Oasis of Night (24 page)

Or maybe he already knew more than I suspected.

“Uh, sure.” I shrugged. “Anywhere's okay.”

As it turned out, Tex was really helpful. He was familiar with Cairo, and knew where all the decent hotels were. He explained to the desk clerk at Shepheard's that I'd been in the room where the blast had occurred, and within half an hour, they had retrieved my luggage and the rest of my belongings, apologizing profusely all the while. They assured me that measures were being taken, everything was being done, the police had been called, this sort of thing would not go unpunished, and so on. I offered my good-byes to the desk clerk, and within half an hour, I was installed in a clean little room at the Acacia Court with a wonderful view of the Citadel. The Acacia Court was nowhere near as fancy or luxurious as Shepheard's, but the bed was comfortable and there was lots of hot water. “I'll be back later to check on you,” Tex promised. He grinned, winking at me. “Try not to blow yourself up.”

“Wait a second.” I laid my hand on his arm. “There's something about this I just don't get.”

He'd been about to step out into the corridor but now he came back in and closed the door. “And?”

“I order a massage at Shepheard's and you show up.”

He grinned. “That's my job, Jack.”

“Yeah, I know that.” Christ, I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe that this big, good-looking kid was somehow watching out for me. “But now, with everything that's happened, here you are again. Cairo is a big place. How long had I been wandering in the native quarter? And who comes to my rescue? You do.”

“Jack, I—”

“It's all a bit too convenient for coincidence. That's what I'm saying.” I felt like a real heel. Maybe I should have been grateful he'd found me, instead of bellyaching about it. “I don't mean—”

“I can't tell you anything.” He spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “Jack, I wish I could.”

“That sounds pretty final.” Strangely enough, I didn't blame him.

“You're right about the watching out for you part, but that's all I can tell you.” He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Why don't you get some rest? You've had a tough day.” The door swished shut behind him, and I was alone.

I stripped off my scorched, filthy clothes and collapsed into bed, but I couldn't sleep. I lay there in the artificial darkness, turning the tiny key over and over in my hand. Who had put the key in the base of the bowl? Was I meant to find the key or was it meant for someone else—say, someone at the museum? Or had it been placed there before I'd left Newfoundland? I didn't understand what was going on with Tareenah Halim, either. She'd gone to a lot of trouble to secure my help and now she didn't want it. The more I thought about things, the more confused I got.

Finally I got up and, taking a pad of paper and a pen, wrote the words CAFE HEARTACHE. Samir said the decoded message from Sam had consisted of only these two words. My cafe was called the Heartache Cafe, which identified me as the intended recipient, but Sam hadn't provided much to go on. If this were a puzzle, I would assume the juxtaposition of those two words, for starters. I fiddled around with it awhile, arranging and rearranging the letters. I came up with things like A A A CHEER FETCH and A A A CHEF ETCHER and A A A EH REC FETCH—none of which helped me one little bit. On impulse, I struck off the A A A and the EH from the last one and was left with REC FETCH, which didn't mean anything to me. Then I swapped places and had FETCH REC, and that kind of gave me an idea. Was Sam trying to say “fetch records”? It was a long shot, but maybe that was what the key was for. It was too small to fit in any door I'd ever seen, but maybe a filing cabinet or a safety deposit box…?

I fingered the tiny mark stamped into one side of the key. It was the image of a bowl, with three straight, downward strokes; I'd never seen anything like it. On the opposite side was the number 28, obviously a reference to a cabinet or box. I got hold of the phone and called the concierge. “What bank uses the image of a bowl with three lines on it?”

“A bowl? Three lines?” He was clearly confused, but polite about it. “A bank, sir?”

“Yeah. It's a… what do you call it? A motif? A symbol?”

“Perhaps sir is referring to a logo?”

“Yeah, that's it. A logo. What bank uses that?”

“I do not have that information at my fingertips, but if sir would give me but a moment, I will ring back with a reply.”

