Chapter Eleven

January 2004

Cairo, Egypt

Khan el-Khalili

Irina had to hand it to Simon Walker. The Khan el-Khalili market was vibrant and busy. It was also hell to maneuver in. The walkways were cramped, with people weaving around each other as they moved. A great press of humanity navigated the narrow lanes between shops: tourists of many origins and descriptions, Egyptians in Western clothing, women in hijab or niqab, and men in galabiyas  with turbans or skullcaps. Irina herself wore a floor length, coal-black niqab, with head scarf and veil. Only her dark brown eyes were visible. She was effectively anonymous, which was just the way she liked it.

The market was roughly divided into districts, depending on what the merchants sold there–the phone district, the clothing district and the rug district, among others. Even so, busty mannequins displaying women's clothing stood next door to stalls with housewares and street food kiosks. Egyptian pop music warred with more traditional instruments blaring from tinny speakers, and spice and incense vendors threw up clouds of fragrance. 

Irina had ensconced herself in a shop selling woven tapestries of every description: A red floor-length one here, a small woven rug in blue and yellow over there. She fingered a black-and-tan creation, caressing the fabric. It would make a lovely addition to her flat here in Cairo. She'd have to come back on a day she wasn't working. With regret, Irina left the shop and moved to the next one down. 

She'd have to be careful to stay in range of the agreed-upon meeting place–a bustling awhua or coffee shop, between two rug merchants–but not so close that she'd be spotted and flagged. Even several stalls down, she could see and smell the cloud of tobacco hovering over the awhua. She glanced at the shop's doorway. There was no concerning movement in the immediate vicinity. 

All things being equal, she'd rather have been up high, where she could have an overview of the street in both directions. Irina winced as someone on Port Said Street lay on their horn. Even from this distance, it let out a blaring, continuous complaint. Presumably, in order to be heard over all of the other drivers tapping on their horns in various rhythms. This, she thought, this is why I have a driver. 

She scanned the area around the awhua for the fourth time, identifying two possible accomplices: a tall, blonde man with a crew cut, and a tourist sorting through phone cases. The tourist sported a camera with a high-end telephoto lens. Of the two, the man with the crew cut was the most concerning. He loitered in front of a spice shop, smoking a cigarette. Irina noted the way he scanned the area. His casual air couldn't hide the fact that his posture was ramrod straight, or that he kept his right hand free at all times. He shifted, and dropped his cigarette on the ground. The movement was enough for her to see the hint of a holster at his beltline. She frowned, considering. The man's clothing wasn't overly loose. It would have to be small, a compact semi-auto?  Instinctively, her attention fixed on the tourist. He was crouched down, his camera pointed at a young child. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Irina saw Jack, dressed in Bedouin white robes and a red-and-white checked ghutrah, making his way to the meet. She had to admit that the exotic look suited him, although she usually preferred Jack clean-shaven. He was using a gold-topped cane and leaning into his limp, giving the impression of a frail old man.

A teenager darted across the tiny walkway between shops, and directly in front of Jack. On alert, she straightened, ready to react. Jack swatted at the boy with his cane, and he got out of the way, offering profuse apologies. Irina bent her head, smiling. Amusement in her voice, she reached up and tapped her earpiece, her niqab hiding the action. 

"Blackbird?"

Jack leaned heavily on a gold-inlaid walking stick, and took measured steps through the busy warren of the souk. He didn't see any other men in Bedouin dress, but that suited him well. Sometimes the best disguise was to hide in plain sight. 

His alias was Sheikh Yahya bin Kaizaad, an identity he had created and curated during his SD-6 days. Wealthy from oil and opium, the Sheikh was older and shorter than Jack, easily represented with selective cosmetics, hunched shoulders, and a halting gait. Ocean-blue eyes, a red and white ghutrah headdress and white, flowing robes completed the costume. He had let his whiskers grow out this past week, and now the stubble had been shaped into a neat, close-cropped beard. 

