“That much?” he asked, doing some quick mental calculations. “It’s worth a great deal of money on today’s market.”
“A cubic meter could weigh hundreds of pounds,” Leila commented.
The sergeant nodded. “But it could be in several packages, and probably is.”
They were crossing the hotel lobby when Rand spotted a familiar face. It was the dancer Pasha, who’d met him Saturday at the museum. She was hurrying toward the elevator, carrying a canvas bag. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
She glanced uncertainly at Leila and the sergeant. “Emira was supposed to dance at a wedding reception this afternoon. I’m taking over for her.”
Rand’s head was buzzing. He remembered someone mentioning another wedding today. It had meant nothing to him at the time, and still shouldn’t have meant anything. They had weddings at the Nile Hilton almost every day, often two or three at a time. The bartender had told him that. So why should this one be so important?
Was it important enough that Emira had to be killed to keep her from dancing there?
“I’m going up with you,” he decided suddenly, following her onto the elevator. Leila and Fahmy exchanged glances and followed along. “Whose wedding is it?” he asked Pasha.
“The son of a Cairo banker. He is marrying a Frenchwoman.”
The wedding reception was well under way and Rand was surprised to realize that it was almost four in the afternoon. Max Zeitner was working with another bartender, pouring drinks as fast as he could, and Wahba the baker stood proudly near his latest fivetiered confection. A young woman was singing traditional Egyptian songs on the bandstand, receiving warm applause from those who took time out from their celebrating to listen.
“I’m late now,” Pasha said. “I have to change into my costume.” She ran around the back of the bandstand.
“She’s lovely,” Leila commented, gazing up at the dark-haired French bride on her dais.
“Nothing’s going to happen here,” the sergeant insisted, “in full view of over two hundred people.”
Rand didn’t reply. He was remembering that Emira had been killed in full view of several hundred people.
The singer finished with a flourish and it was Pasha’s turn. She came through the beaded curtains like a dervish, whirling and undulating to the native music, bringing cheers from the wedding guests. She was faster, younger, and more aggressively sensual than Emira had been, prompting Leila to lean over and whisper in his ear, “That’s the girl you were with yesterday?”
“She looks different with all her clothes on,” Rand assured his wife.
Even in the slower parts of her dance Pasha was careful to avoid getting too close to the tables. There was no opportunity to stick currency in the band of her shimmering skirt. She was taking no chances.
When she’d finished her dance and the singer had done another set of songs, it was time to cut the cake. Both bride and groom climbed a short stepladder to slice the top tier as cameras and video cameras recorded the scene. Everyone cheered and trays of other confections were brought forth to supplement the thinly cut pieces of cake.
“What are these?” Leila asked Sergeant Fahmy, helping herself to a sticky confection from the tray.
“Ah, kunafah! It’s an Egyptian sweetmeat, flour paste rolled up with honey, nuts, and raisins — very popular at holidays and festive occasions. Bakers often supply them at weddings along with the cake.”
Rand tasted it at Leila’s urging and agreed it was quite good. But his mind was elsewhere. “Do you use bomb-sniffing dogs?” he asked Fahmy.
“Of course! We have them trained to detect all sorts of explosives.”
“How long would it take you to get one here?”
“It is a Sunday. I would need to get authorization.”
“See what you can do. Tell them it’s important.”
When the sergeant had gone off, Leila asked, “Do you know what you’re doing, Jeffrey?”
“I hope so. Come on, let’s get a drink.”
Max Zeitner was enjoying a respite at the bar. He winked at Rand and asked, “Enjoying yourself? The drinks are free. A bit of French champagne, perhaps?”
They settled for Egyptian beer, which Leila had always liked. Rand leaned toward the bartender and said, “You sent me to Ibn Shubra because you knew he was Rynox.”
Zeitner only smiled and said, “Maybe.”
Rand’s eyes scanned the room. Almost all the wedding cake had been distributed to the guests. By six o’clock many people were beginning to leave, but there was still no sign of Sergeant Fahmy. “How long do you want to stay?” Leila asked. “We weren’t invited, after all.”
“A few minutes longer.”
Rand caught sight of some white-jacketed men entering the ballroom. Sher Wahba was speaking to the groom’s father and gesturing toward the stand for the wedding cake, where everything edible had been transferred to paper plates on the serving tables. As the new arrivals prepared to remove the cake stand, Rand strode forward.
The baker turned, surprised to see him. “Ah, Mr.—”
“Rand. We met here yesterday.”
There was a deep-throated growl from the door and the few remaining guests turned in panic. Sergeant Fahmy had returned with his dog, a big German shepherd who headed directly for them. Wahba the baker grabbed for something beneath his tunic and Rand hit him smashing blows with both fists, sending him to the floor.
“That’s for Emira,” he said, breathing hard. “I wish it could have been more.”
It was Sergeant Fahmy who brought them the news a half-hour later, while Rand was soaking his hands. “I hope I broke his jaw,” he said as Leila opened the door for Fahmy. “I almost broke my hands.”
“You did some damage,” the sergeant confirmed. “And my dog sniffed out the plastic explosives hidden inside that cake stand — carefully wrapped packages filling the tall center core and the alternate tiers between the layers of real cake. You’d better tell me something I can put in my report, though.”
“Before you killed him, Shubra insisted he hadn’t been responsible for Emira’s death. He had no reason to lie, since he was about to kill me anyway. And yet I felt sure one of his confederates had killed her. The use of plastic explosives, even just a couple of ounces, tied it too closely to his contraband operation. And Emira was frightened by someone she knew in the audience Friday night. You see, the main reason she had to die wasn’t just that she was threatening to tell about the delivery of plastic explosives. It was that she was scheduled to perform at today’s wedding. With a shipment that large it was safer to kill her than to risk her revealing everything today. Sher Wahba was to deliver the wedding cake plus the explosives, and the terrorists were to take away the cake stand with the explosives still in place. I suppose it was easy for him to smuggle the explosives into the country in a shipment of flour or other bakery supplies.”
“They had enough plastique in there to blow up the entire hotel! Why would they risk such a thing?”
“It was so unlikely as to be above suspicion. And without a detonator the material is relatively benign. It can be molded into any shape, remember. Terrorists are used to working with it.”
“How did you know it was the cake?”
“What else did Wahba bring that was big enough?”
“But how did you know it was Wahba who killed the girl?”
“When I was backstage with her Friday night, Emira implied she was afraid of someone at the club that night. Another dancer overheard her and obviously knew whom she meant. The dancer told her to ask him for some kunafah. I had no idea what the word meant until tonight, when I ate some and you told me bakers supplied it. The dancer knew the man Emira feared was a baker. The only baker at this wedding, the wedding where Emira would have danced had she lived, was Sher Wahba.”