Mysterious Cairo (27 page)

Uh, oh.

I leaned in close, as if to kiss her on her left cheek — the one nearest the wall. Instead, I whispered, "What's wrong?"

She giggled like a schoolgirl and replied, softly, huskily, "We're being watched. Corner four and table six. Unknowns."

Crap again. I had the luck of a penguin in the Sahara. Four ... no five weeks of nothing, and now I'm getting beat up, threatened, and tailed
maybe
because of a case I
might
have.

I've just
got
to talk to Jennie Burban.

Fighting a rising — and definitely unhealthy — irritation with fate, I smiled and batted my eyes (hey; I haven't pretended to be in love for months now). In a normal voice I said, "You're lipstick's smudged, dear," and I planted a soft peck on Angie's cheek.

She took the hint, but I could tell she wasn't too pleased with my roleplaying — I'm not the only one who's lost someone special. Reaching into her "stage clutch," a little purse that did little more than dangle from her wrist when she sang, Angie pulled out a little compact.

She made a show of checking her makeup, pivoting slightly with each dab or squint. When she was in the right position, or so I guessed, I leaned over and put my hand on her arm and my face close to her shoulder. From the room, I'm sure it looked like we were being snugly.

The lengths I'll go to to preserve my skin.

Angie moved the mirror slightly, showing me the reflection of one, and then the other, groups of tails. The first group I recognized — two of Nick's men. Bruiser types, but specialists. Back when I first came to Cairo and borrowed money from Nick, I met one of them when I was late for a payment. He came out of nowhere one night, reminded me about keeping my obligations, and then had the courtesy to call a doctor for me. I didn't know his partner, but I assumed the story was the same. Quick, smart, strong, and maybe
— just maybe
— a stormer.

This was bad.

The other group, however, was the one that caused the hackles to raise on my neck. There were four of them. Small and dressed in dark clothes, I couldn't tell that they were looking at me — or anyone in particular, for that matter — and that worried me. I trusted Angie's judgement, though; she spends a lot more time watching crowds than I do. Then one turned slowly, revealing his face.

An oriental.

I went cold.

I'm sure I stared, so much so that Angie jostled me and giggled while giving me another warning glance. I had frozen up, and I might be blowing our act. Forcing myself to lean back and laugh — it sounded hollow as hell to me — I refused to even glance in their direction.

An oriental. Four of them. In suits. More crap than the Pharaoh's stables.

I suppose an explanation is in order here. As I've said before, I'm from Sacramento. I guess I'm one of the few people in the world who knows that the "miracle" there had nothing to do with Core Earth "fighting back against the invaders" as the Delphi Council says. Further, I think I may be only one of a handful of outsiders that knows that the sudden influx of "Japanese" to the West Coast wasn't just a "joint rebuilding effort" by the Japanese and American governments.

That's why the orientals scared me. See, we have orientals in the Nile Empire. They're either little yellow guys dressed in black, brown, or white pajamas who go around bowing all the time, doing laundry, and generally mangling the English language — especially in the case of L's and R's; or we have the "inscrutable oriental gentleman" who either dresses like the Core Earth "Charlie Chan" detective or like Dr. Mobius' former Overgovernor Wu Han. The latter group are wise, devious, and very flashy in their own way.

I doubted very much that the guys at table six had any problem with their accents, and they certainly didn't look like the inscrutable stereotype.

They
did
look devious, though.

I chatted amicably with Angie about nothing in particular — I think we were both trying to make each other sick with endearments — while continuing to think about my situation. I
knew
the bruisers and I had a pretty good idea about what they'd do — and when they'd do it. The orientals were a mystery, though. If I was right and they were from Nippon, then somebody may have decided that one more witness to their dealings needed to disappear. They could do it anytime, anywhere. That I saw them before they moved was more alarming than comforting.

"Whenever you want, baby," Angie said in a husky voice. She leaned in close and gave me a warm, soft kiss.

What? Oh,yeah.
I'd been following along on autopilot, and I'd suggested finding somewhere "less crowded" where "we could be alone." Standard stuff, but I'd expected Angie to do a little rebuff.

"Now's as good a time as any, sweetheart," I leered, my heart sinking. I downed the rest of my Scotch and stood up, offering my hand to "my one true love."

Yeah, right.

Angie accepted gracefully and stood. Apparently I was still acting a little stiff, because she flashed a little more leg than was necessary. Unfortunately, I was too caught up in the moment to enjoy the view.

I "led" her by the arm, waiting for her to give us some direction. Not surprisingly, she headed towards the stage. It was fairly well known that the bar had only the one public entrance, and the secret one probably wasn't behind the stage. Good; that should satisfy the bruisers. They'd look for the obvious answer and wait.

But what about the orientals? I'd just have to hope.

Angie put a lot into the act. She was alternatively cooing like a teenager and wiggling like the most experienced . woman in the world.

I must
really
have been stiff.

Anyway, we made it to her dressing room pretty quick. I went in first, and she closed the door behind us. She stood with her back to the door, listening. She kept her eyes on me.

"We don't have much time," she said.
Nothing soft about that. Ah, well...

"But, dearest, we have all —"

She cut me off, "Shh." She listened again. Then, visibly relaxing — about as much as a prizefighter relaxes when his opponent trips onto the canvas — she continued. "Good; Bennie got my signal."

"Signal? What —"

"Shut up and listen." She gestured at the vanity chair, "Sit down."

