Maloney's Law (5 page)

At waist level, the steel of the knife flashes in the morning sun, and there’s no time to cry out.

Chapter Four

With a speed that comes from instinct rather than thought, I twist my body away from my attacker and grab his knife-arm. I slam it back against the stone arch of the gateway.

Scar-cheek lets loose a stream of high-pitched Arabic, and the knife falls to the ground. I punch him in the stomach and yell, ‘Help! Help me!’

At the same time, both of us leap for the knife, but I get there first. The next second he kicks me on the side of the head, and I sprawl on my back in the dust, the knife skittering away from my reach. His dark eyes are fixed on mine, and I know if he has the chance he’ll kill me now. But there’s shouting, a sense of other people closing in, and then he’s gone, through the gate and melting into the crowd. When I glance at the knife, that’s gone, too.

‘Are you okay?’ ‘What was that about?’ ‘Hey, you’re bleeding,’ are the American-twanged phrases I manage to pick out of the medley of foreign sounds and sympathy around my ears. Someone mentions the Tourist Police, but I wave the suggestion away. I try to get up, but stagger and almost fall again. A short, fat man in an orange robe catches me and all but carries me into the postcard shop. Here, I’m fussed through cards, kitsch, and toy camels into a small back room with a sink where the Samaritan turns on the tap, wets a roll of cloth in the stream of light brown water, and holds it onto the side of my head. I’m not convinced this will help, but I’m too dazed to argue. All the time he fires off a series of staccato comments I’ve no hope of understanding. After a minute of this, he’s joined by a tall woman who elbows him aside, looks at me, eases the cloth away from his hand, and shakes her head. She smells of lemons.

‘Chai, chai!’ she gestures to the fat man, and he vanishes back into the shop.

When she places her fingers at the side of my head, I wince. She leans forward and gazes into my eyes, and I wonder if she’ll find anything there to her liking. Another torrent of Arabic, but this time the voice is softer. She smiles, then fills the sink with water. She takes a fresh cloth and dabs at the wound with an ointment that makes me flinch. Finally, she stands back, hands on hips and the look of a job well done on her face.

‘Shokran, shokran,’ I say, remembering the phrase at last. ‘Thank you.’

The man reappears, holding a glass. The woman takes it and puts it to my lips, and I can smell mint. It scalds the roof of my mouth but after three or four sips the dizziness fades.

When I leave my new friends, I take with me ten postcards, two stuffed camels, a Nefertiti fridge magnet, and a host of good wishes neither side can understand, but they’re said with sincerity.

At Mena House, I sleep for five hours and nineteen minutes with no dreams, not even of Dominic. When I wake up, I rebook my flight home with reception, purchase a galabiya at the hotel shop, eat a leisurely early supper, and return to my room where I wait for night to come.

Cairo never sleeps. Darkness never falls, and the shadows shift suspiciously. Men and women seem taller, more confident, and the haze of city heat makes what they do distant and magical. Add in the fact that people out at night are there for a good time and nothing more, even without the alcohol. The mix is just the right strength for undercover work. And, maybe, if I’m lucky, theft.

I’m sitting at a table in a café near the offices of Delta Egypt with a view of the foyer and front desk. I’m wearing the galabiya, but there’s a bottle of Stella in my hand. Though I’m not drinking it, the chill from the glass soothes the heat rising from the bodies around me. Somebody has already taken the chair opposite with nothing but an exchange of nods. The air is rich with the smell of grilled lamb and spices. Now and then, I lean back from the window, look at the mass of bodies behind me, and smile. Not enough to trigger conversation, but just enough to make it seem, if anyone is looking, as if I’m part of the laughter and talking.

All the time, I’m looking, too. In just four hours and twenty-one minutes, I’ve learnt a lot. There are two guards and one monitor in the foyer of the building that houses Delta. Approximately every forty minutes, one of the men will leave and, as far as I can tell, make a tour of the building. This takes between twenty and twenty-three minutes, so they’re not being thorough. I suspect some of this time is used for smokes or toilet breaks.

The clock on the wall in front of me looms out of the smoke. I would give half of Dominic’s wages, maybe more, for a cigarette, but I gave that up and I won’t go back to it. There’s a wave of laughter from five elderly men at a side table, and one of them slaps his neighbour’s shoulder, squeezing forth another burst of laughter. I signal for the bill, leave money enough for a generous tip on the table, take the parcel I made up in the hotel room, and cross the square to Delta Egypt.

