Mysterious Cairo (11 page)

"Nails" came around to the other side of the table and sat down. He was a little guy, no more than five feet, and always looked like he'd just swallowed a lemon. "Take your hand off the rod, shamus. You won't be needing it," he growled. "Besides, I've got twenty guys in this place who'd mow you down before you got two steps to the door."

I thought of a couple snappy comebacks, but decided to hold off. Nash looked unhappy, and it was more than just the fact that I was still breathing.

"Look, McMasters, I don't want trouble with you ... and you don't want trouble with me. Why don't we call this morning a mistake, and we'll all be friends again?" the gang boss said, extending a hand.

"Three of your mugs tried to waste me this morning," I said, with as much steel as I could muster, considering Ungrosh's younger brother was standing behind me. "Things like that tend to hurt my feelings, Nash. And it might just be worth dying for the chance to see your guts spill all over the floor."

His face hardened. "Don't get nasty, McMasters. It could have been worse—my boys might've been really trying to hit you."

I'd like to be able to say I'd doped the whole thing out, and his words were no surprise. But that sort of thing only happens in the pictures. I relaxed my grip on the gun a little, and asked him to make with the explanations.

"Listen, I'm a respectable businessman, right? But a guy's gotta make a living, and the spea— er, the nightclub game ain't what it once was," he began. Teri had started singing again, and I caught her tossing a few worried glances my way.

"Anyway, yesterday this hotshot walks in my place," Nash continued. "Nice threads, funny accent, real high class, get it? Tells me all about how he's heard I'm the top cat in town, and I let him make with the balloon juice for a while. Then he tells me he's willing to drop a bundle on the guy who'll slow you down for a few hours."

"How much?"

"Nails" licked his lips. "A hundred grand, in advance. The guy's got Royals to burn. So I says, 'Look, bud, for that kind of money, we'll ventilate the bum.' No offense, of course."

I chuckled. "Nails" was all heart.

"He hits the ceiling, starts babbling in some other language. Tells me we shouldn't even muss your hair, just keep you pinned for a little while, then blow. So I agree — three of the boys pay you a friendly call, and you off one of them. Benny had a lot of friends, y'know."

"He's with most of them now, Nash," I shot back. "Did this joker tell you why he was so hot to have me stalled?"

"Nails" shook his head. "Nah. He didn't offer, I didn't ask. That ain't the way I do business. But I heard your office got the once-over this morning, gumshoe. Maybe you dug up something . or somebody . that should've stayed buried."

It made sense, except that I wasn't on a case right now, in either of my identities. But "Nails" was a rotten liar — that's why he was still small-time. If his boys hadn't broken into my place, that meant my secret was still a secret . at least from this crowd.

"Can you describe the guy who hired you?" I asked.

"Nails" got red in the face. "Hey, I ain't no squealer! I gave you this much, and I'm letting you walk out of here, instead of being carried out. But don't push your luck!"

I reached — slowly — for my wallet, and translated my question into a language "Nails" could understand. He pocketed the hundred and said, "Sure, I remember him. About your height, white hair, thin moustache. Oh, and he wore an eyepatch over his left eye."

"Nails" gave me his permission to beat it and I hit the street. I get a real kick outta him. Takes in a hundred grand, and can still be bought for chump change. Anybody else, I'd be suspicious — but "Nails"?

Anyway, the burglars, their boss — none of them sounded familiar. I started running down a list of people I'd insulted lately, trying to pin the big spender who hired Nash.

What I didn't know was, if I'd stayed in the office instead of visiting Nash, I'd have met the man. As Sadi told me later over the phone, while she was straightening out the office, somebody knocked at the broken door. It was "Daddy Warbucks" himself, complete with eyepatch and a heavy French accent. Sadi told him I wasn't there and he got flustered. Kept asking where I'd gone to, when would I be back, and Sadi snowed him as best she could.

"It is imperative I see Mr. McMasters immediately," he insisted. "It is a matter of ze gravest importance."

