'My name is Couch,' Lang snapped. 'You've obviously gotten the wrong room.'
The man allowed himself the beginnings of a smile. 'We are aware of the name on the passport you presented upon arrival at this hotel, Mr. Reilly. Now, for the last time, what did you and the Jew talk about?'
If the man were anything other than a hired thug, he would not have stood quite so close. Nor would he interrogate a possibly hostile subject with his gun still in his shoulder holster, where Lang could get at it.
'Go fuck yourself.'
This time the blow was with a closed fist, delivered with the assailant's full weight behind it.
Just as Lang had anticipated.
Easily sidestepping the fist, Lang placed his leg across the man's knee as he grabbed the wrist, using his opponent's forward inertia to jerk him forward. An almost simultaneous twist of his own leg bent the other man's knee backward, sending him stumbling with a yelp of pain. As he fought for his balance, Lang's hand was inside the man's jacket, emerging with the automatic.
The whole thing was over before the other man could clear his weapon. Instead he was now looking down the muzzle of what had been his companion's pistol. He warily moved his hand away and held both out in front of him.
Lang edged toward the door, the pistol's barrel alternating between the two. 'Okay, guys, here's what's going down. First, you.' He gestured toward the man with his hands outstretched. 'You. Take off your suit coat and throw it on the bed. Then, using only your left thumb and forefinger, remove that gun from the holster and toss it on the bed. Now!'
The man sneered at him, 'Come take it. A shot in this hotel would draw the police like a dung heap draws flies.'
Lang knew he was right. He took a step closer, as though he were, in fact, going to get within range of an attack. Instead he delivered the toe of his shoe into the man's crotch with as much force as he could.
With a single grunt, the man folded like a beach ball from which the air had suddenly escaped.
Lang knelt over the writhing, moaning form on the floor, sighing as he reached into the jacket and removed the pistol. 'Well, I tried jt the easy way.'
He stood, a gun in each hand, and motioned to the one favoring what was quite likely a shattered kneecap. 'You: Pick up the stuff you took out of my bag and repack it. Unless you want to join your pal there in indefinite celibacy, I suggest you make it quick.'
He did.
'For your continuing amusement, gentlemen, our next game is going to be a contest to see who can tie the other up most securely. Start ripping the bedsheets into strips.'
Five minutes later the two intruders were secured firmly to the bed.
Lang let himself out the door, carefully pulling it shut until he heard the lock snap into place. He slipped one of the two pistols out of his waistband and started to put it under the cushion of a chair, part of a furniture grouping in front of the bank of elevators. He stopped and stared. He was holding a Desert Eagle.
Damn. He'd seen more of the bulky automatics lately than he had in a lifetime. Some arms merchant must have had a sale-a real sale to convince the Mukhabarat to switch over from the Russian knockoff of the Walther PPK, the Stechkin. Unreliable, but cheap and plentiful.
In the lobby he stepped to the front of the line of protesting guests waiting to register.
A ten-pound note in hand, he spoke to the clerk. 'An emergency checkout. My passport, please.'
The increasingly angry queue was still grumbling as he quickly strode across the lobby, noting the surprise on the face of the concierge, who quickly disappeared into a room behind his stand.
On the street the afternoon's heat hit Lang like a hammer's blow. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back as he searched for a cab, surprised there were none at the hack stand outside the hotel.
He was trying to decide the quickest way to the airport when his mind was made up for him.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee shoved through the hotel's revolving door. The sheets must not have been spun from the finest Egyptian cotton, and the blow to the knee must have been much less severe than Lang had thought.
Lang was running just as they spotted him.
Without surprise, he stood little chance against both of them unless he used the heavy automatic, something that would quickly bring the police.
Straight ahead was the opera house, and across the street the red M in a blue star, the emblem of Cairo's Metro.
Lang nearly knocked a woman and child over as he took the stairs two at a time.
He was in luck: A train was stopped, disgorging passengers. Even in his rush he noted how much cleaner the station was than the streets above: Thankful he had conserved his change, he slid coins into a slot until a ticket appeared with a whir and a click. He knew the price varied depending on how many stops he intended to travel, but he didn't care. Jumping the turnstile would have alerted the uniformed policeman on the platform.
He lunged for the nearest car and stopped, realizing the first two were reserved for women. He gave the now interested cop a weak smile, the look of a Western tourist making a typical cultural error.
He wedged himself and his suitcase into the third car and turned just in time to see Tweedledum and Tweedledee burst into the station. One pointed to the window through which Lang was looking. Lang couldn't resist a wave as the train jolted forward and gained speed.
Lang had no idea where he was going, only that he was putting as much real estate between him and those two as possible. At the next stop he edged through the packed car to inspect the diagram of the Metro system, labeled in Arabic and English. He gathered he had boarded at the Gezira station, the one closest to the opera house. Ahead, the two legs of the system intersected. He could transfer to the other or remain on the present line. He saw no indication that either went to the airport.
A man in a worn business suit stood to get off at the next stop, and Lang took his seat.
Something wasn't right.
If the two Mukhabarat men knew he was on the train, why didn't they simply have it boarded at the next stop?
One answer was ominous: They didn't want the law enforcement people to know anything, thereby preventing inconvenient questions if Lang disappeared into the black hole of some secret prison.
Or perhaps they simply hadn't had time to position the police at the various stations.
Either way, it seemed expedient to get off while he could.
He was stepping down from the car when Tweedledum and Tweedledee came down the steps from the street. No doubt they had been more successful than Lang in finding transportation, and it had taken them this many stops to get ahead of the train.
Too late to wish he'd gotten off earlier.
Shielding himself amid the exiting horde, Lang almost made it to another set of stairs before one saw him and they both broke into a run.
Shoving cursing passengers aside as he galloped upstairs, Lang made it to the top and glanced around.
He still didn't know where he was. He bolted for the nearest corner and the one after that.
He was standing in the middle of a souq, a large Arab bazaar. Small stalls crowded the narrow street, compressing the crowd of tourists, merchants, and customers into a space less than five feet wide. The mixture of languages was straight out of the biblical Tower of Babel. A woman wearing a soiled chador squatted in front of him, offering a drink with one hand and shooing flies from it with the other. Several were floating in the rose-colored liquid. From where he stood he could see copperware, blown glass, spices, and tacky souvenirs for sale. Manure, rotting vegetables, and wood smoke were the three smells he could identify.
There was a tug at his pants leg. 'Scarab, Mista 'merican?'
Lang looked down to see a young boy, sans front teeth, in traditional bedouin headdress and robes, proffering a small carving of the Egyptian dung beetle that symbolized resurrection.
'Come from tombs in the valley. Very, very old. Only five dolla 'merican.'
Lang shook his head and started twisting his way down the street. He paused to let a procession of earphone- wearing American tourists follow the leader, a woman carrying aloft a handkerchief tied to an umbrella as she spoke into a headset.
The stop was enough for the young scarab seller to catch up. Three dolla, Mista 'merican. You take for three
