dolla?'
Lang shook his head and started off again.
A series of what were undoubtedly curses made him look over his shoulder. Tweedledum and Tweedledee had knocked over the old woman's drinks, and she was expressing her disapproval in what Lang guessed was most unladylike terms.
His small bag held like a football to a running back's chest, Lang shoved aside a tourist in shorts and hideously European sandals as he ducked between two stalls, but not before the young souvenir salesman approached the newcomers.
'Scarab, mista? Only five dolla 'merican.'
The souq was a maze of rickety stalls and sagging tents. Lang had little room to run, but his determined pursuers could go no faster. He ducked between a wooden kiosk where turquoise jewelry was hanging and the ropes holding up an adjacent tent under which dates were stacked in boxes.
Then he stopped.
One of the men was no longer there.
A quick look told him where he had gone. Somehow he had gotten in front. Lang was hemmed in by stalls, canvas, and two men who certainly bore him no goodwill. His hand went to the Desert Eagle in his belt.
No. Too crowded. Customers or purveyors were as likely to get hurt as his targets.
FORTY-ONE
2110 Paces Ferry Road
Vinings, Georgia
7:38 a.m.
Two Days Earlier
Alicia was humming an old show tune as she stepped out of the shower. Last night with Lang had been every bit as wonderful as she had fantasized. Smiling at the thought, she swaddled herself in the thick terry-cloth robe from the Willard Hotel in Washington, the one she had swiped the time the cheapskates at the Department of Justice had allowed her to stay there instead of the usual out-of-the-way Sheraton or Marriott. She was wrapping a towel into a turban around her hair as she walked into the bedroom and stopped.
For an instant she thought Lang had come back to reclaim some forgotten item. But there were two men she had never seen before standing between her and the door to the hall.
The one closest was of slender build, over six feet, mid- thirties, dark hair cut slightly shorter than currently fashionable, and freshly shaved, as though he had just put down his razor. He looked out of place in the landscaping service's uniform he wore.
Her first reaction was anger rather than fear. 'How did you get in
…?'
He held up a thin black wallet with a badge fixed to one side, a photo ID on the other. She had seen hundreds just like it. 'Special Agent Witherspoon, Federal Bureau of Investigation.'
The other man was holding up similar creds.
Her anger not even slightly mollified, she snapped, 'You're not from the local office. I hope to hell you've got a warrant.'
Witherspoon returned the black wallet to a pocket. 'We understood Langford Reilly was here.'
She stepped to the bedside, reaching for the phone. 'I don't care if you thought Osama bin Laden was here- you don't have a warrant, your ass is grass, as you're about to find out.'
She picked up the receiver and had punched in the first four digits of the local FBI office, a number any assistant U.S. Attorney knew by rote, when she felt a slight prick in her arm.
'What the hell do you think…?'
Her knees suddenly gave way and she was lying on the floor, looking at a pair of men's shoes. Above her she heard the phone being replaced on its cradle.
Then her world went black.
Should a neighbor have been leaving his house for work a minute or so later, he would have seen nothing unusual at 8:10. Two men from the community association's landscaping service were carrying a large bag, no doubt full of grass cuttings or fallen leaves, to their truck. The only thing unusual was that the sack seemed to weigh more than such material should. Both men were struggling with the weight. It would have been comforting to know residents were getting their money's worth.
FORTY-TWO
Khan al-Khalil
Cairo
Lang didn't see many options. Even if he could literally push through the crowd, he would wind up confined by more stalls. The only good news was that for whatever reason, the Mukhabarat men had not yet called for backup or summoned the local police to join in the chase.
Lang moved sideways under the tent, pretending to examine a small carton of dates. The tent's proprietor smiled, showing yellowed teeth, and extended a hand with one of the fruits. He was offering a sample of the merchandise.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, anticipating success, had slowed to a walk. As they approached, the angle for an escape right or left, never good, diminished even more.
Lang accepted the proffered date, nibbling tentatively as he backed slowly to stand beside one of the ropes supporting the canvas. Four guy lines wrapped around rocks held the tent against a peaked pole that looked less than steady. Lang guessed it was rigged for easy removal once the day's business was complete.
Tweedledee ducked as he stepped under the edge of the tent. From where he stood, Lang watched as Tweedledum did the same.
With a forced nonchalance, Lang took a step, as though to speak with the date seller. The two men anticipated his move and came further under the canvas.
Lang suddenly spun, exiting the shade of the sailcloth, and snatched the rope from its tethering rock. One corner of the canvas now hung limply. Repeating the move, he slipped the second line free, cutting himself off from the view of the two. He gave the corner a hard pull and the entire structure collapsed, to the screams and curses of those inside, who were blindly shoving one another to get out from under the confines of the enveloping canvas.
Lang fled.
Two blocks away he finally succeeded in waving down a cab and was on his way to the airport. He would take the first flight out to anywhere.
Then he had some very specific questions he needed to have answered.
The sound of his BlackBerry's beep startled him. It could be only one person.
'Yes, Sara?'
'Lang? I can't hear you.'
Cairo's traffic intruded even through the cab's windows rolled up to contain air-conditioning of doubtful value; horns honking, as many mufflers missing as were still working, the driver's radio blaring something Lang supposed was music. He tapped the man on the shoulder, motioning him to lower the volume.
'Okay, Sara, try again.'
'Lang, someone slipped a package through the mail slot last night.'
'The mayor can't afford stamps?'
'Lang, I'm serious.'
'Okay, what's in it?' 'Makes no sense. A ring with an emerald in the shape of a heart.'
