state agency. As a woman in the Arab world, you’ll not only get a hand under your skirt but you’ll get a knife in your back or worse. The state security agencies operate unchecked. They execute criminals without trials when they want to, and there are maybe about ten state prisons hidden out in the desert that exist off the record. Any individual police officer can violate any citizen’s privacy or rights. They can make unconditioned arrests whenever they want. You run into a police lieutenant or captain, it’s a sign of danger, not safety. So if you have to rely on anyone here, use one of us, never one of them.”
She listened with close attention.
“As for the president of the country,” he said, “Mubarak has been in power for almost three decades. He’s survived at least six known assassination attempts and maybe a couple dozen more that got nipped before a shot was fired. Islamic fundamentalists. They don’t like him for exactly the reasons we do like him. He cozies up to us and feels he can live with Israel, his public anti-Zionist yammering notwithstanding. Look at his history. He works both sides of the street. He went to their air force academy half a century ago and became a bomber pilot. Part of his flight training he received at the Soviet pilot school in Bishkek in Soviet Kyrgyzstan. In 1964 he was appointed head of the Egyptian Military Delegation to the USSR. So he started out his career as a Soviet guy. In 1972 he became commander of the air force and deputy minister of war. In October 1973, following the Yom Kippur War, he was promoted to the rank of air chief marshal. In April 1975 he was appointed vice president of Egypt, and following the assassination of Sadat by militants in 1981, Mubarak became the president. For half a dozen years he was a loyal guy for the Russians. Then the Soviet Union collapses, and it’s all roses and valentines between him and Washington. Suddenly he’s our guy. Do we object? Hell no. He might be a hooker, but he’s a hooker who knows how to keep us happy, and we can afford him.”
Bissinger leaned back in his chair.
“Want some hardware?” he asked. “I’d suggest you carry some.”
“Absolutely,” she said.
“Come along,” he said. “This is usually everyone’s favorite part of an embassy visit.”
They proceeded to a separate room down the hallway. In a well-fortified storage area, which he used his own pass to enter, he led her to a closet enclosed in steel, which had several shelves of metal boxes.
“Preferences?” he asked.
“Do you have a Baby Glock?” she asked.
“That nifty little German problem-solver?” he asked. “A Glock 27? Can’t go wrong with one of those.”
“That’s the one.”
“Excellent choice.”
“So? Do you have one?”
“No. No got. Never seen one here. A shame, really.”
“What
“Here’s a hint,” he said. “The Egyptians do a lot of business with Italy.”
“Okay. I like the feel of a Beretta,” Alex said. “Something small and compact. There are a few Colt models that will do.”
“Good call,” he said.
He scanned the boxes, pulled one off a central shelf, unlocked it, and handed it to her. The box clicked open. There was a small pistol within, with a hip holster. She pulled it out and hefted it in her hand. It was an attractive new piece, a Beretta Px4 Storm Sub-Compact pistol.
“Easy to conceal. I’ve used one,” Bissinger said. “It has large frame firepower. This one packs 9mm, thirteen to a clip. Does that work for you?”
She admired it. “Looks like it should.”
“It’s a nice weapon for Egypt,” he said. “It’s corrosion resistant. So you can sweat like a sow all over it with no damage. Sign for it and return it when you leave the country. I don’t want to see it pop up on Egyptian eBay.”
She examined it thoroughly. It wasn’t loaded. She hefted it again in her hand. Slim and sleek, it would indeed pack and conceal well beneath a light jacket. Bissinger gave her two clips, two boxes of bullets, and a two-word benediction.
“Happy hunting,” he said.
She loaded the weapon and affixed the holster on her right hip.
“Is that it for now?”
“Not entirely,” he said. “I’ll walk you down to the lobby; there’s someone else I want you to meet.”
“Who would that be?” she asked.
“Amjad,” he answered. “Amjad is going to be one of the most important people during your assignment here. Come along.”
They took the elevator down to the main floor. When they emerged from it, Bissinger spoke again in lowered tones.
“The guy I want you to meet is our top Egyptian security person. By Egyptian, I mean he’s one of them, but he’s been in the embassy here for years.”
“He’s a local cop?”
