Mysterious Cairo (29 page)

* * *

Shadows and smoke. A sliver of golden light spilled from under the door and muffled voices could be heard within. The young woman was uncomfortable—it was distressing to know that one's colleague was in the next room, being told the punishment for failure.

She had no illusions about why her appointment had been scheduled for just this time. Her employers wished her to view the face of defeat when her fellow operative emerged. If it was not for the fact that the instruments of retribution preferred to work unseen, they would have forced her to view the execution to come as well.

After an interminable period, the door opened. Hikei stumbled out, trying very hard not to cry. He was too young, she thought disapprovingly. They should never have assigned him to a mission of consequence. Given time, he might have made an excellent employee. His death was a waste of raw material.

The harsh tone in her employer's voice as he called her made her wonder if he had added mind-reading to his many talents. She rose and entered the executive suite, eyes downcast as was proper, and waited for the vice-president in charge of operations gave her leave to sit.

He did not.

"Report, Ketsu," he said, never lifting his gaze from the paperwork on his desk.

"Our sources confirm the report, sir: the 'crime exchange' is no longer performing its function. The more respectable Icarus Club remains open."

The executive grunted. "What of Bennington?"

"He has been frequenting clubs throughout Cairo, returning to his apartment as the sun rises. He has been drinking only in moderation and has not been seen in the company of Natalia Stasos or any other woman. He gives the impression of being a man of leisure."

The vice-president rose. "Our lamb has tethered himself to a tree to await the coming of the wolf. This is a most unexpected development, is it not, Jasmine?"

The woman reddened. She knew this was a thinly-veiled reference to her psychological evaluation of Bennington, submitted before the operation had begun. "It is, sir," she admitted. "Given Bennington's history, it was highly unlikely that he would shut down his organization."

"He suspects, little one. He has taken a leaf from the book of our Russian friends — he retreats and tries to burn anything of value. Let the Icarus Club remain closed long enough, and Cairo will learn to live without it. There will no longer be any prize for us to win. Then when he feels it is prudent, he will resurrect it in some other form."

It made sense, but it also gave Bennington credit for more cunning than she had believed he possessed. If he had adopted this tactic, he would be capable of success on Marketplace as well as in this backward realm.

"He is attempting to force us into drastic action, to draw us out into the open," her employer continued. "We will rise to the bait. You will go to him and make the offer."

Jasmine nodded. Despite recent developments, she left the office feeling confident of success. Bennington was, if nothing else, a practical man, one who could be reasoned with. In addition, she had no doubts about why she had been chosen by the home office for this assignment.

If Mr. Bennington was not interested in money, she could perhaps find a way to sweeten the deal.

* * *

For Paul Bennington, the last few weeks had been hell.

He had never relished the role of a high-society playboy. Club-hopping was an activity he strictly avoided save when absolutely necessary, preferring to spend his time overseeing activities at his own place.

But Natalia had convinced him he had a better chance of attracting the attention of the people who were trying to ruin Icarus by making himself visible. "You have to make it easy for them to contact you. Make it look like you don't care that the exchange is finished," she had said.

It was a good, logical plan, but he swore if he had to hear one more band playing "Moon Over Luxor" he was going to scream. This particular place, the Blue Parrot, was slightly better than the average. The drinks weren't watered down quite so much, the barmaids didn't try quite so hard to secure a second job, and no bones were made about the roulette wheel being rigged. All in all, a nice place to kill a few hours before moving on to the next nightspot.

The things you have to do to keep up a life of crime,
he thought wearily, as the first strains of "Moon Over Luxor" began to waft through the smoke-filled air.

His reverie was interrupted by the approach of a waitress bearing a bottle. "This was sent over by a lady at the bar," she said unenthusiastically.

He took a look at the label on the bottle — Roche-mont '29. Very cute. "Which lady? Can you point her out?" he asked.

The waitress turned, scanned the bar, then shrugged. "She was there a second ago, but now I don't see her. You know how it is: some dames get cold feet at the last minute." She smiled invitingly. "Then there's those of us who are hot all the time."

Bennington slipped her a few royals for her trouble and watched her walk away satisfied. There was a card attached to the bottle, written in a woman's hand. It read, "The Golden Dragon, 10 o'clock."

He glanced at his watch: 9:45. He had just enough time to call Natalia and fill her in, then grab a cab for his rendezvous. He handed the bottle to the maitre'd as he left the club, saying, "Thank Senor Ferrari for a lovely evening, and ask him if he wants to contribute to a fund to have the composer of 'Moon Over Luxor' shot."

* * *

The Golden Dragon was in Cairo's Chinatown, one of the post-invasion additions to the city. The area was populated mostly by refugees from Terra and ex-henchmen of Wu Han, most of whom had been out of work since the overgovernor had taken a powder. A variety of Chinese gangs had moved into the section in recent months, bloodying each other in an effort to take control but not bothering with the rest of Cairo as yet. It was said that Occidentals who wished to stay healthy did not venture down these streets after dark. But many came anyway, lured by the promise of forbidden pleasures and secrets of Terra's East.

Bennington assured the cab driver that this was where he wished to stop and paid him a little extra to mollify his fears. The cab set a land speed record beating it out of the neighborhood, and for an instant, Bennington wished he were still inside. Passersby were already hurling daggers at him with their eyes, for Westerners never came to Chinatown except to make trouble.

He found the Golden Dragon with little trouble. It was a private club, long suspected to house a brothel and an opium den along with the expected speakeasy. In his day, Wu Han had given strict orders to his shock-troopers to stay away from the establishment, whether on or off-duty. The men continued to obey, even with their superior gone.

