint and wall graffiti to a third floor room. Fayeh knocked three times, hesitated, then knocked again.
  
  In a moment the door opened, and a man stood there. He was a wreck of a human being, not just thin but bony like a skeleton. His face was long and sallow, the clothing he wore was little better than rags, and he stank.
  
  He squinted down at the girl and made a sound in his throat. 'Yeah?'
  
  'It is Fayeh Nasir,' she said.
  
  'Oh, Yeah.' He looked past her at me. His eyes were glazed, as if he were coming off of a high of some kind. He studied me for a long moment, then looked back at the girl. 'What do you want?'
  
  'Information,' she said.
  
  'What kind?' He scratched his crotch.
  
  'We want to be put in contact with the New Brotherhood,' she said.
  
  Some of the glaze left his eyes and fear crept into them. 'You're crazy,' he said. He started to close the door in our faces.
  
  I jammed my foot against it. 'We're not out to cause trouble,' I said. 'We just want to talk to somebody. I can pay you well.'
  
  Again he studied my face. 'Step inside a minute,' he said finally.
  
  The room he lived in was littered with papers and food scraps and various kinds of bedding. He apparently slept on a low pallet in a dark corner, a dirty greasy mess, but soiled bedding was everywhere. There were wine bottles all over the place, and there was the sweet stench of hashish in the stale air.
  
  He slumped into a straight chair at a small table in the middle of the room. 'Sit down and talk,' he said. His accent was not quite British.
  
  We preferred to stand. 'I want to be put in touch with Pierre Bovet,' I said.
  
  He looked at me, then gave an ugly laugh. 'Why don't you ask for something easy, like breathing life back into King Tut?'
  
  I didn't laugh. 'I'm not playing games,' I told him. 'The girl said you might be able to help. If not…'
  
  'Nobody sees Pierre Bovet,' he said. 'You don't know what you're asking.'
  
  Fayeh spoke then. 'We thought we might convince one of the men close to him first,' she explained. 'You put us in touch with the New Brotherhood and we will proceed from there.'
  
  He rubbed his chin and thought about that for a moment. 'How much is in it for me?' he asked finally.
  
  I pulled out my wallet, took out some bills and laid them on the dirty table. He looked at them and grunted. I added three more bills. He looked at them hungrily, then up at me. 'What will I tell them you want?'
  
  'That I want to buy something.'
  
  'Drugs? I can get you all you want.'
  
  'Not drugs,' I said.
  
  He squinted at me again, then reached out and picked up the money. He counted it carefully. 'All right. I'll do what I can. Where can I call you?'
  
  I told him.
  
  'I'll give you a ring tomorrow morning. Be there.'
  
  'I'll be there,' I said. 'Just make sure you call,'
  
  The visit was over. The girl and I left the pigsty Thinman called home. Outside, we found a taxi.
  
  I saw Fayeh home. She rented a small apartment just off the Sharia el Abdel. She asked me up, but I declined and kept the taxi. It was going to be a busy day tomorrow and much as I wanted to be alone with her and as much as she seemed to mean the invitation, the mission came first… as always.
  
  At just after ten the next morning the call came. Thimnan's voice sounded as shaky on the phone as he looked in person. He had instructions for me.
  
  'You must have a car,' he said. 'The girl owns one, I believe.'
  
  'All right.'
  
  'You will drive out of town on Sharia Khedive Ismail. Keep following it into the desert until you come to the old caravan track. Make a right turn and drive into the desert for about ten kilometers. At that point you will find a smaller track leading off to your left with a signpost pointing to an abandoned well called the Sharkass. Do you read Arabic?' he asked.
  
  'Enough,' I said.
  
  'Good. Drive along this track for exactly three kilometers, stop your car and wait. You will be met.'
  
  'By whom?'
  
  'By a member of the New Brotherhood.'
  
  'What's his name? What will he look like?'
  
  There was a soft chuckle. 'You will find that out when you get there.' The phone clicked in my ear.
  
  The meeting had been set for afternoon, at two sharp. I called for Fayeh at her apartment and, as Thinman had suggested, we took her car. She had a weakness for bright, shiny things and drove a bright blue Citroën SM convertible.
  
  'You like to drive,' I told her as we moved along the Sharia Khedive Ismail, the balmy air blowing her long hair about.
  
  'I like to drive beautiful cars,' she corrected me. 'They tell me it has a double overhead camshaft V6 Maserati engine, whatever that means.'
  
  I grinned, studying the expensive instrument panel. 'It means you're lucky to have two jobs to support it,' I said. I glanced at the clock on the panel and at my watch. I leaned forward and adjusted the hands on the clock. 'Your clock is running, but it's almost an hour off. You should pay more attention to time in your business.'
  
  'Why is time important to a dancer?' she said, smiling.
  
  I returned the smile. Sitting in the seat beside me, the loveliest legs in the Near East exposed by a micro-mini skirt, she did not seem to fit the part of policeman. She could have been a New York secretary on a weekend outing.
  
  In a short time we were in the desert. We found the caravan track and made the right turn. Here the going was slower because we kept running into soft sand. Then when there was nothing around us but sand and sky and shimmering heat waves, we saw the signpost pointing to Sharkass Well along an ill-defined track.
  
  'Can we drive on that?' she asked doubtfully.
  
  'If you're careful. Go slow.'
  
  We moved onto the track, the car bumping along in low gear. I watched carefully on all sides as we rode along, because I did not trust either the New Brotherhood or Thinman. The latter had seemed quite evasive on the phone. I watched the odometer on the panel, since we were to drive exactly three kilometers along this route. At one point Fayeh almost got us stuck in deep sand but then the car pulled free. At two point five kilometers, I said: 'Stop.'
  
  She braked the car. I stood up in my seat and studied the hot sand ahead. Heat rose from the dunes around us and distorted the landscape. High in the cobalt-blue sky above, a vulture wheeled silently.
  
  I sat back down and glanced at my watch. 'It's getting close to two o'clock, but there's nobody in sight anywhere. Maybe we ought to walk the last…'
  
  I stopped, staring at the clock on the panel. It appeared to be running — I could hear the ticking — but the hands were just as I had set them back at Fayeh's apartment. Then it came to me.
  
  'Get out!' I yelled at her. 'Get out quickly and run for that dune over there!'
  
  'What…?' She was bewildered by the sudden change.
  
  'Do it!' I said harshly. I reached past her, flung her door open and shoved her out. Then I vaulted over the side of the car to the sand beside her.
  
  'Over there!' I said. I grabbed her arm and dragged her after me to a rise of sand about fifty yards away. I pulled her over the crest and pushed her down on the warm sand on the far side. Then I looked back toward the car. 'There was a ticking,' I said, 'but your clock was not running.'
  
  She stared at me for a blank moment, then looked wide-eyed toward the Citroen SM, sitting shiny and beautiful on the track in the bright sun.
  
  And then it happened. The car just seemed to erupt in a blue brilliance, accompanied by an ear-shattering roar, and was immediately engulfed by yellow flames and black smoke. I pushed Fayeh down again as twisted pieces of metal sailed past our heads, hurled by the high-powered explosion.
  
  When the flying debris had landed, we looked up. The car was burning brightly in the desert sun. There appeared to be little left of the front seat where we had sat moments before. In another moment there was a second explosion — the gas tank — and the flames rose even higher.
  
  We watched silently for a long moment before I turned to Fayeh. 'Nice people,' I said.
  
  'Oh, my god!' she said, grabbing onto my arm and moving closer to me.
  
  'I think the New Brotherhood is trying to tell me something,' I said, watching black smoke curl skyward.
  
  'But, Thinman…'
  
  'Something tells me he knew what they were up to,' I said. 'He set us up.'
  
  'But why would he do it?'
  
  'Because he's scared of them — and maybe of the trouble we can cause him.'
  
  Suddenly she laughed. 'I still have fifteen payments to make on the car.'
  
  I smiled and looked over at her. We were lying side by side on the sand. 'Let your insurance company worry that out. Now, how do we get back to town?'
  
  She sighed and rolled over close to me so that her slim curves were touching me all along my side and thighs. Her skirt had hiked up around her hips revealing a triangle of white panties.
  
  There will be a bus along the main track — back there at the junction — at about three-thirty.'
  
  'Well, that's our transportation back,' I said.
  
  She started to get up, but I grabbed her arm and pulled her so the full breasts pressed against my chest.
  
  'Where are you going?'
  
  'Well, you said…'
  
  'I said we'd catch the bus. But that's an hour and a half from now, isn't it?'
  
  She smiled and the smile made her face even more lovely. 'Yes,' she said softly. 'We do have some time. And it would be silly to stand around waiting for the bus. Besides, you did save my life…'
  
  'Exactly,' I said. I removed the light jacket I was wearing, exposing the Luger. She glanced at the gun briefly, then moved her body so I could spread the jacket under her. 'There's a breeze here and it's quite comfortable. Let's forget about that burning car and the New Brotherhood and stay here.'
  
  She pressed up against me. 'I'd like that, Nick.'
  
  She was waiting to be kissed, and so I obliged. Her lips were warm and moist, and her mouth answered mine hungrily. The breasts that she moved so well in the dance now thrust against me. I ran my hand over the most available one.
  
  My hand slid under her blouse, unclasped the small bra and was moving on hot, silky-smooth skin. She rolled onto her back, her eyes closed against the brightness of the cloudless sky. Her body began moving under my touch and small sounds came from her throat.
  
  I pulled the blouse over her head in one movement and freed her breasts from the bra. They were round and full with large brown nipples. I leaned down and kissed each one. At the touch of my lips, she gasped.
  
  While my mouth moved on her breasts, my hands explored those lovely thighs. I got up to the hem of the short skirt and fumbled there for a moment. She raised her hips slightly and pulled the skirt up around her waist, never opening her eyes. I moved my hand up along the inner thigh and felt the extra warmth there and she moved her thighs slightly apart.
  
  'Oh, yes,' she breathed, moving hips and torso under my touch.
  
  I found her mouth again with mine, and she opened it to receive me. We explored each other slowly. My hand had reached the lace panties now. I pulled them down over the olive-bronze swell of hips and tummy, down over the long legs, and she kicked them off. Then I felt her hand at my trousers. She was reaching for what she wanted so desperately. In a moment she had it and brought me to her. And then there was the delicious moment when we united.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four
  
  
  
  
  My foot struck the door with savage force, sending it crashing inward into the dim recesses of the room, splinters flying across the floor. I stepped into the room and looked around for Thinman. He was just struggling up from his grimy pallet bed.
  
  'Damn you!' I growled at him.
  
  He leaned away from me as I moved quickly past him, grabbed at a dirty drapery over a window and tore it off, dumping it in a heap on the floor. The room was flooded with sunlight. Thinman squinted against it, throwing a hand up to protect his eyes.
  
  'What is it?' he said dully. 'What's going on?'
  
  I strode over to him, grabbed at his soiled shirt front and pulled him off his feet, slamming him hard against the wall behind him. His eyes grew large and his mouth dropped open.
  
  'You sent us out into the desert to get killed,' I growled at him.
  
  He licked dry lips. 'Hell, no! I know better than that. They said they'd talk. That's the truth!'
  
  I backhanded him across the face. 'You knew what they were going to do. But you figured, what's a couple of cops more or less. That's the truth.'
  
  'I didn't know about the bomb — I swear it.'
  
  I glared at him. 'Who said anything about a bomb?'
  
  Awareness of his slip showed plainly in his face, and he looked away from me. 'Okay. They mentioned it. But what was I supposed to do?'
  
  I pulled him off the wall, turned with him and threw a right into his sallow face. Bone crunched and he grunted loudly and fell to the floor. He lay there groaning, bleeding from the mouth and nose. He stared up at me with dull eyes.
  
  'You could have told us,' I said. 'You took my money, remember?'
  
  'Look, they do what they want,' he gasped. 'You want me to get myself killed?'
  
  Reaching down, I pulled him roughly to his feet.
  
  'Better us than you, huh?' I said bitterly. I pulled his head up sharply with one hand, forcing him to look into my eyes. 'Listen to me carefully. I want some names and some information. If I don't get what I want, I'm going to kill you.'
  
  He looked at me, studying my face, wondering. 'Who are you?' he said. 'You don't act like a cop.'
  
  I plowed another fist into him, lower this time, near the belly. He yelled and sank to his knees. 'That's for asking,' I said. 'Now, you tell me how to get in contact with the New Brotherhood without getting my head blown off.'
  
  'They're not interested,' Thinman gasped, his face twisted with pain. 'Nothing I can do.'
  
  I kicked him in the side of the head, knocking him over. He lay there without moving, making moaning sounds in his throat. I knelt beside him and let Hugo slip into my palm.
  
  'You see this?' I asked.
  
  His eyes focused on the gleaming stiletto.
  
  'I'm going to kill you a little at a time,' I told him, 'unless you get your memory back in a big hurry.'
  
  'What do you want?' he said finally.
  
  'Who planted the bomb? Was it an order from Bovet?'
  
  He shook his head. 'I don't honestly know. I talked to one of his three lieutenants, a man named Selim el Bekri, an Egyptian. Maybe el Bekri acted on his own. A Brother, a cousin of his, was killed recently. The word is that he was killed by an American, possibly CIA. Naturally, el Bekri would not be exactly friendly toward any snooping American now.'
  
  I grunted. There was that reference again to the death of a Brother about the time of Drummond's murder. But Drummond would have mentioned having to kill a man in the note he left.
  
  'Who are Pierre Bovet's other lieutenants?' I asked.
  
  'I have told you all I can. For God's sake!'
  
  I moved Hugo to a point just over Thinman's right eyeball. 'Maybe I'll blind you first,' I said. 'Do you know how easily a slim blade penetrates the ball of the eye?' I moved the stiletto closer to his eye.
  
  He sucked in his breath. 'All right!' he yelled. 'The other two are an Italian named Carlo Mazzini, from Sicily, and a man known as Reynaldo.'
  
  Thinman was telling the truth finally. The Sicilian would be the man Fayeh mentioned. The preliminary questioning was over.
  
  'All right,' I said. 'Now, if I wanted to buy drugs from the New Brotherhood, in sizable quantities, how would I go about it?' Thinman licked his lips again and sweat gleamed on his brow and upper Up. 'I know a middleman who sells to the pushers. He gets his stuff directly from a Brother.'
  
  'How?' I persisted.
  
  Thinman screwed up his gaunt face in mental agony and glanced at the open door, as if a Brother might be lurking outside. 'He fronts as a peddler out at the pyramids. Every Wednesday he sits there against a wall, not far from the Sphinx, and waits for his contact. About mid-morning the Brother comes, buys a bag of basboussa and leaves a package of uncut heroin. The payment for the heroin is in the bag of basboussa sweets.'
  
  Now I was getting somewhere. 'How would I identify this peddler?'
  
  Thinman sighed heavily. I held the stiletto close to his face. 'He always wears a blue-striped djellaba and a dark red fez. He has a small scar on his right cheek. You can't mistake him. The Brother who makes the transaction is called Abdullah.'
  
  I took Hugo away from Thinman's face. 'You know, Thinman, you can be a very co-operative fellow. One last question, where is the headquarters of this super-secret New Brotherhood?'
  
  He stared at me. 'Do you think I would know that?' He shook his head. 'Only Brotherhood members know. And it means death to talk.'
  
  I decided that was probably the truth. 'Okay.' I stuck the stiletto into my belt and stood up. Thinman relaxed a little. I kicked him in the side and he grunted, as much in surprise as pain.
  
  That's just a reminder,' I said, 'of what will happen to you if you mention this talk to anybody.'
  
  I walked to the open door, stopped and looked around the room. 'You really ought to clean this place up,' I said. 'It's a mess.'
  
  The next day was Wednesday. I advised Fayeh where I was going and took a taxi out to the pyramids alone. We drove along the Sharia el Ghizeh past the Egyptian University with its green gardens, and then we were on the edge of the desert. The Pyramids of Giza loomed just ahead, the Cheops and Chephren pyramids standing bold against a clear morning sky.
  
  As we drew closer, the inscrutable Sphinx came into view at the base of the Chephren pyramid, representing the god of the rising sun, Harmachis. But the serenity of the scene had already been disturbed by camel drivers with their braying animals, vendors of all varieties and tourists.
  
  The driver let me off near the Sphinx, and I was immediately accosted by several guides. After convincing them that I did not want a tour, I looked around for the man Thinman had described to me. I half expected another trap but I had to take the chance.
  
  There were several vendors near the Sphinx and generally milling about the area, selling everything from the pretzel-like Egyptian bread to dry goods and souvenir trinkets. But the man I was looking for did not seem to be there. He would not be, of course, if Thinman had tipped him off.
  
  I had just about decided that my man wouldn't show up when I saw him approaching. He wore a brightly blue-striped djellaba with the dark red fez on his head and, when I looked more closely, I saw the faint scar across his right cheek. I was getting somewhere.
  
  He was carrying a collapsible stand which formed a wooden box with a handle when it was closed. I presumed that inside this was the basboussa. I stood at a distance and watched him as he set up. He let several tourists pass without making any attempt to sell them his sweets. Yes, this was my man. I walked over to him.
  
  'You have some sweets for sale,' I said in Arabic.
  
  He looked up at me indifferently. He was a tall thin Arab with quite dark skin and a large bony nose. 'How much do you want?'
  
  'I would prefer to sell rather than buy,' I told him.
  
  His eyes now searched mine suspiciously. 'What do you mean?'
  
  I looked around to be sure no tourist stood nearby. 'I mean I have something for sale that you would be very much interested in.'
  
  He stared at me for a moment, then made a face and looked down at his tray of goods. 'I think you misunderstand. I am a poor vendor of sweets. I do not purchase goods from wealthy English.'
  
  He was one of the desert Arabs who referred to any white man as English because that was the worst insult in his world.
  