While I waited for him to call back, I sorted through my mostly undamaged luggage for clean clothes. Something told me to lock my passport in the wall safe in my room, but I put my wallet in my back pocket and made sure I was wearing a watch. My feet were still sore from my impromptu walking tour of the native quarter, so I dug out my shoes, the same worn, comfortable old pair I'd brought with me. I made sure I was dressed like I belonged here. I didn't want to look like a tourist; I wanted to blend in with the locals or, at the very least, come across as some anonymous expatriate in town for the war. I debated whether to have some breakfast but my stomach still felt queasy, so I decided to skip it. Five minutes later the phone rang, but it was a different voice on the line.

“Mr. Stoyles, I am pleased to help you.” The accent was vaguely Greek, the voice about as soothing as an oil drum full of ball bearings. “You had a question about a logo?”

“Yeah.” My intuition prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. “I think I was talking to somebody else, though.”

“He is not here. He has gone on a little break. I am more than happy to help you.”

Nothing about this felt right, but I didn't have a choice. “Yeah, all right. Give it to me.”

“The logo you describe is that of the National Bank of Egypt. There is a branch very near here, should you require banking services.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

I made my way to the street and had a look around, alert for trouble, but didn't see anything besides what you'd expect to see on any given weekday. I slipped around to the front and started up the street, walking approximately parallel to the Nile with the air of someone going nowhere in particular. It stood to reason I'd be followed, and I intended to make it as difficult for them as possible. The only flaw in my brilliant plan? I had absolutely no idea where I was going. The guidebook I'd brought to Cairo with me had been destroyed when my hotel room blew up, and there was nobody around to ask—at least, nobody who spoke English. I reasoned that eventually I would come across something recognizable or somebody who could give me accurate directions.

I'd just crossed the Shari' esh-Sheikh Rihan when the unmistakable sound of gunfire made me flatten against the nearest building. I looked up and down the street but didn't see anything. I was trying hard to concentrate on my surroundings, but my heart was going like a trip-hammer and the heat made it hard to breathe. I crouched behind a clump of aloes and made a quick survey of nearby rooftops. There was no way a handgun would have accurate range at that distance, which meant anybody shooting at me from up there would have to be using a rifle. I waited, counting slowly to a thousand, and then started off in the opposite direction. Again, gunfire rang out, but this time I said to hell with it and started running for all I was worth, reasoning it was harder to hit a moving target. Two or three bullets sang dangerously close to me, and flying stone chips from a building struck my cheek and drew blood.

I was within sight of the hotel when a small yellow Fiat with Cairo plates screeched to a halt beside me and the passenger door flew open. “Get in.”

I didn't recognize her. She was wearing a headscarf and dark sunglasses, but so were about a hundred other women on the streets. “Get in!” She seemed to take my hesitation personally; she reached across, grabbed my sleeve and yanked me toward the car. I fell in, and the door slammed shut behind me; she shoved the car into gear and squealed away.

“Do you know who was shooting at you?” She took a corner at speed, and then cut down an alley, knocking aside trash cans and scaring half a dozen unwary chickens who had the bad luck to get in her way. “Did you see who it was?”

“Didn't see a thing, lady. By the way, who are you?”

She pulled the sunglasses off and tossed them onto the dashboard of the Fiat. “I must apologize, Mr. Stoyles. I should never have left you to your own devices. I am afraid my husband will not be very pleased with me.”

“
Bismillah….”
Tareenah Halim. “You do this sort of thing on a regular basis?” She was making like Mata Hari, but I had no idea what the hell was going on. “First you tell me to find Sam, and then you tell me not to bother. You mind telling me what's going on?”

“Ibrahim Samir contacted me. I have been searching for you since last night, when the bomb exploded at the hotel. At first we thought you had been killed.”

“How'd you know I wasn't?” This was getting ridiculous. “You got somebody tailing me?”

