Leila stood staring out the window of their hotel room at the black serpent that was the Nile by night. “My God, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that for as long as I live,” she said, as much to herself as to Rand.
“Nor will I.”
“What was it? What killed her?”
Rand had been trying not to think about it, but now he forced himself. “Probably a thin layer of plastic explosive, molded to the size of a credit card, and with a radio-controlled detonator embedded in it. One of the men at ringside wrapped a pound note around it and slipped it into the band of her skirt. Then when she was far enough away from him, he pressed a tiny transmitter in his pocket and the thing went off. It was not a very big explosion, just enough to—” He saw her face and left the sentence unfinished.
“Who would do such a thing?”
“The killer obviously escaped during the panic following the explosion. It might have been this man Rynox, but more likely it was someone he hired. When I spoke to her earlier she seemed afraid of someone, but I doubt if she’d seen Rynox himself.”
“Will you call London now, or talk to someone at the embassy?”
“And tell them what?”
“You can’t just ignore what happened to that poor woman!”
“Believe me, I won’t ignore it.” He started pacing the floor. “It might have been my presence there that caused her death, or the fact that I visited the astrologer Ibn Shubra. Someone knew she was talking, and they shut her up in a way that would be a lesson to others.”
“But you know nothing about this Rynox. What can you do?”
“I know some key facts about him. He’s bringing in a large shipment of plastic explosives, he’s superstitious about these so-called Egyptian Days, and if he killed Emira he’s utterly ruthless.”
“You think he’ll wait till after Monday to complete his deal?”
“More likely he’ll move before Monday. There’s a sense of urgency now that Emira’s been killed.”
In the morning Rand was awakened by the ringing of the bedside telephone. He glanced at his watch before answering it, noting the time as two minutes after eight. “Hello?”
“Mr. Rand?” A woman’s voice, speaking softly.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“I was a friend of Emira’s. I saw what happened last night. I must talk to you.”
He hesitated only an instant. “When?”
“This morning? In an hour?”
“Where?”
“In front of the Egyptian Museum. That’s in Tahrir Square, very close to your hotel.”
“I know,” he told her. Beside him in bed, Leila had come awake. “I’ll be there in an hour. How will I know you?”
“I’ll find you,” she assured him and hung up.
“Who was that?” Leila asked sleepily.
“A friend of Emira’s. She wants to meet me in an hour.”
“Jeffrey—”
“I’ll be careful.”
The museum was a large stately building more than a hundred years old. It shared the square with the city’s central bus terminal where hundreds of people waited along strips of concrete for their crowded but inexpensive transportation to appear. On Saturday morning there was not the bustle of weekdays, but Rand still found the elevated walkway that circled the area to be the fastest way around the square to the museum. From above he tried to pick out the woman who had phoned him, but it was impossible among the variety of faces and skin tones, with Mediterranean and Levantine types mingled with the darker Sudanese immigrants.
When he descended to street level and paused by the museum steps, he quickly realized that the woman on the phone had been none of these. She appeared at his side almost at once, young and lithe and with the pale skin of the Turko-Circassians who had once been Egypt’s ruling class. “I phoned you, Mr. Rand,” she said simply, falling into step beside him.
“Do you want to go inside?” he asked.
“Let us walk down to the river,” she suggested instead. “The museum is not quite open yet.”
As they walked he suddenly recognized her. “You were a dancer with Emira. You came on just ahead of her last night.”
She barely nodded. “My name is Pasha. Emira was a good friend, almost an older sister to me. I saw you come backstage last night and she told me your name.”
“How did you know where I was staying?”
“I phoned Shepheard’s first. When you weren’t there I tried the Nile Hilton.”
“Good guess. I’m terribly sorry about last night. No one should die like that.”
They neared the river and he could see the Cairo Tower on Gezirah Island across the way. A hollow cylinder of lattice walls, it carefully hid its utilitarian purpose as a television mast and revolving restaurant. “It was Rynox who had her killed,” Pasha said quietly. “He knew she was talking about his business.”
“Who is Rynox? Where can I find him?”
“She didn’t tell me that. She told me a lot, but not that. The bombings of tourists horrified her. Somehow she learned he was supplying them with plastic explosives from a plant in Europe — it might have been Czechoslovakia or whatever it’s called now. Then she recognized you the other night and asked for your help.”
“I’m retired now. I told her that.”
“You still have ties to those people. I’ve heard no one ever really retires from intelligence work.”
Rand sighed. She was still young enough to imagine it glamorous work. “I talked to a couple of people. She told me of a bartender at my hotel named Max Zeitner.”
“Max was an old friend of hers.”
“He sent me to an astrologer named Ibn Shubra to learn about the Egyptian Days.”
Pasha frowned. “That’s odd. I’m sure Max knows what they are.”
“Monday is one of them, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Tell me something. How did Emira know about this man Rynox?”
“I don’t know. They were friends, I think, but these recent bombings were more than she could stand. After she spoke to you she told me that maybe you could do something about it.”
Rand smiled sadly. “I was a glorified cipher clerk, heading up something called the Department of Concealed Communications. I was never a field agent except by accident a few times.”
“Maybe she didn’t know what else to do,” Pasha suggested. “Can you bring Rynox to justice for what he did to her?”
“I’ll try,” he promised, wondering what justice had become in the Middle East. Sometimes it was whatever suited the politics of the moment. “Tell me one thing. Did Rynox, or someone who might have been Rynox, ever visit her at Sahara City?”
“Not that I know of. Certainly there are always male customers wanting to have a drink with us between shows. Usually we don’t, unless it’s someone we know. Of course, Emira had been working a long time. She knew more people than I did.”
Rand thought about it. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “Whoever killed her deserves to be punished. I may contact you again if I need more help.”
They parted at the river and he headed back to the hotel. Leila was already gone from the room, planning a few hours of shopping before they met again in midafternoon. Rand breakfasted alone in the hotel’s dining room, reading about the Sahara City outrage on the front page of one of the city’s English-language newspapers. He was surprised when a bulky man wearing an open shirt asked to join him. When he saw the hairy chest he recognized the hotel bartender, Max Zeitner.
“Sit down,” Rand gestured. “You’ve seen the papers?”
“About Emira, yes.”
“I was there,” Rand told him. “I saw it happen.”