Mysterious Cairo (2 page)

* * *

And so begins
Mysterious Cairo,
a series of tales and adventures from the streets of Cairo, Egypt. But it is not the Cairo of modern-day Earth. It is a city that has been transformed by the invasion of a Possibility Raider named Dr. Mobius. He is a mad scientist from the world of pulp adventure, Terra. His Darkness Device has imposed the reality of that world on the Middle East and much of Africa, converting it to a land of high adventure and pulp heroes.

The authors of this book have their own conceptions of Cairo and its dangers. They all mesh together into the
infiniverse,
a collection of worlds and events in the fictional world of
Torg.
They bring these characters and events to colorful life.

In the streets of Cairo, heroes and villains clash on a daily basis. Nile shocktroopers patrol the streets, reporting as often to their bosses as to ganglords and mob bosses. Those few who stand against them fight their own war in the shadows and the alleyways.

This is the Cairo of the Near Now.

Ed Stark

Maybe I've been in Cairo too long, but when a leggy brunette with a body that just punched in for overtime strolls into my office and leans over my desk, I don't smell her perfume; my nose twitches for trouble.

She was dressed in black satin — not the kind of outfit I'd be wearing to walk around the dusty streets of Cairo at one in the afternoon. But, then, if I were built like her, I'd probably do lots of things differently. I'd feel a
lot
different, too, I expect.

"Mr. Reynolds?" she breathed, leaning in a little closer and showing me why she could wear a black bodysuit and not feel hot — nothing underneath. "I'm here about a job."

After editing the first three responses that came to mind, I leaned back and gestured casually at the only other chair in the room. "Yeah, I'm Reynolds, sister; siddown." She appeared to consider that little invite carefully, but then, with a little shrug that moved all the right parts, she slid off my desk and into the other chair.

I waited for her to speak.

And waited .

"I already got a secretary, Miss ...?"

"Mrs.
... Mrs. Burban — and I'm not
looking
for a job ... I want to hire you." Married; what a shame. To make up for that sad state of affairs, she flashed me one of those smiles that makes lesser men melt. I wondered why I warranted the full treatment. They usually didn't flash the smile and open the blouse 'til —

Finally, a gear clicked in my brain and my eyes returned home. "Waitaminute; did you say you're Mrs. Burban ... as in 'I'm married to Mr.
Max
Burban?'"

Another 200-watt smile brightened my office and was gone: "Hey, you're quick, Mr. Reynolds; you put that together real fast." This time, those ruby-red lips parted for a smirk — and an attractive one, I might add — and the light danced in her eyes. "But you can call me Jennie." Real friendly girl, huh?

But I wasn't buying. For once in my life I knew exactly what to do. I stood up, put on my "turn-the-widows-and-orphans-out-into-the-cold" face and walked around to my soon-to-be ex-guest's side. I must admit, she was as bright as she was lovely; she knew exactly what was on my mind. Standing up, she put her hand on my arm just before mine got to her elbow.

"Wait a second; I haven't finished ." she began.

But I was determined "Sure you have, sister; this interview ends now." With that, I started to usher her out my door.

Just to keep all you people up to date, let me fill you in on who my "client" was. Jennie Burban was the wife of Max Burban, a local "businessman." Officially, he's an importer of "exotic foods and perishables." But, the way I see it, most of his exotic foods'll leave you with a hangover and the only thing perishable around Max Burban is anyone who crosses him.

Not that I'm above a drink or two, mind you. I go to gin joints, hooch parlors and speakeasies as part of my job, and I won't say I don't take a nip now and then. So what? In the Nile Empire, the only thing Prohibition does is provide a business for the Pharaoh's pet gangsters.

Instead of "protection money," they call it "taxes." Most of the good guys I know would just as soon see "Dry Cairo" become a thing of the past.

