Star of Egypt (12 page)

“Does it say that, too?” He smiled. “Depends. Maggie paid off, after a fashion. One of the workers has vanished.”

“A suspect?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I hope I can see you later. Did you speak to Maggie outside?”

“No, I missed her.”

“If you spot her, tell her her counsel is urgently requested, in Hell’s Kitchen. She’s probably at the hotel, on the phone.
And I
will
see you later. Careful with that stuff; all those little vials are full of acid.” She said this last without even looking
up.

Slayton replaced the test-tubelike container he had lifted from the table. “Acid?”

“Nitric acid, flouric acid, hydrochloric. Sometimes we need it to clean these things. Sparing dosages only. Don’t get your
nose too close, kind gentleman.” She gave him a wry look, and he departed.

“Been to bed with her yet?” came a voice as soon as Slayton was back outside.

Still staring straight ahead, Slayton said, “Was there ever a man more misunderstood? Hello, Wilma.”

“I won’t quote you,” she said, catching up with him and matching his pace. “But don’t tell me you two haven’t made a point
of staying within striking distance of each other.”

“I have to watch over them.”

“Why?”

“Top secret,” he mumbled.

“No fair.” She let it die out and then said, “Those trucks, and those shipments of weapons—if they
were
weapons—have melted into the woodwork. No traces, nothing. Sorry about that.”

“Both of us,” said Slayton, distractedly. “I got attacked by a king cobra last night, in my bedroom.”

Wilma cocked an eyebrow. “That’s what you get for sleeping out on me, bastard.”

“Wilma, speaking of those trucks—”

She cut him off. “You’re not going to talk about it, are you!” She shook her head, incredulous.

“Not polite. You know me, the soul of tact and all that. Look—here’s a man you just have to meet. Broaden your horizons.”
Ahmed Sadi approached them on the walk.

“Oh, boy,” she said.

Ahmed was more than pleased to meet Wilma, who shot one of her
I’ll return the favor someday, smartass
looks at Slayton while being TV-polite. Slayton, naturally, had immediate business that required him, regrettably, to be
elsewhere. It never happened.

From across the small courtyard, somebody started shooting at them.

Three flat and very loud reports cracked and echoed off all the cement. At the sound of the first, Slayton grabbed Wilma,
pushing her to the ground with himself over her—they were flat down, but needed substantial cover. Ahmed dived behind a shrub.
They were all too far away from the door to the exhibit hall to make a run for it.

A hot slug skimmed off the sidewalk near Slayton, and the second blew brick chips out of the building wall behind them. He
heard the third ricochet, but did not see where it went.

He did hear Ahmed scream out in pain.

“Stackman! Stackman, are you back there!”

Stackman was, in fact, holed up in the exhibit hall entrance, pistol drawn. “Yeah!”

“Take two guys and bear straight in on him—one down that breezeway over there, and the other on the other side,” shouted Slayton.
With guards headed down the breezeways, the man shooting—who Slayton now realized was across the courtyard—would have to retreat
through the alley to the rear. It was the only way.

“Wilma!” Slayton yelled. “Are you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilma said, still on the ground, covering her ears with her hands.

Slayton was off and running. He had already determined that if he was the target, his assailant was a lousy shot. If there
was any more fire, Stackman and his cohorts, now charging up the breezeways as instructed, would return fire, and that would
be chaotic enough for Slayton not to worry too much about getting clipped. He ran.

With Stackman and his men right behind, Slayton caught a corner of the building and tore around it just in time to see a Levi-clad
ass bounce over a chain link fence at the dead end of the alley, where the tour cars were generally parked. Slayton did not
know what was beyond the fence. The mystery did not slow him down, and in seconds he was up and over the fence himself.

“That dude is long gone,” said Stackman, disgusted. He motioned his men to quit running. They stared at the fence in the distance,
obscured by the junk leaning against the opposite side. “Rademacher!” he called, his hands cupped over his mouth. “Jesus,
both
of them are long gone…”

Slayton was motioned into absolute silence by a panting Bassam, who had doubled back and, under cover, waited for Slayton
to come over the fence. Obscured from the view of the Sparta men, Slayton stood with his hands slowly elevating skyward as
Bassam held the big .45 on him as steadily as he was able.

