Mysterious Cairo (12 page)

He rocked for a minute and then the damage finally took its toll. He went down in a heap at my feet. It took me a minute to find a part of him that had a pulse, but he would live. Some guys, like the Whisper, would have hauled his miserable carcass to the window and let him bounce off the pavement. I don't work that way. Why make life tough for streetcleaners?

I took a few seconds to get my breath and then found a light switch. The place was a disaster area — blood and corpses everywhere, gaping holes in the wall and floor, broken glass all over the place. The maid was going to have a fit in the morning.

Montaigne was at the foot of the bed. He'd been worked over, but he was still breathing, barely. I stuck a pillow under his head and got a glass of water from the sink. The wet stuff revived him and he started groaning.

"You should hang around with a nicer crowd, pally," I said. "These guys play rough."

He looked hard at me and then tried to rise. "You are McMasters!" he said. "There is ... so little time. It may already be . too late ."

It was too late for him, I could see that. He coughed up a little blood. "Wanted to warn you . they want blood on your hands . the Scarab .

I shook him, trying to keep him awake. "What about the Scarab? What are you talking about?"

"You will be their weapon . all of you . fanatics ... I told them it was not our way, but they wouldn't listen. I went along at first, but then . Tonight . midnight ... 'Peace Through God' ... you must stop them, Scarab ."

He was gone — and he had known my identity. He'd come to Sadi trying to tip me off, but Malraux's goons found him first. Were they behind this? I needed to get out of this slaughterhouse, get some time to think.

I picked up my gun and went out the way I came. Somebody would report the stiffs in the morning, but nobody would make too much effort to find out who killed four "enemies of the Pharaoh."

I was on my to find a cab when I heard the newsboy hollering. "Extry! Extry! Get'cher
Clarion!
Mystery Men maul Malraux! Fighters foil Frenchmen! Get'cher paper!"

I tossed the kid a coin and grabbed a handful of news. Up to now, I'd felt as blind as those cyberpriests after the big flash — suddenly, things were starting to clear up, and they looked like hell.

The story was short and sweet: costumed vigilantes were trashing Cyberpapal fronts all over the Empire. The Guardian had slain the French ambassador in Thebes — the Whisper had blown up a secret cyberware factory in Luxor, killing everyone inside — Justice had aced three deep-cover agents for Malraux working out of Khartoum. The government had no comment, but given Mobius' hatred for the Cyberpope, he was probably dancing for joy.

I ran for the nearest pay phone and called Sadi, waking her up. There were pieces missing, but with her memory for people and places, she might be able to fill them in.

"Sadi, what do you know about some outfit called 'Peace Through God?'"

She hesitated a minute, and then said, "What? Um ... 'Peace Through God' is a group of clerics who claim religion is the answer to all the world's problems. They're based in Brazil, but they're a front for Malraux. What time is it, Rex . ?"

"Later than you think," I said. "Listen, do these guys have a base in Cairo?"

"I don't . wait, yes, they do! It was in the paper — Al Nil Street, near the hospital! The head of their group, Father Montes, is visiting this week. Rex, do you need help?"

Al Nil wasn't far from where I was, but I still wasn't sure how big this thing might be. I figured I better let someone else in on it. I gave Sadi what I'd put together so far, and then said, "Get on the horn to Dr. Frest. He always knows how to get ahold of the union-suit brigade. If I'm right, they've had their uniforms and gizmos stolen, too. The whole thing was a set-up to bring Malraux down on top of us, and so far it's worked like a charm."

"But who is behind this?"

"I don't know yet, angel. But Father Montes is going to get a visit from the Silver Scarab tonight, and if I don't get there in time, my alter ego is going to be wanted for murder by morning."

* * *

Malraux's Boy Scout brigade had renovated a three-story slum building a stone's throw from the Aguza Hospital and turned it into their private clubhouse. I looked at my watch — ten minutes to midnight, and the place was quiet as a tomb. One light burned on the top floor and every now and then a man passed in front of the window. Pacing, probably working on a sermon, and more than likely about to be deep-fried.

There were a couple of things I could be sure of: the cops would be here soon, because without witnesses to the killing, the whole point would be lost; and the fake Scarab would have an escape route all planned out. It wouldn't do to have him captured, especially if a heavy French accent exposed him as a fake.

I tried to put myself in his boots. The heat would block off both ends of Al Nil and probably have motor launches on the El Bahr too. There were always the alleys, but I doubted my counterpart knew them well enough to risk an escape. That left —

The rooftops.

I started looking for a way up, but the old firetrap didn't have a ladder on the side. It must have rusted and collapsed and nobody bothered to replace it. Time was running out. It looked like I would have to take the long route.

I dashed up the steps and started banging on the door like all the demons of Hell were after me. A few seconds later, an old geezer in a robe opened it up and started babbling n French.

"You have to let me in," I said, cutting him off. "I'm with the police. There's going to be a murder here!"

The word "murder" shut him up long enough for me to push past him and head for the stairs. He tried to stop me, but he was too slow. By the time he roused the rest of the house, I'd be where I was going.

I reached the third floor landing and ran for the door with light streaming out from under it. I was gambling that he was the one still awake, and if I was wrong, there'd be no time to guess again.

The door was locked. I could hear the rest of the priesthood racing up the stairs after me. I put some shoulder into it and knocked the old door off its frame.

My hunch had paid off. The priest facing me — gun in hand — was asking who the hell I was in Spanish. I was about to explain when I saw a flash of silver outside the window. I dove for Montes as his gun went off, the bullet creasing the side of my skull. We hit the ground just as I heard a familiar sound from the window.

A bolt of lightning shot across the room and blew a hole in the wall, scattering Montes' followers to hell and gone. The idiot had the Sting turned up all the way! Montes would have been barbecued.