He kept to a slow, cane-assisted walk through the souk, heading to the prescribed meeting place: an awhua near the center of the bazaar, perfectly located to maximize the difficulty of getting there–and leaving. He was forced to admit that Simon Walker had picked an ideal spot to meet his prospective new client. Irina had agreed, and he fondly remembered her spate of muttered Russian curses when the details of the meet were passed on. 

At last, he found the awhua, worked his way through the crowd of early evening patrons lounging on wooden benches and seated at small tables. The air was rich with coffee and tobacco, and the murmur of hundreds of conversations around him.

Irina was here, Jack knew. He resisted the urge to look for her, and simply trusted that she would be his eyes and ears, and his early warning system.

"Blackbird," he heard Irina's voice in his earpiece. He tapped twice to acknowledge. There were too many people around for him to feele comfortable talking to himself.

"You're the first to arrive," Irina said. "I've tagged two potential accomplices. Both male. The first is blonde, crew cut, medium build. His body language screams military; possibly Special Forces. He's carrying. He's looking at a display directly across from you. The second is the tourist. Dark hair, goatee. Professional camera and telephoto lens." As Irina described them, Jack weaved his way through the awhua tables and patrons to a small, empty table. The tourist she'd seen earlier raised his camera and snapped a picture of Jack, confirming her suspicions. 

Outside, Irina watched as the vendor two stalls away rolled down the security gate and closed the stall's curtains. She checked her watch. It was early for closing, and she didn't hear the call to prayer. There was no reason for the man to take a break. 

"Blackbird. Can confirm that there are two accomplices. The tourist tagged you going in. There may be at least one other operative in the immediate vicinity. Watch your back. Copy?"

Jack coughed into his hand, acknowledging her information. He discreetly took in the square, and identified the tourist with the camera. He couldn't see the other man, but didn't want to appear too alert and possibly give away Irina's presence. He would trust her to maintain situational awareness. 

He arranged his robes to sit comfortably, and was approached by a man. Older than the other coffee house attendants, Jack tagged him as the probable owner, and Simon's facilitator. "Salam alaikum," he greeted Jack formally, and added, "Would the honored sheikh wish to try our Turkish coffee? It is specially blended."

Jack replied in kind, "Wa ʿalaykumu s-salām wa raḥmat Allāh. I thank you, sir, but do you serve coffee in the Persian style?"

The shop owner bowed and then said, "Esteemed guest, I offer you a table inside my humble establishment, so that we may better provide your comfort."

Jack agreed and followed the man inside. The private room was richly appointed and lit with lanterns. The shisha man was preparing the hookah by placing glowing coals on the hagar and tending to the fire. Jack sat and ordered coffee from the owner, and took the proffered pipe mouthpiece, or mabsam. He settled into the comfortable chair, and drew in deeply from the pipe. Tobacco mixed with black honey filled his lungs and wafted to the ceiling. 

Once he was alone in the little room, he tapped his earpiece and whispered, "Nighthawk, I'm standing by for contact."

Irina saw Jack disappear into the shop's dark interior with the owner. She tensed. But no, they'd planned for this. Had checked and rechecked the comms. Irina forced herself to relax. 

"No sign of him yet," she replied.

She strolled along the cobblestone streets, pausing at a vendor selling nuts, dates, and baclava dripping with honey. After some consideration, she purchased a bag large enough to feed two. Time ticked by, and she became aware of the need to change configuration. She'd already been through this row of stalls twice, lingering would make her stand out. 

Then she saw a dark head bobbing in her direction. "Walker is coming your way, Blackbird. Fashionably late, I see." An obvious power play: delay just long enough to keep your contact waiting, but not so long that he would grow irritated and leave. 

"The coffee is excellent, as is the shisha," Jack replied in arabic. 

"Understood." Irina watched as their target separated himself from the crowd and went into the awhua. She waited a beat longer, and when nothing calamitous happened, She melted into the mass of people and let them carry her further down the street and into a restaurant she'd noticed earlier. She approached the hostess.

"Fayn el-ḥammām?" she asked.