She threw me a nervous smile. “Mr. Stoyles, I am eager to have my husband returned to me safely. There are many things you do not understand.”

How much did she know about Sam's other life, about the relationships he'd formed away from Cairo? It wasn't my place to tell her; that was Sam's job. “You said a mouthful, lady.”

“Have you eaten breakfast?” She turned down a narrow side street and put the car in park. Her long, black hair cascaded around her shoulders as she took the scarf off and tossed it into the back seat. “I apologize if I shock you. I do not normally wear the
hijab.
”

“It's fine.” I couldn't take my eyes off her. She really was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. “I understand. So, what now?”

“Food.” She put the car into drive and peeled out onto the main street. “First, a good breakfast. My Samuel would never forgive me if I let you starve to death.”

I was confused, and I told her so. “What's going on? Why are you involved with all this?”

“It is complicated. Before Sam left on his most recent assignment, he took care to put certain measures into place. This included a handpicked cadre of trusted informants. One of these you have already met.”

“Ibrahim Samir.”

“Correct. He is much valued by my husband. A difficult and often angry young man, but faithful to a fault and completely loyal to Sam. You cannot imagine how rare a thing that is these days, with war raging throughout the world.” She stopped to let a blue-robed fellah and his donkey cross the street; the donkey was so weighed down with bales of cotton as to make his species nearly unidentifiable.

“Who else?”

“A young American working at Shepheard's Hotel as a masseur. I believe you have already met him. He is also loyal to my husband, but I took the precaution of asking him to watch out for you while you were in Cairo.” She rolled down the driver's side window a little. “The third is, I regret to say, no longer with us.”

Shiva, the taxi driver
. “Do you know who killed him?”

She shook her head, the black hair flying around her shoulders. “I do not. Probably the same person who was shooting at you this morning. He has already determined you are my husband's close companion. You are a marked man, Mr. Stoyles.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“My great-grandfather's first wife was the ugliest woman in Zaqaziq.”

My head snapped around. “What?”

Her smile was luminous, as beautiful as the day. “You said to tell you something you did not know.” She laughed gently. “Mr. Stoyles, I am not what you expected. I realize this. Too often, those of the West imagine the women of Egypt as creatures from some medieval caliph's
hareem
whose marriages are arranged for them by a male relative. I met Samuel at university in England, where I was studying languages.” She turned down the street leading to the Halim residence. “Not all marriages are arranged, Mr. Stoyles. Some of us do marry for love.”

It was like a punch in the gut. Oh, I knew I had no right to be jealous—Sam and I had never made any promises to one another—but it felt like a metaphorical door had just slammed in my face. He loved his wife and she loved him. They'd been pals in university; they had a beautiful house and four lovely kids and everything was fine. “That's nice.” I tried to put some feeling behind it. “Yeah, that's real nice.”

We pulled into the driveway, and she turned the car off, but she didn't get out right away. Instead she turned and put her hand in mine. There was something in her beautiful dark eyes that told me this woman knew everything. “My husband speaks very highly of you. He has said to me many times that he cherishes you as the dearest among all his companions. Indeed, he called you
habibi
.”

My throat was tight. “I don't know what that means.”

She squeezed my hand. “It means you are beloved of my husband.”

“Did he….” A whisper was the most I could manage. “Did he say that?”

“Come inside and eat, Mr. Stoyles. You have had a very eventful morning.”

A little girl in a pink dress was waiting for us inside. She had dark hair and wise, sad brown eyes; she might have been a tiny, feminine version of Sam. “Stamos won't let me have the crayons.”

“Tabia, where are your manners?”

Tareenah Halim introduced us and, crouching so we were at eye level, I took the girl's soft little hand in mine. “I am very pleased to meet you, Tabia. Your father has told me about you.”

Her brows creased. “Are you his friend?”

“I am.”

“I wish you would tell him to come home. Stamos is completely out of control.” She dipped her head and disappeared into the interior of the house.