  'Look, they sent me to you. The sale has their approval. I spoke to Abdullah.'
  
  His eyes changed at the mention of his contact's name. He looked me over again, slowly. 'I don't know what you are talking about.'
  
  I leaned close. 'I have a big package of high-grade hash. My price is unbeatable. Now, do you really want me to go away?'
  
  His eyes came up slowly to meet mine. He glanced around quickly before he spoke. 'Abdullah sent you?'
  
  'That's right.'
  
  'Where is this hash?'
  
  I gave him a grin. 'In a safe place. Step down to the street with me a moment, away from these tourists, and I'll tell you about it. Your tray will be safe.'
  
  He hesitated a moment. 'All right, English,' he said in a low voice. 'But what you say had better be the truth.'
  
  We moved down to the street level together, and I walked him to an alley and suggested we step into it. He balked, but when I said impatiently, 'Come on, I haven't got all day,' he moved. The rest was easy. Two quick karate chops put him down and out. I took his djellaba off and put it on, set his fez on my head. I left him bound and gagged in the alley and emerged as a vendor.
  
  I went back to his stand and sat down crosslegged beside it to wait. I hoped Abdullah showed up before somebody found the real peddler in the alley. I had waited about fifteen minutes when contact was made.
  
  A big, squarish Arab in a neat western business suit moved up to the tray casually. He appeared to be looking the sweets over. I kept my face down and he hadn't gotten a good look at me yet.
  
  'A kilo of basboussa,' he said. He had a small package palmed in his right hand. I could see a bulge of a pistol under the tight-fitting jacket.
  
  I grabbed at some of the stuff on the tray and crammed it into a small bag. When I handed it to him, I looked up, and he saw my face. His eyes widened. 'What is this?' he said. 'You are not…'
  
  Then he saw Wilhelmina in my hand, underneath the bag. The muzzle of the Luger was pointed at his chest. I stood slowly.
  
  'Don't make a scene,' I asked.
  
  He glared at the gun and I feared he might just call my bluff. 'Are you a cop?' he said.
  
  'No,' I said. 'Now walk with me to the Cheops pyramid and buy us two tickets to enter. The Luger will be under this djellaba at all times, pointed at your back.'
  
  He watched as I stuffed Wilhelmina into the robe. 'If you want the "H", take it now,' he said.
  
  'I don't want it,' I told him. 'And I'm getting impatient.'
  
  He hesitated, then shrugged and stuck the package of heroin into his jacket pocket. He turned and headed toward the pyramid. I followed right behind. At the entrance he purchased two tickets from a sleepy attendant and we passed into the mountain of cut stone.
  
  Inside the ancient tomb it was damp and cool. There were almost no visitors yet. The New Brotherhood thug and I descended alone down a stone tunnel to a subterranean room, a burial room that was never used by Cheops. There were two tourists there. We moved on down to the bottom of the shaft to its dark end and turned right into a smaller passage where we had to bend over double to walk. Soon we arrived at a small room where few visitors ever came. It was dimly lighted by one bare bulb. We were quite alone.
  
  I pulled Wilhelmina from the robe. 'This will be just fine,' I said.
  
  His dark eyes glinted angrily. 'What is it you want?'
  
  'I want to see Pierre Bovet,' I said.
  
  'Ah. So you are the one.'
  
  'I'm the one, still alive and kicking. And in no mood for games. I want you to go to Bovet and arrange a meeting for me. You will discuss the matter with no one but Bovet — particularly not with el Bekri.'
  
  His face showed surprise that I knew names. 'Bovet will have no interest in seeing you.'
  
  'Let's let him decide that.'
  
  He hunched his thick shoulders. 'All right. If that is the way you want it.'
  
  He made a motion as if to reach into his jacket side pocket for something and suddenly the hand balled into a fist and was chopping at my gun hand. I was caught off-guard. The fist hit my wrist hard and the Luger went flying.
  
  I moved toward the gun on the floor, but Abdullah was there, between me and the Luger. He was very confident. He was going to teach me a lesson… I could see it in his face.
  
  I threw a hard left into that square face but it had almost no effect on this bull of a man. He moved back a step but he was not really shaken. In fact, he was still smiling.
  
  Before I could follow through, he returned the blow with a ham fist. I tried to deflect it but it caught me along the cheek and jaw and knocked me down. I sprawled on the floor, dazed. Slowly I struggled to my feet. I was about to draw Hugo into play when the big fist came again, smashing into my chin. I was sure he had busted my jaw as I lurched back against the stone wall.
  
  I hit the wall hard. Before I could recover, he threw another fist into my chest, under my heart, and I doubled up in sharp, breathless pain. I slumped to my knees.
  
  He stood triumphant over me. 'Pierre Bovet indeed!' he said. He turned from me disdainfully, walking toward Wilhelmina across the room.
  
  I sucked in air and coiled my feet under me. I threw myself at his legs. He went down heavily, hitting the stone floor hard. He rolled and I saw the anger in his face. He kicked out viciously with a big foot, the kick grazing my head. Then he was back on his feet.
  
  'I will step on you as an elephant steps on an ant,' he growled at me in Arabic.
  
  He threw a big fist at my head again. But this time I was ready. I caught the arm and hand and pulled, twisting my body at the same time. He went flying over my shoulder and hit the stones. I heard the breath punched from his lungs.
  
  But Abdullah was not finished. He struggled back to his knees. I didn't wait to see what he had in mind. I kicked him in the face and heard bone break. I moved in close and chopped the thick neck. He grunted. I gathered all my strength and chopped again. Abdullah sprawled on his face.
  
  I moved wearily to Wilhelmina. When I turned back, Abdullah was just reaching into his jacket for the bulge underneath. I leveled the Luger at his head.
  
  'Don't try it,' I said.
  
  He gave me a calculating look, then brought his hand out empty. He moved heavily to a sitting position against the wall as I went over to him.
  
  'Get up,' I said.
  
  He hesitated at first, then struggled to his feet. I aimed Wilhelmina at his face.
  
  'Now you listen to this,' I said. 'I know that the New Brotherhood was involved in the death of John Drummond. I know that when he was killed he was in possession of a certain attaché case that had been switched with his. I want his case back and I'm willing to pay well for it. You tell that to Bovet'
  
  Abdullah focused on me. 'Okay,' he said. 'I will tell Bovet,'
  
  'You tell him Nick Carter wants to see him,' I said. 'And you say that my patience is limited. Set up an appointment within forty-eight hours. You know how to get in touch with me.'
  
  His face registered a new respect 'Okay, I will do it' he said.
  
  'You'd better,' I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five
  
  
  
  
  'But Nick, you can't go alone!' Fayeh was saying. We were having dinner at the Roof Garden restaurant of the Nile Hilton; a small ensemble was playing Arabic music behind us.
  
  I pulled the meat and vegetables of a lamb shishkebab off the hot skewer it was served on. 'What do you suggest — that I take a police guard?'
  
  'Let me go with you.'
  
  'There's no point. You're more valuable in a safe place, so you can get word to Hakim Sadek if I don't show up again.'
  
  Her dark eyes showed genuine concern. 'I hope you know what you are doing, Nick. These men are extremely dangerous.'
  
  'There's only one way to find out whether Bovet has the microfilm,' I told her. 'That's to ask him. Face to face.'
  
  I glanced over at a table in a far corner and saw a man I recognized. He was Chinese, a tall slim young man with an intelligent face and a shock of black hair, dressed in a gray business suit. He was Kam Fong, an agent of Peking's dreaded L5 intelligence service. The last time I had seen him was in Kinshasa, in the Congo, where he had come close to killing me. He had looked over at our table and recognized me too. Now he was looking down at his plate.
  
  'What is it?' Fayeh asked.
  
  'An old friend of mine over there. A Chicom agent. If he's in Cairo something big is going on. I wonder if the New Brotherhood is dealing with the Chinese and Russians already.'
  
  'Would you like to leave?'
  
  I shook my head. 'No, he's seen me. Look, I'm going to be busy this evening with the New Brotherhood. If you want to help, find out where Kam Fong is staying.'
  
  'I think I can manage that,' she said.
  
  'He's very smart, Fayeh,' I warned her. 'And efficient. If he spots you, your career with Interpol will be over, quickly.'
  
  'I'll be careful,' she promised.
  
  I smiled and took her hand. I hoped she would be.
  
  We rushed the meal and left well ahead of Kam Fong. I did not acknowledge that I'd seen him, and I hid Fayeh's face by walking between Kam and her as we went out.
  
  I left Fayeh in the hotel lobby and returned to my room at the New Shepheards. I was following the instructions of the New Brotherhood. A nameless man had called me earlier in the day, telling me to be outside my hotel at ten p.m. sharp. I would be met. It was getting close to ten. I removed Wilhelmina and the shoulder holster and left them in my room. Hugo stayed in place on my arm.
  
  I removed my shirt and reached for the attaché case Hawk had given me when I left Nairobi. It was another one of those fancy gifts from the boys at Special Effects and Editing back in Washington. I opened it and slid a secret panel. I took out two flat, rectangular metal boxes, one the size of a small cigarette lighter and the other the dimensions of a rather large whisky flask.
  
  The small box had a couple of buttons on it and was an electronic detonator for the high explosives packed into the larger metal container. They both snapped onto a lightweight elastic harness that fit around my neck and waist. The two devices hung on my chest almost bulgeless under my shirt, in a position that only an expert searcher would find. With this apparatus on, I put my shirt back on and tied my black tie. When I donned my jacket there was no sign that I was wearing anything unusual.
  
  Ten minutes later I was standing on the dark sidewalk outside the hotel, waiting for the contact. Ten o'clock passed; ten-five. Then a pair of headlights turned a corner onto the boulevard and headed slowly toward me. If they were still of a mind to kill me, I was going to make an easy target. But the big black Mercedes stopped at the curb near me. I made out three heads inside, two in front and one in back. The one in front nearest the curb got out and motioned to me. I went to the car.
  
  The man who'd got out was a slim Arab with long thick hair and a very grim expression He was dressed in a dark suit. 'Get in,' he said. He pointed to the back seat.
  
  I climbed into the car beside a dark-haired man. The car doors slammed and it roared away from the curb. As we moved along the boulevard, the man next to me slipped a blindfold over my eyes and tied it securely. Evidently they were taking me to their headquarters.
  
  'Abdullah said you are not a cop,' the man beside me said. He spoke English with B-movie Italian accent. 'But you look like a cop to me.'
  
  'Beauty is only skin deep,' I said.
  
  Nothing else was said to me during the trip which took about twenty minutes. Even though I could not see, I kept a mental record of the left and right turns and the sounds and smells along the route. We passed two vendors' stands with baked potatoes for sale, for instance. And just before we turned into a gravel drive I heard the rumbling sounds of a small machine factory — or something similar — across the street. A couple minutes later, the car had stopped and I was being led up a flight of steps. There were four steps. At the top they knocked four times and a door opened. I was prodded forward. When the door closed behind us, I felt hands untying my blindfold, and suddenly I could see again.
  
  I was standing in the entrance hall of what was obviously a very expensive home. It was all interior pillars and oriental tiles and potted plants. The ceiling had a mural depicting biblical Arab life.
  
  'Very impressive,' I said. The three men who had accompanied me were standing close around me along with a fourth man who must have let us in. I figured all of them were underlings.
  
  'You must be crazy,' the fourth man said to me. He looked Spanish, but he spoke English with a British accent. 'But you wanted to see Bovet and you shall. Come.'
  
  They led me to a small elevator. As we crowded into it, I tried to remember the last time I'd been in a private home with an elevator. We rode up to a third floor and stepped out into a bright corridor. There the man who had spoken to me downstairs stopped me and searched me. He did a fairly good job. He found Hugo but not the explosive devices.
  
  'We'll return this to you,' he said, holding up the knife.
  
  I nodded. I started toward a door at the end of the hall, but they weren't through. The Italian who had sat beside me in the car now searched me. He, too, missed the explosives.
  
  'All right,' the first man who'd searched me said. We moved toward the large door at the end of the hall and he opened it. We stepped into the room together.
  
  I was forced to squint against the glare of powerful lights set at head level about two-thirds of the way across the room. Behind the lights was a long table. Three men sat at it, their torsos and heads only silhouettes behind the strong lights.
  
  'Sit down,' the man at my elbow said. 'Do not move closer to the table than the chair.' He was pointing to a straight chair in the middle of the room, in front of the table but well back from it. When I sat down I could see even less of the men at the table. The lights shone directly into my eyes. The door closed behind me, and I sensed that most or all of the men who had accompanied me to the room were still there.
  
  'Is all this really necessary?' I said, squinting against the lights.
  
  The man in the middle at the table spoke. 'A man in your business should not have to ask that question, Mr Carter.' His English was good, but he had a French accent. This was probably Pierre Bovet. 'I am only a name to the police. They do not know what I look like and I wish to keep it that way. The same with my associates here.'
  
  Sweat broke out on my upper lip from the heat of the fights. It was like a scene from 1984. 'You're really Pierre Bovet?' I asked.
  
  'That's right. And you are an American agent with a problem. Why do you bring that problem to me?'
  
  'Somebody from the New Brotherhood killed our man, John Drummond,' I said bluntly.
  
  'John Drummond killed a Brother,' Bovet said. 'When he got in touch with us about his attaché case, we thought he was sincere about merely wanting to trade cases and get his own back. So we went to him. He killed one of our men, Juan Maspero, and we had to kill him. It is all exceedingly simple.'
  
  'Why would Drummond kill your man?' I asked.
  
  I saw him shrug his shoulders. 'That is unknown, my friend.'
  
  'Did you order Drummond's killing?'
  
  A slight pause. 'One of our Brothers performed the task on his own. But I would have ordered it, Mr Carter, under the circumstances.'
  
  I counted the heads at the table again. Only two besides Bovet's. Thinman had said there were three lieutenants. I wondered who was missing and why. I also wondered if one of those silhouetted heads belonged to the man who had recently tried to kill me, Selim el Bekri. My curiosity was soon satisfied. A head moved over toward Bovet's. The man on his right was whispering something in a very agitated way.
  
  'Selim wonders why you are seen with an Interpol agent if you are not working with Interpol to investigate the New Brotherhood?'
  
  And I wondered if it was Selim who had made the decision to kill Drummond as he'd no doubt ordered my execution and Fayeh's. He certainly had a motive, as Thinman had pointed out, if Maspero had been his cousin.
  
  'I needed the girl to get in touch with you,' I said.
  
  'And that is for what purpose?' the head on the left of Bovet asked. A Sicilian accent, I noted; this was Mazzini. Which meant it was the lieutenant Reynaldo who was missing.
  
  'John Drummond never did get his attaché case back,' I said. 'There was something in the case that is very important to the security of the United States government.'
  
  El Bekri barked a short laugh.
  
  Bovet was more civilized. 'The last of our concerns, Mr Carter, is the welfare of the American government.'
  
  'As I told your man at Giza, I have money to pay for the return of the case and its contents,' I said. 'A lot of money.'
  
  Bovet was silent a moment. When he spoke again his manner was cautious. 'And if we had this case, exactly what item of its contents would be so important to you?'
  
  I kept my face blank, but I was surprised. Did that question mean they hadn't found the microfilm? 'If you have the case, you must know the answer to that,' I parried.
  
  'If you wish to play games, you came to the wrong address,' Bovet told me coldly.
  
  I was beginning to think he really didn't know what I was after. He could have the case, of course, without having found the film. It was just possible.
  
  'All right,' I said. 'I'll tell you, because if you have the case you'll find it eventually anyway. It's a microfilm of stolen documents. It's hidden in the handle of a safety razor.'
  
  There was another silence, this time longer. I suddenly had a hunch that Bovet did not know what I was talking about. That, or he was putting on an act because he had already sold the film back to the Russians. Or to the Chicoms.
  
  'We do not have the case,' Bovet said finally. 'We had no idea it had any value when the switch occurred and so the case was disposed of.'
  
  I swallowed hard. If that were true, the Novigrom I plans were lost to us. But how could I be sure?
  
  'How?' I asked. 'How was the case disposed of?
  
  Bovet turned to Mazzini and their silhouettes touched briefly behind the lights. Then Bovet turned back to me. 'We believe the case is at the bottom of the Nile,' he said. 'It is unfortunate we were not able to do business.'
  
  I slumped in the chair. Whether Bovet was lying or not, this was a bad development. 'Yes,' I said. 'It's too bad.'
  
  There was a silence. I heard feet shuffling behind me, impatient. Finally Bovet said: 'Mr Carter, I had hoped that somehow there might be a mutual profit in this meeting. Since there is not, you present a small problem for me.'
  
  There was a grunt from el Bekri.
  
  I guessed what Bovet had on his mind. 'I'm no danger to you,' I said. 'Your men blindfolded me to bring me here. And your faces are hidden to me.'
  
  'Nevertheless, you are a clever man, Mr Carter. You must have absorbed information that can only be detrimental to us. Frankly, I can see no reason why I should let you leave here alive.'
  
  This was what I had been afraid of. With no deal possible between us, Bovet had classified me as expendable. I reached into my shirt and produced the small detonating device. Two men behind me moved forward with guns and the shadow of Mazzini rose from the table.
  
  'Perhaps this might be a reason,' I told Bovet.
  
  One of the gunmen moved in on me. I held the instrument out away from me, showing them the buttons. 'I'd tell him to keep back if I were you!' I said loudly.
  
  Bovet waved the man away. He leaned forward at the table. 'What is that you have there, Mr Carter? Some clever American gadget?'
  
  'You might call it that,' I said. 'But it's a simple explosive device really. A very high-powered one. If I push this button, we all go up along with the entire building.'
  
  There was a murmur from the three at the table.
  
  'I think you are bluffing,' Bovet said at last. 'You would be the first to die.'
  
  'Isn't that what you have in mind for me anyway? No, it's not a bluff, Bovet. I'll show you the explosives if you want me to.'
  
