Mysterious Cairo (30 page)

She laughed. "Nonsense. A man of your skills and intelligence would be a tremendous asset to us. Eventually, you would learn to see things as we do ... Paul. There is only one thing in life which truly matters: profit. That is why we will survive and your Dr. Mobius will not — he invests far too much in projects which are foredoomed to failure."

"He's not exactly 'my' Dr. Mobius," he said, sotto voce. "And I wouldn't say things like that around here. It might not be healthy."

"You truly don't understand, do you? We own this place, and a hundred others like it in Chinatown, Paul. Most of Wu Han's former lieutenants are now in our employ — if that quarry should ever choose to return to his old life in Cairo, he will find a very . warm reception awaiting him."

He filed that bit of information away. Somebody might want to buy it some day, providing he lived long enough to sell it. "Okay, question number two: suppose I just want out? I sell you the operation, then my secretary and I leave the city for parts unknown. How do I know you and your boys in the black pajamas aren't going to hunt us down?"

She frowned. "I must confess, I would be most disappointed if you were to leave Cairo. I had looked forward to working beside you," she said, in a tone that left little doubt she had been well-trained in the art of seduction. "But you have my assurance that you would be able to live out the remainder of your life unmolested."

So far it was playing as if he'd scripted it. Now the question was how far she would be willing to go to clinch the deal. "Not good enough," he said, slamming his fist on the table. "I'm sorry, but I'm not used to dealing to with subordinates on matters of this importance. I need to hear these things from your boss, Jasmine, or it's no deal."

She didn't seem the least bit taken aback. "That is not a problem. He is expecting our call."

He cut her off. "You people need to get a few things straight. You're in Cairo now — around here, we like to see the faces of people we're dealing with. Deals are settled with a handshake, and both sides know what will happen if somebody tries a double-cross. Nice and simple, and that's the only way I'll do business."

He didn't like the way her face had hardened. If she wouldn't give in on this point, Plan B went out the window. And there hadn't been time to come up with a Plan C.

"I do not think the firm will agree to this," all trace of the vamp gone now. "And I do not believe you are in a position to insist on conditions."

"You underestimate me," he said coolly, his mind racing all the while. "I'm willing to bet that for every enforcer you can put on the street, I can get two on my payroll. Maybe you'll wipe us all out in the end, but before you do, we'll have made enough noise that Mobius is bound to sit up and take notice. Is that what you want?"

Now it was her turn to look trapped. She rose and said, "I will return in a moment's time. I would advise you not to leave this room for any reason. My men have orders to shoot if you should attempt to exit the bar alone."

Then she was gone. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief and thanked God he hadn't gone through with the "indignant club owner" routine. If he had stormed out of the place in a huff, he might have been dead before he reached the corner.

He glanced at the watch "Doc" Dunfy had given him for just this occasion. 10:25. He gave the dial a push, sending a signal to "Numbers." If everything had gone smoothly, Nagle and a recovered "Dutchman" had tailed him to the Golden Dragon and were down the block now in a nondescript sedan. Bennington's signal meant he and Jasmine would probably be leaving soon for a meet with the big bosses, and the boys should be ready to move.

Jasmine returned promptly, looking none too happy. "My employers are displeased with the turn events have taken. They consider your manner of doing business unorthodox, but are willing to concede the point in the interests of sealing the deal. You will accompany me to their offices."

"What, now?" he said, sounding put out. "These aren't exactly banker's hours."

This time, his wit failed to impress. "My employers are not the sort of bankers with whom you are familiar. Please come along."

* * *

Together, Bennington and the stunning Jasmine departed the Golden Dragon, a hundred potentially hostile eyes following them all the way.

Her car was waiting, a large black sedan with an Oriental driver. She said something to him in a language Bennington recognized as Japanese and they sped off into the night. He was seated behind the driver and so could keep an eye on the rear-view mirror. In the distance, two pinpoints of light could be seen trailing their vehicle.

He did his best to keep track of the route they were driving and the amount of time it was taking. He knew they had crossed the El Giza Bridge, apparently heading for the Geziret El Roda district. "The Dutchman" was staying well back, but apparently not far enough. Jasmine's driver suddenly began executing a series of sharp turns, the kind that would force the pursuing car to speed up and smoke out the tail. After fifteen minutes or so, the driver seemed satisfied and the headlights were gone from the mirror.

Great,
Bennington said to himself.
Even if I could risk signalling, they've got to be out of range of the watch at this point. And after going in all those circles, I'm not even sure where the hell I am.

He fought down a brief surge of panic. There was nothing that could be done about the situation, at least not until they got wherever they were going. He decided not to worry, instead reflecting on why Jasmine had looked as upset as he had over her driver's behavior.

They came to a stop on a dark street behind what appeared to be an office building. No lights were on within, but as they drew closer, Bennington saw the reason for this — blackout shades, much like most buildings in Terran Europe were still equipped with, for during the war.

As soon as Jasmine and Bennington had stepped out on to the curb, the car pulled away and was soon gone from sight. The woman silently led him through a rear door and up a winding staircase that smelled slightly of disinfectant. Bennington disliked the antiseptic feeling of the place, so unlike most buildings in Cairo. He had been told that many of the places taken over by representatives of Nippon had this same cold, sterile feeling.

The hallway was carpeted and no sounds came from any of the offices they passed, although lights were on within. When they reached the end of the corridor, they were confronted by a set of double-doors, mahogany by the look of them. Jasmine placed her hand against one of the wood panels and the doors swung open.