“Yes. Rank of colonel. The police here have ranks similar to army ranks. Holdover from when the British ran the place. Anyway, Amjad is one of the top guys in the city dealing with the diplomatic community. You should know who he is.”
Alex was wary.
“I’ve been told they’re not that trustworthy, the local police,” she said.
“Ah, don’t believe everything you hear, unless it comes from me or Voltaire,” he said. “The Arabs are a mixed lot, I admit. But the ones you can trust are the most loyal, steadfast friends you’ll make this side of Valhalla. Then there’s the rest. Those will cut your throat.”
“So this is someone I can trust? Maybe?”
“Ha!” Bissinger said under his breath. “Not a bit. But, hey! There he is. Amjad!”
Not far away stood a thick man in a khaki Cairo police uniform. He was about six feet tall and when he turned, his face was tanned and grave with a moustache. He was a dour-looking big man with a sad expression and dead eyes set back in his head. With his puffy eyelids and sagging jowls, like an old poodle. But he also looked strong and wore a sidearm. He seemed like a man who knew how to get things done and was widely disliked for it.
Then, when he saw Bissinger and Alex, his face transformed. He smiled. “Why, Mr. Bissinger. Charmed,” he said with a slight bow. And indeed he seemed to be just that. Charmed.
Bissinger handled the introduction of Colonel Ahman Amjad to Josephine from Toronto.
“I have my car outside,” Colonel Amjad said. “I could drive you.”
“I really don’t mind walking,” Alex insisted.
“I insist,” the colonel said. “You must be tired.”
Alex was about to refuse again, but her feet were killing her and the jetlag was catching up. Then there was the din and grittiness of the walk over, the catcalls from men in trucks and taxis. She thought better of it.
“All right,” she said.
The colonel gave her a bow. “I’m honored,” he said.
He led her to his vehicle, an unmarked police car. He held the door to the backseat open and she climbed in. He came around, slid in, and started the car. The ignition sputtered and resisted slightly, and for one horrible stretch of seconds, Alex wondered if that was how Carlos’s car sounded before it turned into a flaming execution chamber.
The car failed to start. She was ready to bolt.
Then Colonel Amjad turned the ignition a second time. The engine kicked in. He pulled out of the secured embassy parking and into traffic on the motorway along the river. Traffic was moving faster than a crawl now, a propitious sign.
“You are American? From where?” he asked, glancing into his rearview mirror as they drove.
“Canadian, actually.”
“Ah! Canada!”
“You’ve been there?” she asked.
“I’ve been to America and I’ve been to Canada,” he said proudly. “I have one brother in Vancouver and a half-brother in New York.”
“That’s very nice,” she said. She couldn’t get a range on him. Was he snooping or being sincere?
“Maybe next year I go and visit again,” he said. “I don’t know.”
He hit some traffic and started to work his horn, not that anyone paid any attention. Another driver started to give him a threatening gesture but backed off immediately when he noticed the police uniform.
“Well, I’m sure you’d enjoy your trip,” she said. “I hope you’re able to visit.”
He shrugged while driving. Then, seeing an opportunity, he switched on a small blue flashing light on his dashboard. Traffic ahead of him gave way and Colonel Amjad edged through it like a weasel.
“There is a phrase in Arabic,” he said. He then gave it in Arabic. Alex didn’t understand. Arabic was still beyond her dossier. “The phrase says, ‘Let every man eat bread,’ ” Amjad said. “We are also so busy here. Police. One thing stops and another starts. Very hard for me to travel and get away.”
“I understand,” Alex said, who wasn’t sure if she did.
He found the exit from the motorway, and they were back at the hotel within a few minutes. After her initial reservations, Alex was satisfied with the trip, and with Colonel Amjad. A chauffer was a great thing, a police escort something even greater.
Colonel Amjad pulled into the semicircle in front of the hotel. The doormen knew enough to stay away until the proper moment. The colonel turned around from the front seat.
“May I give you some advice?” he asked. “For your personal safety? About Cairo.”
“Please do,” she said.
“When walking on the street, walk as far away from the cars and motor scooters as you can,” he said. “Bad people, they pull up right next to you,