  A brief hesitation, then: 'That will not be necessary, Mr Carter. I believe you are just the kind of man who would turn himself into a human bomb out of mistaken idealism. Put your guns away, gentlemen.'
  
  The men behind me holstered their weapons. Mazzini sat down again, very slowly, behind the table. I rose just as slowly from my chair, holding the small control box out in front where they all could see it.
  
  'I'll go to the car with one man,' I told Bovet. This one here.' I pointed to the man who had brought me upstairs. 'You may cover the car windows in advance. I will sit facing the rear of the car until we hit the boulevard.'
  
  Bovet rose from the table. His voice sounded strained. 'That is acceptable. Take him away.'
  
  After the driver of the big Mercedes dropped me off at my hotel, I walked over to the balustrade along the Nile. Here I disarmed the explosive device and dropped the whole apparatus into the river. I would have no further use for it. I had already returned Hugo to his sheath. I had insisted on the stiletto's return when I left the New Brotherhood headquarters.
  
  The hotel was quiet at that time of night. I picked up my key at the front desk and took the elevator up to my room, feeling empty and frustrated. When I unlocked the door, I had a surprise waiting for me.
  
  The blow struck the back of my head before I could get the light switched on. I dropped to my hands and knees, and a kick caught me in my left side, knocking me over. I lay there groaning — and thinking that the kick had been delivered by a second man. Two against one.
  
  When the foot came at me again, I grabbed it and twisted. Its owner bellowed and fell heavily to the floor on his back. I glimpsed his face in the light from the open door. He was an Arab. I assumed the other man was too. He now grabbed me from behind, one hand clasped over my face, pulling me backwards to the floor. I let him-then turned over, bringing my feet up over my head and kicking straight back. I heard a muffled yell and my attacker let go. I jumped to my feet, letting Hugo drop into my hand. Now I was ready for him.
  
  'All right, Carter. That's an end of it.'
  
  The voice came from near the light switch. I turned just as the light came on, revealing a third man. He was no Arab. He was tall, muscular, with a square face and blondish hair. He stood smiling slightly, holding a Mauser 7.65 Parabellum automatic aimed at my chest.
  
  'Well, I'll be damned,' I said. 'Yuri Lyalin. First Kam Fong at dinner and you now in my room. It's great to have the old gang together again,' I added sarcastically.
  
  Lyalin widened the smile a bit. He was a formidable opponent, one of the KGB's best. After spending a short time in KGB headquarters at Dzerzhinsky Square in Moscow and receiving a lot of respectful attention as a relative of General Serafim Lyalin, head of KGB's code-breaking department, Yuri had volunteered for the Mokri Dela section, which the Russians nicknamed 'Wet Affairs'. Wet meant bloody, and Lyalin had never been one to be bothered by the sight of blood. I had found that out in Hong Kong on another assignment.
  
  'I could almost like you, Nick,' he said now in his arrogant way, 'if you were a Russian.' He motioned to one of the Arabs to close the door.
  
  'If you were an American,' I said, 'I'm not sure my opinion of you would change much.'
  
  The smile dissolved, but his face revealed no emotion otherwise. He was cool, and he was good. 'Your people should not have stolen the Novigrom plans,' he said evenly. 'It has all been wasted energy and life for you. We will recover the film shortly and all this will have been for nothing.'
  
  'You win some, you lose some,' I said.
  
  One of the Arabs, a stocky, potato-faced character, moved over and took the stiletto from me and threw it into a corner.
  
  'You apparently found the film in the possession of the underworld,' Lyalin continued. 'Did you buy it back from them?'
  
  I hesitated. If Lyalin had to ask, in all probability he had not been approached about buying the film. 'They didn't have it,' I said. 'At least, they said they didn't.'
  
  His cold gray eyes narrowed. 'I don't think I believe you,' he said.
  
  I glanced around the room. They had turned the place upside down already. 'It's the truth,' I said.
  
  'We shall see,' Lyalin motioned to the two Arabs. 'Search him.'
  
  There was nothing to do but oblige him. The stocky Arab grabbed me from behind roughly. The slimmer Arab, a younger man with a hawk nose, frisked me quickly. He emptied my pockets, then made me remove my shirt and shoes. The shoes were examined carefully.
  
  'He does not appear to have the film,' the slim Arab told Lyalin.
  
  The Russian grunted. 'I think you have hidden the film somewhere, Carter. Where?'
  
  'I told you — I don't have it,' I said.
  
  The gun never shifted aim from my chest while Lyalin's eyes studied mine. I found myself wondering how he had known I was in Cairo. And how he knew I had gone to the New Brotherhood.
  
  'Tie him to that chair,' Lyalin told his hired hands. He indicated a straight chair in the corner of the room.
  
  'This is ridiculous,' I said.
  
  But they brought the chair and tied me securely to it, my hands in back of me. Lyalin holstered the big automatic and moved over to me. He got another chair and straddled it, placing it to face me.
  
  'Are you sure you don't want to tell us something?' he asked.
  
  Lyalin wasn't bluffing. He was going to make me talk. But I couldn't, because I had nothing to tell him. Now we would get into the bloody Wet Affairs bit.
  
  'Go to hell,' I said.
  
  His face hardened. He motioned to the Arabs. The young one clapped his hands on my shoulders, apparently to keep the chair from falling over. The husky one came and stood very close to me. He had pulled a length of rubber hose from his jacket. Now, at a signal from Lyalin, he brought it down across my head and face.
  
  The impact snapped my head to the right. The skin broke on my cheek and blood ran.
  
  A burning ache rocketed along into my neck.
  
  The hose came down again, on the other side of my head. This time the shock was greater and I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness for a moment. But Lyalin didn't want that to happen. The Arab slapped me and I came around.
  
  'Don't be foolish, Carter,' Lyalin said. 'Every man has his breaking point. As a professional, you are aware of that simple truth. So why prove to us how much you can take? What is the logic of it?'
  
  I glared at him. As Kam Fong had almost killed me in the Congo, so I had had a shot at Lyalin in Hong Kong. I wished now I'd put a 9 mm slug through his KGB heart.
  
  The hose descended another time, across my neck and head. I saw bright lights in my head, heard a loud yell. The yell was coming from me. Then blackness swam in.
  
  Cold water hit me in the face. The coldness reached down into me, jerked me back to life. I opened my eyes and I saw three Lyalins standing before me. Three hands held my head up.
  
  'Listen, for a smart man, you are being extremely foolish.' The voice echoed in my head.
  
  The heavy Arab moved around to where I could see him. All three of him. He was holding something in his hand and I tried to focus on the triple image. It looked like some kind of pliers.
  
  'Let me continue with this,' he said softly to Lyalin. 'He will beg to tell us when I am finished. It is a fine tool. It can pull teeth, tear flesh, break and smash bone. I will show you on his nose.'
  
  He put the pliers to my face. Somewhere I found the strength to call him an ugly name. I focused — tried to focus — on Lyalin.
  
  'You're a fool, Lyalin,' I said hoarsely. 'I'm telling the truth. They didn't give me the goddam film.'
  
  The Arab with the pliers grabbed me by the hair. 'On second thought, perhaps we should break off a few teeth first?' he suggested. His face told me he was going to enjoy the mutilation.
  
  'Just a moment,' Yuri Lyalin said.
  
  The Arab looked at him.
  
  'Perhaps Mr Carter is telling the truth after all.'
  
  'He is lying! I can see it in his eyes,' the stocky Arab protested.
  
  'Maybe. But I am going to assume otherwise, for the moment,' Lyalin said. He waved his two pals away. They retreated to a position near the bed.
  
  Lyalin leaned close to me. 'The KGB is after all a civilized organization. We do not wish to harm anyone unnecessarily. Not even our enemies.'
  
  He was a double image now, but even so I could see the cold calculation in his face. I knew what he had decided. He guessed that I did not have the film but hoped that I might somehow lead him to it. And there was always the chance I did have the film but had stashed it somewhere.
  
  'Whoever said the KGB isn't civilized?' I said through my swollen lips.
  
  He smiled his stiff smile. 'Untie him,' he ordered.
  
  The big Arab wouldn't move. The other one came reluctantly and untied me. Lyalin stood up.
  
  'Since I have spared your life,' he said, 'it is only right for you to abandon this dangerous game AXE has devised for you and give up on the Novigrom plans.'
  
  I just looked at him. Imagine an idiotic statement like that from another professional! He knew I would not give up the assignment, and I knew he knew.
  
  'Goodbye for now, Nick. Perhaps our paths shall cross again, yes? If so, remember that you owe me one.'
  
  Another idiotic remark. I had expected more of Lyalin. 'Oh, I won't forget this for a long, long time,' I said honestly.
  
  I thought I saw the trace of a grin on his face as he turned and left the room, his two murderous pals right on his heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  Six
  
  
  
  
  We cruised slowly down the dark street in the rented Fiat 850 Spider, Fayeh at the wheel. We were trying to get a clue to the location of the New Brotherhood headquarters. I was not at all convinced that Bovet had been leveling with me. So I had decided to go back to the headquarters — if I could find it — and try to get into the place undetected. I had spotted a partially open door on the third floor on the way to the conference room that night and was sure it was Bovet's private office. That would be a likely place to look for the film, if the New Brotherhood had it.
  
  'I don't get it,' I said. 'I was sure there was some kind of factory along here from the sounds I heard. Maybe we're on the wrong street after all.'
  
  'Nobody could remember all those turns, Nick. Don't blame yourself,' Fayeh said.
  
  'But we passed the vending carts, that checks out. I don't understand. I know I heard some kind of machinery pounding.'
  
  'It may have been a business that operates only at night,' she said. 'We may yet…'
  
  'Wait,' I said. 'Look. That lighted building over there.'
  
  'That is a small newspaper.'
  
  As we approached, I heard the pound of machinery, just as I had that night. 'That's it!' I said. 'Printing presses. They must run them only at night.'
  
  'Then we are very near,' Fayeh said.
  
  I surveyed the opposite side of the street. Yes, there was a line of expensive estates coming up, set back off the street. The third one had a gravel drive.
  
  That one,' I said. That third one. Pull up here.'
  
  She stopped the Fiat at the curb, and we looked across at a darkened drive leading to a massive house behind high shrubs. 'I'm sure that's it,' I said.
  
  She reached over and touched one of the two small adhesive bandages I still wore on my face from the Lyalin episode two nights before. 'You are still healing from your last encounter with people who play rough, Nick. Are you sure you are ready for this?'
  
  I grinned at her. 'I've hurt myself worse than this shaving,' I said. 'Look, relax. Everything will be all right. You just keep cruising around for an hour. If I'm not out of there by then, you can call in the whole Egyptian Army if you want to.'
  
  'All right,' she said, but she looked doubtful.
  
  I left her then and moved quickly across the street into the shadows. When I looked back, Fayeh had already pulled away from the curb, and was heading the Fiat down the boulevard. I turned and moved down the driveway toward the house.
  
  I met no opposition. There was an electric eye across the drive near the house that I spotted just in time. I crawled underneath and then I was at the house. It was an impressive place with Moorish arches all along the front on two of the three levels. There were lights on the ground floor, but none on the next two.
  
  I moved quickly to the rear of the place, watching for more electronic alarms. I found another one at the rear corner of the house. This one was a trip-wire that would have set off a bell alarm. I avoided it and moved to a trellis that ran up the entire height of the building. A vine grew on it but it wasn't a thick one. I grabbed hold of the trellis and found it held my weight. I scrambled up and in a couple of minutes, I was on the roof.
  
  From there it was easy. I dropped through a skylight to the third-floor corridor, the one I had walked two nights before. It was dark, and no one was about. I listened and heard someone moving downstairs. It sounded like just one person. If the rest of the household was gone, that would be a break for me.
  
  I moved quietly to the door I had noticed partially open when I'd been there before. When I tried it, I found it was locked. I pulled a small key ring from my pocket with a half dozen master keys on it, inserted one into the lock and felt it respond. I opened the door and stepped into the dark room, closing the door after me.
  
  I seemed to have guessed right. There was a long desk in front of heavily-draped windows. I went to the desk and picked up a couple of papers which had Bovet's signature. Another paper bore the signature Henri Perrott, but the handwriting was the same. So that was it. Bovet was posing as a legitimate businessman here in Cairo. Interpol might be interested in that information.
  
  I tried a desk drawer, but the desk was locked too. I had no key that would open it, so I had to pick the lock laboriously with a letter opener. I went through the entire desk but I didn't come up with the microfilm.
  
  There had to be a safe, I thought, either in this office or some other room in the house. I moved around the walls. I looked behind a couple of oil paintings which appeared to be originals but found nothing except a hidden microphone. Bovet was playing spy himself.
  
  Finally I found the safe — in the floor. You pulled the corner of the carpet back, raised a metal plate on hinges and there it was, built into the thick concrete sub-floor. It was an ingenious spot, and I might never have found it if I hadn't noticed the worn corner of carpet.
  
  It was hard to tell if the safe was rigged with an alarm. But I had to take the risk, so I started twisting the combination dial, feeling for the subtle catches in the movement of the mechanism. In a few minutes I had the combination worked out and swung the safe door open cautiously. I listened for an alarm. Nothing.
  
  The contents of that safe would have been a cop's bonanza. There was a complete list of New Brotherhood members, a couple of packages of uncut heroin, a list of telephone numbers of pushers and dealers and assorted other goodies, but no microfilm. It began to look as if Bovet had been telling the truth.
  
  I squatted over the safe, wondering where I went from there. I was getting nowhere fast. My only consolation was that the Russians hadn't recovered the film yet. But there was Kam Fong. He might be laughing up his sleeve at all of us.
  
  The most logical conclusion was, of course, that the New Brotherhood, not knowing what Drummond was carrying, had just dumped his attaché case into the Nile. Which would make a happy ending for Yuri Lyalin, but have certain people in Washington tearing their hair out.
  
  I had stuffed the contents back into the safe and started to close it when I saw a tiny wire I had missed, it was attached to the bottom of the inside of the safe door. There was an alarm! Either a soft-sound alarm that I could not hear up here or maybe a flashing light type of thing. I slammed the safe door shut and twirled the dial, closed the outside plate door and had replaced the corner of carpet when the door of the room slammed open. A big man stood in the doorway, a fat revolver in his hand and blood in his eye.
  
  He spotted me in the light from the corridor, aimed and fired. The shot crashed loudly in the room. I had flattened myself closer to the floor and the slug missed, splintering wood somewhere behind me.
  
  The thug swore under his breath and pawed for the light switch. The room was suddenly flooded with light, and I was right in the glare. The big man focused angrily on me and aimed again.
  
  As his finger squeezed the trigger, I rolled toward the desk. The slug chipped the floor between my legs. Another shot barked out, and I felt a sting along my left arm. He was going to cut me to pieces if I didn't get to cover.
  
  I made a scrambling dive for the desk as a fourth shot sounded. The desk splintered just above my head as I moved behind it.
  
  'Sacré bleu!' The big man was swearing at his misses.
  
  As I hit the floor behind my temporary cover, I grabbed at the Luger under my jacket. Then I reached up and fired quickly over the top of the desk. The shot tore at the thug's jacket sleeve and hit the wall behind him.
  
  He swore again and quickly snapped the light off. I saw a silhouetted arm grab at the door, slam it closed, and the room was dark again.
  
  I listened for the big man to betray his location, but nothing — I couldn't even hear him breathing. If there was anybody else downstairs, they would soon be here. But there was no sound from that direction, and the man hadn't called for help. He was apparently on his own.
  
  A clock ticked on the desk somewhere near my head. It was the only sound in the room. Outside a dog barked for a moment and then was still again. The ticking clock reminded me that the hour's time limit I had given Fayeh was passing quickly.
  
  The gunman knew where I was, but I had no idea where he was in the room. I could not stay put, or I would end up with a hole in my head. I glimpsed a paperweight on the edge of the desk. I reached up silently and grabbed it, hefted it a moment, then threw it toward the corner of carpet hiding the safe. A muffled metallic clang came from the plate under the carpet when the paperweight landed.
  
  There was a crashing roar in the room — the thug had fired at the sound, as I'd hoped. I moved quickly in the opposite direction, squatted behind an overstuffed chair a short distance from the desk. But my foot scraped the floor and the gunman heard it.
  
  Another shot. The slug thudded into the chair at the level of my face.
  
  My ruse had not worked as well as I'd hoped, but at least I knew now where my opponent was. He was firing from behind another chair in the opposite corner of the room. I thought I saw a shadowy movement and I returned fire. I heard a dull grunt from the other corner. Either I had hit him, or he wanted me to think I had.
  
  I moved cautiously around the corner of the chair for a look — and a shot tore into the chair stuffing beside my head. Then I heard a familiar click. He was out of shells apparently, but I didn't rush him. That might be a trick too. I had had it happen to me before. I waited and listened. If he was out of ammo, he would have to reload and I would hear it.
  
  I waited and listened. Finally I heard it, but from a different location: the unmistakable sound of shells sliding into a magazine. I squinted in the direction of the sound and made out a shadow, at the end of a short sofa. I aimed Wilhelmina carefully and fired.
  
  There was another grunt, a loud one and definitely no act. He sounded like he might have hit the floor. I crouched on one knee and listened. Then I heard a scraping and saw a shadowy movement. He was crawling toward the door, apparently badly hit.
  
  'Hold it!' I said. 'Move again and I'll kill you!'
  
  The shadow stopped, 'Ça ne fait rien,' he gasped. 'It doesn't matter.'
  
  Cautiously, I moved over to him. Up close, I saw that he had been hit in the side and the chest.
  
  'Who are you?' he asked, switching to English.
  
  'Does it matter?'
  
  He gasped. 'They will kill me for letting this happen, if your last shot does not.'
  