Bennington's experiences with natives of the "mysterious East" were limited. If he was expecting one of Wu Han's fiendish torture chambers or a golden throne room filled with concubines, he was disappointed. The room they entered was an executive boardroom, all but two of the seats at the long table filled. The lighting was dim, so none of the faces of the men and women could be made out. Stronger light played upon the two empty chairs, to which he and Jasmine were ushered.

"Welcome, Mr. Bennington," the man at the head of the table said. His voice was husky, as if smoked too much. "We are pleased that you were able to join us."

Bennington felt uncomfortable, like he was about to get grilled, but he assumed that was the purpose of the room's set-up. "You want to put some lights on? If you guys can't afford your electric bill, how are you going to afford my place?"

The executive's laugh had no trace of mirth in it. "The eyes of some of my colleagues are sensitive to bright light. In addition, we see no reason to reveal our identities until we are certain you are interested in doing business."

"What choice do I have?" Bennington said, trying to get just the right trace of bitterness into his voice.

"Indeed," the man replied. "I believe the agreed-upon price was fifty million royals?"

So that was how they were going to play it. "I was told one hundred million," he said hotly.

The executive's voice was silk over steel. "You were told a great many things, some of which should never have reached your ears."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bennington saw Jasmine pale. She started to speak, but her employer cut her off.

"You will speak when spoken to, Jasmine. Naturally, your conversation was monitored. Or did you believe that bracelet you wear was simply payment for services rendered?"

She looked stung.
Apparently, she's not in as solid with these guys as she thought,
Bennington mused.

"I ask you but once, sir: will you agree to our offer?" the executive growled. No one else at the table had spoken a word — for an instant, Bennington wondered if they were all mannequins, put there for effect.

More and more, he was getting the feeling that he wasn't going to walk out of this place under his own power, no matter what he agreed to. Might as well go down in a blaze of glory.

"No," he said stridently. "I've done business with my share of cutthroats and killers, but I'm not playing ball with you bums. Somebody said something to me a little while ago about there being 'no honor among thieves,' but things are different here.

"There isn't a gang in Cairo that wouldn't gladly see all the others rubbed out and take the whole pie for themselves. Crooks here trade bullets on the street, pinch from each other's warehouses, and cross each other at every turn. But let an outsider try to muscle in, and everybody hangs together. It may seem strange to you, but the underworld is a family, just like any other — and I won't sell them out to a bunch of cowards that have to hide in the dark."

Bennington could hear the sound of nails being pounded into his coffin, but he felt better for having made the speech.
What the hell, it'll give them something to carve on my tombstone, if there's enough left to bury.

There was a long moment of silence before anyone moved. If Jasmine had looked shocked before, she was doubly so now. Caught up in the idea of landing a big deal and getting a promotion, she had swallowed Bennington's apparent surrender completely. She knew well the penalty for failure in her world.

"Your attitude is ... regrettable," the executive said from the shadows. "Do you remember the story of Icarus, Mr. Bennington? He was a fool with wings of glue and feathers, who perished when he soared too close to the sun. A most apt analogy to your own situation, as it turns out."

The executive rose. "You realize, of course, that you cannot be allowed to leave here, knowing all that you know. We will eliminate you and take your club, only slightly behind schedule."

Bennington was going to say something about counting chickens, but thought better of it. Jasmine had started to shake — she knew what was coming next.

The executive's words flew like daggers across the room. "Jasmine, you have failed us. You foolishly believed that this man would give up the most important thing in his life without a fight. You allowed yourself to be tailed from the Golden Dragon — had we not contacted your driver before your departure and warned him of just such a possibility, our location might have been discovered. We should turn you over to Marketplace Security, but I believe we of the board will take more satisfaction from doing the job ourselves."

Bennington remembered that one of the reasons he got out of the pulp villain game was he hated all those long-winded speeches the bad guys were always making — himself sometimes included. "If you're going to kill us, get it over with," he snarled. "Or are you planning to bore us to death?"

The executive was unfazed. "Traditionally, we favor clean, quick methods of execution—a bullet to the brain is a most efficient way of dealing with one's enemies. But — for reasons I still do not completely understand — a decision was made to get into the spirit of this city, and so we will offer you a sporting chance to survive. If you can make it out of this building, you are free to go — if not, you will both be found floating in the Nile on the morrow."

The executive reached under the table while two of the board members moved to guard the doors. Ben-nington braced himself for anything. "The death traps of the Nile are legendary, even in Nippon," the executive rumbled. "But we have successfully wedded our ingenuity to the concept. We trust you will appreciate the results — though not for long."

Suddenly, the floor opened beneath the club owner and the disgraced agent. To the sound of the executive's laughter, they plunged down into the darkness.

* * *

They came to an abrupt stop on a pile of mattresses. Jasmine had tucked and rolled with the impact, and seemed none the worse for wear. Bennington was a little less graceful, but knew that an aching head was the least of his problems for the moment.

Looking around, he saw that they were in the basement of the building. There were no windows, but a wooden staircase led up to the ground floor and there was what appeared to be an elevator off in the corner, partially blocked by a huge pillar. It was too dark in that section of the cellar to be certain, though.

"I do not understand," Jasmine said, as she tore off her bracelet and ground it into dust with her heel (she hadn't even been deemed worthy of true diamonds — just glass). "If our deaths are desired, why place bedding here to break our fall?"

"Death is an art form in the Nile, kid," Bennington said, dusting himself off. "Everybody tries to outdo the other with how creative and unique their trap is, and there's nothing all that new about a fall from a high place."