Now the flush came to my face. I was tired of not knowing "what the hell is going —"

"Will you pipe down," she spat, "we've got to get this over quickly."

I sat, but I could tell from her reaction that my expression was anything but cooperative.

"Listen, Jack; you come to me because I'm an information broker, right? You've got to expect me to be up on current events — even if they concern you."

That made sense. I relaxed. A little.

"I don't know who those guys are — the ones in dark suits —"

"The orientals?"

Angie looked puzzled. I forget sometimes that she's a Terran.

"Never mind. Go on."

"They've been here for about three hours, though not all at once. They've been on a rotation schedule or something. All four showed up while I was doing my opening."

Terrific. I was busy being cute; trying to figure out where Angie would make her entrance, and I missed another entrance of vital importance. Sometimes I think I should just —

Angie read something of my self disgust and shrugged, "Hey; don't be too hard on yourself; they're good. We — meaning Farastan and I — didn't put it together until you showed. They blend in pretty well."

"You know what they want?"

Smiling sardonically, she replied, "My guess is you." Then: "Any idea why?"

I thought before replying. "Yeah. A big idea." I could see wheels turning in her head. I shook mine. "You're better off not knowing."

Frowning, she walked over to me, "I can take care of myself."

"I know. But some things are just too big."

"I can't help you if —"

"Dammit — these people
aren't
what you're used to dealing with." I looked her in the eye hard, giving special emphasis to my words, "they aren't
at all."

Maybe it was something in my look or my voice, or maybe she figured it out. I don't care; she backed down.

"Okay. Anyway, I know word zero about them."

"I figured." Then: "What about the other two?"

She shrugged. "What's to know? Nick's 'special collections' boys . I had no idea you were in so deep."

Her voice was neutral, but I could sense the recrimination. "I'm not."

An eyebrow was raised. "I'm not," I repeated. "Really." She still wasn't convinced. "Wouldn't you have
heard
if I was?"

Angie took on a thoughtful expression — like someone running over a schedule in her mind, "Let me see; you made your last payment — just interest — on ..."

"Okay, okay; I don't need a review of my economic history," I grumbled.

She grinned and shrug. The shrug was attractive, but getting to be annoying.

"You need something. Tell me."

"Well, Edgy visited me today ." I began.

Puzzled, she asked, "Today? I would have thought a week ago — but no; that would've been ."

I nodded. "Right. Edgy visits a week; maybe two weeks before the bruisers show — at least for Nick's 'special customers.' I'm sure he'd much rather 'encourage' me to pay than try to beat it out of me. I've got a rep." No bragging there. Skinny Nick knew two things about Jack Reynolds if he knew anything: he's tough — deceptively so — and he pays his debts.

Both ways.

Angie shook her head. "This is getting us nowhere. Why don't you tell me why you're here."

I hemmed and hawed about "a new case," but I quickly saw I was trying to entice water from a pyramid. Angie was one of those who won't tell you where a bakery is unless you tell her why and what you're going to order.

"Max Burban."

I dropped the name hoping for a reaction — I wasn't disappointed. Disgust, shock, and even a little fear showed on Angie's face as she backed up a step. "
You're
working for —"

I shook my head vigorously. I knew how Angie felt about gangsters — and why. She had experiences with them that mirrored mine with Nip—I mean "Japanese" businessmen. "No way. But he's at the core of it."

Looking thoughtful, Jennie sat on the stuffed chair near the door. "There have been rumors ." she mused.

I leaned forward; I must have looked ready to pounce, "And ."

She got a cat-like smile on her face and settled back in her chair. Crossing her legs, she breathed, "Well ."

The door to the dressing room crashed forward, smashed right off its hinges. A body, pierced by knives and throwing stars, came with it.

Bennie. Very dead.

Angie yelped, but didn't scream. The door had just missed her legs. I looked up at the hallway.

The doorway framed a man with a sword in one hand and a familiar-looking gun in the other. He was obviously one of the orientals, for his eyes had the epicanthic folds consistent with his race. I couldn't tell which one, though. He wore a black mask that covered his whole face, except his eyes.

Which were looking straight at mine.

Crap.

Greg Farshtey

A soft rain was falling on Cairo, badly-needed but just enough to drive the bums, sharpies, "ladies of the evening," and even some of the pulp avengers indoors. The only obvious activity in the city this night was in the theater district, where patrons were emerging from
Mobius Rex,
a controversial play that questioned the Pharaoh's parentage, intelligence and intentions.

More covert actions were being contemplated only a few blocks away, where three men huddled inside trenchcoats and eyed an antique shop across the road.

"You sure this is a good idea?" the largest of the three asked, looking up and down the street as if expecting a squad car at any moment.

"Relax, Drom," said another. "The cops won't be by for another half hour, at least — the joint's got an alarm a kid could ace — and," he added, clapping the third man on the back, "IC's sent us the best safe man in the game."

The object of this compliment shrugged, dropped his cigarette, and ground it under his heel. "It's just lucky I was available, Roscoe," he said. "The Bejjar gang had a job for me, but pulled out at the last minute. IC's been keeping me pretty busy, you know."

With one last look around, the three crossed the street. The shops were dark, the merchants home enjoying their evening meals. With smooth, practiced motions, Roscoe cut a circular hole in the glass of the door, then reached through it and undid the door's lock.

"But ain't this stuff pretty small-time?" Drom whispered while the safecracker, Skids, went to work. "I mean, there's old pottery all over the place these days. What's so special about these?"