The Navigator

When they climbed to the bridge early the next morning, the captain must have felt sorry for them. He dispensed with the jokes and poured them mugs of hot coffee. “We’re making good time. We’ve seen a lot of growlers. That’s our first ‘bergy bit.’”

Dawe pointed to an iceberg floating about a quarter of a mile off the starboard bow.

“That’s bigger than any burger bit I’ve ever seen,” Austin said.

“It’s nothing compared to the stuff we’ll see later,” the captain said. “It isn’t considered an iceberg unless it’s nearly twenty feet above the water and fifty feet long. Anything smaller is a bergy or growler.”

“Looks like we’ll have to learn a whole new vocabulary out here,” Zavala commented.

Dawe nodded in agreement. “Welcome to Iceberg Alley, gentlemen.”

Chapter 7

SAXON PICKED UP HIS rental car at the CairoAirport and plunged into the automotive anarchy that passed for traffic flow in the ancient city of the Pyramids. The cacophony of beeping horns and the choking impact of dust and car exhaust was a strong antidote to weeks spent traveling in the lonely deserts of Yemen.

He drove to the outskirts of Cairo and parked on the Sharia Sudan. Pungent barnyard smells and inhuman sounds came from a nearby fenced-in area, the Souq al- Gamaal. The old Cairo camel market. The corrals that had once been surrounded by green fields were hemmed in by apartment houses.

Saxon had suggested the rendezvous. He wanted to meet Hassan in a public place for security. The dung- spattered oasis of old Egypt appealed to his sense of drama as well.

Saxon paid the small entrance fee required of non-Egyptians and strolled among the corrals. Hundreds of camels brought up from the Sudan awaited the slaughterhouse or an even worse fate carrying overweight tourists at the Pyramids.

Saxon paused to watch a protesting dromedary being loaded into the back of a compact pickup truck. He felt a gentle tug at his hand. One of the dirty-faced urchins who haunted the market begging for baksheesh was trying to get his attention.

Saxon followed the boy’s pointing finger. A man was standing under a makeshift awning near a group of haggling camel buyers. Saxon gave the boy a tip and walked across the corral. The man had a cafe au lait complexion typical of many Egyptians, and a neatly trimmed beard decorated his chin. He wore a circular knit cap and a matching white gallibaya, the long cotton gown favored by many Egyptian men.

“Sabaah ilkheer,” Saxon said. Good morning.

“Sabaah innuur, Mr. Saxon. I am Hassan.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“You want to do business?” Hassan said. The offer should have made Saxon suspicious. Egyptians liked to linger over tea before talking business. But his eagerness overpowered his judgment.

“I’m told you might be able to help me find a certain lost property.”

“Maybe,” Hassan said. “If you can pay the price.”

“I will pay whatever is reasonable,” Saxon said. “When might I see this property?”

“I can show it to you now. I have a car. Come with me.”

Saxon hesitated. The Cairo underworld sometimes had ties to shadowy political groups. He thought it prudent to size Hassan up before he put himself in the stranger’s hands.

“Let’s go to Fishawi’s. We can talk and get to know each other,” he suggested. The popular outdoor cafe was near Cairo’s main bazaar and its oldest mosque.

Hassan frowned. “Too many people.”

“Yes, I know,” Saxon said.

Hassan nodded. He led the way out of the market to a battered white Fiat that was drawn up to the curb. He opened the door for Saxon.

“I’ll follow you in my car,” Saxon said.

He walked across the street and slipped behind the wheel of his rental car. He inserted the key in the ignition to start the engine just as another car squealed to a stop next to his.

Two men in black suits jumped out of the car and bulled their way into his vehicle. One sat in the back and the other next to Saxon. Both leveled guns at Saxon’s head.

“Drive,” said the man in the front passenger seat.

Saxon’s innards turned to ice water. But he reacted with characteristic calm. He had experienced many close calls in his years as an explorer and adventurer. He started the car, pulled away from the curb, and obeyed the order to follow Hassan’s car. He kept his mouth shut. Questions would only antagonize his uninvited passengers.

The Fiat drove across the traffic-snarled city toward the Citadel, a complex of mosques and military buildings. Saxon’s heart fell. An army would not be able to find him in the labyrinth of narrow streets around the Citadel.

Hassan’s car pulled up to the entrance of a nondescript building. The sign out front said, in English and Arabic, POLICE STATION.

Hassan and his men hustled Saxon out of the car, through a dimly lit lobby into a small windowless room smelling of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. The only furniture was a metal table and two chairs. Light came from a single overhead bulb.

Saxon was only partially relieved. He knew that in Egypt people who go into police stations sometimes didn’t come out.

He was told to sit down and hand over his billfold. He was left alone for a few minutes. Then Hassan appeared with a balding, grizzled man who had a cigarette dangling from his thick lips. The newcomer unbuttoned the suit jacket that was tight across his ample belly and eased into the chair to face Saxon. He mashed his cigarette into an ashtray filled with butts and snapped his fingers. Hassan handed him the billfold, which he opened as if it were a rare book.

He looked at the ID. “Anthony Saxon,” he said.

“Yes,” Saxon replied. “And you?”

“I am Inspector Sharif. This is my station.”

“May I ask why I am here, Inspector?”

The inspector slapped the billfold down. “I ask the questions.”

Saxon nodded.

The inspector jerked his thumb at Hassan. “Why did you want to meet with this man?”

“I didn’t,” Saxon said. “I talked to somebody named Hassan. This is obviously not he.”

The inspector grunted. “Correct. This man is Officer Abdul. Why did you want to see Hassan? He is a thief.”

“I thought he might be able to lead me to property stolen from the BaghdadMuseum.”

“So you wished to receive stolen goods,” the inspector said.

“I would have returned the property to the museum. You can talk to the real Hassan if you want to check my story.”

The inspector shot a knowing glance at Abdul. “Not possible,” he said to Saxon. “Hassan is dead.”

“Dead? I talked to him yesterday on the phone. What happened?”

Carefully watching Saxon’s reaction, the inspector said, “Murdered. Very big mess. You’re sure you don’t know about this?”

“Yes. Very sure.”

The inspector lit up a Cleopatra cigarette and blew twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils. “I believe you. Now you may ask questions.”

“How did you know I was going to meet Hassan?”

“Simple. You are in his appointment book. We look up your name. You’re very famous writer. Everybody reads your books.”

“I wish more people read them,” Saxon said, with a faint smile.