Mysterious Cairo (14 page)

Turning, I kicked out at the two stunned agents, and the rest became a blur. I saw two men go down, one with his eyes gouged out and the other with a bullet in his brain. I didn't care; I kept screaming.

It didn't help.

Mercifully, my memory skipped forward. I was holding Mai Li's body tight against my body. Rocking back and forth in the mud and trash of the Tokyo alley, the Shiki found me, splashing my face with water in an effort to wake me from my grief —

— water splashed into my face, and I forced the recurring memory back into my subconscious.

I found I was in my office in Cairo, tied to my chair. My desk had been ransacked and my files half-heartedly searched. The two culprits looked down at me, one from in front and one from the side.

The one in front spoke first, a greasy smile on his lips, "Ah, you awake, Mr. Reynolds. I am pleased." He put a glass back on my desk. I guess that's where the water came from.

I smiled a genuine smile at him. I could see it upset him, but my nightmares are worse than any reality Den "Iniquity" Abhibe could inflict upon me. He and his bodyguard with the tommy-gun scared me less then my own memories.

Den hid his surprise well and shot me another grin, "I am also glad you seem pleased to see me, Mr. Reynolds; I was afraid of a less warm reception." He gestured at the goon with the gun who, reminiscent of a trained gorilla, shuffled back into a corner of my office. His gun barrel never strayed from my body, unfortunately.

"Well, Mr. Abhibe; at least you had the courtesy to pick me up off the floor." He smiled.

"I'm sure you'd do the same for me, were our positions reversed."

Damn Nile reality, but I couldn't stop myself, "Nah, I usually leave trash where it lies."

Den's rancid grin vanished and the scar on his face flared red. Other than that, though, he gave no sign.

His trained gorilla, however, was well-trained. He stepped forward and introduced Mr. Face to the backside of Mr. Hand.

I didn't lose consciousness (or any teeth, I'm glad to say), but the room swam for a moment. I missed the next few lines — which I figure was just as well.

" ... any more of that, Mr. Reynolds. I am here on an important errand and I do not wish to remain any longer than I have to."

Only the cool barrel of a gun against my neck let me choke back the next two replies that came into my head. "Okay, Den; I give up. What 'errand' are you here to perform?"

Don't get me wrong. I was pretty sure I knew why Den Abhibe was gracing my office with his presence. As Max Burban's lieutenant, I'm sure he was one of those most concerned with watching Mrs. Jennie Burban — for more reasons than most males had, anyway. And, since Jennie had just spent the last half hour or so bending my ear about the disappearance of her husband, it wasn't surprising that Den was next to arrive. In fact, I remember worrying about that very sort of thing while I was talking to the lovely Mrs. Burban.

It's good to see my instincts are still good.

Anyway, while I hadn't bought Jennie's story for wholesale, Den's entrance was a good indicator of truth. While it was likely that he would turn up looking for Jennie (crime bosses are notorious for paying minimal personal attention to their wives but also for having them watched every minute of their lives to see that nobody else pays them any
personal
attention either), I figured that having me tied up and questioned was a little excessive.

If he thought Jennie and I had something going, I'd be dead already.

Den sat in the only other chair I had in my office and ran his forefinger over the cheap carving on the arm and sighed. Apparently, that was another signal, 'cause the gun barrel moved and big, gruesome and dangerous backed into the corner again.

Sighing again, the Arab gangster looked at the ceiling, "Actually, Mr. Reynolds — may I call you Jack? — I was wondering if you could tell
me
that."

Ah, these Terran games ... "Mr. Abhibe, I am certain I have
no
idea whatsoever. Oh, and my friends call me Jack."

He smiled, "Well, Jack —"

"I said my
friends."

Holding up a hand to forestall my reacquaintance with any other parts of his gorilla's anatomy, Den grinned evilly. He met my assumed languid gaze with a steady stare of his own. My face throbbed and my head ached. "I hope to
become
one of your friends, Mr. Reynolds; all I need are some simple answers."

It was at that point I knew I was in trouble. When they stop responding to your baits and start acting friendly, you know one of these gangsters has you by the short hairs. I started to sweat. Still meeting Abhibe's eyes, I used my fingers to examine my bonds.

I was tied by my phone cord, I could tell. That was good. While it was wire surrounded by fabric, it was designed to stretch a little bit. If I could — gradually, without attracting Den's or Mr. Gruesome's attention — pull and twist (and sweat, that won't hurt), the wire would eventually give me enough slack to slip out. My feet weren't tied, and I had a thirty-eight in the drawer. Maybe —

Den broke in, "So, Mr. Reynolds; are you ready to be reasonable?"

I started working and I said, "put a royal on my desk."

Looking at me quizzically, Den reached in his suit pocket —
damn; he's packing —
and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and pulled out a five-royal note. He shrugged as if to say "it's the smallest I have" and placed it on my desk.

"Okay, Mr. Abhibe; you've hired me. Ask your questions." The gangster smiled in comprehension and I could tell my trick worked — he relaxed almost imperceptibly. I could see, out of the corner of my eye, that the gorilla noticed too; he let his gun barrel dip a little bit.

I kept working on my bonds.

"It is nice to see you can be reasonable, Mr. Reynolds," the crime lieutenant said, leaning back in his chair, "truly, I was beginning to become concerned."

I put some irony in my voice, "Hey, Mr. Abhibe; I'm sure you can understand
professional
ethics."
If nothing else, you slimy bastard.

He laughed at my joke and leaned forward, "Indeed, Mr. Reynolds; that is why I am here.