  I looked at the wound. 'You'll be all right And I doubt that Bovet will kill you if you tell it right.' I aimed the Luger at his head. 'But I will, if you don't answer a couple of questions.'
  
  He looked at the Luger, then at my face. He believed me. 'What questions?'
  
  'Do you know anything about the Drummond matter?'
  
  'A little.'
  
  'Did somebody go with Maspero to the rendezvous with Drummond?'
  
  He grunted in pain. 'Yes. Maspero wanted to go alone, but he had told Reynaldo about it and Reynaldo followed, afraid that Maspero would bungle it. He found Maspero dead near the hotel. It is believed that Drummond shot him and Reynaldo avenged Maspero. He recovered both bags and reported the whole thing to Bovet.'
  
  'The organization did not know if the cases had been accidentally switched until Reynaldo reported it after Drummond and Maspero were killed?'
  
  'That is right. Reynaldo says Maspero did not want to admit the mistake to Bovet. Instead he confided in Reynaldo.'
  
  'I wonder why he told Reynaldo instead of his cousin el Bekri?' I said, more to myself than to the man on the floor.
  
  'I cannot tell you that.'
  
  'Let me get this straight. The only story the Brotherhood had about this is the one Reynaldo told Bovet?'
  
  He looked into my eyes. That is right.'
  
  I was putting a theory together. 'Where is Reynaldo now?' I remembered that he had been conspicuously absent the evening I had my interview with Bovet.
  
  The man shook his head slightly and grimaced with pain. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Bovet often sends him out of town on errands. Frankly, there is no love lost between them. Reynaldo has fallen out of favor with Bovet, and Bovet seems not to want Reynaldo near him.'
  
  He glanced at me and added quickly, 'This is only my observation, of course.'
  
  I slipped Wilhelmina into her holster under my jacket and stood.
  
  'You are the American who came here the other night,' the Brotherhood man said suddenly.
  
  'Yes. And you can tell Bovet that I believe him now. He obviously doesn't have the film. But I think I know who does.'
  
  'I don't understand,' he said.
  
  I grinned. 'Good. See you around.'
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Fayeh served me a glass half full of brandy, poured herself one and came to sit beside me on the sofa in her apartment. She had just come from the nightclub and still had the exotic makeup around her lovely dark eyes.
  
  'Now, tell me your theory,' she said.
  
  I sipped the brandy. 'It's not a complex one. Reynaldo is the villain of this piece — not Bovet. All we know is what Reynaldo is telling Bovet. So let's change the facts a little. Let's say that when Maspero realized the cases got switched he intended to tell Bovet, but Reynaldo walked in on him when he was examining the case and so Maspero was forced to tell him what had happened. Reynaldo — or perhaps both of them together — found the microfilm.
  
  'Out of favor with Bovet, Reynaldo decides he will not tell the New Brotherhood of this valuable discovery but cash in on it himself. If he works it right, Bovet will never know that Reynaldo held out on him. So when Drummond puts out his feelers, Reynaldo and Maspero decide to contact him to get the heroin back. Reynaldo talks Maspero into waiting until they have the stuff back before telling Bovet. They go to Drummond together, kill him and take the heroin. Then Reynaldo kills Maspero and puts the blame on Drummond. Reynaldo delivers both cases to Bovet, but Drummond's case no longer contains the microfilm.'
  
  'An interesting idea,' Fayeh said. 'But it raises an obvious question, Nick. If Reynaldo wants to make a personal profit from sale of the film, why hasn't he gone to the Russians? They obviously had not been approached.'
  
  'Maybe he went to the Chicoms first,' I said. 'And maybe, by now, the Russians have been approached. One thing is sure, Reynaldo is unavailable at the moment.'
  
  'Then take advantage of the situation and relax,' Fayeh suggested. 'Think about the puzzle for a while and maybe it will work itself out. In the meantime…' she snuggled up and kissed my ear, moving her lips on down to my neck.
  
  If her aim was to distract me, she was succeeding. I looked at her and smiled. She was particularly sexy tonight Her long dark hair was caught in a French swirl behind her head, and she was wearing a floor-length kaftan with a slit all the way up to her hips, exposing those perfect legs.
  
  'Are you sure you're a cop?' I said, brushing her lips with mine.
  
  'That is only a diversion,' she said. 'Dancing and making love are my main interests.'
  
  'A sensible approach to living,' I said. I kissed her again and this time held the kiss.
  
  She reached over and put her hand on my thigh. 'Do you want to make love to me, Nick?' she teased.
  
  'The thought had occurred to me,' I said dryly.
  
  A front zipper held the kaftan closed. I reached for it, pulled it slowly down. The kaftan fell apart. Fayeh was nude except for brief lacy panties. I pushed her gently onto her back on the sofa.
  
  I knelt beside her on the floor and drew down the lacy panties. She seemed to almost stop breathing. I kissed the swell of her belly, that tummy that moved so suggestively in the dance, moved down to her thighs. I could feel the trembling response in her.
  
  She ran her hands over my bare chest as I removed my trousers. In another moment, I was on the sofa with her.
  
  We lay side by side, our bodies touching hotly. Her soft curves pressed against me, insistent, urgent. We kissed, my hands exploring her body while our mouths made love. And then I moved gently onto her…
  
  
  
  
  
  Seven
  
  
  
  
  When Thinman saw me walk into his dingy room with Fayeh, his face showed his fear. He had not forgotten.
  
  'I told you what I know,' he said sourly.
  
  'Mr Carter wants to ask you some rather different questions now,' Fayeh explained. 'Will you answer them?'
  
  'Will he use the same tactics as before?' he said, his mouth ugly.
  
  Fayeh glanced at me and I shrugged my shoulders. I had not gone into details about my last visit here. 'Look,' I told Thinman. 'Spare us the unrighteous indignation. Will you cooperate or not? Yes or no.'
  
  'What do you want this time?' he said sarcastically. 'Photographs of Bo vet, autographed?'
  
  I moved closer to him and he twitched uneasily. 'What do you know about Reynaldo?' I asked.
  
  His eyes avoided mine. 'I told you — he's a top man in the New Brotherhood.'
  
  'I know. But isn't there some trouble between him and Bovet?'
  
  He glanced at me in surprise, then nodded. 'There's talk of a split between them, yes.'
  
  'What's the reason for it?'
  
  'The word is that Reynaldo has overstepped his authority a couple of times. He's an ambitious man.'
  
  'Where is Reynaldo now?' I asked.
  
  Thinman gave me a look. 'How should I know?'
  
  There's no word that he's split from the organization?'
  
  Thinman grinned, an ugly half grin. 'You don't split from the organization. Except by way of the Nile bottom.'
  
  I thought that over. It was possible that even Bovet didn't know where Reynaldo was. That might mean he was busy making deals — with anybody with an interest in the microfilm.
  
  I looked at Thinman. 'Do you think you could find out how I might reach Reynaldo?'
  
  'Mr Carter expects to pay you,' Fayeh put in quickly. 'Don't you, Nick?'
  
  I grimaced. 'Yes, I expect to pay. Well?'
  
  Thinman looked wary. 'I might be able to help. I can't promise. I'll see what I can do.'
  
  'Good,' Fayeh said.
  
  'But don't come here anymore,' he said peevishly. 'You'll get me killed.'
  
  'I'll meet you wherever you say,' I said.
  
  He thought a moment. 'The Cairo Tower, at noon tomorrow. The observation platform.'
  
  I pictured Thinman at the Cairo Tower among gaping tourists. 'Okay. But this time,' I said, a warning in my voice, 'you'd better remember who you're working for.'
  
  He flicked those watery eyes up at me. 'Sure.'
  
  Thinman had no idea what Reynaldo looked like, so I returned to Hakim Sadek later that day. On the way I stopped at a dead-drop site to check it out. It was a grubby sidewalk restaurant on a side street in downtown Cairo. I sat at the third table in the front row and ordered Turkish coffee. When the waiter was gone I reached underneath the table and found it: a note from some nameless courier. I wadded it into my pocket before the waiter returned. The coffee tasted like Nile mud. I took one sip, threw some coins on the table and left.
  
  In the taxi on the way to Hakim Sadek's place I decoded the note. As I suspected, it was from Hawk. It was short and sweet.
  
  Washington in turmoil. The Man very displeased. Recover goods or find job in Cairo. H.
  
  
  
  Later, when I read it to Hakim, he chuckled and grinned his slave-trader's grin.
  
  'Your David Hawk has a fine sense of humor, Nicholas.'
  
  I grunted. I wasn't at all sure Hawk was joking.
  
  'He's not the only one with his butt in a sling,' I said, bitterly. 'I've got the whole New Brotherhood after my blood, the Chicoms breathing down my neck and have had a going over from the Russians.'
  
  Hakim smiled and took a sip of wine. I had asked for brandy this time and took a stiff gulp.
  
  'Your job is a thankless one, old friend,' Hakim said. He was dressed in a business suit today, but he still looked like someone you had to guard your wallet from. The red fez was missing, revealing thick hair slicked down across a slippery scalp. He was home because he had taken the afternoon off at the university where he taught a course in the Seven Lively Arts and another in Arabic literature. 'How is the girl working out?' he asked.
  
  'Very well,' I said. 'She's been quite helpful.'
  
  'That is good to hear. This is the first occasion I have had to suggest her services. I believe Interpol, too, finds her of considerable value. She is a woman of many talents.'
  
  I could go along with that. 'Many,' I said. 'But neither she nor Thinman know what Reynaldo looks like or can tell me anything about him. Do you know the man?'
  
  'I checked my personal files when you said you were coming, Nicholas.' He picked up a manila folder. 'I found this. Years ago there was a young man pushing drugs here and in Alexandria named Rinaldo Amaya, a Spanish gypsy with a hunger for wealth and power. A clever, intelligent man — and completely ruthless. Less than a year ago one of my contacts reported that Amaya was seen here in Cairo again. I have heard nothing since, but it is just possible that Rinaldo Amaya and your Reynaldo are the same man. Here is an old photograph. He will have changed somewhat but this will give you some idea.'
  
  I took the photograph and studied it. It showed Amaya coming out of a public building with a couple of Arabs. He was a rather tall, slim, good-looking man, the type you would expect to see doing a flamenco dance. The face was rough-chiseled with full lips and a cleft chin. But it was the eyes that drew my attention. They were dark with heavy brows and there was a look in them that sent a chill up my spine. It was not open hostility or belligerence but something much more subtle. It was the look of the true psychopath, a man with no regard whatever for morals or rules or human life.
  
  Then I noticed a third Arab in the photograph, a man whose head just showed behind the others. I had seen that face before. It was Abdullah, the Brother who had done his best to kill me at the Cheops pyramid.
  
  'This man is with the organization,' I pointed him out to Hakim. 'And Amaya knew him years ago. Probably recruited him into the New Brotherhood. Amaya just may be Reynaldo.'
  
  'That could be some help to you.' Hakim rubbed his sharp chin. 'There is very little else I can tell you though, except that he is considered extremely dangerous. He uses guns well, and in place of a dagger he used to carry a weapon that resembled a thick-stemmed ice-pick. It is said that he can stab three times with it while an opponent is striking once with a conventional knife.'
  
  Yes. A man with eyes like his would dream up a weapon like that. 'Is that all you have for me?' I asked.
  
  'I am afraid so.'
  
  'Okay. You've been a great help, Hakim. Hawk will be financially grateful.' I rose from the wing chair I had been sitting in.
  
  Hakim quickly rose with me. 'Are you sure you don't have time for a quick game of chess before you leave, Nicholas? With perhaps a nice cup of mint tea?'
  
  I tried not to think of the awful mint tea going down on top of the brandy. 'Some other time,' I said. I grasped his hand and looked into that long ugly face. I wished I could see Sadek more often.
  
  'Yes,' he said. 'Some other time.'
  
  The next day at noon I walked across the Ismail Bridge to the Cairo Tower. It was pleasant walking on the parkway of the island where the Tower stood. I passed the Sporting Club and the Anglo-American Hospital and the El-Zurya Gardens, and suddenly I was there. The Tower rose dramatically from the river basin perhaps five hundred feet, a sensational tourist attraction. It had a revolving restaurant, like the one in Seattle, and an observation platform. From the restaurant you could see all of Cairo and the surrounding area, the revolving platform the restaurant was built on giving the diner a continually changing view.
  
  Seeing the crowd of festive holiday visitors at the entrance, recalling the beauty of the gardens I had just passed, it was difficult to believe that I was headed for a sinister meeting with a very shady character who might have an assassin waiting for me. It just did not fit into this serene picture. But the scene quickly changed.
  
  As I approached the Tower entrance, I saw several people look up toward the observation platform, gesturing excitedly. A woman screamed, and then I saw what all the commotion was about. Two men were struggling on the superstructure outside the platform. As I watched one succeeded in shoving the other into mid-air.
  
  There was a charged silence among the watchers on the ground as the man fell. His screams started halfway down and ended abruptly when he hit the pavement five hundred feet below within fifteen feet of the nearest observers.
  
  There was another moment of stunned silence. I looked back up at the platform. The other man was no longer there. I moved toward the still figure on the ground, a tightness growing in my chest. I pushed my way through the excited crowd just as the woman resumed her screaming.
  
  I looked down at the body. There was a lot of blood and it was pretty well smashed but there was no mistaking the victim's identity. It was, or had been, Thinman.
  
  I swore aloud and shoved back through the gaping onlookers. There was more screaming now and a lot of yelling. I heard a police whistle. The line-up for the elevator had broken up with the excitement, so I went over to wait for the elevator to come down. Maybe I would recognize Thinman's killer.
  
  But then I heard the wail of a siren coming across the Ismail Bridge. I did not want to be here when the police arrived in force. So I moved back outside the Tower and headed for the Sporting Club. Maybe I could get a good stiff drink there.
  
  I needed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I knew it was risky but I had to visit Thinman's room. There just might be something there that would help me solve the Reynaldo riddle.
  
  I got there in early afternoon. The street was crowded with noisy kids and peddlers, but inside the building it was like a tomb. I went to Thinman's room and let myself in. As usual, the drapes were drawn and the place stank.
  
  I looked around. Thinman was not the smartest informer in the world, and he might have left some clue to what he knew. I combed the place but found nothing. Nothing that would help me find Reynaldo. Then, as I was about to leave, I saw the trousers hanging on a hook on the wall. Wasn't that the pair Thinman usually wore? The old devil must have cleaned up to go out. I took the greasy trousers off the hook and went through the pockets. In the right rear pocket was a slip of paper Thinman had been doodling on.
  
  Taking it over to the window, I parted the drapes slightly to see better. I made out a capital R, an arrow pointing to the right and the word 'China'. Underneath this was the R and arrow again and the Arabic word for Russians — with a question mark after it.
  
  Thinman had been doodling last evening or this morning, and it seemed to make some sense. Reynaldo had contacted the Chinese already, and possibly the Russians. That meant he did have the microfilm, as I had guessed. It did not tell me where he was hiding, but it gave me a starting point.
  
  Fayeh had found where Kam Fong was holed up in Cairo. Since Reynaldo had apparently been in contact with Kam, it was clear that Kam was my best bet to find Reynaldo.
  
  I tore the paper into bits, raised the window a little and let the confetti stream down to the street in the brisk breeze. Then I turned and left the room.
  
  I had closed the door behind me and turned when I saw them. There were three of them, all loyal members of the New Brotherhood, I guessed, though I had seen none of them before. The one on my right in the hall held a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolver aimed at my midsection and looked eager to use it. The one on my left aimed a Webley .455 Mark IV revolver at my head.
  
  'What a pleasant surprise,' I said.
  
  The third man, standing on the stair, held a small walkie-talkie in his right hand. Now I heard him say, 'He's here, Mr Bovet. We've got him. He was poking around the room.'
  
  Very clever of Bovet, giving his instructions this way and so preserving his anonymity. The man with the walkie-talkie listened for a moment, then said:
  
  'Okay, Mr Bovet. Just as you say.' He grinned and motioned to the other two.
  
  They were going to fire the cannons. I thought of Hugo and Wilhelmina and knew I'd never get them into play in time. 'Wait!' I said. 'Bovet might like to hear what I've got to say.'
  
  'Don't play games with us, Mr Carter,' the young man on the stairs said acidly.
  
  'I'm not. I know something about Reynaldo that Bovet might just like to hear.'
  
  'To hell with that,' the big man with the Magnum said in a gruff basso. He leveled the gun at me.
  
  'Just a minute,' the young man on the stair said. He used the walkie-talkie again. 'He wants to talk about Reynaldo, Mr Bovet.'
  
  There was a heart-stopping silence. Then the radio man looked at me: 'He says, make your speech.'
  
  I licked lips suddenly gone dry. 'I'll tell Bovet something very important to him about his good friend Reynaldo,' I said, 'in return for a truce.'
  
  The dark man on my left muttered something disparaging in Arabic while the radio man repeated what I'd said to Bovet. I had an even longer flesh-prickling wait. I could feel the slugs from those two guns tearing into my guts. Finally Bovet answered.
  
  'Yes, sir? Yes. All right, I'll tell him.' The radio man looked up at me. 'He says, tell what you know. If it's of any value to him, you've got your truce. If not, you've got nothing.'
  
  A drop of perspiration trickled down my side below my left arm. Bovet was not giving me much of a deal, but it was the only one on the table.
  
  'All right,' I said. 'Give me that thing.'
  
  The radio man hesitated a moment, but then handed the walkie-talkie up to me. I pushed the button and talked. 'Bovet, this is Carter. It seems you trusted Reynaldo too long. He's an ambitious man, Bovet. There was a microfilm in that case. He found it and didn't report to you. He double-crossed you. It was Reynaldo who killed Maspero. Maspero was the only one besides Reynaldo who knew about the film outside of Drummond. Reynaldo killed them both and kept the film. He's trying to peddle it right now to the highest bidder. That's why you haven't seen much of him lately. When he gets paid for that film, he'll be a powerful man.' I paused. 'Is that worth a truce to you?'
  