Christ! thought Slayton. The bastard’s so nervous that if he hiccups, he’ll blow off my arm at the elbow.

“You will not be moved,” Bassam said, warily.

“Right.” Slayton tensed and said, “Why didn’t you let anyone know you could speak English, Bassam?”

“I am only a little.” That was for sure. He motioned with the pistol toward the fence.

Slayton picked it up. “Bassam, I don’t think they followed me.”

“To your automobile we will!” Again, instructive movements with the gun. He was extremely agitated and touchy. “You ahead
of me, now.” Beyond the fence there was a narrow rift between two taller buildings, and it was toward this that Bassam directed
Slayton.

The passage was just several inches wider than Slayton’s shoulders. Bassam was shorter, and seemed agile enough. Slayton gauged
his chances as he moved ahead. From this end, the rift looked like a long, thin tunnel. It did not admit much daylight. Bassam
would have the pistol aimed at his back, just a bit high.

It would take him a second to panic and shoot. He might continue to fire mechanically, but he would hesitate before that first
shot, would wait to make sure that Slayton’s actions deserved the shooting. That hesitation would be all the delay Slayton
needed. If Bassam had intended only death, Slayton would certainly be sprawled out back by the fence now, blood coming out
of six or seven holes. The man’s actions broadcast uncertainty; he would hesitate. Slayton decided, and acted.

With smooth economy of motion, Slayton dropped down onto both hands and kicked straight back, hitting Bassam. He used the
inertia of the kick, coming off his left hand and twisting to a stand, facing the opposite direction, as Bassam lost his balance
and fell on his ass. The gun, held too tightly, went off as it swooped upward in his grip. The shell scissored madly off the
close walls, bouncing from one side to the other until it was gone. Bassam had both hands on the gun and it was pointing straight
up toward the sky.

Slayton wasted no time and grabbed Bassam’s feet, using the motion of his backward fall against him and continuing, flipping
him over. His arms flew out reflexively to brace himself against the brick walls and to avoid being somersaulted. He dropped
the gun to the dirt.

Slayton jacked his arms up and Bassam did a furious three-quarter flip that landed him on his face with jarring impact. He
scrabbled to his feet as Slayton kicked the pistol behind him, between his own legs.

Bassam came to his feet attempting a general open-handed grab for Slayton, but it was a move that could be seen coming for
miles. Slayton deflected the smaller man’s hands to either side and advanced with a salvo of flat, open-handed blows that
bounced Bassam’s head from one side of the rift to the other, much like the misfired bullet.

Blood spurted from Bassam’s nose as he spun, arms out, against the wall to Slayton’s right. Slayton angled a chop into his
throat. He stiffened and his body tried to bend over, with the result he again whacked his skull, this time against the far
wall. Slayton stepped up, kicked, and Bassam’s breath came woofing out.

It was done, of course, but Slayton’s body kept working. He slammed a fist down on the back of Bassam’s neck and his body
tried to crumple into a fetal position. Instantly, Slayton flipped his body over and pounced, getting a thumb onto Bassam’s
windpipe, totally immobilizing the Arab.

Bassam was already unconscious. Slayton almost broke the man’s nose with another efficient blow before he noticed.

And then Slayton stood up, feeling a rush of something like nausea, very like the sensation that had overcome him after the
incident with the cobra, only less pronounced.

At once, he realized his body was unleashing and burning those massive backups of aggression and adrenalin. His collected
frustration against Rashid Haman had just bled off a huge reserve of power in a quick burst. It was like opening and slamming
a door, getting a blinding burst of light from within in the quick interim. He might have gone on to kill the Arab, had he
not checked himself immediately.

But now Slayton immediately bent to check Bassam’s pulse and respiration. He was still alive, his autonomic nervous system
pulling in his breath mechanically. The blood streaming out of his nose lagged a little in its flow. Some had trickled into
his mouth and outlined his teeth in red. Slayton examined the man quickly and economically. He had a goose-egg lump bulging
from the back of his skull and abrasions on his face from the rough bricks of the building wall, but there were no broken
bones—in a day or two, the only souvenirs Bassam would have would be some unattractive contusions.

