Dead Men's Hearts

Forrest sighed, a man who had been through this before. “Sorry, but I have to disagree with you there. And as long as I have—”

But at that point ZAS Airlines was heard from, and twenty minutes later the plane rolled up outside the window. The party shouldered their carry-on luggage and prepared to leave the terminal.

“One moment, please, ladies and gentlemen, there seems to be an additional small problem,” the clerk told them jovially, “a very small problem indeed.”

“Imagine that,” Bea said.

“Hardly any problem to speak of,” the clerk went on. “No, not really a problem at all. It seems that the baggage hold of this airplane is already filled with baggages from an earlier trip which was unfortunately misrouted, through no fault of the airline or this airport. These baggages are on the way eventually to Cairo, and therefore there is no room for your own baggages on this airplane at this moment.”

“Yikes,” Julie said.

Next to her, Phil tapped the backpack that was slung over one shoulder of his T-shirt—his standard Middle Eastern apparel along with a long-billed “On the Cheap” baseball cap, rumpled beige shorts that came down to his skinny knees, and sockless canvas running shoes. “First rule: never travel with more than you can carry.”

“Now he tells us,” Gideon said.

Forrest, who had continued to sit in his corner quietly gnawing his lip, suddenly took to gibbering. “I knew this would happen! I knew this would happen! What about our equipment? We only have four miserable days, we don’t have any spare time, we, we—” He switched suddenly to a long string of loud and impressively fluent-sounding Arabic. Other passengers turned to observe with interest and respect.

The clerk shouted back no less loudly, waving his hands and thumping the counter. Gideon had no trouble with the gist of it but understood not a word. Ordinarily he took pride in being able to get along in the language of whatever country he was in, but this time he simply hadn’t had the time to learn. He could handle hello-goodbye, yes-no, and please-thank you, and that was it.

After a few seconds, Phil came to the rescue, edging Forrest out of the way and taking up the yelling match in his stead, his voice well up to the challenge. It went on for a good five minutes with, if anything, an increase in fervor; several times the clerk raised his face to the ceiling, apparently to address his thoughts to a higher authority. Phil, clearly having a good time, finally bent over the narrow counter and wrapped his arm around the clerk’s shoulder. They leaned together, talking more quietly, until there was a sudden spate of good-natured laughter, a spirited shaking of hands, and an obviously amicable conclusion.

Phil turned to Forrest. “All right, your equipment comes with us.”

“Whew,” Forrest said, spent. “Gad. I knew this would happen.” He appealed to his crew of two, slouched on a bench. “Did I or did I not say this was going to happen?”

“You said it was going to happen, man,” Cy agreed.

Julie looked at Phil. “How in the world did you do that?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said.

“You bribed him, you gave him some what-do-you-call-it, bakshish, didn’t you?”

Phil grinned. “I showed him the error of his ways. I revealed to him a better path.”

“You gave him money.”

“I did not give him money. No such thing. Not a single piaster. And anyway, I’ll be reimbursed.”

Julie shook her head. “Is this what it’s always like?”

“Yes,” Phil said happily.

“Fortunately,” the smiling clerk now said, “we will be able to place all of your baggages on the very next flight to Cairo. A special intermediate stop at el-Minya shall soon be arranged, I am happy to say.”

“Oh, yes? And when would that be?” Haddon asked. “Any time this week?”

“To be sure,” the clerk said earnestly. “Of course. You will have it in no time at all.”

Haddon was unimpressed. “Bukhra, you mean?” he said sourly.

The clerk threw back his head and laughed. “Bukhra, yes, without fail! And now, you may be boarding, please, gentlemen and ladies?” He shook Phil’s hand again and bowed them through the door to the tarmac.

“What’s bukhra?” Julie asked Gideon as the group walked toward the mid-sized plane. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Phil, what’s bukhra?” Gideon said over his shoulder.

“Bukhra? Literally, it means tomorrow. But—put it this way. When someone in Egypt tells you bukhra, treat it in the same manner as when someone in Mexico tells you mahana.”

“Great,” Gideon said.

“Except, of course, without the same sense of urgency,” Phil finished.

“Rats,” Julie said. “And us without a change of clothes.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Gideon said with more assurance than he felt. “He said the very next flight. We’ll probably get it before the night’s out.”

Julie, who took logistical problems in her stride better than he did, laughed.

“Inshallah,” she said.

Chapter Nine