  No answer. I could almost hear the wheels turning in Bovet's head. Finally, 'How do you know all this?' he asked.
  
  'I know,' I told him. 'And you recognise the truth when you hear it, Bovet.'
  
  Another silence, then: 'Give the radio back to my man.'
  
  I wondered whether that meant his decision was negative, but I handed the radio back. 'He wants to speak to you,' I said.
  
  I eyed the thugs with guns as the young man put the radio to his ear. I let Hugo slip down unobtrusively into my palm. I didn't have much of a chance but I would take at least one of them with me.
  
  The radio man looked up at me, expressionless.
  
  'Yeah. Okay, Mr Bovet. I'll tell them.'
  
  He snapped the radio off. 'Mr Bovet says not to kill him,' he said dourly. 'Let's go.'
  
  'You sure?' the big man with the Magnum said.
  
  'Let's go!' the radio man repeated harshly.
  
  His pals holstered their guns like two little boys who'd had their Christmas presents snatched away. The one who spoke Arabic gave me a blue blast in his native tongue. The big one brushed roughly against my shoulder as he passed me on his way to the stairs. And then they were gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eight
  
  
  
  
  The girl gyrated her hips, her pelvis thrust outward suggestively. Damp breasts strained at the tiny bra, long dark hair brushed the floor as she bent backward in the blue spotlight, moving to the minor key of the music.
  
  The girl was Fayeh, and as I watched her perform, a fire built in my groin and I wanted her. She was definitely wasting her time as a cop.
  
  When the dance was over, she winked at me and disappeared behind a curtain to the wild applause of all the men present. I waited until the next act was on, then made my way through the curtain to her dressing room. She admitted me, still wearing the bottom of her costume but the bra was missing.
  
  'How nice,' I said, closing the door behind me.
  
  She smiled, moved her hips in a quick bump and grind. 'Did you like my dance?'
  
  'You know I did.'
  
  'Did it make you want me?'
  
  I smiled. 'You know that too. But right now I've got to talk to you.'
  
  'We can talk while we make love,' she suggested, slipping her arms around my neck.
  
  'Later,' I said. She shrugged and moved away from me, sitting down on a dressing stool. 'There have been developments,' I told her. 'Thinman is dead.'
  
  Her lovely eyes widened. 'Dead?'
  
  'The New Brotherhood. As you said, the business of informer is a tough one to survive in. Thinman's luck finally ran out.'
  
  She shook her head. 'It's crazy, but even though he sent us out into the desert to die, I still feel a sadness.' She sighed, then asked, 'Did you get any information from him?'
  
  'Indirectly,' I said. 'Listen, what is the exact address of Kam Fong's place?'
  
  She gave it to me. 'You're going there?' she asked.
  
  'I have to. Kam may be the only lead I have to Reynaldo.'
  
  She shook her pretty head. 'It is a bad idea, Nick. Even if you make it to Kam without getting a knife in the back, he'll tell you nothing. Surely it is better to wait for Reynaldo to make an offer to you too.'
  
  Now I shook my head. 'He may not make an offer to me since it was my government he stole the film from. No, I have to find Reynaldo and fast, before he makes any deal. If Kam doesn't know anything, I'll try Lyalin.'
  
  She stood, reaching for a robe. 'I will go with you,' she said.
  
  'Don't be silly.'
  
  'I can help.'
  
  'You can help by staying alive.' I kissed her mouth lingeringly. 'Stay by your phone. I'll call you.'
  
  'All right, Nick.'
  
  'And keep the home fires burning.'
  
  She looked up at me, smiling. 'That is an easy assignment.'
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Standing across the street from the drab La Tourelle Hotel, I wondered whether Kam Fong would be expecting me. When L5 or KGB find out that AXE is on a case, they tend to squirm a little. Not because we are any smarter than CIA, but because of the nature of the organisation. We are, to put it plainly, the bully boys.
  
  The honeymoon is over when AXE is sent in. The little professional courtesies extended by one agent to another under ordinary circumstances are abandoned. When AXE comes in, the killing begins, and the opposition knows it. That was why Lyalin had no compunction about torturing me. He was just beating me to the punch. He might have given a CIA man a couple of days to think things over before starting the rough stuff. But Lyalin evidently didn't know AXE well enough, or he wouldn't have let me live, hoping I would lead him to the microfilm.
  
  Since Kam Fong knew I was in Cairo, he would be on his guard. I had to move carefully. I started across the narrow street and was almost run down by a Datsun full of young joyriders. Finally I made it to the entrance of the hotel. It was certainly an unimpressive place. That was undoubtedly why Kam had chosen it.
  
  There was no elevator. I walked up the five flights to Kam's two-room suite.
  
  The dimly-lit corridor was quiet; there was no sign of anyone about. Maybe it was a bit too quiet. I listened at Kam's door and heard soft oriental music. A good sign. I knocked.
  
  At first no response and then Kam Fong's voice demanding: 'Who is it?'
  
  I answered in Arabic, knowing Kam was fluent in it and hoping to disguise my voice. 'A package for you, sir.'
  
  There was some moving about and then a reply in Arabic: 'One moment, please.'
  
  I heard the lock turned. The door opened and Kam peered out. I jammed Wilhelmina into the opening, aimed at his chest.
  
  'Surprise, Kam,' I said.
  
  For a second, he waited for the gun to go off. When it didn't, he said in a low monotone, 'What are you here for?'
  
  'Shall we step inside and discuss it?' I waved the Luger.
  
  He let me in and I closed the door behind us. I glanced around the room quickly to see if he had an ambush set for me. There was a closed door to a bedroom and an open one to a bathroom. I moved around the walls, looking for bugs, but the place appeared to be clean. It was a surprisingly attractive place considering the hotel it was in. It was furnished with oriental furniture and a couple of the walls were covered with bamboo. Maybe it was a permanent address for an L5 area operative that Kam had taken over for the duration of his stay.
  
  He was dressed in a bathrobe. There were no bulges under it. I let Wilhelmina drop but held onto the Luger. 'It's so nice to see you again, Kam.'
  
  He sneered at me. His intelligent eyes glowed with hate. 'Did they send you to finish the job you left unfinished in Kinshasa?' he said. 'To kill me?'
  
  I sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair and grinned at him. 'Don't flatter yourself, Kam. You know why I'm here.'
  
  'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said coolly.
  
  'You've been contacted by a man named Reynaldo. He had some film to sell you. Did you make an offer?'
  
  'Film?' Kam said innocently.
  
  'Of the Novigrom I. Don't play footsie, Kam. I'm not in the mood.'
  
  'Ah. We heard that your people stole the plans. A good job, too, for Yankee capitalists. But why would somebody want to sell them to me?'
  
  Kam was not scoring any merit points with me. I aimed the Luger at him again. 'Reynaldo came to you and offered you the plans — for a price. I want to know whether or not you made a deal. And if not, I want to know where Reynaldo is.'
  
  'You are very persistent, Carter. If you will allow me, I will show you something that may clear up the whole matter for you.' He moved over to a small desk and picked up a piece of paper. 'Read this, please.'
  
  Automatically I took the paper from him and glanced at it. By the time I realized there was nothing written on it, Kam had his opening. He hit my right wrist with an expert Karate chop and Wilhelmina went flying. The Luger ended up under a sofa across the room, lost to both of us for the moment.
  
  Kam followed up the first blow with a chop to the neck. I felt the needles of pain and paralysis stab through my head and shoulder. I had hit the floor hard, on my back.
  
  My head was buzzing but I saw Kam's foot headed for my side. I deflected it, then grabbed it with both hands and pulled, and Kam hit the floor too.
  
  Somehow I managed to get to my feet first, but now Kam was yelling out a name and looking toward the bedroom behind me. I should have checked when I came in but didn't because L5 men always worked alone.
  
  By the time I had turned to the door it was open, and one of the biggest Chinese I have ever seen was moving through it toward me. He was a couple of inches taller than I and must have weighed three hundred pounds — all of it muscle. His head was like a wrestler's, and he wore a white shirt and pants with a sash. His feet were bare.
  
  'Get him, Wong!' Kim said unnecessarily from the floor.
  
  The big Chinese slashed at me with a hand the size of a catcher's mitt. I ducked away but it grazed my head. I went in under the arm quickly, I grabbed at him with both hands. His weight carried us both forward several feet while I punched at his head. It didn't faze him.
  
  Now I was really in trouble. Those tree-trunk arms were around me and he had locked the fists behind me. He was going to crush me to death. It probably seemed the easiest way to him.
  
  My arms, fortunately, were not pinned. My hands were free to pound his head, but I was making very little impression. His small eyes, set close to a wide nose, were almost impossible to get at, and the usually vulnerable points on the neck were protected by thick, unyielding muscle.
  
  But he had rather large ears and I picked them to work on. I rammed my fingers deep into both ears, into the sensitive inner part, and gouged. He grunted and released his hold on me, grabbing for my hands.
  
  That gave me time to bring a knee up quick and hard into his well-protected groin. He grunted again as I delivered a vicious chop to the bridge of his nose, a chop that would have killed some other man, but he only staggered backward a half step.
  
  The expression on his face had changed. The fight was no longer routine to him — he was out to get me good now. He brought one of those enormous hands down again, savagely. I tried to block the blow but couldn't. It struck me across the side of the head and neck and the room began to go dark. I didn't feel the floor when I hit, I was fighting unconsciousness. I could just make out that man-mountain moving in on me but couldn't get it in focus. Then the mountain was kneeling over me. I saw the two massive hands clasped over the bullet-head. He was going to bring them down and crush my face like a rotten tomato.
  
  I rolled. The hands thumped the floor beside my head. I kicked out blindly at the huge torso and hit the left kidney. The big Chinese crashed on his side.
  
  I staggered to my feet. Kam came at me now and I rammed an elbow into his face. He fell backwards with a muffled cry, his face a bloody mess. I moved back to the big man, who was getting to his feet, and delivered a brutal blow to the back of his neck. He toppled over again but came right back up, like one of those damned weighted dolls.
  
  I shot another punch at him, didn't quite connect, and he was on his feet, muttering in Chinese. He swung a massive hand at me. I blocked the blow, but lost my balance. I fell backward again and landed in a sitting position against the sofa where Wilhelmina had disappeared. I groped behind me for the Luger, but came up empty-handed. By now, Big Wong had picked up a heavy metal-and-wood footstool to crush my head.
  
  Then I remembered Hugo. I moved the muscles of my forearm, releasing the stiletto from its chamois sheath. It slipped into my palm like a silver snake. As Wong raised the stool higher, I flicked Hugo on his way.
  
  The stiletto drove in to the hilt just below the giant's rib cage. He looked down at it in mild surprise, then hurled the stool at my head.
  
  I dived to my left. The stool grazed my shoulder and hit the sofa. I staggered to my feet as the big Chinese contemptuously pulled the stiletto from his chest and flung it to the floor. Then he was coming at me again.
  
  I was out of weapons now. If he got a bear grip on me again, in my weakened condition, he would surely kill me. I picked up a pottery lamp from the table at the end of the sofa, smashed it into his face.
  
  It blinded him for a moment. He hesitated, sputtering, mumbling curses, wiping dust and bits of pottery from his eyes and face. I pulled the wires from the remains of the lamp, held them in my right hand by the insulated part. The live wires extended about an inch beyond the insulation. Wong was moving again. I let him come in close and grab at me and jammed the live wires up behind his right mastoid.
  
  There was a flash and crackling. Wong's eyes widened slightly as the current jumped through him. He stumbled backward, trying to keep his feet under him, then fell heavily over a coffee table, smashing it to pieces. He lay staring unseeingly up at the ceiling. The big man's heart must not have been very healthy with all that muscle crowding it. He was dead.
  
  I realized that Kam was scrambling for the Luger under the sofa. It must have been handier than any other weapon he had around. I dived on him and threw a right fist into his already bloody face. He groaned and collapsed.
  
  I moved the sofa and retrieved Wilhelmina. Then I went over and picked up Hugo and stuck him in my belt. Finally I moved to Kam and pointed the Luger at his face.
  
  He swallowed hard, watching my finger tighten on the trigger.
  
  'No, wait!' he said.
  
  'Why?'
  
  'I… I'll tell you about Reynaldo.'
  
  'Well,' I said. 'It's about time.'
  
  He didn't look at me. He was losing face badly and that was almost as bad as a bullet from the Luger. 'The man Reynaldo came to me. He said he had the film and asked if I would like to buy it. When I indicated that I was interested, he told me frankly that he expected to get several offers and that the bidding would have to start at one million British pounds.'
  
  I whistled. 'He is ambitious.'
  
  'It is my guess that he has gone to the Russians with the same offer,' Kam said. 'I advised him that I would have to check with my government. He said he would have to know in a few days.'
  
  I nodded. 'Where is he?'
  
  Kam hesitated, eyeing the Luger. I moved it closer, just to encourage him. 'He has flown to Luxor and will await word there. He is at the Pharaohs Hotel, just off the Sharia el Mahatta.'
  
  I studied Kam's eyes. Somehow I believed he was telling me the truth.
  
  'How long will he be there?'
  
  Kam shook his head and winced at the pain. 'He was not definite. He may have returned to Cairo by now.' Now I sensed he was lying.
  
  'I asked you how long Reynaldo will be in Luxor,' I said quietly.
  
  His face showed his inner conflict. 'All right, Carter, damn you! He expects to be there at least through tomorrow.'
  
  It appeared that was all Kam could tell me, and I knew what I had to do. Kam could not be allowed to beat me to Reynaldo, or get lucky and kill me in the attempt. My swollen face and head throbbed. The bruises all over my body ached — reminding me that Kam's man had tried to kill me.
  
  I put the Luger to Kam's throat and blew the back of his head off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nine
  
  
  
  
  Fayeh and I were walking through the high-ceilinged halls of the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities, near my hotel. We moved slowly, looking into the cases of artifacts-jewel-encrusted necklaces and pendants inlaid with gold, scent spoons, amulets and so on. As we walked, we talked. I did not think our rooms were safe for talking any more.
  
  'Kam said that Reynaldo is in Luxor. That means I have to fly there,' I said, studying a place setting for an ancient Egyptian dining table.
  
  'We have to fly there,' she said, holding onto my arm.
  
  I looked down at her. 'Why we?'
  
  'Because I know Luxor,' she said, 'and I know people there. If Reynaldo suspects you're on your way, he may not be easy to locate. And there isn't much time — you've said so yourself. You need me, Nick.'
  
  'She was right; she could be a help in Luxor. Still… 'Okay, granted you could save me some time, but it's going to get sticky from here on out.'
  
  'You have just rid yourself of your biggest competition…' she began.
  
  I shook my head. 'I came very close to buying it at Kam's place. And don't kid yourself that the Chicoms were the biggest competition. There are still the Russians and whoever else Reynaldo might have in mind to offer the film to. And there's Bovet who'll be after Reynaldo too now and may very likely get to him first. If he does, we may never find out where Reynaldo stashed the microfilm. And there's the chance Bovet just might develop an interest in it himself.'
  
  'Yes,' Fayeh said slowly. 'I see what you mean.'
  
  'The point is, it could get very hairy in Luxor — do you still want to come?'
  
  'Yes, Nick,' she said seriously. 'I really do. I want to help.'
  
  I nodded. 'Okay, you can come along… on one condition. That you'll do what I tell you when I tell you.'
  
  'It's a deal,' she said, smiling.
  
  'Then let's get to the airport. The plane leaves soon.'
  
  The flight to Luxor took only a couple of hours. When we landed we were in Upper Egypt, which meant we were south of Cairo by five hundred miles or so. Except for the town of Luxor, which was no metropolis, and the Nile, we were in a wasteland of desert.
  
  The airport was small and primitive. Sand blew into our faces as we walked to the shabby terminal with its buzzing flies and hard benches and Utter. A few minutes later we climbed into an ancient Chevy that was used as a taxi with an Arab driver who looked as if he might offer us dirty postcards. Instead he kept up an annoying off-key whistling of old Hit Parade tunes all the way to the Winter Palace Hotel in Luxor, apparently to show us what a worldly fellow he was. At the hotel, as I gave him a fifteen percent tip, he apologetically reminded me that he had had to carry the lady's overnight bag. I gave him a few more piastres and he left.
  
  The Winter Palace was an aging but elegant place where many Europeans wintered. We checked in as husband and wife. Fayeh enjoyed that. When we were settled into our room overlooking the boulevard and the Nile, she suggested we take advantage of our new identity.
  
  'For a cop, you have a hard time keeping your mind on business,' I said, kidding her.
  
  She came to me and kissed me. 'All work and no play makes Fayeh a dull companion.'
  
  'No one could accuse you of that,' I said, laughing. 'Come on, we have some time before dinner. Let's take a look at the Pharaohs Hotel by daylight. We might catch Mr Reynaldo snoozing.'
  
  She reached into her purse and pulled out a small Beretta .25 automatic with ivory butt plates. It was a pretty little gun; it looked like something she would carry. She snicked the ejector back and loaded the chamber, very businesslike and professional now, a complete change of mood. She was certainly a surprising girl.
  
  'Have you ever used that thing?' I asked.
  
  'Yes,' she said, smiling, and dropped it back into her purse.
  
  'Well, keep it in your bag unless I tell you different, understand?'
  
  She nodded, not at all put out. 'I understand.'
  
  We took a taxi to the Pharaohs Hotel and got out across the street from it. It made the La Tourelle in Cairo where Kam had holed up look like the Cairo Hilton. We entered the lobby and looked around. It was hot and close inside, the dust-covered ceiling fan having seen its last working day. It hung motionless over a dilapidated corner reception desk and a couple of greasy over-stuffed chairs that were losing their cotton. Behind the desk was a small thin Arab slumped in a straight chair, reading a paper.
  