Slayton scooped the smaller man out of the dirt and hoisted him arm-and-leg over his shoulders, creeping sideways until they
were clear of the narrow gap between the buildings.

Then he remembered the gun.

He leaned the inert form of Bassam against the building wall and dashed back. The gun was covered with dirt from the struggle.
The nickel plating was nicked and scratched, As soon as Slayton picked it up he realized that it was his own .45 automatic,
from the Triumph—which was still in Baltimore, of course.

A quick check of the clip revealed only the four shots had been fired. Slayton stuck the gun in his belt, collected Bassam,
and headed back for the exhibit hall area.

People were clustered near the entrance, where the gunplay had disrupted everything. A police car and an ambulance were bouncing
their lights off the surrounding buildings.

If it hadn’t been for their fear that Ben would return on a stretcher, both Shauna and Wilma might have found the superman
image of Slayton returning from the chase, his attacker softened up and draped across his shoulders almost comic. Of course,
once off the ground, Wilma had captured everything with her little Minolta, and she stepped forward now to snap a shot of
Slayton, carrying Bassam.

“Gotcha, hero,” she said.

“Jesus Christ, Wilma!” he began, and then she hurried forward and said, out of earshot of the group, “Don’t worry, don’t worry,
your mug isn’t going to grace
our
pages. Your anonymity is secure. This is for my scrapbook.”

“I’ll bet,” he said, rolling his eyes and dumping Bassam onto a stretcher rolled up by two paramedics. He walked immediately
over to the ambulance unit, peered in, and saw Ahmed Sadi growling at the men attempting to minister to his arm.

“Goddam stupid incompetent camel-shit idiot,” he screamed. “You’re breaking my bleeding arm!”

“The bleeding is
from
your arm, which is already broken,” murmured the medic, in a tone which suggested he was treating just the disembodied limb,
and not the Arab attached to it.

Slayton flashed his credentials brief. It had become a habit around police to save arguing time. “Doc—what’s the story with
him?”

Still not looking up from his work, his hands coated with Ahmed’s blood, the man said, “I am not a doctor. Doctors can diagnose
and give injections. They also don’t have to put up with as much horseshit as I’m putting up with now.” He leaned across the
berth, bracing Ahmed’s unwounded arm, suddenly speaking with his nose an inch away from the Arab’s. “Listen, you. Any more
thrashing and you’re gonna mess up this art work I did on your arm. Cuss me to the dogs and back, my man, but do it in Arabic
or I’ll break your fucking jaw. Got it?”

Ahmed, just as suddenly, became quite calm. “I like you,” he said in a tone that abruptly denied the pain he was suffering.

“Okay,” the medic said, finishing with the bleeding arm. Then he ducked his way out of the med unit, towelling his hands and
arms. “Bullet did some real mean damage,” he said to Slayton. “You know what kind of slug it was? You a cop?”

Slayton grimaced. He knew too well. He kept the .45 as a pay-or-play last resort, with a close-quarters blow-away in mind.
It was not a long range weapon. The slugs had been carefully scooped out and crosshatched. Had Bassam been closer, Ahmed’s
entire arm would have disappeared at the shoulder.

“Got another one for your services,” he said, indicating Bassam.

“He shot, too? Looks like someone thought he was a steak and tried to tenderize him.”

“He just needs first aid,” Slayton said, as he saw the cops approaching. He’d have to field them, as well.

He remanded custody of Bassam to the cops but left out the details of the gun, which he had ditched in his car on the way
back.

“Isolation,” he said, pointing in the cop’s face. “He talks to nobody but me and an interpreter, maybe. This is government
business.”

The cop, who did not wish to complicate his day, indicated that it was no problem, and within half an hour everyone had lost
their chance at fame.

“I can see you’re going to be in good hands,” Wilma said snidely. “I have to go—you know—” She gestured toward her camera
and tape recorder.

Slayton put out a cautionary hand. “Wilma, go slow, okay? You know my usual entreaties, and they all apply right now.” She
nodded, against her news judgment. “That’s pretty damn good,” he continued. “Your grace under fire, I mean.”

“What you
mean,
” she said pointedly, “is that it was good for a
girl
, right? Save the butter for the bedroom, Ben. Maybe I’ll see you
later.
” She stalked off.