He used a linen napkin to wipe the last crumbs from his mouth.
The waiter behind the bar pointed to Lang's nearly empty cup. Lang allowed him to refill it.
His mind went back, what, less than two days since he had sat on Alicia's deck in Vinings? He saw her face in the highly polished wood of the bar's surface, heard her laugh in the wheeze of the AC. For the first time since Gurt had left, he was not just looking forward to coming home; he was excited. Love, lust, attachment-he knew better than to try to quantify what he felt. Just enjoy it, just…
'Mr. Reilly?'
Lang turned to look into eyes almost as dark as the coffee. A round face perched above a pink knit shirt displaying an alligator on the left breast and buttoned to the chin. Even seated on the stool, Lang was half a head taller. The man's dark skin made guessing his age difficult, even if a few gray strands were clearly visible scattered among the jet-black.
'Langford Reilly?'
Lang nodded. 'Amid bin Hamish?'
White teeth were made even brighter by the dark skin as the man extended a hand. 'As you English say, Any friend of Dr. Shaffer's…'
'American. And Dr. Shaffer is dead.'
The smile disappeared. 'Dead?'
Lang slid off the stool and groped in his pocket for change. 'I'm afraid so. Murdered in Vienna. Were you close?'
Bin Hamish shook his head slowly. 'We never met, just exchanged ideas on the Net, wrote each other.'
Lang was grateful to come up with a handful of piastres, one hundred of which made up the Egyptian pound. He had already learned the hard way that so few coins were in circulation that exact change was rare. He started to leave them on the bar top, thought better of it, and left an Egyptian note instead. At the current exchange rate, the coffee had been a bargain compared to, say, Starbucks.
'You have euro, dollar?' the waiter asked hopefully.
Egypt's chronic currency problems caused many hotels and restaurants not to accept the national money.
Bin Hamish snapped something at the man, who sulked as he picked up the Egyptian bill.
The little man turned his attention back to Lang. 'Murdered? By whom?'
Lang noted the correct grammar. 'I'm afraid I don't know. I'm sure the Austrian authorities are working on finding out, if they haven't already.'
Bin Hamish glanced uneasily around the cafe, as though one or more of the killers might have followed Lang to Cairo. 'Perhaps we should talk elsewhere, perhaps my house.'
Why meet at the cafe if they were going to bin Hamish's house to talk?
As Lang took his light jacket from the back of the stool and started for the door, bin Hamish put a hand on his shoulder. 'No, this way.'
They walked out the back door into an alley fetid with garbage that smelled like it was a permanent part of the environs. Flies buzzed angrily at the disturbance, and rats boldly surveyed them from atop piles of refuse. An occasional skeletal dog paused in rooting through piles of waste to snarl territorial claims.
As though by magic, a turn at the end of the alley brought them onto a street that could have been in Beverly Hills or Palm Beach.
Cairo, it seemed, was unaware of modern zoning. Or public health.
Lawn sprinklers made rainbows over lush grass medians lining high walls. Through the occasional gate Lang could see lavishly landscaped grounds with driveways winding to tile-roofed mansions.
The preferred mode of travel was by chauffeured Rolls-Royce, the less fortunate making do with highly polished Mercedes limousines.
The contrast was enough to make Lang look over his shoulder to be certain he had not imagined the squalor of the alley. 'Any reason we couldn't take the front door?'
Bin Hamish turned to look up and down the street behind them, a gesture performed so frequently, Lang was beginning to think of it as some sort of nervous tic. 'They would have followed, just as they would have noted your arrival at my home.'
'They?'
Bin Hamish left the question unanswered. 'We are almost there. Good thing, hey? I remember what your English poet said about only mad dogs and Englishmen going about in the midday sun.'
'I'm American.'
Bin Hamish ducked down what Lang had thought to be another driveway. After a turn to the right, he realized they were approaching the back of a house. Slightly smaller than its neighbors, judging by the perimeter of the wall, it still would be a large estate by most American standards. Whatever its size, Lang would be glad to get inside and out of soaring temperatures that promised to soon become unbearable.
They stopped at a small wooden door while bin Hamish fumbled with a jingling set of keys. When the portal swung open, Lang was treated to perhaps an acre of rampant flowers, citrus trees heavy with fruit, and towering date palms that obscured most of what appeared to be a two-story stucco house, each floor with the arched, elaborately columned loggias favored in Muslim architecture. At the back of the building the blue waters of an Olympic-size pool sparkled.
Bin Hamish relocked the gate. 'It is my oasis.'
Lang hoped it was an air-conditioned oasis.
Lang followed his host to the house and through huge mahogany doors that opened and closed soundlessly. He stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to light low enough to reveal furniture only in silhouette. He followed bin Hamish up a short flight of stairs to what Lang guessed was the foyer. Reception hall would have been a better description. Lang was surprised to see the screen of a TV set flickering above more massive mahogany doors.
Bin Hamish pointed. 'As you can see, they are watching.'
Looking closer, Lang realized he was observing the sweep of a security camera mounted somewhere outside. Two men sat in an old Mercedes and stared back through sunglasses. Neither made any effort to appear interested in anything other than this residence. Since they were in the only car parked in the area, Lang assumed they knew their presence was no secret.
'Who are your pals?' he asked.
'Mukhabarat.'
Lang turned away from the television to look at the little Egyptian. 'What are you doing that would interest the state security police?'
Bin Hamish smiled again. 'Ah! You recognize the name of the Mukhabarat! Most Englishmen would not.'
Lang gave up. It would be easier to be British.
Bin Hamish motioned. 'Come, I will show you.'
As they passed along one dimly lit corridor into another, Lang had the impression that they were not alone. Twice he was certain he heard gentle footsteps, but when he turned no one was there. Once he recognized the swish of fabric against the wall. Again, no one was to be seen.
Stopping in front of an arched doorway, bin Hamish ushered Lang inside. From one of the beams high overhead, a slow-moving fan stirred the dry air around the paneled room. Upholstered cushions surrounded a low table floating on the muted colors of an Oriental rug. On the table were several bowls and a teapot, steaming as though just set in place by some invisible jinni.
'Tea?' bin Hamish asked, pouring into a small cup without handle or saucer.
The idea of hot liquid was less than appealing. Lang shook his head. 'No, thanks.'
His host shook his head, too. 'Arabs begin conversations with coffee or tea, Mr. Reilly.' He pointed to the bowls. 'Perhaps a few dates, almonds, or pastries?'
Lang helped himself to a date the size of a pecan, nibbling carefully to avoid the pit. 'I certainly did not mean offense.'
'None taken. Another Arab custom is a long chat before getting around to business, something you English are loath to do. Why did Dr. Shaffer send you here? What is it you want with me?'
Lang decided not to correct the impression that Shaffer had actually sent him. Instead he reached into the