  'You got any rooms?' I asked.
  
  He looked up at me but did not move. His eyes took in Fayeh. 'By the night, or by the hour?' he said, in English.
  
  Fayeh smiled and I ignored the insult. Let him think I was a tourist out for a good time with an Arab whore, it was to our advantage.
  
  'I'll take it for the night,' I said.
  
  He rose as if it were a great effort and put a dirt-smeared book on the desk. 'Sign the register,' he said.
  
  I signed two different names for us and handed the book back. I had looked on the preceding page for a name similar to Reynaldo but saw none.
  
  'Room 302,' the desk clerk told me. 'Check out at noon.'
  
  I grimaced. 'Show the lady the room,' I said, 'and take this case up. I'm going down the street a minute.'
  
  I pressed a couple of bills into his hand, and he showed the first sign of a smile, a crooked, ugly one. 'Okay, Joe,' he said with an irritating familiarity.
  
  When he left with Fayeh up the stairs, I moved back from the front entrance I had sauntered over to and went behind the reception desk for the register. I thumbed through the pages preceding the one I'd signed and in a moment I found it: R. Amaya. Rinaldo Amaya, alias Reynaldo. It was good I had talked to Hakim. Reynaldo was in room 412.
  
  I got up the stairs to four before the desk clerk could spot me on his way down. I went to room 412, stood outside the door and listened. There was no sound from inside. Reynaldo probably wouldn't be there this time of day. I slipped a master key into the lock and opened the door a couple of inches. I could see most of the room, and there was nobody in it. I moved cautiously inside and closed the door behind me.
  
  There was a Turkish cigarette, dead but still warm, in an ashtray. The bedding on the iron bed was rumpled. Maybe an afternoon nap? I went over to a small chest of drawers and looked through it. In the bottom drawer was an attaché case. It bore one initial: R.
  
  Carefully I opened the case. It seemed to contain only toilet articles and green striped pajamas. I examined the toilet articles and the interior of the case itself and found nothing. I hadn't really expected Reynaldo to keep the film with him, still I had to check out the possibility.
  
  After another quick look around, I left the room quietly and went down to 302. Fayeh was waiting anxiously.
  
  'Did you find him?' she asked.
  
  'He's in room 412,' I said, pointing above our heads. 'He's not there now. Go down to the clerk, turn on the charm and tell him you don't like the bed in this room. Tell him a girl friend of yours occupied room 411 recently and liked it. I think it's vacant. Ask him if we can have it. Tell him we'll move our own stuff.'
  
  All right,' she said. 'Shall I have him send up some champagne? It could be quite a wait.' She smiled. 'And under the circumstances it does fit our cover.'
  
  'After we move into 411, I'm taking you to dinner at the Winter Palace,' I said. 'You can order a bottle of their very best.'
  
  A half hour later we were settled in room 411, just next door to Reynaldo. He could not come or go without our hearing him. I unsnapped the locks on the attaché case I was carrying and set the case on the bed. I reached into it, grabbed a magazine for the Luger. I took Wilhelmina from her holster, replaced the magazine with the fully-loaded one. As I was putting Wilhelmina back into her holster, Fayeh came over and looked into the case.
  
  'Praise Allah!' she said wonderingly. 'What is all that?'
  
  'Equipment,' I told her. I took out Pierre, the cyanide gas bomb I sometimes wear attached to my thigh and placed him on the bed. Next I unsnapped the two biggest objects in the case, one at a time. The first was a big Buntline .357 Magnum revolver with an eighteen-inch barrel, custom-made to disassemble into two parts. The second was a Belgian detachable pistol carbine stock with an adapter device for the butt of the Buntline. I screwed the two parts of the Magnum together, clamped on the carbine stock and twisted it tightly into place.
  
  I checked out all parts. Then I disassembled the thing again, returned all equipment to the attaché case and turned to Fayeh, who had been watching all this silently.
  
  'All right, let's go get that champagne now.'
  
  The dinner at the Winter Palace was excellent In addition to skewered lamb, we had vichyssoise, a light fish course, a sweet dessert of honey-filled pastry and then fresh fruit and cheese. Brass finger bowls were brought after the last course, an elegant reminder of days when heads of state and nobility wintered in Luxor. Fayeh exclaimed over the quality of the food but did not eat much and seemed unusually subdued. I wondered if it was a reaction to the sight of all my weaponry. But she was an Interpol agent and should have no delusions about how rough the world can get.
  
  I did not remark on her mood until we had returned to the drab room at the Pharaohs Hotel. We entered our room quietly, even though there was no light showing in 412. After listening for a few minutes, I was convinced that we had beat Reynaldo back. Fayeh was slumped into a chair. I sat down on the edge of the bed and stared out the window into the blackness outside.
  
  'You're rather quiet this evening,' I said. 'Are you sorry you came with me?'
  
  She was smoking a small brown cigarette, a brand she always had with her. I was smoking one of my last American ones. She inhaled deeply and looked at me. 'It is just that — well, this is an unusual assignment. I suppose I'm nervous.'
  
  So that was it, I grinned at her. 'Hey! I've been around for a while, remember? We'll manage.'
  
  She was not soothed by my remark. She suddenly began purling furiously on the cigarette, not looking at me. I put my own cigarette out and went over to her. I leaned down and kissed her warm mouth but she did not return the kiss. I tried again… nothing. I straightened up and walked away.
  
  'You're uptight as hell,' I told her. 'I shouldn't have brought you.'
  
  Suddenly she ground her cigarette out, stood up quickly and threw her arms around my waist, pressing hard against me.
  
  'Hey, take it easy,' I said.
  
  She was crying softly. 'Make love to me, Nick.'
  
  I kissed her wet cheek. 'Fayeh, Reynaldo could show up any minute.'
  
  'Let him. He will be here a while, if he does. We will not lose him. Make love to me now, Nick. I need it.'
  
  'Well…'
  
  She began undressing. The blue sheath went over her head, the small bra dropped, the shoes were kicked off, then the panties slipped to the floor and she was naked.
  
  'We have time, Nick. We can take time,' she pleaded.
  
  She pressed against me and my hands automatically began exploring her curves. Her mouth sought mine. When the kiss ended, she began to undress me. She got my shirt off and ran her slim bronze hands over my chest and shoulders and arms. She was taking the initiative this time, showing me the way. I hardly had time to finish undressing before she pulled me onto the bed with her.
  
  She was covering my chest and stomach with kisses, and then her caresses worked their way down further. My mouth went dry. There was a sound — and it came from my throat. Fayeh was an Arabian, all right, skilled at the unusual in sex.
  
  And then I moved onto her, and she guided me to her, reaching and straining with those full hips. Her urgency was infectious. I didn't understand it, but I didn't care. For the moment, there was only one thing in the universe. This female animal under me, this writhing, moaning pleasure thing. And I filled her being with my pulsing throbbing desire.
  
  Afterwards, unlike our other times together, she did not kiss me or even look at me but lay staring blankly at the ceiling.
  
  I got up and dressed slowly. The lovemaking had not eased whatever was bothering her. I wanted to talk to her about it, but right now I had to concentrate on Reynaldo.
  
  As I strapped on the Luger, Fayeh got off the bed, came and kissed me, smiling. 'Thanks, Nick,' she said.
  
  'Are you all right?' I asked gently.
  
  She brightened the smile and she did seem her old self again as she began dressing. 'Oh, yes. There is nothing wrong with me that making love with you cannot cure.'
  
  That's my girl,' I said.
  
  It wasn't long after Fayeh had finished dressing that I heard the footsteps in the hall. They moved right past our door and stopped at 412. I heard the key go in the lock and the door open and close.
  
  'It's Reynaldo,' I whispered.
  
  'Yes.' She nodded and some of the earlier tension seemed to return to her.
  
  'I'm going in there and have a talk with him,' I said, pulling my jacket on.
  
  'Let me go, too, Nick,' she said.
  
  I looked at her tense face. 'Will you keep out of the way?'
  
  'I promise,' she said.
  
  'Okay. Let's go.'
  
  We moved out into the corridor. All was quiet out there, but I could hear Reynaldo moving about inside room 412. I touched the knob of the door and slowly turned it. He had not locked the door after him. I nodded at Fayeh, then swung the door open and stepped inside the room, Fayeh behind me.
  
  Reynaldo had been bending over a night table, reaching for a bottle of liquor sitting there. He turned quickly toward us, surprise on his face.
  
  'Quien es? Que pasa?' he said in Spanish. He was a tall man, older than in the picture Hakim had shown me, but his eyes had the same cold and deadly look under the heavy brows. His full lips were drawn now into a tight, menacing line, and I noticed a scar across his left ear that had not been in the early photograph.
  
  I showed him Wilhelmina. 'Relax,' I said smoothly, closing the door. 'We just want to talk with you.'
  
  I saw him consider going for the gun under his jacket, but he decided against it. He faced us, studying our faces, finally focusing on me. 'You are the American,' he said.
  
  'That's right. A friend of John Drummond.' I watched for his reaction. 'You do recognize the name, don't you?'
  
  He glanced again at Fayeh and his eyes showed he had her figured for a cop. He glanced back at me. 'What are you here for? To arrest me? I didn't kill Drummond.'
  
  I moved over to him, reached into his jacket and pulled out a Smith & Wesson .44 Russian. I stuck the gun into my belt.
  
  'I told you, I'm here to talk,' I said.
  
  'Talk about what?'
  
  'About what you stole from Drummond's attaché case.'
  
  The dark eyes went blank. 'I stole something from his case?'
  
  'That's right,' I said.
  
  'I think you have come to the wrong place, my friend. It was not I but a man named Maspero who was involved with Drummond and his case.'
  
  'I know all about Maspero — and who killed him.' He blinked at that but otherwise his face showed me nothing. 'You have some microfilm that you found in Drummond's attaché case, and you're trying to peddle it.'
  
  He laughed harshly. 'You had better take this matter up with Maspero's superiors. If anybody has the film, it is they.'
  
  Fayeh, who had been silent all this time, now turned to me. 'He has probably already gotten rid of the film, Nick, or he would not be so smug.'
  
  My eyes didn't leave Reynaldo's face. 'No, he still has it,' I said. 'Look, Reynaldo, everybody's on to you. I know you've got the film and so does Bovet'
  
  Now his face showed some expression — hatred, uneasiness. 'Bovet?'
  
  'That's right. He knows you held out on him, and I don't think he likes it.'
  
  'How do you know this?'
  
  I grinned. 'Never mind. Your time is running out, Reynaldo. Bovet will be after you. You can't stall any more. You have one chance — get whatever you can for the film and run!'
  
  His eyes shifted away from me as he tried to think. Finally he looked back at me. 'Let us assume, for the moment, that I have this film. Are you here to make me an offer?'
  
  'I'm prepared to buy the film from you for the minimum I understand you have quoted, a million pounds sterling.'
  
  He hesitated. 'If I did have this film, I could expect a larger offer from other sources,' he said finally. 'The Chinese, for example, who would be eager to have it And then, of course, there are the Russians.'
  
  'You won't get a better offer from Kam Fong,' I said casually, 'for the simple reason that he's no longer able to make one.'
  
  If Reynaldo was shaken at that, he didn't show it. That still leaves the Russians,' he said. 'And who knows who else? That is, if I had this film. And if I did have it, my friend, your offer would not be good enough.'
  
  Now I was getting mad. Hawk had told me to use my own discretion about how much we offered, but I was in no mood at the moment to raise the ante. Before I could let Reynaldo know, however, Fayeh pulled the Beretta from her purse and moved over to him.
  
  'Give up the film, you greedy swine!' she said. 'Give it up now!'
  
  'Fayeh!' I yelled at her. I had been afraid of something like this.
  
  She was waving the Beretta near Reynaldo's face, standing between him and me. I was about to tell her to back off when Reynaldo made his move.
  
  He grabbed quickly for the Beretta, his hand moving like a striking cobra. In a moment he had twisted the gun from the girl's grasp and pulled her toward him, holding her between him and me as a shield and pointing the Beretta at me.
  
  'Now, Mr Carter,' he said.
  
  So he knew who I was. 'That's not a smart move, Reynaldo,' I said, still holding the Luger on him.
  
  'Your mother mated with a camel!' Fayeh hissed at him in Arabic, kicking and squirming in his grasp. She might be a lousy cop, but she had guts.
  
  'Drop the gun,' Reynaldo ordered, aiming the Beretta past the girl at my head.
  
  'I can't do that,' I told him.
  
  'Then I'll kill you.'
  
  'Maybe,' I said. 'But not before I get the girl and you with this Luger.'
  
  That stopped him. 'You would kill the girl?'
  
  'If I have to.'
  
  Fayeh regarded me somberly. I knew she was trying to guess whether I was bluffing or not. Reynaldo hesitated a moment, then began edging toward the door to the corridor. 'All right, we will bluff it out,' he said. He was holding the Beretta against Fayeh's temple now. 'But I assure you that if you try to stop me, Mr Carter, the girl will go first.'
  
  Watching him edge toward the door, I knew he had me in a small corner. I would not kill Fayeh to keep him from leaving the room, and he saw that in my eyes. He was opening the door now.
  
  'Remember, she will die first.'
  
  'You're acting like an idiot, Reynaldo,' I said, following him with the Luger. 'You're not going to get any offers better than mine. You'd better give that some thought before you leave.'
  
  'I do not think you intend to pay me for film which I stole from your government,' Reynaldo said frankly, finally dropping the pose. 'The fact of the matter is, I don't think I can trust you at all.' He was backing into the corridor now, the Beretta still at Fayeh's head.
  
  'You pig, let go of me!' she yelled.
  
  We both ignored her. 'All right, have it your way,' I said. 'But don't say I didn't try to do it the easy way.'
  
  'In this case,' he said, 'there is no easy way.'
  
  I was beginning to agree with him. 'Leave the girl, Reynaldo. She's of no further use to you.'
  
  'You are right, Mr Carter,' he said. 'You can have her.' He suddenly shoved her hard. She came flying back into the room, landed up against me, knocking the Luger aside.
  
  Reynaldo, meanwhile, was disappearing down the corridor. I grabbed Fayeh to keep her from falling, then started around her toward the corridor. But she beat me to it. She grabbed the .44 Russian from my belt, Reynaldo's gun, and whirled out into the corridor with it.
  
  'I will get him!' she said, her dark hair swirling around her face.
  
  Before I could stop her, she fired two blasting rounds down the corridor after Reynaldo, just as he reached the stairs. Both shots missed and he was gone. I grabbed the gun from her.
  
  'Damn it, Fayeh!' I said. 'If you kill him, we'll never find the damned film!'
  
  She looked up at me. 'I am sorry, Nick. I almost spoiled everything, didn't I?'
  
  I looked at her wearily. 'Get back to the Winter Palace and stay there.'
  
  Then I turned and started down the hall, after the fleeing Reynaldo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten
  
  
  
  
  I had reached the lobby of the hotel. The clerk gaped at the gun in my hand, and I paused to stuff some piastres in his pocket.
  
  'You didn't hear or see a thing,' I told him.
  
  He looked down at the money, then up at me. 'Yes, sir,' he said.
  
  I heard a car engine start up, and moved on to the door in time to see a maroon BMW 2002 pull away from the curb and roar off up the dark street I looked down the street and saw a man moving out to an old Buick. I raced over to him. He was an Arab in western dress.
  
  I'm borrowing your car for a while,' I told him. I shoved a wad of money at him. 'Here. I'll leave the car where you can find it later. Give me the keys.'
  
  He took one look at the Luger and reached quickly for his car keys. I grabbed them and hopped into the Buick. It was a clunker, but it was wheels. I holstered the Luger and started the engine. It roared into life. Then I was burning rubber to get away from the curb. Reynaldo had already disappeared around the corner at the end of the block.
  
  When I got around the corner, Reynaldo's car was nowhere in sight. I hit the accelerator hard and gunned the old relic down to the next corner and turned right. The BMW was two blocks ahead and moving fast. We were on the Sharia el Karnak and had just passed the Luxor Police Station. I held my breath and hoped nobody saw or heard us roar by. We then passed the Public Garden area on the left and the Hotel de Famille on the right and were on the old Avenue of Sphinxes leading to the village of Karnak where the famed temples stood.
  
  There was little traffic on the road at this time of night, which was lucky because neither one of us was about to stop or slow down. A few pedestrians stared after us as we roared past, but otherwise there was little notice of the chase. Surprisingly, I was keeping up with the BMW, despite its greater potential speed and maneuverability. The Buick bumped along over the ruts in the street like a stock car at a crash derby. My head hit the roof on a couple of bad holes. And then we were at the Temples of Karnak.
  
  Reynaldo had realised I was too close to try to lose me in the city, so he had adopted a plan that did not include his maroon sedan. He skidded to a halt just outside the gate of the temples. As I drove up I saw him heading for the massive South Gate of Karnak. For the last hundred yards of the palm-lined Avenue of Sphinxes, ram-headed sphinxes bordered the road, sitting as they had thousands of years ago but now in varying stages of decomposition. The pylons of the South Gate rose magnificently in the moonlight. I pulled the old Buick up next to the BMW and watched Reynaldo run past a night chain designed to keep tourists out after hours. His shadowy figure was disappearing into the forecourt of the Temple of Khonsu as I got out of the car.
  
  I followed him, moving quietly. He still had that Beretta, and though it wasn't a big gun, a good marksman could kill very efficiently with it.
  
  Moving carefully through the forecourt, I eyed the deep shadows cast by the thick hieroglyph-adorned walls and the lotus columns rising along them. I did not think Reynaldo would stop here. I moved on through the forecourt into the Small Hypostyle Hall beyond. The roof was long gone and the setting was bathed in eerie moonlight. Suddenly, four thousand years magically disappeared and I was in ancient Egypt, in the court of Rameses XII. His relief stood out clearly on one wall, staring unseeingly into the centuries. This hall had pillars, too, and I moved cautiously as I passed through it. Then I heard loose stones roll somewhere ahead of me.
  