Unfortunately, guys like Max Burban want Prohibition to stay around — but good. Sure, it makes their lives a little more interesting, having to smuggle Scotch and vodka into Cairo every so often, and there are even a few cops and customs agents not on the take. But that just drives the price o' the stuff through the roof. Burban marks the bottles up a dime for every nickle increase in cost, and he's rollin' in the dough.

And even that I don't mind so much ... but when he goes around shooting up his competitors, blowing up places that won't buy his "bathtub" gin, and dabbles in other forms of mind-bending yummies, that makes me mad. I'd go on the wagon for good if it'd make all the Max Burban's in the world crawl into one of their own vats an' die.

But I'm not a hero, not anymore. I gave that up when the Nips beat the lizards in my home town — and then killed the girl I loved 'cause she and I wanted out. I got them back, but that's it. I'm just —

"— 'Jack Reynolds, Private Eye; Their Business is Your Business.' It
doesn't
say 'Sucker for Hire' or 'Dial 'P' for Patsy'. Sorry, lady, but I just ain't interested!"

In case you hadn't guessed, I was having a hard time getting Mrs. Burban out the door I was reading to her. She played the fainting flower, and then the enraged debutante, but when it finally came to it, Mrs. Jennie Burban was as stubborn as I was. Unless I wanted to pick her up and throw her out, I was
not
getting her to leave my office.

One-ten; one-fifteen — I can manage ... as long as she doesn't scratch. I hate it when they scratch ...

But Jennie wasn't going to wait for my assessment of her efficiency as a missile weapon. Stepping back over the threshold, she put a move on me Jordan (the basketball player, not the country) would have been proud of. Suddenly, our positions were reversed and she was in my office and I was in the hall. I had this brief image of her slamming my own door in my face, but it didn't happen.

"Now, look, Mr. Reynolds; in the time we've been arguing about whether I can stay in your cramped, smelly little office and tell you about my case, I could have done it and been gone. So why don't you just listen to me for a few moments and
then
decide whether you want my case or not?" With a bit of reasoning, she turned around, swept over to my chair, and sat down.

I was about to launch into another tirade about how I already knew I didn't want her case — at least not the one she was offering — when I decided on another tack.

Shrugging my shoulders and walking into the room, I said, "Okay; you win. I'll listen. But don't expect me to be hopping for joy ... an' get out of my chair."

Grinning like the proverbial canary-fed feline, Jennie —
Mrs.
Burban to you, Jack — stood and walked around the desk and into the only other chair in my office. I managed to keep from moving until she was firmly planted. Then I went and sat behind my desk.

The chair squeaked in protest of its new occupant. I couldn't blame it.

I leaned well back in my chair. I do that when I'm thinking about something or when I'm not really interested in what somebody has to say. Or both. "Okay, spill it."

Typical of smart dames in this part of the world — at least those that didn't start out here — now that Mrs. Burban had my "complete" attention, she spent quite a bit of time hemming and hawing and getting to the point. Let's just say it took a few minutes to say:

"Max is missing."

— and go on from there.

Okay, so it took a moment to sink in. Sue me. I leaned forward in a real hurry. She didn't even flinch.

"What?"

"My husband is ... missing. Gone." Jennie just looked across my desk and straight into my eyes. There wasn't really any regret, or sadness, or even longing there; just an apparent anxiety.

But I was pretty anxious myself. "Wait a minute. Max Burban, the most powerful and influential gangster in the Nile Empire — if you don't count the Imperials — has disappeared? And you're coming to me?" I forced myself to relax and sit back as if I was weighing my options.

I knew what the deal was right then — or thought I did — and I didn't want any part of it. In order to avoid a gang war, Burban's "successor" had sent his widow down here to recruit a P.I. who was "respected" (i.e. "not pushed around") by the Organization to "track him down." Times being what they were — a battalion of shocktroopers camped to the south and their officers sending patrols in every evening looking for "deserters" — the lieutenants of Burban's gang'd lie low for awhile, taking the new headman's orders until they were certain that Caesar was really dead.

