Rand nodded. “It took me forever in those Old City alleyways. I was almost ready to give up. His name is Ibn Shubra and he lives in a fancy old place that’s been carved up into apartments. There was a ragged man asleep on his doorstep.”
“What about the Egyptian Days?”
“Monday is the next one.”
“Does that mean Rynox—?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to call London?”
“I don’t work for them anymore,” he reminded her, though in truth he’d done so several times since his early retirement. This job had come about not in London but in Cairo, when he’d been recognized by a belly dancer named Emira at Sahara City. It was Emira who’d told him about Rynox and the Egyptian Days.
“Did we come back to Egypt just so you could flirt with a belly dancer?” Leila had asked that night on the way back to their hotel.
“She’s almost your age,” he said, trying to reassure her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He leaned over and kissed her in the back of the taxi. “She met me once in Athens, years ago. She just happened to remember.”
“You do make lasting impressions, Jeffrey.”
“She didn’t know I was retired. She wanted to tell me about a man called Rynox.” He remembered the taxi driver and lowered his voice. Later, in their hotel room, he’d continued the conversation. “This fellow Rynox, according to Emira, is bringing a shipment of plastic explosives from Europe to sell to terrorists here. She thought I could stop him.”
“Don’t get involved. We’re here on holiday.”
It was good advice and he might have heeded it except that the very next morning a terrorist bomb went off on a tourist bus, killing three people.
The belly dancer had mentioned a bartender at the Nile Hilton, Max Zeitner, and it was no inconvenience for Rand to seek him out. He was a scowling German who worked the afternoon shift in his own version of the hotel’s bartending uniform — an open red jacket worn over a hairy chest and tight jeans. Rand guessed him to be in his late thirties, though trying to appear younger.
“Emira over at Sahara City said you might be able to help me,” he said when Zeitner had poured him a beer.
“The dancer?” His eyes showed immediate interest. “Haven’t seen her around in a while. How is she?”
“Well enough. I’m looking for a fellow named Rynox and she said it might be difficult to find him this weekend because of the Egyptian Days, whatever they are.”
The German snorted. “Superstition, nothing more! You need an astrologer to tell you about the Egyptian Days. I’ve been here ten years and I still don’t understand which ones are important.”
“What about Rynox?”
Max Zeitner studied him for just a second before replying, “Never heard of him.”
When Rand had finished his beer he asked about an astrologer. The bartender gave him the name and address of Ibn Shubra. Leila was out shopping and he’d left her a note in the room telling where he’d gone, in case he didn’t get back. It was a habit of too many years in the trade.
Now, as she prepared to accompany him down to dinner, Leila asked, “Do you really think this man Rynox is a menace?”
“You read about the bombings. If he’s really supplying explosives, he’s a menace.”
“Why would she tell you about it rather than the police?”
“The Egyptian police can be corrupt. They have a reputation for torture, and people like to avoid them. The British, on the other hand, had troops here until nineteen fifty-one. Some Egyptians still view us as their guardians. Remember the war — we kept Rommel out.”
Leila said no more about it during dinner, and when Rand suggested later that they pay another visit to Sahara City she didn’t seem surprised. Neither did she seem too agreeable. “Wasn’t one night enough? That’s the worst sort of tourist trap.”
“Perhaps that’s what Cairo has become, only with these terrorist bombings there soon won’t be many tourists to trap.”
“You go without me,” she suggested.
“I’d look suspicious. Together we’re just two more middle-aged tourists.”
“Why don’t you just call London and be done with it?”
“There may be nothing to call about. I have to speak with Emira again.”
“All right,” she agreed finally, reluctantly.
Sahara City was one of Cairo’s best-known nightspots, famous for its belly dancers. It was really an open-air complex of nightclubs located just south of the Giza Pyramids, its name spelled out in garish lightbulbs in both Arabic and English. The place held a bizarre fascination for Rand and he always included it on his Cairo itinerary. Perhaps it was the outlandish mix of customers, or the haze of cigarette smoke that hung in the night air, or the sweaty flesh of the dancers.
This night the place was packed with a Friday crowd, tourists and locals. Leila took one look at them and muttered, “So much for a pleasant night at the hotel.”
“I promise we won’t stay long. I just want to speak with Emira again.”
After they were seated in a row of tables a few back from the dance floor, Rand excused himself and circled around to the backstage curtains. A dozen women of varying ages, all voluptuous and heavily made up, waited for their turns to perform. Rand knew from his last visit that they would dance separately and in various combinations, vying for tips from men at the ringside tables.
“Emira!” he called out, spotting her near the back. She stepped forward quickly, wearing a bright green costume with matching tassels.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have to speak to you again about Rynox.”
“Not tonight! Do you want to get me killed?”
“What—?”
“Get out, the show is starting!”
“I’ve seen Max Zeitner. He sent me to an astrologer—”
That stopped her. “What astrologer?”
“A man named Ibn Shubra.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “It was a mistake talking to you. Get out — someone is here!”
One of the other dancers passed her and said, “Tell him to give us some kunafah, honey.”
Emira ignored the remark and turned quickly away. She sought shelter among the other girls and Rand could do nothing but retreat as the first dancer went into her act.
“Did you find her?” Leila asked back at their table.
“Yes. She’s frightened to talk. I’ll try to see her later.”
The first dancer was undulating to the music, weaving slowly like a snake emerging from a basket. As the music increased in tempo she began to twirl her tassels and move among the ringside tables. Like the others, she wore a tasseled bra and a low-slung gauzy skirt that seemed about to slide off her hips with every violent undulation. The appreciative males at the front tables were stuffing folded Egyptian pound notes and other currency into the band of her skirt as she danced by.
Rand and Leila watched two other dancers perform before Emira finally appeared. Her bright green costume caught the light, shimmering like a wave over her breasts and hips. The crowd roared its approval.
From every side men reached out to stuff folded bills into her waistband. She seemed to shake more vigorously with each bill, flashing a smile that dazzled. Completing her circuit of the ringside tables, she moved back toward the rear of the stage. It was then that her hand dropped toward her waist, and Rand thought later that she must have felt something rather than seen it.
There was a blinding flash and roar that seemed to come from her gut, and instantly everyone was screaming, running, tumbling over each other in blind panic. The sound of it drowned out the final terrible screams from Emira in the seconds before she died. For her, the Egyptian Days had arrived early.