  'Reynaldo!' I shouted. 'You can't get out of here. I'll give you one more chance to make a deal.'
  
  There was silence in the moonlit temple for a moment, then came an answer: 'I don't have to get out of here, Mr Carter. I can kill you.'
  
  I noted the direction of the sound of his voice and headed toward it. I had made my last offer; now it was him or me.
  
  Silently I moved through the complex of temples and halls, pharaohs and queens gazing dumbly down on me from their pedestals. A slight breeze stirred some dust and litter in a corner and made me jump. The atmosphere of the place was getting to me. Maybe that was what Reynaldo had counted on.
  
  I passed between another set of massive, bulky pylons crouching menacingly in the darkness. My foot scraped stone and suddenly there was a shot. I saw the flash from the corner of my eye before ancient stone chipped beside my head.
  
  I ducked and swore. I was at a real disadvantage as the pursuer under these circumstances. If Reynaldo kept his nerve, he could pick me off from any number of excellent vantage points.
  
  I crouched in darkness, waiting. Then I saw a shadow in the direction the shot had come from, moving quickly from one pillar to another. I rested the Luger on my arm and waited. The shadow emerged and headed for another pillar. I fired. Reynaldo screamed and catapulted forward on his face.
  
  But he was not hit badly. In a moment he was on his feet again. I squeezed off another shot as he ducked behind a stone column and missed.
  
  Now I had him at a small disadvantage. The wound was probably only superficial but it gave Reynaldo something to think about. It made him aware that ambush was a dangerous game.
  
  We were in the Great Hypostyle Hall now, the biggest in the ruins. Here the roof was gone too, but still standing were 134 columns spaced at regular intervals throughout the huge room. They were massive blocks of stone, towering high overhead like giant dead trees. And Reynaldo was in that forest of ancient columns somewhere, waiting to blow my head off.
  
  Slowly I moved to the nearest column and leaned against it. Reynaldo had not left this room, and he probably did not intend to. Certainly here he would have his best chance of getting a bullet into me before I did the same to him.
  
  Gliding quickly to another column, I shot a glance down the next row of pillars. There was no movement The moon cast silver bars between the heavy shadows of the pillars. The columns were all around me now. It was like being in a ghostly dark hall of mirrors with the columns reflected endlessly in all directions.
  
  'I'm coming after you, Reynaldo.' My voice echoed slightly. I knew he must be shaken up some from the wound, and I wanted to work on that a little.
  
  I headed for another column, purposely slowing my movements. The quickest way to find Reynaldo was to draw his fire. And the further I was from him when I did, the better. As I moved slowly toward another column I saw Reynaldo step out from behind a column down the line. The Beretta barked again. The slug tore at my jacket sleeve.
  
  Wilhelmina roared her reply. The 9 mm. slug zinged off the column Reynaldo had just ducked behind. While Reynaldo was lying low, I moved to my right to another row of columns. I listened carefully, turning my head. I heard a sound off to my left, whirled and saw a tattered newspaper blowing in the breeze. I had almost fired at it.
  
  I moved quickly toward Reynaldo's last location, to a column which would put me closer to him. He spotted me just as I reached my new cover, and the Beretta fired again, the bullet hitting a column behind me. I returned fire, two quick rounds. The first one ricocheted off Reynaldo's column and came back and almost hit me. The second hit Reynaldo just as he was moving back to cover.
  
  I could hear him swearing in Spanish, then he yelled at me:
  
  'Damn you, Carter! All right, let's have it outcome and get me. You know where I am.'
  
  It was getting down to the nitty-gritty. I knew sooner or later I would have to go in after him, like a white hunter going into the brush after a wounded leopard. But that was when he would have his best chance at me.
  
  I took a deep breath and stepped out from behind my column. In a moment Reynaldo stepped out into the open too. He was listing to his left, but still he came on. Like me he knew the time for caution was over. He headed slowly toward me down the aisle between the towering columns, the Beretta aimed my way.
  
  I did not want Reynaldo dead. But it was his play now, and he wanted a shootout. He stumbled toward me.
  
  'You cannot bluff me, Carter,' he said as he came on. 'You will get nothing from a dead man. You would rather not kill me. But I do not suffer from such a handicap.'
  
  'I'll kill you if I have to,' I said. 'Just tell me where the microfilm is and you'll live.'
  
  'I will live anyway.' He kept moving. I couldn't get much closer. Suddenly he fired, but luckily I moved to my left. The shot still plowed along my right side, leaving a burning flesh wound. I pressed back against a column, aimed the Luger and returned fire.
  
  Reynaldo clutched at his chest and slammed up against a column, but he did not fall. He wouldn't give up — he really thought I would kill him. He blasted away again with the Beretta and missed.
  
  I had no choice. I squeezed off another round and it didn't miss. This time Reynaldo was picked up off his feet and dumped rudely on his back. The Beretta flew from his hand.
  
  I waited a moment, watching him. I thought I saw him move, but I couldn't be sure. A noise sounded off to my right somewhere. I spun around, staring into the darkness, but I saw nothing. The place was getting to me again. I moved along between the massive columns until I stood over Reynaldo, my Luger ready in case I still had to use it.
  
  Reynaldo lay with one arm twisted under him, his face white. The last slug had gotten him in the right side of the chest. I did not see how he could survive.
  
  I bent over him. Again I thought I heard a noise nearby. I squatted there listening. Silence. I looked down at Reynaldo.
  
  'Look,' I told him. 'You're going to be all right, if you get to a doctor.' I hoped he wouldn't guess I was lying. 'I can get one to you, if you level with me about the film. I'll also keep my mouth shut to Bovet about your whereabouts.'
  
  He laughed, a guttural laugh deep in his throat that turned into a cough.
  
  'If you don't like the sound of that offer,' I added, 'I can promise you that you will not die easily.' That was no he.
  
  Mixed emotions showed in his face. Then the arm hidden under his body suddenly flashed out at me. In the fist was the weapon Hakim Sadek had described to me, the thick-spined ice pick dagger. The thing slashed toward my abdomen just as I pulled back. It ripped through my jacket and shirt and pricked my flesh. I grabbed Reynaldo's hand, twisted with both of mine, and the pick fell from his fist.
  
  I backhanded him, savagely, and he grunted. I grabbed the pick and held it up under his chin. 'All right, I've had it with you. You want me to start jabbing in nice places with this thing?'
  
  His face collapsed. There was no more fight in him. He had nothing left to grasp but the straw I'd offered.
  
  'The Valley of the Kings,' he croaked. 'The Merenptan tomb. Burial chamber.'
  
  He coughed, spraying blood.
  
  'Where in the burial chamber?' I prompted.
  
  'Save me!' he gasped. 'There… is a doctor in Luxor. Near the Pharaohs. He can… keep his mouth… shut.'
  
  'Okay,' I said. 'But where in the burial chamber?'
  
  He opened his mouth to speak. More blood oozed out and that was it. His eyes glazed and his head fell back. He was dead.
  
  I figured I was lucky. He could have died without telling me anything.
  
  Slowly I moved back through the Great Hypostyle Hall. When I got to the entrance, I heard something again. This time it was definitely footsteps. I squinted into an open court and saw an Arab out there, peering into the darkness of the great hall.
  
  'Who is it?' he yelled in Arabic. 'What is happening in there?'
  
  He was apparently a caretaker who had been alerted by the shooting. When he found Reynaldo's body, there was going to be quite a fuss. I didn't want to be around.
  
  I moved silently among the giant stone pillars, avoiding the court where the caretaker was standing uncertainly, heading for the South Gate I'd entered by.
  
  The BMW was handiest — and fastest. I looked inside and saw that Reynaldo had left the keys in the ignition. I jumped in, turned the key, and shifted into gear. I skidded on gravel backing the car around, and as I shifted into drive, I saw the caretaker running toward me, waving his arms and shouting.
  
  It would not be good for him to get a good look at the car. I gunned the engine and the BMW roared into the night. In seconds the temples had disappeared from view and I was on my way back to Luxor and the Winter Palace.
  
  Driving back, I remembered the sounds I'd thought I'd heard when Reynaldo was dying. That must have been the caretaker. If not… I did not like to think about the possible alternatives. Well, tomorrow morning early I would pay a visit to the Valley of the Kings. With a little luck I would locate the microfilm, end this Arabian nightmare and ask Hawk for a raise and a two-week vacation.
  
  It sounded so easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eleven
  
  
  
  
  The next morning was as cool, bright and clear as the Star of Africa. The eternal Nile ran placidly, an oiled metallic blue sheet. Beyond that twisting ribbon of life glowed the burnished copper of the desert and hills.
  
  It was against this tranquil backdrop that the day began, as I drove along the dusty road into the Valley of the Kings. The car was a rented Alfa Romeo 1750, and Fayeh was sitting beside me, listening unprotestingly while I bawled her out.
  
  'You damned near got us killed yesterday,' I reminded her, 'so just please let me call the shots this time.'
  
  Actually, I wouldn't have brought Fayeh along at all, but she told me that the Merenptan tomb was temporarily closed to tourists and I would need her to get into it. So I had agreed to take her, but I didn't like it and she knew it. She sat as far from me in the car as she could get, and we did not say much on the drive there.
  
  We drove past the Colossi of Memnon and the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut, past bleached villages peach-colored in the early sun where people still lived the same way they had in biblical days. Camels harnessed to grinding wheels moved in an endless circle around the primitive mills, as if they had been doing the same job for millenia. Women in black, some carrying water jugs on their heads, stared over their veils at us as we passed. Fayeh made no comment about any of it. I didn't mind because my mind was on only one thing this bright morning: recovering the microfilm.
  
  We arrived at the Valley of the Kings in less than an hour's drive. When we got out in the parking area and I looked around, I was disappointed. It didn't look grand at all. It was a wide ravine backed by towering rocky cliffs with sand all around. There were a few service buildings sitting hot in the sun, and you could see the scattered entrances to the tombs — unglamorous holes in the ground with ticket booths at them, an Arab at each booth.
  
  'This is it? I said.
  
  'It is all underground,' she said. 'You will see.'
  
  She led me to an Arab at one of the shacks, a man who seemed to be in charge of the place. She showed her Interpol ID, gave him a story about heroin smuggling and asked that we be allowed to enter the tomb without a guide.
  
  'Of course, madam,' he said in Arabic.
  
  As we walked to the tomb, I looked at her. 'Are you sure the tomb is closed to the public?'
  
  She smiled an inscrutable smile. 'Do you think I would he to you, lover?'
  
  There was no guard at the gate to the tomb, so we just walked in. It was like the entrance to a mine shaft. Immediately we found ourselves walking downhill in a large stone tunnel. The walls on either side were covered with hieroglyphic inscriptions cut into the stone by hand. We walked downward and downward, and the hieroglyphics did not end.
  
  'Inscriptions from the Egyptian Book of the Dead,' Fayeh told me as we descended. 'Very important to survival in the Other World.'
  
  'I wonder if they have any power over survival in this world,' I said. I stopped at a bend in the passage and pulled a thick guidebook out of my jacket pocket. I thumbed through it and stopped at a turned-down page. 'This says there are several burial rooms.'
  
  That's right. The first one is just off this passage to our right. The main one, with the sarcophagus of Merenptan, is further along this other passage and beyond the Burial Hall'
  
  'All right. You go to the smaller chamber and I'll take the big one. If you find what we're looking for, give a yell.'
  
  I watched her turn and move off down the dim-lit corridor, then I started down the main passage. I came to a stair and descended to a lower level. Here I found myself in another tunnel-corridor. There were more hieroglyphics and colored frescoes of Merenptan in the presence of the god Harmachis. The corridor led into a rather large room. This apparently was the Burial Hall. Another passage led out from the opposite side into a much smaller room: the burial chamber.
  
  Merenptan's sarcophagus filled a substantial part of the room. The lid of his coffin was intricately worked and beautiful. The whole thing stood on a stone podium. I walked around it, taking a good look. Then I searched the room. There were shelves that had held burial urns. The microfilm might be stashed on one of those shelves but that would be too obvious. I looked again at the lid of the sarcophagus. It sat partly off the receptacle so I could see into the dark recesses of the empty coffin.
  
  Surely, I thought, Reynaldo would not drop the film into that large box, I put my shoulder against the lid. I couldn't budge it so Reynaldo couldn't have moved it either. Then I got the idea — the same one it turned out, Reynaldo had gotten. I reached into the sarcophagus and felt along the underside of its lid as far as I could reach. Nothing. Next I felt along the inner side of the sarcophagus. Still nothing. I returned to the lid. I reached in further under it, stretching my arm as far as I possibly could. And then I felt it.
  
  It was a small package, no bigger than my thumb, and it was taped to the underside of the lid.
  
  I tore it free and drew my arm out of the sarcophagus. My heart almost stopped as I carefully unwrapped the tiny package. There it was. The microfilm. The plans for Novigrom I. And lying now in the palm of my hand, they belonged to the U.S. government.
  
  I allowed myself a smile of satisfaction. If Drummond had had to die at least it wasn't for nothing.
  
  A foot scraped stone. I jammed the film into my pocket and whirled, going for Wilhelmina. I was a little too late. There in the doorway of the burial chamber stood two grinning goons. I recognized the big one as the man with the Magnum at Thinman's place. The Magnum was staring at me again now. The other man, a short, wiry Arab with a rat's face, held a European make .32 revolver on me.
  
  'Well, look who's on a tour,' the big man said.
  
  The little man laughed a short, staccato laugh that blew his cheeks out slightly.
  
  'Is there anything wrong with seeing the sights?' I asked.
  
  My mind was racing backwards like a rewinding movie. The Hypostyle Hall last night. The noises I'd thought I'd heard. The caretaker hadn't made them after all. Somebody, probably one of these two, had followed Reynaldo and me to Karnak and moved in quietly in time to hear the final scene. But they had not heard enough, because they had let me find the microfilm for them.
  
  'You're not here for the sights,' the big man told me.
  
  'No?' I said. I let my hand drop away from my jacket.
  
  'Reynaldo told you where the film was,' the big man continued.
  
  'Bovet made a deal with me,' I said.
  
  'Mr Bovet gave you your life for the information on Reynaldo,' the big man said. 'That's all. He says not to kill you now, if you cooperate.'
  
  'Cooperate in what way?' I said, knowing the answer already.
  
  There was that ugly grin again. 'Mr Bovet wants that film. He says he's entitled because Reynaldo held out on him. Of course, he'll sell it back to you for the right price, if you can come up with it. There might be other offers.'
  
  I sighed, thinking: Here we go again. 'I didn't find the film,' I said.
  
  The small man shook his head and called me a liar in Arabic.
  
  The film's in your pocket,' the big man said. 'We saw you put it there. Just hand it over and there won't be any shooting.'
  
  I wasn't about to give up that microfilm now, certainly not to an international gang of hoodlums.
  
  'All right, it looks as if I have no choice,' I said.
  
  That's right, Mister Carter,' the big man said.
  
  I reached into my pocket for the microfilm at the same time taking two steps toward them. The big man held his free hand out, careful to keep the Magnum pointed at my chest with the other. I had to move across in front of the little Arab to get to him.
  
  'Just hand the film over and you'll be okay,' the big man assured me.
  
  I wondered. At any rate, I did not intend to find out. I took my empty but closed fist out of the pocket. I was right in front of the short Arab now, and his revolver was following my every move. But I had to take the chance.
  
  I opened the empty fist suddenly and grabbed at the gun hand of the little Arab, twisting away from the line of fire. The sound of the shot filled the stone room as the slug caromed off the sarcophagus behind me and hit the wall.
  
  I had a firm grip on the gunman's hand now and jerked him off his feet, putting him between me and the big guy with the Magnum. The little Arab's gun went off again, the bullet hitting the floor. Just then the big guy fired, trying to put one into my chest. The little Arab yelled as the slug tore into his left arm instead. The big man swore as I now shoved the little Arab into him, knocking him temporarily off balance.
  
  I dived for the end of the sarcophagus, hoping to use it for cover. The big man fired two more shots as I scrambled for momentary safety. The first chipped the sarcophagus, the second tore the heel off my right shoe.
  
  'I'll get you, Carter!' The big man meant business. He had been very disappointed that day at Thinman's place when Bovet called him off. Now he was going to make up for it.
  
  I heard his footsteps, coming around the sarcophagus. There was no time for the Luger. I moved my right forearm and Hugo slipped into my palm.
  
  The big man rounded the corner of the sarcophagus, massive and mean-faced, the Magnum clutched in his ham hand. He spotted me and aimed, and I pressed up against the coffin. The gun exploded and I heard the bullet chew the floor beside me. He had fired wildly and my luck had held. I flung my right arm out straight in front of me, releasing Hugo. The stiletto snaked silently through the air and thudded low into the big man's chest.
  
  Surprise flooded into his eyes. He grabbed in automatic response at the cold steel in him. The Magnum roared out three more times as he stumbled forward and fell heavily against the lid of the coffin.
  
  Just in time I heard a sound behind me. I whirled to see the little Arab, his wounded arm hanging limply at his side, aim his revolver at me from the other end of the sarcophagus. I rolled away from the stone base as he fired, grabbing for Wilhelmina as I moved. I came up firing a thunderous response to the revolver.
  
  I fired three times. The first shot struck the wall a foot above the Arab's head. The second tore a groove in his left cheek, and the third entered his chest. That slug picked him up and slammed him against the wall He dropped to the floor out of sight.
  
  There was some soft muttering in Arabic. Then the small Arab was on his feet, moving toward the doorway to the burial chamber. He turned weakly and fired a shot back toward me, to cover his retreat. But as he reached the doorway, I fired the Luger again and caught him at the base of the spine. He jerked as if pulled by some invisible wire. I moved around the sarcophagus and took a look. The little Arab's body twitched once and was still.
  