It seems that a member of our ...
family
has, for some time, been unhappy with her position. This is unfortunate and, under normal circumstances, this would not be a problem." Den leaned back again and took out a gold cigarette case. Opening it, he removed a Camel

— of course —
tapped it on the case, and put it in his mouth. Instantly, his "bodyguard" came forward with a lit match, and he puffed contentedly for a few seconds. The bodyguard stepped back and I used my time for a few more wrist-straining exercises.

"Unfortunately," he continued, "this person is in a ... sensitive area of our operation. She cannot be simply 'let go' and management does not wish to serve her with walking papers."

That's a new bit of slang the Terrans picked up from us Earthers. Somehow, they determined that "giving someone their walking papers" was a polite way of saying "put a contract out on them."

Cute.

"She is — how do you say? —
indispensible
to our organization."

"Indispensible," I enunciated. Den let it slide. I wondered how much trouble I was really in.

He blew smoke in my direction and his eyes became hard again, "In case you hadn't figured it out; that person is Mrs. Burban."

"Hey; I'm a detective, Abhibe." I immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. It just reminded him to be careful.

Again, though, he continued blithely on. "For some time now, Mrs. Burban has had nothing good to say to or about her husband. 'Mr. Burban is too involved in his business.' 'Mr. Burban is too inattentive.' 'We never go out.' 'We shouldn't have moved here.'"

It was so hilarious hearing one of the most dangerous men in Cairo parroting stereotypical housewife complaints that I had to chuckle. This proved to be a lucky break.

"Indeed, Mr. Reynolds," Den laughed, jabbing his cigarette in my direction, "I find it amusing, also. Max Burban, the greatest boss —
entrepreneur
in Cairo cannot control a mere woman." We shared a brief moment of levity. I worked at my bonds and wondered if Den suspected how little I believed his line.

"So," he began again, "Mrs. Burban has taken it upon herself to ... inconvenience my employer." He puffed again on his cigarette and looked for an ashtray. I shrugged. I don't smoke. Den showed some class and signalled his bodyguard over again. Stubbing the lit end out on the casing of the tommy-gun, he wrapped the butt in his gorilla's handkerchief and stuck it in the man's pocket. I spared a glance at the receiver of this attention, but his face was as impassioned at the Rock of Gibralter. He stepped back in the corner.

"Last month, she was ... indiscreet ... with one of our deliverymen. Fortunately, the man will recover — he did a good job. Two weeks ago, she went about the house smashing everything of value to get attention. Three days ago she spent the entire night on the phone with the Moscow Information Network." He chuckled again — falsely, I could tell. "Our phone bill will be astronomical."

I said nothing and nodded. I felt I could be out of my bonds soon.
If only Abhibe keeps talking ...

He looked at me, and for a moment I thought he knew my thoughts, "And that is where you come in, Mr. Reynolds."

Uh, oh. I cleared my throat and tried to speak casually, "Oh? Why?"

"While it was my intent to have Mrs. Burban followed today, she gave her bodyguards the slip. I am afraid that she is intent upon using
you
in her next attempt to annoy her
very
busy husband.

"I want to stop it before it starts."

Den looked at me hard again, and I suddenly knew why he was questioning me — he wanted to know how much
I
knew about Max. He wasn't sure
why
Jennie came to me. Oh, yeah; he knew she wanted me to find her husband, but she may not have gotten to that when Den broke in. He
had
to know how far she was willing to go to find her husband. This "disgruntled business widow" crap was a facade. I had to play along or I'd be seeing the inside of a crocodile real soon.

That might
still
be unavoidable.

Determined to be helpfully ignorant, I went with, "I dunno, Mr. Abhibe; she didn't
say
anything about all that."

I could tell "Mr. Innocent" wasn't going to work, but Den was patient enough to play along.

"Very well, then, Mr. Reynolds; what exactly happened?" He folded his arms, the very picture of recep-tiveness —
in a pig's eye.

I thought fast and grabbed onto the first idea that came into my head, "She didn't even tell me who she was. She said she was looking for somebody, and would I be interested in finding him. She made me an offer."

I figured that was near enough to the truth to not sound hollow, but far enough away that Den wouldn't just shoot me — hell, if he were
that
paranoid, I was dead anyway. Apparently, it worked, 'cause he nodded for me to continue.

Smiling a "between us men" type of smile, I continued, "hey; I knew who she was — like I said, I'm a detective" — alright, so I
should
have known — "I figured it was some sort of set up for a hit."

Den raised an eyebrow, "You know; I thought I was going to take the fall for some important Joe or Jane. I decided to make her
want
to leave."

My inquisitor asked, "And how did you do that?"

I shrugged, covering a particularly fierce pull on the wire —
almost there
— "I did what came naturally; I made a pass at her."

That got me both eyebrows and a frown, and I wondered if I'd overplayed my hand, "Hey, hey, Mr. Abhibe; I meant no disrespect to Mr. Burban. It was the best way I could think of to get her to leave without downright throwing her out. I didn't know anything about trouble in the family!"

Den enjoyed watching me squirm almost as much as I hated doing it. He twisted the knife, "But surely you'd heard rumors, Mr. Reynolds; after all, you
are
a detective." He grinned evilly yet again.

I kept playing my part as fish-on-hook, "Okay," I snarled as meekly as I could —
God, I hate this!
— "so I'm not a
great
detective. I didn't know. I just figured she'd go running home in disgust, leaving me with a slap on the face to remember — but whole, nonetheless."

"Who did she want you to find?" Den was all business, now.

"We never got to that," I said sheepishly —
if my hands were free .

"Why? What did you talk about?" Suspicion.

"Me, mainly. What a scumball
I
was; what a high-class dame
she
was; why I should consider myself
lucky
that she was gracing my office with her fine figure — basically, I kept her talking about anything
but
this 'case' she wanted me on.