The bouncer was a large Chinese man in a tuxedo. He seemed to recognize Bennington and told him to go right in and head toward the back of the place. There was a small alcove with a beaded curtain set aside for business transactions — he would find his party there.

Bennington thanked him and went in. It was hard to see at first through the smoke and difficult to hear over the sound of the band. No one turned to acknowledge his entrance — some were too drunk, others occupied watching a young Chinese girl performing an awkward fan dance on the stage. Bennington pushed past a few people and made his way through the main bar to a long corridor. Light spilled out from a small room off to his left, with a red and black beaded curtain in place of a door. Reminding himself of what was at stake, he stepped through the curtain.

Bennington had never had a great deal of trouble meeting women. The combination of power and movie-star good looks had always been enough on Terra and he'd had his share of success with the fairer sex. But never had he seen such exquisite beauty as that of the woman who waited for him within the tiny room.

He knew at once that, though she was Asian, she was not Chinese. Her night-black hair was short, her eyes almond-shaped and a rich brown in color. A diamond bracelet glittered upon a slim golden wrist. She wore a simple dress covered in black sequins which reflected the dim light and accentuated the curves of her body. Two wine glasses sat on the table before her.

"You did not bring the bottle, Mr. Bennington," she said in silken tones. "Now how shall we toast our meeting?"

"Some would say your beauty is quite intoxicating enough, Miss —?"

She smiled and gestured for him to sit. "You may call me Jasmine. And you, Mr. Bennington? Are you one who drinks deep of a woman's loveliness, or one resolutely sober?"

He took her hand in his and kissed it. "I see now that the tales that Chinatown hides a treasure beyond price are true. I apologize for leaving the wine behind, but it is not a vintage I prefer. Perhaps we could order some champagne?"

She drew her hand back, still smiling. "There will be time enough for that later. You no doubt are aware of why you were summoned here."

"I thought it might be a tax audit," he joked. "But if you're the new collector, I gather the Pharaoh is planning a major increase, and hopes to make it relatively painless."

"You have a very smooth tongue," she replied. "I see now how you became so successful. It is that very success that has drawn me to you."

Lucky me, he thought, dryly. "You, in particular? Or the people you work for?"

"I am acting on behalf of others, yes. My employers have an interest in the future of Cairo's underworld. They wish to make an . investment in that future, and you are to be the beneficiary of that transaction."

"Why me?" It was a question he'd been asking for several weeks now.

She lowered her voice. "The Icarus Club is unique in the Nile Empire — a criminal organization with tremendous power and money-making potential, yet one which has not attracted the attention of the authorities. Even Storm Knights have paid little heed to it, turning to your people only for information on occasion. We admire subtlety and quiet strength — needless bloodshed has no appeal for us."

"Yet you set up my people, and paid the cops off to see to it I got your message in no uncertain terms. Wasn't that 'needless bloodshed'?"

She made no attempt to deny his charges. "My employers wished for you to see how . difficult it would be to conduct your business without our aid. As you say, we had a message to convey to you. We chose to do it in a style we believed you would appreciate."

Jasmine reached into her handbag and drew out a small mechanical device. Bennington had seen pictures of such a thing. It was a more sophisticated version of the reel-to-reel tape recorders with which he was familiar. She pressed a button on the top of it and his voice came from the speakers.

"... The only important piece on the board is the king. The rest are merely pawns — and pawns are meant to be sacrificed," he heard his own voice saying.

"You had the place bugged," he said, frowning. "That's how you knew about the jobs."

"Of course. It did entail some difficulty — we were forced to rely on microphones built using your 'weird science' as our own listening devices would not function," she said, returning the recorder to her bag. "But they served our purpose."

She straightened, all business now. "You have built a very efficient operation, Mr. Bennington. You can be proud of it. We wish to purchase it from you for, shall we say, fifty million royals?"

It was a tremendous amount of money, more than the club would clear in an average year. It would be enough for him to retire on. Then maybe he and Natalia could find themselves an island somewhere, away from all the madness of this world. It was a tempting offer — but then he remembered the tears of Skids' wife, and the battered features of "The Dutchman" in the hospital. People just trying to get by, hurt because somebody decided they were expendable in order to make a point.

He locked his gaze on Jasmine's sparkling eyes. "No deal," he said firmly.

She seemed unfazed. "I am authorized to offer you one hundred million."

"The club isn't for sale at any price," he answered. "And if you're thinking about making threats, don't — I've got friends in this town, on both sides of the law."

Jasmine laughed a hard, cold laugh. "Do you, Mr. Bennington? Tell me, how would your fine, upstanding friends feel if they knew about your hidden career? Or, for that matter, of your days as a costumed villain on Terra? And as for your shadier contacts, they can be bought. We have done such things before."

Well, that certainly wasn't unexpected. It had been too much to hope that Jasmine and her backers would pack up and go home just because he said no, but he had seen no harm in trying it. Time for Plan B.

"It seems you've anticipated everything," he said, doing his best to sound like a man thoroughly trapped.

"That is something at which we excel," Jasmine answered, fixing her gaze upon him. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement, as if the very act of making a deal acted upon her like a drug. For the first time, he saw that she wanted to possess the Icarus Club as badly as he wished to hold on to it. In Bennington's pulp villain days, some Mystery Man or other had told him that wanting anything that much left one vulnerable (then again, Mystery Men were always saying things like that — the same hack must write the dialogue for all of them, he thought).

He shrugged. "Okay, sweetheart, suppose I decide to deal. I get a hundred million royals, and then what? The new owners decide I'm a liability and terminate my employment in a permanent fashion?"