Then, when the new "boss" — whoever had knocked off Burban — was secure enough in his power, he'd proclaim ol' "Blue" Max out by default and he'd take over. Sure, he'd have to break a few heads, but he'd already be on top of the mountain; everybody else'd have to work harder to knock him off.

Oh, and the P.I.? Well, near as I can figure from my studies of gangland philosophy, anybody who pokes into a mob boss's "disappearance" far enough to make it convincing is going to learn a lot of . sensitive information really fast. Gangsters aren't too subtle. The P.I. ends up in the Nile as croc food and everybody else is happy.

So, putting on my best "gee, that's too bad, wish I could help, but I don't really give a flying razenfratz" face, I said:

"Gee, that's too bad, wish I could —"

Jennie didn't let me finish. She jumped up and leaned over the desk and showed the first real emotion I'd seen since she entered my office — and, just my luck, it had to be anger. "Now listen to me, Reynolds," she shot, jabbing her finger at my eyes to punctuate her words, "do you think I'm
stupid
or something? If I thought this was some sort of setup or gang job, do you think I'd be here?!"

She sat down again—hard. "Do you honestly think," she continued more slowly, "that if Max was really dead I'd come to a broken-down P.I. for protection or help ... or that I'd let Den Abhibe" — that's Burban's Number One Thug, for you initiates to the Cairo Crime Scene — "manipulate me into coming here?" She chuckled grimly and smirked, "Hell; I don't think that towel-head even knows Max disappeared."

Now
that
caught me by surprise. If Max Burban was killed — and I still was convinced he wasn't dead —Den "Iniquity" Abhibe, "Blue" Max's top "manager," would be the first little Indian to profit by it. I expect Den kept better tabs on his boss than his harlots and hired guns.

Whether true or not, this little tidbit kept my interest. "So, he's vanished, but not dead." I leaned forward again, ignoring the squeaking of my chair, "and how do you know that?" It was my turn to smirk. "Guys in Max's type of business aren't known for disappearing without lots of fanfare and a retinue — unless they're entering permanent 'retirement'."

"I'm not sure I can tell you, Mr. Reynolds," Jennie said. The uncomfortable — and secretive — look was back. I sighed inwardly.
Nothing in this part of the world is easy, is it?

"Listen, honey; you either tell me right now, or I'll evict you from my chair, my office and, if I have anything to say about it, the rest of my life."
Which might not be too long, if Max heard me talking to his doll this way.
I calmed down in a hurry. "Look," I said, standing and walking around the desk again, "if you don't tell me
everything,
there is
no way
I'm going to help. I don't need
any
amount of money so bad that I'll go into a case blind."

She tried to cover her warring feelings with a joke, "Yeah; you hide out in this part of town for the aroma of the fishmarket, I bet." But that sounded hollow even in her ears. I waited for her to spill it.

And waited.

Finally, as I was deciding even I can't afford a decorative piece of artwork like Jennie Burban cluttering up my office any more, she caved in. Reaching into her . (I turned away; even I have my morals), Jennie pulled out a strange-looking cross. No; strike that; it wasn't a cross, it was a jeweled miniature ankh with the top loop broken. It hung around her neck on a gold chain.

"This is how I know, Mr. Reynolds," she muttered, her eyes apparently fascinated with my beat-up shoes. Hey; they are pretty shiny.

I looked, but I didn't touch. Aside from its diamond chips and gold inlay, it didn't look any different from any other incredibly expensive piece of jewelry you might find in a museum somewhere. In fact, I was surprised even someone as well-protected as Jennie must be would wander around the streets of Cairo with the price of the East Side on her neck. I said as much.

She chuckled again, with no trace of humor and enough irony to choke a camel, "that's the funny part," she said, "I can't take it off."

"Really? Let me try," I started to lift it over her head, but she jumped up and grabbed my wrists with a pair of steel claws masquerading as hands and nails that must De sharpened daily. tow; I dropped the ankh back between her . back where it belonged.