I couldn't give the impostor a chance to fire again. I wrenched the priest's gun from his hand and fired twice at the window. I could hear sirens in the distance — I had to hope the ersatz Scarab would have the sense to give up on Montes and make a break for it.

The priests were regaining their courage and starting to make noises about grabbing me. I scrambled to my feet and poked my head out the broken window, just in time to see a guy clad in silver and red climbing a rope ladder toward the roof.

I grabbed for the last rung and was up to the ledge before he had time to unhook the ladder. He greeted me with a wicked kick to the head that almost made me lose my grip. Then he was running like an Olympic sprinter across the roof.

Forcing the canaries in my brain back into their nests, I started after him. Spotlights were starting to pierce the air now and cops on megaphones were asking us politely to let them lock us up and throw away the key. I saw the guy in the Scarab suit hesitate for a split second and then leap across the abyss to the next building.

I followed, though not quite as gracefully. He was heading south toward the October bridge—if he made it across the El Bahr, he could lose himself on the grounds of the Gezira Racing Club. If he shed the costume, I'd never be able to pick him out of the crowds.

I had to make up some ground, fast. He was about to leap another alley. I took careful aim and blasted some of the masonry off the ledge he was fixing to land on. It rattled him—he tried to twist in mid-air and wrenched his left arm grabbing hold of the building. I was closing the gap and made the jump just as he was pulling himself onto the roof.

I aimed for the bad shoulder and connected. He went down, but caught my legs with a kick and brought me with him. He smashed me once, twice in the face, but I shook it off and head-butted him. He might have been a better fighter on paper, but he hadn't grown up on the back streets of Chicago, that much was certain.

Cops were barking orders. They'd be taking to the roofs themselves pretty soon and be sitting ducks if he decided to cut loose with the Sting. I made a grab for the gun, but he wasn't having any — he pulled my arm practically out of the socket and smashed it against the roof. I wrapped my other arm around his neck and yanked, a little trick I picked up from "Diamond Jack." He always said it made them pass out or get taller, he couldn't remember which.

He let me have my arm back. I put it to good use around his kidneys, and he responded with an elbow to my gut that made me wish I'd skipped dinner. He was free now while I was still trying to get my wind back. He ran back the way he had come and peered over the ledge. Next thing I knew, he used my gizmo to melt the bolts that held the fire escape to the wall. I heard the screams of the cops who must have been climbing it and then a horrible crash.

He started past me and I staggered to my feet. I had to make one more try to stop him, but the flesh was weak. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, only to see the Sting pointing at me. He seemed to think twice about it. Then he fired, and what felt like enough electricity to light a small city shot through my body.

The darkness, when it came, was a relief.

The first thing I noticed when I awoke was the smell
— a musty scent, like no one had been in the room for days. I had expected to see harps and Joes with wings when my eyes opened, but didn't. And though I felt like a boiled lobster, it wasn't anywhere near hot enough to be Hell. Instead I seemed to be in the back room of a warehouse, the one where defective junk gets tossed. It seemed somehow appropriate.

Standing over me was a linebacker with a haircut that went out sometime around 1400. He was wearing some kind of chain mail and carrying a sword big enough to be a toothpick for a borr aka. My throat was parched
— I managed to croak out a request for water and Sir Lancelot poured me a tin cup full.

"Nice costume," I said when I had drained the mug. "What time's the party?"

He didn't crack a smile. Either he didn't speak English, or he had no appreciation for my wit. It might have been both.

He opened the door a crack and made some kind of signal. An old guy I took to be a sawbones came in a minute later and looked me over. "You are very lucky, my son," he said as he helped me up. "Only a few minor burns. If Alain had not recognized you at the last moment . well, he can be a bit overzealous at times."

"Where the hell am I?" I asked. "Who are you people? What's with the masquerade costumes?"

He smiled and shook his head. "You will have your answers. We have no choice, now. When it is done, you will understand why it had to be."

The doc led me out of my "cell" and into the huge warehouse. It had been converted into a barracks of sorts—mats of straw everywhere, guys who looked like they had walked out of a King Arthur movie polishing swords and axes.

"If all goes well, you will get your costume and equipment back when you leave here. We regret having to resort to theft, but —"

"There is no need to apologize, old one," said a rich, commanding voice from behind us. "Monsieur McMasters' wares were needed in the service of a higher cause."

We both turned. Standing before us, decked out like the rest in medieval clothing, was the beggar I had saved from Sam Burke the morning of the break-in. Cleaned up, he looked imposing, and there was a gleam in his eye I didn't like at all. I had found Montaigne's "fanatics."

There was one other little thing I noticed. My friend, the beggar, was standing up on the legs that had been useless the day before. Not only that, they looked like flesh and blood limbs, not cyberware.

He caught my glance and smiled. "The metallic legs are part of a little charade I perform. You will find very little of the Antipope's unholy works here — we do not traffic in tools that corrupt the spirit."

He beckoned me over to a table where some fruit and wine was laid out. I started making notes for a possible escape. There were two swordsmen dogging my footsteps. The main entrance and loading bay of the warehouse were barred and heavily guarded. There was a catwalk running around the place, but it too was manned by members of this private army. True, they were all carrying weapons more suited for Aysle than here, but they'd be enough against one unarmed guy. The only things that looked interesting were the pipes running alongside the walls and my costume hanging on a hook above the catwalk.

"My name is Leroux," my "host" said as we sat down. I was growing royally sick of French accents. "I bid you welcome to the Egyptian home of the Order of the Temple. I am the Grand Master of this particular group, and you are welcome in our company."

It had the feel of a rehearsed speech. "I can't say I think much of your way of extending an invite, pal," I said. "Why didn't you just send me a telegram?"