“She referred me to Max. I’m looking for Rynox, now more than ever.”
The astrologer closed his eyes as if deep in thought and put his fingers together as he had on the previous visit. Finally his head jerked up as a telephone rang in the next room. “Pardon me a moment,” he said, and went to answer it.
Rand was left alone. He glanced toward the bookcase and walked over to inspect its contents. There was a large mixture of British books and some foreign-language ones, mainly on various aspects of astrology and necromancy. He glanced through one or two, working his way down the bookcase. In the next room he could hear the astrologer’s low voice on the telephone, but could make out none of the words.
On the bottom shelf were a dozen or so British detective novels from the 1930s. Most had shabby and torn jackets, if there were jackets at all. Rand recognized some but not all of the titles: The A.B.C. Murders by Agatha Christie, The Beast Must Die by Nicholas Blake, Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers, The Rynox Mystery by Philip MacDonald—
Rand held his breath as he slid that last title from the shelf and glanced through it. Rynox was the name of a corporation. It was not a book Rand had ever read, so he was unfamiliar with the plot. But that didn’t matter. It was the title that mattered.
He heard a noise behind him and turned to see the Mauser pistol in Ibn Shubra’s steady hand. “Yes, Mr. Rand,” he said quietly. “You have found him. I am Rynox.”
Rand let his breath out slowly, weighing the odds if he made a dive for the gun. At the moment they didn’t seem too good. “Why did you kill Emira?” he asked. “Or have her killed?”
The tall astrologer held his position. “Whatever you choose to believe about me, I had nothing to do with Emira’s death. I loved her.”
“What?”
“Emira and I had been lovers for the past two years.”
Rand shook his head, unable to put the pieces together. “You were the one she met after work?”
“Yes. She often stayed here with me. Do not look so disbelieving, Mr. Rand. Emira was only ten years younger than me, and even astrologers are entitled to love.”
“It’s not that. It’s— She betrayed you. She told me Rynox was selling plastic explosives to Egyptian terrorists.”
“Emira strongly objected to some of my business dealings. She told me once she’d like to stop them if she could do it without hurting me.”
“Put down that gun,” Rand said. “Let’s talk about this. If you didn’t kill her, one of your business partners did!”
“No, no, Mr. Rand. The gun is necessary. Explosives and weapons are only a small part of my business. I do not intend to sacrifice everything because you were rash enough to be browsing on my bookshelf.”
“Tell me who killed her.”
“If I knew, I would let you die with the knowledge. But I truly don’t know. Certain radical Muslim groups who want to tear down the pyramids and sphinxes for being idolatrous are also opposed to belly dancers. Her death might have been meant as a warning to others. It could have nothing to do with my business dealings.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do. The delivery is being made today, isn’t it — before the bad-luck day tomorrow?”
Ibn Shubra nodded slightly. “But you will neither find nor prevent it, Mr. Rand. A cubic meter of plastic explosives is too valuable in this part of the world to be bartered away lightly. If Emira died because of it, I mourn her death. I will not mourn yours.”
Rand could wait no longer. He hurled the book he still held just as the astrologer squeezed the trigger, then followed it across the space between them, feeling the burn as the bullet creased his arm. Then he was onto Ibn Shubra, wrestling him to the floor, clawing for the gun before the man could get off a second shot. It had been years since Rand had engaged in any sort of prolonged bodily combat, and he felt the strength oozing out of him quickly.
Gasping, he felt Ibn Shubra roll over on top of him. He gave a mighty shove as the man stood, aiming the Mauser, and sent him backward into the latticework screen. Rand heard a breaking of glass, but the astrologer righted himself, still holding the gun.
Rand managed to kick out at his legs as he fired again, missing Rand’s head by inches. Then they were tussling again and the weapon flew free, hitting the floor a few feet away. Ibn Shubra broke loose of Rand’s grasp and aimed a kick to his head, then dove once more for the pistol. The kick dazed Rand and he was unable to bring Ibn Shubra into focus. He only saw a blurred outline reach for the gun and take a steady aim with both hands.
He had a flash of realization that this man Rynox was about to end his life, here in a dingy Cairo apartment where he might never be found. He thought of Leila as the roar of a gunshot filled his ears, somehow louder than the ones before.
Then Ibn Shubra fell dying across his legs and he looked up to see the short-barreled riot gun held in the hands of the ragged beggar from the street outside.
The man who’d fired the shot identified himself as Sergeant Hani Fahmy of the Cairo police antiterrorist squad. As he tended to the bullet graze on Rand’s arm, others were already arriving downstairs. “When I heard the first shot I called for assistance,” the sergeant explained. “We wanted him alive for questioning, but when I broke in here and saw him about to shoot you, I didn’t have much choice.”
“I’m eternally grateful,” Rand admitted.
“What was going on in here? We’ve been watching the house for weeks. Saw you visit him on Friday.”
“I came looking for a man named Rynox. I’d been told he was selling plastic explosives to terrorists.”
“Ibn Shubra was Rynox,” the sergeant confirmed. “We’ve known that for some time. But we’ve never been able to catch him or any of his associates with explosives. He brings it in from Eastern Europe and somehow it finds its way into the hands of terrorists.”
There were other police in the apartment now as Fahmy explained what had happened. Rand was hustled away for a ride to the hospital, though he insisted he was all right. At the hospital they thought differently, examining the bruise on his head where Shubra’s kick had landed and speaking darkly about the possibility of a concussion.
Soon after that, Leila arrived at the hospital. “You weren’t careful,” she greeted him, and he could almost hear the relief in her voice. He didn’t look as bad as she’d feared.
“No, I wasn’t.” He tried to shrug but that made his head hurt. “What happened?”
“The Cairo police came to my rescue.”
“Someone from the British embassy is waiting to see you.”
“I don’t have time for that. The transfer of explosives is being made today. Shubra admitted as much before he died. I have to get out of here.”
“We’ll see what the doctor says.”
Rand lay back on the bed, frustrated. Before he knew it, he was being interviewed by a British civil servant from the embassy who asked endless questions and promised to contact London the following morning. It was Sergeant Fahmy who brought them the good news at midaftemoon.
“The doctors say you can go now, Mr. Rand. Just take it easy for the next couple of days.” He nodded to Leila and said, “I’ll drive you both back to your hotel.” He had changed his beggar’s rags for a white shirt and pants, possibly part of a police uniform.
They were driven to the hotel in an unmarked car which Fahmy insisted on parking so he could accompany them inside. “We appreciate your help, Mr. Rand,” he said with a smile, “but I think we’ll be able to handle it now.”
“Not unless you can find a cubic meter of plastic explosives that’s being transferred today.”