Outside, the air is clearer, but still just as heavy on the skin. The street shimmers with life and people and need, but tonight none of it calls to me. I take a sharp right and jostle my way past chattering businessmen dressed western style, and groups of young men still selling their wares. I dodge the old battered Renaults and donkey carts on the street and head to the Delta building, my plan, such as it is, inhabiting my flesh, becoming part of it, with the promise of making it work, making it real.

When I peer through the glass, the smaller guard is on his own. One minute and thirty seconds ago, the taller one left for the routine tour. I have just over twenty-two minutes at best to get what I want from Blake Kenzie’s set-up and get out. The package is in my hand, along with a mocked-up signing sheet, and I know the whole idea is crazy, but I’m hoping it will work, as it might be my only chance.

I knock on the window, wave the package and the sheet, gesticulate down at them both. The guard glances at me, looking so bored I swear he sighs. He can’t suspect anything; dressed like this I look like everyone else, and he can’t see the colour of my skin from where he’s sitting. He gets up, jangling keys at his side I’m sure he won’t be needing. Come on, come on. Each second ticks itself by with the beat of my heart. He must take a lifetime, no several, to reach the door.

At last he opens it. I slam it hard against him, and he staggers back with a low oomph, recovering enough to aim a swift punch at my stomach. Sidestepping, I kick his legs from under him. Once he’s down on the floor, I kneel across him, grab his right hand so he can’t go for any concealed weapon, and slap a large plaster over his mouth. Ten seconds later his hands and feet are tied, his mouth still silenced, and I’ve disarmed him — one handgun, one small knife. I should keep them, but they’ll only slow me down and I’m skilled at neither. All I really have to offer are fast reflexes and balls. I just hope tonight they’ll be enough.

Five seconds after that the guard is locked in a cupboard amongst brooms and mops, and I’m feeling grateful there are no signs of curiosity from outside. I climb onto the desk, reach for the CCTV and smash the tape, pocketing the evidence.

I glance at my watch and see three minutes have ticked by. Another quick glance over the system confirms what this morning’s visit told me; the alarm is laser and computerised, and there’s no way of telling how it connects to each floor. And no time to put Jade’s detailed instructions to the test. I’ll have to take the lift. Because of the noise and because the guards have been using them too this evening, the stairs are too dangerous. I need to move like a cat for as long as I can to give myself all possible chances.

The lift rises upward like a cruise ship drifting out to sea. It takes one minute and ten seconds from the time I call for it to when it stops at the Delta Egypt floor. One second, two seconds. A soft whoosh of air as the doors open and when I peer out there’s no sign of any guard. I slip through the closing gap and watch as the numbers tick their way up from 2 to 3. It pauses there and then the number changes to 4. It stops. Good. That must be where the second guard is. The fourth floor. I hope he’s not questioning why he needed to call it up. I hope he’ll assume it’s his colleague messing with him. Most of all I hope my luck will hold.

Padding along the corridor, I see nothing’s changed from this morning. Same closed doors, same atmosphere of hushed reverence, but this time it’s because no-one is here, and I’m interested in one door only.

Where does Delta Egypt’s alarm system lead to? The local police? Or just internal security? Is it audible or silent, in order to catch the intruder unaware? Whatever, even if I hadn’t got the message from Kenzie’s behaviour, the level of company security tells me there’s something in that office I need to see.

From under my robe, I slip out the small tool kit concealed in my belt, unwrap it on the carpet tiles, and decide what to use. Fifty-nine seconds later — twelve seconds worse than my record — I’m in.

I brace myself for the wail of the alarm, eyes skating over the walls for the means to silence it. Nothing. The air is silent. I release my breath and wipe the sweat from my face. The lack of audible response means one of two things: Either the alarm, whether linked to an external authority or not, is built to surprise, or Kenzie was lying.

Discarding the second choice, I calculate I have nine minutes thirty seconds at best to get the information Dominic wants and leave. At worst, no more than five minutes.

