Mysterious Cairo (18 page)

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Broken glass fell all around Philip as one of the thugs smashed a bottle on the counter top above where he huddled for safety.

"Oho, so now you've got a weapon?" Sandstorm teased. "That's okay. I need a better workout than the first eight of you gave me."

Eight so quickly?
Philip shivered slightly. He was once again glad that Sandstorm was a friend. As the grunts and dull thuds of battle resumed on the dangerous side of the bar, Philip continued writing in his journal.

Hitting the back of the truck's cab had obviously knocked me unconscious. I count myself lucky that Sandstorm took the brunt of the impact, but I'm sure he has a less positive attitude about the incident.

I awoke quickly, and, though slightly disoriented, and I had enough wits to keep my voice low and movements limited. It was while I was recovering my equilibrium that an oily, European-looking man climbed into the truck.

Even in my confused state I knew he was no shocktrooper. For one, he was too short. And then there was his appearance. He was wearing an ill-fitting white suit and had a half-smoked cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

He seemed to be searching for something. Once in a while he would find an item, always one of high value to the black market, and stick it in a pocket. Then he would resume his search.

At times he was so close I could feel his breath on my face. A disgusting creature he was, reeking of stale Turkish tobacco, cheap cologne and sweat. His eyes bulged like an asphyxiating fish and he was horribly skittish. The slightest noise made him jump and turn to face an imagined accuser. He was a cowardly little man. Utterly pathetic.

But if he was pathetic, then what am I, who was too afraid to confront this coward? What does it reveal when, at the same sounds that prompted this thief to run or fight for his life, I lay transfixed like a stag caught in the lights of an oncoming auto? Am I so devoid of courage that my only reaction to a potentially dangerous situation is to feign unconsciousness?

The sound of a table breaking under the weight, Philip assumed, of at least one of Sandstorm's opponents made his pen slip.

The bar they were in was unremarkable. Physically the same as any number of places around Cairo (including The Watering Hole). But the clientele were something else.

The second he and Sandstorm entered, Philip could see the patrons preparing for a fight. Some grabbed bottled and chairs to throw, others looked for the easiest escape route, but all were ready when the hostilities erupted.

It would be safe to say that only one man in the room expected Sandstorm to prevail over 15 to 1 odds. That man was Sandstorm himself. Even Philip was sure that the sheer weight of numbers doomed his friend's cause.

But according to what Philip was hearing as he hid out of sight, there were only a few patrons left to challenge Sandstorm. And the costumed man sounded more confident and less winded that his wheezing attackers.

The little man searched around for a bit until he found a crate marked "munitions." This he grabbed and was about to leave when he accidentally kicked the stolen belt.

Perhaps he had some inner sense that told him this item was extremely valuable, or perhaps he simply liked the look of it. Whatever the motive, he threw the belt over his shoulder and climbed out of the truck.

At this point I nearly jumped up and yelled for him to stop. He could keep anything else in the truck, but I had to have the belt back. But I thought about the guns he held in the crate, and about my bruised condition, and the fear that made me uncertain my voice would work at all. I just watched him carry my creation off into the night. Much to my own shame.

When I was certain that he was gone I began to shake Sandstorm. After a few moments he started to come around. Unfortunately, we could also hear some of the shocktroopers waking and trying to rouse their comrades.

With all possible haste, considering the state we were in, we left the scene and made our way to the safest haven we could think of. The Watering Hole.

Once there we told our tale to what remained of the crowd while Tim performed the surprisingly little amount of first-aid we required. Most of the injuries are bound to show up as strained muscles and aching bones as soon as our collective adrenaline comes down.

Again there was the jarring sound of glass breaking. Not a small sound like a bottle smashing, but a huge explosion like something going through a window.

Philip was reasonably certain that that something was another body. But in the silence that followed he became horribly worried that the body had been Sandstorm's. The hero's luck just could not hold out long enough and one of the few remaining toughs had caught him with a lucky shot.

He knew that if that were true then in a few seconds they would be here behind the bar to finish their mayhem.

Philip swallowed hard and wrote faster.

Everyone was very worried about our conditions at first. When it became apparent that no permanent damage had been suffered, however, they all began to tease Bob (who had removed his mask here among friends) mercilessly.

I received much kinder treatment. People came up and comforted me with the fact that I did a fantastic job to keep my wits and that I probably saved both out lives by regaining consciousness so quickly.

Not only had I failed to act at the appropriate time, but I was also too fragile to be teased about my mishaps. In a club of heroes I was a permanent guest. Always welcome, but forever separate.

The saving grace of the event came when Dave (again, I can't say which one) said that he thought he recognized the description of the truck robber. If he was correct, the skittish little felon was Lester Fink, a black marketeer and con man who had been around Cairo for longer than anyone cared to remember. Fink was a small-time operator who dreamed of a big deal one day falling into his lap. And tonight it had.

Dave said that he usually could be found at a seedy little bar called "The Karnak Club" where he sold whatever illicit substances he could find.

Bob pulled his mask back on.

"You stay here," Sandstorm told me. "I'll go get the belt back."

That didn't sit well with me. After coming so far, I certainly didn't want to miss the adventure's end (although considering how much help I am I might have been better off staying where it was safe). I convinced Sandstorm that he needed to take me just in case Fink had played around with the belt's mechanisms. Then I could undo any damage right away.

And so here I am. Hiding behind the bar at the Karnak Club while my friend fights against desperate odds. If he loses, I'll certainly be beaten (if not killed), but I could not sit in safety and watch my adventure, my life, go by without me. Even if I no longer have the heroism in me to fight my own battles, at least I attend them.

