A thin cloud of tobacco smoke billowing from a handful of patrons engulfed him. Justin sneaked in, skirting around the tables and avoiding eye contact with anyone. He stood near the counter until Rahim, who was filling a couple of glasses with dark beer, took notice of his presence.
“Where have you been?” Rahim asked in a low voice. “You’re late.”
“Making sure I wasn’t followed,” Justin replied. “Is somebody waiting for a ride?” He gestured with his thumb back toward the door.
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s an old Ford parked outside.”
“That would be Leilah,” Rahim said, his pot-like head bobbing with every word. “She’s waiting for her husband, Farouk.”
A few servings of kofta, minced lamb sprinkled with spices, sizzled on the grill behind Rahim.
“Did you send Nebibi for a closer look?” Justin asked.
“No. Why?”
A surveillance camera was installed above the archway entrance to the Castle, and it hidden inside one of the lighting sconces. It transmitted clear images to Rahim’s computer screen, which doubled as a cash register. With a few clicks, he could keep a constant eye on what happened on the street. Justin preferred to be on the scene, the difference between being an observer and actually understanding an evolving situation.
Justin pointed to his left, toward the kitchen separated from the bar by a reddish curtain. “Have him check things out.”
Rahim nodded and disappeared inside the kitchen.
The CIS trusted Nebibi, the cook, like they trusted his uncle Rahim. Justin, on the other hand, did not trust many people. He knew Rahim had great financial incentives to provide actionable intelligence to them, as the CIS paid him handsomely for his services. But he worried about another buyer tempting Rahim. The man was willing to trade in nearly all secrets for the right price. The Egyptian was not bound by the same code of honor streaming through the veins of CIS agents. Justin realized CIS had to rely on local sources to navigate the labyrinths of Cairo’s streets and Egypt’s foreign policies. Still, he kept his reliance on Rahim to the bare minimum.
Rahim returned.
“A man was talking to some guy from the grocery store when I walked in,” Justin said.
“Yeah, that man is Farouk. He’s a good friend of the store owner. Nebibi is going out the back. Are you hungry?”
“No, not really. Still two hours until supper.”
“Yes, for Egyptians.”
“I am half-Egyptian.”
“You’re half everything.” Rahim turned around to attend to his grill.
Justin grinned, rubbing his dimpled chin. His Mediterranean complexion — dark olive skin, raven wavy hair, big black eyes, and a large thick nose, inherited from his Italian mother — allowed him to blend in naturally among the countless nationalities living in the bustling city of eighteen million. Youthful stamina, a natural talent for languages, and an overdose of stubbornness had allowed him to master spoken Arabic like a native Egyptian.
“Can I bring you some mezze at least?” Rahim asked, referring to appetizers.
“Sure.”
“Coffee?”
“Definitely.”
Rahim turned around and poured coffee from a long-handled pot into a porcelain cup. Justin savored the strong aroma of the thick, concentrated drink and clenched the cup in his left hand. He climbed the concrete stairs, which took him to the second floor. A narrow hall led to two safe rooms, once part of Rahim’s family apartment. Now they were reserved for the private use of CIS operatives. Justin knocked twice on the white door of the first room.
“Come in,” a woman’s soft voice called from inside.
“Hi,” Justin greeted Carrie.
She sat cross-legged on a chair by one of the windows. A pair of powerful binoculars and two manila folders lay spread over a plastic table, next to a CIS-issued Browning 9mm and a tea mug. Poster-sized photographs of the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Sphinx covered the beige walls.
“Hey, you finally made it.” Carrie tossed her reading glasses over one of the open folders. She tilted her head back, stretching her neck muscles. Her auburn shoulder-length hair, which she usually kept in a semi-ponytail, flowed down her slender neck. “What took you so long?”
“Trying to shake what I thought was a tail. A couple of guys who turned out to be nobody.”
“Well, double-checking never hurt anyone.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Don’t worry about it. Still hot out there, eh?” She pointed to the soggy shirt stuck to his chest. A trickle of sweat had made its way down his neck.
“Hell on Earth. Ninety degrees in the shade.”
He placed his coffee cup on the table and stumbled onto an empty chair across from her. He took a deep breath, enjoying the cool breeze flowing down from the air conditioner mounted on the wall.
“Did you see a white Ford downstairs?” Justin asked.
“No. Nothing there when I came in.”
“Rahim hadn’t checked it out, but he’s sending Nebibi now.”
“OK, let’s hope it’s nothing.”
Justin dabbed his face with a Kleenex. “Where did Team One lose Sheikh Ayman?”
“We didn’t lose him. Johnson ordered us not to make contact, just track his movements, which we did. Sheikh Ayman arrived at Terminal 3 of Cairo International. Then he boarded a Sudan Airways flight bound for Khartoum.”
Claire Johnson was the CIS Director General of Intelligence, the North Africa Division and their boss. Johnson’s reputation within the CIS was that of a meticulously thorough individual. Terrified of committing a career-ending blunder, Johnson displayed a certain amount of sluggishness that crippled field agents. They joked that she was more efficient at witch hunting than terrorist hunting, as scapegoating often resulted from botched operations in her division.
Justin chewed on Carrie’s words. The sheikh’s departure aboard a regular commercial flight meant he was not hiding from Egyptian authorities.
“If mukhabarat is looking everywhere for the sheikh and his brotherhood, how come he can sneak right under their noses?” Carrie asked as if reading Justin’s mind.
“I was thinking that too. The short answer: he’s the sheikh and this is Cairo. The sheikh’s men are everywhere, even inside mukhabarat. They may be looking for him, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to find him. And according to the Egyptians, the sheikh is only allegedly linked to the Alliance.”
“Allegedly? Allegedly? What more do they want? A written and signed confession saying I am the second-in-command of Islamic Fighting Alliance?” Carrie clenched her fists.
Justin stood up. “It’s more complicated than that. The government is fragile, unable to defeat the militants by force, at least at this time. Maybe after the elections.”
“Oh, that’s months away.” Carrie sighed.
“That’s why we usually don’t accept support from the secret police. There’s too much to lose by sharing intel with mukhabarat.”
Justin unfastened his holster and placed it on the table. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, along with his bulletproof vest. He felt Carrie’s admiring eyes. He thought he saw her cringe as he turned around, knowing she would never get used to the sight of three deep scars, almost eight inches long, carved along his shoulder blades. They were reminders of the time he was captured in Libya after a hostage rescue operation that went wrong.