"Why don't you explain the situation to me, sir, and I'll give Mr. McMasters your message when he comes in," Sadi offered, and her visitor shrugged.

"Very well, mademoiselle, if I must," he said. "I am acting as ze agent of a certain . party who is seeking a lost object. He is willing to pay handsomely for its recovery, and no questions will be asked."

"What sort of object?" Sadi asked. She had a pretty good idea Frenchie was lying, but she was willing to play along and see where he was heading.

"It is a weapon," he said quietly. "A weapon which, in the wrong hands, could wreak untold destruction. It has been stolen, and it must be recovered. I have here a drawing —"

Frenchie reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of paper. Sadi did her best not to show any surprise when she saw it held a sketch of the Scarab's Sting. It was detailed, and the ink was fresh — whoever drew it had my piece, or had seen it up close recently.

Sadi turned back to Frenchie, determined to stall him, but he wasn't having any. When she saw he was getting set to leave, she said, "Mr. McMasters will want to know for whom you are acting. He never accepts a case without knowing the identity of his client."

Surprisingly, Frenchie didn't hesitate a moment. "Oh, pardonnez moi', did I not make that clear? I am acting on behalf of ze Silver Scarab."

* * *

I contacted Sadi from a pay phone outside of the Oasis and got the whole story. Our "client" had left a card — his name was Montaigne, and he was staying at the Sesetek Arms Hotel just south of the El Gala Bridge. He asked that I get in touch with him there as soon as I came in, but this Joe had earned a house call.

Along the way, I remembered something the Whisper had said to me once about Frenchmen's eyes and making sure the odds were even. I stopped off at the back alley shop of a fence I knew and picked up a few items I thought might come in handy, if my hunch about Montaigne was right.

The Sesetek Arms used to be the Sheraton, before good ol' Mobius sank his clammy claws into this planet. It was still pretty ritzy, but the "ancient Egypt" motif wore thin after a while. I wasn't there to admire the decor, though.

The desk clerk looked me up and down and turned up his nose. I'd seen his mug someplace before, and then it hit me. I asked him how things were at Rosalie's, a little whorehouse in Old Cairo I'd visited on a case once, and wasn't penicillin a wonderful thing? He was a lot more polite after that.

He told me Montaigne's room was on the third floor, but the man had guests, and they had asked not to be disturbed. Fifty Royals got me his room number; another fifty that his guests were "men of the cloth." There were three of them, and they'd been up there only a few minutes. Montaigne had called down himself and asked that there be no calls, no interruptions.

One other little detail my new friend had for me: the priests were all wearing dark glasses. Didn't that seem a little strange, this late in the evening? I told him he was better off not knowing and slipped him a few extra bucks to make sure he wouldn't tip Montaigne or his guests off.

One thing was certain — going up and knocking on the door would be a very bad idea. Fire escapes had served me well on more than one occasion, and this would be one of those times. I would have felt a lot better with the Sting at my side, but in this business, you make do with what you have.

I climbed the iron ladders, cold with the chill of the Cairo night. A hundred little dramas were probably being played out in the rooms I passed — men making and losing fortunes, women hiding out from their pasts, lovers finding each other. All I cared about was one darkened window on the third floor.

That's right, pitch black. My pigeons had already flown, maybe, but I still kept my head down when I reached the landing. When I got near the window, I saw that something had spattered all over the inside of the glass and run down to the sill. Either someone didn't like their gin, or someone didn't like Montaigne.

Inch by inch, I lifted my head to peer in. I couldn't make out very much — the only light I had to work with was the glow of a far-away street lamp. For an instant, I thought I saw a glint of steel, the small barrel of a weapon. Then it was gone.

There's an old saying among folks in my line of work: there are some things you never find unless you're looking for them. That may explain why I was able to see three pinpricks of red light moving inside Montaigne's room—I knew they would be there when I heard about the dark glasses on the priests. I also knew what they were from descriptions some Storm Knights related once: low-light eyes, mechanical contraptions that let Malraux's cultists see in the dark.