As he finished, Philip could hear footsteps slowly approaching the bar. He wiped away the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. Putting the notebook and pen back in their proper pockets, Philip straightened his vest and the shirt underneath. He would face his destiny as the young gentleman he had been raised to be.

Squaring his shoulders, Philip stood to confront the thug. He would put up as much of a fight as he could muster. Surely it would not be as impressive as the one his friend just gave, but it would come from Philip's heart. He would give all he was able.

As he tried to focus on the whole room to find his opponent's position (and look for any possible ways out) Philip was shocked to be face to face with his friend.

"Oh!" Philip could not contain his surprise. As he did focus on the rest of the room he saw well over two dozen unconscious bodies sprawled amid the broken furniture. Obviously not all the combatants had been in plain sight at the fight's start. "Well done, Bob. Well done indeed. Are you quite all right?"

Bob had taken his mask off to wipe the blood from his nose and mouth. He was not bleeding seriously, but the swelling looked painful.

"I've got to practice more," the hero said smiling. "One of them suckers punched me. I was plain lucky he wasn't too much taller than me."

Philip handed Bob some ice from the sink.

"What do we do now?" he asked his friend. "Obviously Fink isn't here. We can't let him keep such a powerful —"

The conversation was interrupted as a bullet ricochet-ted off the counter top. Their reactions were immediate and instinctive. Philip ducked back behind the bar. Bob pulled his mask back on and turned to face the gunman as Sandstorm.

At the top of the stairs to the bar's office stood the oily little thief from the crash site. He was brandishing one of the stolen pistols. Around his waist was the belt, the red button in the buckle glowing steadily. When he spoke his voice was a high, nasal wheeze.

"Don't move, hero!" He drew his vowels out making his speech sound unnatural. "You, behind the bar, stand up now." His orders sounded petulant instead of the commanding tone Fink obviously intended.

"You'd better play along, Philip . for now," whispered Sandstorm. Even in his hushed tone he exuded confidence. He made you want to do as he said.

Philip stood, his hands raised slightly in a sign of surrender. Immediately he noticed the buckle light and gasped reflexively. He also noticed that there seemed to be a fly buzzing around Fink in a perfectly circular pattern.

"At least I know it works," Philip mumbled.

"What's that?" Sandstorm turned to face his friend, completely ignoring the small man with the gun.

"Well," Philip continued to whisper and cast glances at Fink. "See that red light on his . errr . your belt? That means the mechanism is activated."

"So?"

"Excuse me," Fink tried to interrupt, but was ignored.

"See that speck circling his head? That means that the belt is working, albeit at a low output."

"So?"

"Excuse me, but I've got the gun, remember? If you're going to do any talking, why not try begging for mercy?"

"Sandstorm, that device is very powerful when used properly. If he should figure out it's capabilities he'd be a serious threat."

"I am a serious threat right now, you idiots! I've got a gun and I'm not afraid to use it." Fink's pale skin was flushing quickly. He'd reached the bottom of the stairs and was advancing slowly, keeping the gun aimed at Sandstorm.

"Well, then," the hero said casually, "we'll simply have to take it away from him. Duck back down there. This shouldn't take long."

As Philip hid, Fink fired again. Perhaps because he was shaking with indignation, the shot missed wildly, shattering the sole surviving mirror in the club.

"One thing," Philip yelled from his shelter.

"What's that?" Sandstorm asked absently. At the same time he raised his left hand and pointed it outstretched at Fink. Triggering a switch on his wrist caused a spray of sand to shoot out at high pressure. This was another device designed by Philip that, usually, either knocked the victim unconscious, temporarily blinded him or caused him painful, but non-life-threatening abrasions. Sandstorm wanted to take Fink out quickly before he got lucky and hit something with the pistol.

"Don't use your 'sandblaster'!" Philip said, too late.

The reason was obvious. Fink, who had flinched in anticipation of the sand's impact, was never hit with the spray. As the grains neared his body, they veered to the right, joining the tiny speck in orbit around the surprised hoodlum. Suddenly the little man was encased in a swirling globe of sand. By the time the last grain from the blast joined the sphere it was nearly impossible to see the figure at the center.

"What is that?" Sandstorm demanded.

"It's your new 'sandshield,'" Philip groaned, "designed to work in unison with the treated grains I invented for your blasters. It takes the sand and creates a screen to absorb physical punishment and disguise your movements. I suppose the speeding particles could also be used to strip away the outer layers of materials of low density such as wood or rubber —"

"Or skin!" Crowed Fink from within his silicone cocoon.

"That's possible," Philip acquiesced. "Grotesque, but possible."

Sandstorm's mouth hung open. "That's some belt," he managed finally.

"Thank you," said Philip humbly.

"Now, how can we shut it off?"

"We can't. The belt has the only control panel. You'll just have to do enough damage to the shield to knock most of the sand free from the field of effect."

Sandstorm pulled up his old, low-tech belt and was looking for something to hit the shield with when Fink fired again, this time finding his mark. The hero's head snapped back at the sudden impact. Unconscious (or worse), Philip's friend fell to the floor, blood already soaking into the mask around his left temple.

"Bob!"

Fink began to laugh. It was probably a high-pitched, tinny laugh, but through the distortion of the sandshield it was hearty and menacing. At least to Philip it was.

"This is wonderful!" Fink gloated. "With this I'll be unstoppable. I can finally have the wealth and respect I have always deserved. And I have you to thank for it, my British friend."

Philip's heart sank to his gut. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry. But, most of all, he wanted to forget the fact that it was his own invention that had brought down his friend.