  I went back to the big man and pulled the stiletto from his chest. I cleaned it on his jacket and returned it to its sheath. 'You should have quit while you were ahead,' I told the corpse.
  
  Then I heard Fayeh calling: 'Nick!'
  
  I turned just as she entered the burial chamber. She moved past the first corpse, giving it a startled look, and came over to me and my second victim.
  
  The New Brotherhood?' she asked.
  
  That's right. Bovet got greedy when he got to thinking about the value of the film.'
  
  'And you have it?'
  
  I took the film from my pocket and held it out for her to see. 'That's wonderful, Nick!' she said, smiling.
  
  'Did you see any other New Brotherhood men in the corridors?' I asked her.
  
  'No, I didn't see anyone at all. And I suspect Bovet will give up on the film after this. He does not really want to get into a running fight with the U.S. government.'
  
  'If that's true, this mission begins to look like a success,' I said, holstering the Luger. 'Come on, let's get out of here while our luck is still running good.'
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  When we reached the entrance of the tomb, squinting against a bright sun, everything was quiet. There were no guards nearby, and the depth of the burial chamber must have muffled the sound of the shooting. We went straight to the Alfa Romeo and climbed in.
  
  As we drove away from the Valley of the Kings, I began to relax a little. It had been a nasty assignment, but it had ended well. I had the microfilm, and I had my health. I thought of the attaché case I had stashed in the luggage compartment earlier, just in case, and was glad to know I wouldn't need it now.
  
  I was still in this triumphal state, feeling smug about myself and the way I had handled a tough case, explaining to Fayeh how important the film was to the free world, etc., etc., when it happened. We rounded a rocky turn in the dirt road and almost ran into a black Mercedes 350 SL parked across the road so that it was impossible to get around it.
  
  Slamming on the brakes, I skidded to a dusty stop just a few feet from the Mercedes. When the dust cleared, I saw three men standing around the big black car. My jaw dropped slightly. It was Yuri Lyalin and the two Arab goons he had used to rough me up. Lyalin was holding his Mauser automatic and the Arabs each held a snub-nosed revolver. All the weapons were aimed at my head.
  
  'Goddam!' I muttered. 'The goddam Russians.' Fayeh just stared at the trio. 'I am sorry, Nick.'
  
  Lyalin was yelling at us as I sat there deciding what to do. 'Come on out of there, Carter. You must not disappoint me now. This is what I kept you alive for.'
  
  'You had better do what he says, Nick,' Fayeh said softly.
  
  If I gunned the engine and headed straight for them, I might get one, maybe two, but I could not get around that mammoth car. I was so angry suddenly, so frustrated, I couldn't think straight. Finally I switched the engine off.
  
  'All right,' I said to the girl. 'Let's oblige the KGB.'
  
  We got out of the car, and Lyalin waved us forward with his Mauser. I looked down its muzzle and it was like looking into the mouth of my own Luger. I knew its power and efficiency. The Arab goons held their revolvers tightly, eager to use them. I saw no escape.
  
  'So it works out the way you planned,' I said to Lyalin.
  
  'That is right, Mr AXEman,' he said, grinning tightly. 'You discovered where the film was and led us to it. We had merely to wait and let you do all the work for us.'
  
  He was gloating, and I hate gloaters.
  
  'Now, the film, please.'
  
  I sighed heavily and glanced at Fayeh. She looked down at the ground. We had been through a lot, she and I, but it looked as if we had lost the game in a double overtime. I dug into my pocket for the film, took a last look at the package and handed it to Lyalin.
  
  He took it carefully. Holstering the Mauser, he unwrapped the film and took a close look at it. I swallowed hard. There were only two guns on me now. And Lyalin would probably kill me anyway before he left this place. There was Fayeh to think about, but her safety did not come before the mission. Maybe she would be able to come up with the Beretta I'd recovered from Reynaldo in time to save both of us.
  
  I made my move. While Lyalin was holding the film up to the light, I took one step forward, putting him between me and the far gunman and myself within reach of the closest one. Suddenly and savagely I kicked out at his gun hand. The gun went off over my head and the goon staggered back against the hood of the Mercedes. While that was happening, I threw myself at Lyalin. He had started to go for the Mauser but didn't make it. I grabbed him and pulled him to me, trying to keep him between me and the other Arab.
  
  The first gunman was recovering and still held his gun. The other one was moving around to get a shot at me. Lyalin and I were in a death struggle, my hands at his throat and his fingers going for my eyes.
  
  'The Beretta!' I yelled to Fayeh.
  
  I held onto Lyalin and shoved him toward the gunman trying to get a bead on me. Struck by our combined weight, he momentarily lost his footing. But the other man, I knew, was now behind me. In about a second I'd have a ragged hole in my back.
  
  Pulling hard on Lyalin's shoulders, I dragged him to the ground on top of me. Now it was going to be tougher for either gunman to hit me without hitting Lyalin.
  
  'Give it up, damn you!' he gritted out, punching at my side with an elbow.
  
  I was only fighting for time. If Fayeh could get the Beretta into play, she could turn the tables in our favor. If not, it was all over. I saw her out of the corner of my eye and thankfully she had the gun out!
  
  'Shoot that damned thing!' I yelled.
  
  Lyalin managed to speak despite my hold on his throat. 'Stop him,' he said, and he was looking toward Fayeh.
  
  And Fayeh, that sensuous beauty with the seductive smile, moved forward and aimed the Beretta at my head. 'Let go of him, Nick.'
  
  I stared into that lovely face. Slowly I released Lyalin. He moved off me, rubbing his throat I kept staring at that Beretta.
  
  'I am sorry, Nick,' the girl said quietly.
  
  Lyalin had recovered the microfilm and was sticking it into his pocket. 'Yes, Carter. Fayeh is KGB. Oh, she does some work for Interpol occasionally too. But her first loyalty is to the Soviet Union. Isn't that right, Fayeh, dear?'
  
  Slowly, I rose to my feet. Fayeh stood there glumly, not answering Lyalin. Some things were coming back to me now. She had not been very eager to go after Reynaldo when I told her he was the one who had the microfilm. And she had not been bothered by Kam's death. Now I knew why, because I had eliminated part of the KGB's competition. And there were other things.
  
  'You tried to kill Reynaldo last night,' I said to her. 'Because you knew that with him dead, nobody could ever find the microfilm.'
  
  'Nick, I…'
  
  The two hired guns moved close to me now. The one I'd roughed up glanced at Lyalin, who was brushing his suit off.
  
  'Let me kill him,' the Arab said.
  
  Lyalin almost allowed himself a smile. 'Do you see how eager my comrades are to dispose of you?' He came over to me and frisked me, relieving me of Wilhelmina and Hugo. He threw them on the ground near the Alfa Romeo. Then he turned back to me and slammed a fist into my face.
  
  I landed in the dirt, dazed. My nose felt as if it were broken. The man had quite a punch. I hated him a little more, sitting there on the ground.
  
  'That is for the trouble you have caused me and for my sore neck,' he said, touching his throat where I had choked him moments before. Then he moved closer and, before I could react, kicked me in the side of the face and head.
  
  Tearing pain exploded inside me. I tried to focus on Lyalin but he was a blur above me.
  
  I heard Fayeh say: 'Don't!'
  
  Lyalin moved away from me and my vision cleared somewhat. I saw him give Fayeh a dark look.
  
  'Kill him,' he ordered.
  
  Fayeh turned to him quickly. 'No,' she said.
  
  I struggled up on one elbow, my head still spinning.
  
  'I said, kill him!' Lyalin shouted.
  
  'One of them can do it.' She waved at the two Arabs.
  
  'No. You must do it.'
  
  I could see well enough now, and I watched numbly as Fayeh moved slowly toward me, holding the Beretta out in front of her. Her face was grim, her eyes wide. And then I saw the tears slipping at the corners of those eyes. Tears such as I had seen the last time we had made love. Now I understood. She raised the ivory-handled automatic up until it was aimed directly at my chest.
  
  'Oh, my God!' she said.
  
  Then she pulled the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twelve
  
  
  
  
  The slug slammed into me hard. I felt a sharp pain just above the heart and hit the ground. Fayeh had shot me. She had really shot me.
  
  Not much more came through to me. There was cool blackness and there were the sounds of the four of them getting into the Mercedes and the roar of the engine as they pulled away.
  
  The blackness receded again and that surprised me. Another surprise was the absence of a hot ball of fire inside my chest, sending me into shock, killing me.
  
  I found, eventually, that I could move. Slowly I opened my eyes and stared up into the hot sun. A goddam miracle had happened. I hoisted myself painfully onto one elbow and put my hand on my chest where the hole should have been. Then I realized what had gone wrong — or, rather, right.
  
  I reached into my jacket pocket, the right breast pocket, and pulled out the thick guidebook for the tombs. A ragged hole marred its cover, extending through the book. The .25 calibre slug stuck out about a quarter of an inch from the back of the book. I dropped the book and gingerly opened my shirt. There was a big red welt where the skin had been broken by the protruding edge of the slug. I would have a deep bruise, but the guidebook had saved my life.
  
  I remembered how Fayeh had tried to talk me out of buying the book, saying she could tell me what I needed to know. I laughed now, a weak laugh. It was crazy the way things turned out sometimes.
  
  Slowly I got to my feet. My head was pounding from the kick Lyalin had given me. Lyalin. The damned microfilm. I had to follow them. I had to find Lyalin before he destroyed the film.
  
  Wilhelmina and Hugo lay on the ground where Lyalin had tossed them.
  
  Retrieving the Luger and the stiletto, I moved to the Alfa and climbed into it. I checked out the Luger and it was sand-clogged. I swore under my breath until I remembered the attaché case in the luggage compartment with the Buntline custom job. Maybe, under the circumstances, that would be the best weapon anyway.
  
  I started the engine of the Alfa and put it in gear. The little GT raised a big cloud of dust as it roared away.
  
  It must have been five miles before I came to the split in the road. One way led to Luxor and the other led toward the coast across the Egyptian Desert. I got out and studied the ground; I spotted the Mercedes' tire tracks. Lyalin had headed into the desert. He was aiming for Port Safaga where he would probably rendezvous with a Russian freighter. But not if I could help it.
  
  The Alfa roared onto the desert road. At first the road was good but then it deteriorated into a track that got worse and worse. There were deep drifts of sand, and the Alfa, low-slung as it was, had to be babied through them. A Mercedes would have less trouble. Eventually I had to go into low gear for power.
  
  By noon the tracks of the Mercedes were getting fresher, but the sun was getting unbearable. The outside metal of the car was too hot to touch, and I was feeling the effects of all I had been through earlier. I gripped the sweat-slippery wheel as the car bumped along, squinted through the dusty windshield at the heat waves rising off the sand and making the landscape slither about and wondered what this desert must be like in the summer. Then I spotted something at the side of the track.
  
  I couldn't make out what it was at first through the heat waves. It might have been a part of a car or a pile of old rags. Then, as I drew nearer, I could make out its shape better. I stared. It wasn't something but someone. A figure lying still on the sand. A woman…?'
  
  Another moment and I reached it. I got out of the car and walked over to the side of the track and stared down at the figure grimly, swallowing painfully. It was Fayeh.
  
  They had killed her. Part of her clothing had been torn off in a violent struggle and there was a ragged wound in her side under the ribs. One of them had stuck a knife in there.
  
  I breathed a long weary sigh. I remembered her warm body moving undermine, the flashing eyes — and the way she had cried before she pulled the trigger on the Beretta. Now she looked like a broken circus doll.
  
  She had made a fatal mistake with Lyalin. She had shown a reluctance to kill me. She had even shed tears. Lyalin did not want people around him who were capable of crying.
  
  Getting back into the Alfa, I found myself wondering whether Fayeh, the beautiful Fayeh, had remembered the guidebook in my pocket and aimed for it when she shot. It was something I would never know. I looked up into the sky and saw the vultures gathering already, pirouetting silently. And I swore because I did not have the time to bury her.
  
  Another half hour of driving and I saw a wavy speck on the horizon ahead. As I closed the distance, the speck became a shimmery blob, then the blob became a car. The black Mercedes.
  
  I gunned the engine. The Alfa lurched ahead through the sand. There was a good stretch in front of me and I intended to close the distance. As I pushed hard on the accelerator, it occurred to me that Lyalin might already have destroyed the film. But it wasn't likely. His superiors would undoubtedly want tangible proof that it had been recovered.
  
  When I had closed to within a hundred yards of the Mercedes, it stopped. Lyalin and the two gunmen got out and watched me come on. They probably couldn't believe their eyes. When I pulled to a dusty stop just eighty yards away and got out, I could see, even at that distance, the disbelieving look on Lyalin's face.
  
  'That's right, Lyalin!' I yelled. It's me! You'd better do your own killing from now on!'
  
  They opened the doors of the Mercedes for cover and stood behind them, even though they were pretty much out of range.
  
  'I don't know how you survived, Carter,' Lyalin yelled back at me. 'But you have nothing to gain here but another bullet. There are still three of us. You cannot possibly retrieve the film.'
  
  So he still had it. Just as I had figured. But the man was right. I had three-to-one odds against me and they were professionals. No sane man would have backed my chances.
  
  I moved to the rear of the Alfa and opened the luggage compartment. Inside lay the attaché case. I opened it quickly and grabbed the Buntline. Carefully I screwed the two pieces together and sighted down the foot-and-a-half barrel. Then I grabbed the Belgian pistol carbine stock, snapped it onto the butt of the .357 Magnum revolver and screwed it on tight I loaded the big gun quickly, jammed Pierre the cyanide gas pellet-bomb into a pocket and moved to the front of the car.
  
  The Arabs popped off a couple of shots at me. One fell short, spraying sand, and the other grazed the fender of the car weakly. They were too far off, and now they knew it.
  
  Lyalin waved his hand at them. They started moving toward me, one on either side of the track. As they got closer, they would flank me, get me in a crossfire. They did not know about the Buntline.
  
  I knelt behind the open door of the Alfa and laid the barrel of the long custom revolver on the hot metal. Sweat was running down my face from my hairline. I shook it away and sighted down the long barrel toward the Arab on the right, the one who had been so eager to put a hole in me. I snugged the rifle-type stock hard against my shoulder, found the gunman in the sights of the Buntline and squeezed the trigger.
  
  The man literally jumped into the air, twisting in a tight circle and was thrown violently to the ground, a big hole in his back where the slug had gone through. He was already dead when he hit the sand.
  
  The other gunman stopped in his tracks. Lyalin looked from the dead man to me. The surviving Arab also looked at me, back at Lyalin and then at me again. Then he turned and ran back toward the Mercedes. He reached the car before I could get him in the sights.
  
  The Arab crouched behind the car, gesturing wildly to Lyalin. They were pretty well covered now. I noticed a rise of dune over to the left of the track, a little closer to them. That would give me some high ground to shoot from. I took a deep breath and started running.
  
  Their guns went off simultaneously. Slugs dug up the sand all around me. But I kept running, and finally I was there. I dived behind the dune as a shot scattered sand inches from my head.
  
  Getting up onto my elbows, the Buntline cradled in front of me, I looked down on them. They had moved to the opposite side of the Mercedes.
  
  'Move in and I will destroy the film!' Lyalin yelled.
  
  I made a face lying there. What choice did I have? The Arab fired a round at my head and missed. I glanced to my left and saw a slightly better sand dune with a steeper incline for cover. I got up and ran for it. Again shots dug up sand all around me, and again I managed to reach cover without getting hit.
  
  I took another look. Lyalin tired at me and missed by an inch. The Arab, emboldened by this, raised up slightly to take another shot himself. I found his chest in the sights of the long barrel and fired. He screamed and fell backward, disappearing behind the car.
  
  I saw Lyalin look down at the man. Then he looked back toward me. I could tell from his expression that his last goon was dead. He fired off two quick rounds at me and I squeezed off another shot. He jerked backward, bit in the shoulder.
  
  'That's the one you said I owed you,' I warned him.
  
  'Damn you, Carter!' he shouted. 'I will destroy the film, and you will have lost!'
  
  He climbed into the car from the other side, then reached over and pulled the door closed on my side. I did not know what he was going to do in there, but I had to act fast to stop him.
  
  I got to my feet and ran to a small hillock of sand about halfway to the car. A shot rang out from inside the car and tugged at my trouser leg. I hit the sand; now I could see into the car.
  
  It was clear what Lyalin was doing in there. He was holding the cigarette lighter in on the instrument panel. In a moment he would put it to the film.
  
  I fired into the car, but Lyalin kept low and I couldn't hit him. I reached into my pocket for Pierre, the gas pellet. It was my only chance now. I pulled a small pin in the pellet's side, took careful aim and lobbed it toward the Mercedes' open window. It made a high arcing loop and disappeared inside.
  
  Smoky gas filled the car in seconds. I heard Lyalin gasping and choking. Then the door opened and he staggered out, firing the Mauser as he came. He fired three times and all three slugs dug into the sand in front of me. I responded with a round from the Buntline. Lyalin was hit in the chest and thrown violently back against the car. His eyes went wide with shock, then he slid to the ground.
  
  I moved from cover carefully. When I got to Lyalin, I took one look and knew he was dead. The gas was clearing from the car now, but I did not have to go into the Mercedes for the microfilm anyway. Lyalin still clutched it in his left hand.
  
  I took the film from the death grasp of the KGB man and looked at it for a long moment. I wondered whether it was worth what it had cost.
  
  Stuffing the film into my pocket, I walked slowly back to the Alfa, glinting in the desert sun. I still had a job to do, one last task on this assignment before I could consider it finished. I had to return to Fayeh. No matter what had happened, whether or not she had remembered the guidebook when she pulled the trigger on that Beretta, I was going back to bury her.
  
  I figured I owed her that.
  
  
  
  
  
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