The list of instructions I’ve given myself hums through my mind like a mantra. Leave the door ajar so I can hear any movement in the corridor outside, maybe if I’m lucky the slight swoosh of the lift. Disable the CCTV, which is well-hidden but not impossible to find. What kind of man has CCTV in his own office? It’s easy enough to switch off, then destroy. Next, I make a quick but thorough search of all the cabinets and drawers. Not that a man like that will leave anything there to incriminate himself, but it’s foolish to assume he hasn’t.

Nothing. As I thought. Because I want him to know I’ve been here, I leave the drawers unlocked and the cabinets open. I hope before he smiles at what I’ve done, there’ll be a moment or two when he won’t.

There are three minutes left, at worst, and, at best, six minutes thirty seconds.

The computer system. It’s the only thing left to ransack. I head outside to the computer I’d used this morning. Whatever happens now, this company is hiding something, and Dominic is right. I know it with all my instincts. Blake Kenzie is bad news, and I want to know the depths of it.

Outside, there’s still no movement and no time to check where the lift has got to. My fingers slide over the keys, my task made easier by the two hidden computer recognition buttons I slipped into place earlier on. Courtesy of Jade’s IT wizardry. One day soon I’ll have to offer her a partnership. As for now, it’s switch on, hack in as best I can, search, and plunder. And save, save, save. Behind me the nightlife of Cairo pulsates and flickers, and the CD chunters away at my side, while I force my eyes up and down the screen, through the file trees Kenzie has allowed to be shown on his public system. In these maybe, just maybe, might lie a clue he’s overlooked.

I ignore the folders I saw this morning, concentrating instead on the names that at the moment mean less but might hide more: the various projects, company reporting, sponsorships. All of it is burnt onto the CD and at the same time I glance through wherever my eye and the mouse take me and...

Come on, come on. Twenty-eight seconds to my worst case scenario, twenty-seven, twenty-five—

And something flashes up on the screen that, at the speed I’m going, only hits me two mouse clicks later. DG Allen Enterprises.

Twenty-two seconds, twenty, seventeen. And I’m back, burrowing into the Allen folder, knowing there’s no time to read it here but unable to stop myself, wanting to know, wanting to see. Now.

Fifteen seconds, twelve. A sharp whisper of sound beyond my current enclosed world taps into my consciousness.

The lift.

All my calculations found lacking, I’m out of time too soon. Cut the CD save, pocket it, knock the Allen file off screen, hope I’ve got it anyway, please God. A brush of rubber sole on carpet and, from outside the room, words I don’t understand are whispered.

There’s more than one of them. I’m screwed. Got to get out. Before I’ve finished the thought, I’m up and running, I don’t even pause to see who’s after me. Instead, I slam open the nearest window — thank God for old-style Egyptian buildings — pull myself onto the ledge and drop out into plain air, feet searching for a hold. From the silence and emptiness of the building I’ve just exited two floors up, there’s a popping noise, then another, and I realise they’re shooting at me. And using a silencer. Bloody hell, they’re actually shooting at me, the bastards. Astonishingly, in all my time in this business, that’s never actually happened, though I’ve been threatened, beaten, and knifed. Perhaps I’ve just been lucky, or more to the point, perhaps I’ve just never done my job abroad.

As I hang suspended, scrabbling for safety, my ears are thudding with the beat of my heart, and I realise I’ve peed myself.

The next second my hands slip from the ledge, and I’m falling. A scream — mine — shouting — God knows whose — and the popping sound — a third time. A ripe red gash of agony roars through the flesh of my shoulder, and I’m drowning in muck and rustling, a bitter taste in my mouth. Whatever I’ve landed in with a thud, and another scream, has broken my fall. As I roll over and out of it, the noise of braying hits me and I see it’s a donkey cart, loaded with what might be hay, but at this point I don’t care what it is as my pursuers shoot again. Once only. They miss. The old man at the donkey’s head cowers and pulls the whole contraption away, yelling and waving a bony fist. I dip and swerve with him alongside the cart, though there’s no need as I don’t think they’ll try anything now, not in full view of the city.

Three seconds later, I’m around the corner of the building and away.

Fifteen seconds after that, I’ve stopped my wound with cloth torn from the bottom of my robe. There’s no bullet, not that I can see, not that my shaking fingers can feel. My second slice of luck tonight. But how long will it last?