The fact that they worked here, in Cairo, made me very nervous.

I reached into my coat for the goodies I had purchased on the way to the hotel. I'd bought them to use on Montaigne, if necessary, but now I didn't think it would be. I laid both on the floor of the landing and pulled out my Zippo lighter and my .45. My timing would have to be perfect — I lit the fuses, grabbed the sticks, tossed them through the window pane and shut my eyes tight.

You see, it's a funny thing about low-light eyes, from what they tell me. A really bright flash all of a sudden can drive the things haywire. That's why a few flares at the right moment are just the thing to soften up cyberpriests.

As soon as I heard the French curses, I crashed through the window and into the room. Opening my eyes, I saw the glare had faded, but the little red lights were spinning like roulette wheels and their owners were staggering. I took aim at one of the lights and squeezed the trigger of my automatic. The slug tore through metal and buried itself in flesh and the priest flew backward into some furniture. There were a few more shouts in French, and I hit the floor and rolled.

There was a muffled blast off to my left and piece of floor I'd been standing on a second before exploded into splinters. I'd been around Cairo long enough to know these clowns probably only had a few more minutes before their gizmos would stop working, but that might be longer than I'd have to breathe if I didn't move.

I dove in the direction of the muzzle flash and crashed into one of the priests, bringing him to the floor. I raised my gun to smack him, but he caught my wrist in a grip that felt like it would grind my bones into powder. I let out a yell and brought my knee up into a spot I figured (correctly) would still be flesh, and he let go. I brought the butt of the gun down and rattled a few of his teeth loose. He lost interest in a lot of things right then, including staying awake.

That left one more tin man. I whirled around just as the red light went out — his junk had stopped working. I expected him to make a break for it, but he didn't. He was padding around the room, hardly breathing, trying to move in for the kill. His right eye was useless now, so I moved to my left, trying to stay in his blind spot.

We circled each other in the small room for what seemed like an hour. Once I stumbled on something soft and wet and realized it was probably Montaigne. I tried not to think about it. Nobody would be calling the cops about the shots — this was Cairo, after all.

I stopped moving and strained to hear anything, but there was nothing. My gun arm still ached from that guy's grip, so I switched the Colt to my left hand. I started crawling toward what I guessed was the doorway — maybe I would be able to see him against the backdrop of the windows.

Suddenly, I heard a low hum from behind me, and something that felt like an I-beam crashed against the back of my head. I didn't have the chance to roll with the blow, but I concentrated and managed to reduce the glare of the stars I was seeing. The padre had turned the juice back on, and worse, his sucker punch made me drop the gun.

He didn't plan to give me the chance to find it, either. A metal hand grabbed my throat and lifted me into the air. He was having a good time slamming me into the wall and I was starting to get nostalgic for oxygen. Then it hit me — if he hadn't found me earlier, his ears were normal. I clapped the sides of his head with both hands and stunned him enough to let me go.

He started peppering the floor with shots, finishing off one of his buddies in the process. I edged my way along the wall until I hit a mounted lamp. I had one last idea, but to pull it off, I needed to get him angry.

"C'mon, you metal freak!" I bellowed. "Finish it off!"

I ducked as he blasted a hole in the wall. "That the best you can do? Maybe Malraux should trade you in for a newer model!"

He fired again. His aim was off, though — I hardly had to try to dodge this one. "What's the matter, tin man? Rust in your buckets?"

That did it. He charged like a mad bull and swung for my head with his solid-steel arm. I moved at the last second, and his fist went through the plaster wall and severed the electric lines. He lit up like a neon sign for a few seconds before he wrenched himself free.

He was breathing heavy, but he was still standing. I lashed out with my foot and caught him in the stomach, sending him into a dresser, then landed an uppercut that snapped his head back. He took a half-hearted swing at me, and I put everything I had into a right to his jaw.