“He sold my watch. They knew a man who’d give a good price for it.”
“TAG Heuer,” said Sefu reverently. “Aquaracer.”
As the teens unmoored the skiff and shoved away from the pier, Ava gave Paul a gentle look.
“Ah, what the hell?” he said, grinning. “It was a gift from Simon. I didn’t want it anymore. Besides,” he added, raising his voice as Ammon revved the engine and launched them into the channel, “we need the money.”
The boys were showing off, keeping the throttle wide open and zigzagging between larger watercraft. Sailors yelled and cursed when they almost swamped an antique-looking dhow. Nervous at first, Ava soon adapted to the boys’ frenetic navigation. She took a fatalistic approach. If it was her time, she’d rather leave behind an obituary that said “Graduate student dies in spectacular Cairo speedboat crash” than “Lonely, cautious woman dies of natural causes.”
Paul had convinced her that, under the circumstances, woolen robes were superfluous. The strong breeze made it impossible to keep on a hood. Plus, they were hot and itchy. Ava was far more comfortable in her running shorts and her white T-shirt from Kamaran Island. She stretched out at the bow, enjoying the brilliant sun, the scenery, and the occasional refreshing splash of cool water. Paul noticed the boys admiring Ava’s clothing and wondered how many splashes were accidental.
They cruised past Gezira Island. As she regarded the Zamalek District’s swanky high-rises, Ava pondered what response to send Gabe. She took his warning that big brother was listening as a certainty. It went along with what Paul had explained about Simon’s methods. Having installed network infrastructure for several Middle Eastern nations, Simon had access to all manner of data streams. Naturally, he employed a team of crypto experts in Yemen to keep his own communications secure and occasionally to snoop on the competition. She decided to keep it short, sweet, and false: “Got message. Thx. In Cairo. Driving south to Luxor 2nite. Say hi to James.”
Ava sent the text and then turned off the phone to conserve its battery. The skiff crossed under the steel Imbaba Bridge. From this point, the Mediterranean coast was less than two hundred kilometers away, but because the river twisted and curved back on itself like a coiled cobra, the actual distance traveled would be greater. Once they were sixteen kilometers downstream, Ammon reduced speed to twenty knots, veered west, and headed for the Nile’s Rasheed branch.
While the boys argued about drag racing, Ava meticulously applied SPF 25 to her arms, legs, and neck. She tanned easily, but a full afternoon of direct Egyptian sun, even in the cooler February air, was too much for any Anglo. Paul took the hint, accepted a thick dollop, and slathered his exposed areas. He added a filthy baseball cap to shade his face.
When Ava gave him a look he said: “It’s my lucky cap.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” she muttered.
After three long hours on the water, Ammon cut the engine and docked near the farming village of Gezai. Paul gave the boys some Egyptian pounds and the teens jumped ashore to buy supplies. Meanwhile, Ava reclined, bathing in sunlight. Silence dominated, interrupted only by the sounds of the flowing river and regular creaks from the rope tethering them to the pier. Soon, Ammon and Sefu returned with ice, Cokes, beer, and gasoline. The cold drinks were delicious. Spirits renewed, the travelers continued across the vast delta. North of the Tamalay Bridge they entered a section of river overgrown with blue-green algae. Ammon cursed. Navigating here was a chore. The opaque algae grew thickest in the shallows, where underwater hazards lurked. Paul didn’t care for the odor. Judging from Ava’s expression, she was equally displeased. “I have a riddle,” he said, thinking to distract her.
“Let’s hear it.”
Paul reached across the skiff and lifted his olive-drab backpack. “If I tossed this into the river, would the water level rise or fall?”
Ava examined the item: sturdy canvas, leather straps, and a brass buckle worn smooth by use. She closed her eyes, crossed her legs, and arched her back. Slowly, she rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, stretching her tired neck.
“Do we care about the boat or the water level?”
“Water level,” he said. “I’m asking: Will the water in the river go up or down?”
She concentrated for several seconds, then asked, “Does your backpack float?”
“I think so,” he answered, regarding the alga-infested channel with distaste, “but let’s not find out.”
“Provided it floats, the river’s level remains constant. If it sinks, the level drops.”
He laughed. “You nailed it.”
“Basic physics. When your backpack is tossed overboard—”
“Never mind. Want something harder?”
“Bring it.”
“You’re trapped in a castle. There are two doors. One goes to the exit, the other leads to a deadly tiger. Between the doors is a robot. Good robots always tell the truth. Bad robots always lie. The robot will answer one question. What do you ask?”
“Should I assume good and bad robots are identical in appearance?”
“Yes. Sorry, I forgot to say that. All robots look the same.”
Ava stretched both arms above her head, interlocking her fingers. She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. She stared at the horizon for several minutes. Ammon had guided them out of the algal bloom. He was increasing speed. She turned to Paul and smiled before answering: “Pointing to either door, I’d say ‘Mr. Robot, if I asked you whether this door leads to the exit, what would you answer?’ A good robot would tell me the truth, meaning he’d say the exit was the exit and the tiger was the tiger. A bad robot would lie, but because bad robots always lie, he’d also lie about what he would say, rendering his meta-response truthful.”
“Are you some kind of witch? Who thinks of that?”
“Is it the right answer?”
“Maybe,” Paul muttered.
“Good. Now I get to ask one.” Paul made a face, but she went on. “It’s a classic. There’s an island. Every man on it has cheated on his wife.”
“Manhattan!”
Ava laughed. “No. Don’t interrupt! There are fifty couples on the island. Each woman knows instantly if a man other than her husband cheats but no woman can tell if her own husband cheats. If a woman discovers that her husband has cheated, she kills him that very day. The pope (who is infallible) visits the island and tells the women that at least one husband has cheated. What happens?”
Paul thought for a moment. “Are any of the ladies, you know, domestic partners?”
“Ha, ha. You’re hilarious.”
“Okay. Sorry. Can I consult with my associates?”
Ava giggled. “Be my guest.”
Paul crawled astern and repeated the riddle to the boys. The Egyptians discussed it privately, then Sefu whispered their conclusion to Paul. He nodded in agreement and gestured for Sefu to tell Ava. He approached her shyly.
“This might be wrong,” he said nervously.
“Don’t worry,” Ava said gently, “just try.”
“All men killed?” he ventured.
“Yes! Excellent!” said Ava, patting Sefu’s shoulder. “But when are they killed?”
Sefu wasn’t sure. He went to ask his brother. Ammon reduced speed and the boys huddled, debating. Eventually they agreed, and Sefu announced their conclusion.
“As soon as possible?”
Ava laughed. It was a delightful sound, Paul thought, and it was good to see her cheerful, even for just a little while. When she had caught her breath, she explained the answer: No man died for seven weeks because no woman could be sure her husband was the cheater, but after forty-nine days passed without a murder, the only possible conclusion was that all fifty had cheated, so all fifty were killed on that day.