The woman indicated a hallway toward the back of the restaurant. Irina nodded in thanks and quickly weaved between tables. Once inside the bathroom she chose a stall and locked the door behind her. She pulled a tote bag from under her niqab. Irina changed clothes into those of a trendy tourist–light yellow cotton dress, flats, and a wide-brimmed hat. A pair of sunglasses topped off the outfit. She stuffed the traditional garb into her tote and left the restroom. She paused only long enough to order a large soda. Back on the street, Irina flowed with the crowd back toward the meet. This time, she chose a location a bit closer, stopping to examine a rack of faux ushabtis. She scanned the area again and located both Crew Cut and the Tourist. They were at opposite ends of the street. Still within range of the coffee shop, but not close enough to be spotted by someone who wasn't trained. 

A cloud of tobacco smoke hovered in the small room. By the time Irina had alerted Jack, the embers had gone out and the shisha had been replenished by the attendant. 

Simon Walker strode in, his designer Western suit contrasting with the medieval elegance of the awhua. Slick, Jack assessed the man as he approached. Arrogant. Intelligent. 

"Salam alaikum," Jack said. "You will forgive an old man for not rising."

"Don't worry about it," Simon replied as he sat. "How's the coffee?" 

"It is exceptional," Jack replied. "You should partake."

"Don't worry I will," Simon said. He ordered coffee and shisha as well, but couldn't quite hide his Western impatience. He clearly wanted to get down to business, Jack thought. But since Walker had picked the setting, he was going to have to live with it. 

"You chose an excellent establishment," Jack said, beginning the ancient (and lengthy) ritual of Eastern dealmaking. "It is worth the extended walk that was required." He inhaled from his pipe and puffed out a cloud of rich smoke. "I had hip replacement last year. It is a privilege, it is said, to grow old. Sometimes I only agree half-heartedly."

"Sorry about that, mate, but you can't be too careful." 

Conversation halted as the coffee server and the shisha attendant arrived to serve Walker's tray and pipe. Once they left, Jack was amused by the slight catch in Walker's throat as he inhaled the strong tobacco. Jack continued, politely refraining from commenting. "I agree completely, my friend. And I approve. Growing old requires the wisdom to know when caution should be heeded." Jack sat back and took another drag from the mabsam, then a leisurely sip of rich coffee.

"It is why I sought you out. Your professionalism is well regarded," Jack continued. "And I require both delicacy and efficiency."

"I'm not always delicate," Walker said with a grin. "But I get results, every time. The real question here is what exactly can I do for you?"

"A piece of art has been stolen from my family," Jack said. "It is valuable. And it is sentimental. I wish for it to be returned."

"Not gonna lie, seems like that's a better proposition for the police," Walker said.

Jack made a disgusted sound in his throat, then puffed out a cloud of smoke. "In matters such as these, when family has been dishonored, I wish to balance the scales in a more decisive manner."

"I can respect that," Walker said. "If you want a problem eliminated, I can add that to my services."

"I was wishing for this, yes." He leaned forward, his gaze and voice intense, "I will not sit idle when my family is wronged. Vengeance that is swift, is also good business."

"It does make an impression. Now that we have an understanding, let's get down to specifics."

"Yes, yes, you are an Englishman, always direct. There is a courier transferring my artwork from Belgrade to Bucharest, in five days' time. I can provide some details, yes, but I am not privy to all. My ... source... was persuaded to tell me all he knew. But alas I am limited by his knowledge." Jack spread out his hands in a shrug. 

"I got ya. What kind of transpo are they using?"

"It is train. Passenger train. The travel from Belgrade to Timisoara is unknown to me. But I know the train from Timisoara to Bucharest." Jack pulled a small folder out from his robes and handed it to Walker. The man carefully scanned the documents and nodded. 

"I understand," Walker said. "Sheikh, can you tell me how much this is worth to you?"

"I will speak plainly, as an Englishman might appreciate. I am willing to provide initially two million dollars, and to follow with another two when my art is returned to me."

Walker gave a low whistle and nodded. "In that case, you have a deal. We'll do the transfer of the downpayment here, tomorrow. And follow up with the final transaction, say, in Constanta?"

"I believe the Black Sea is beautiful this time of year," Jack agreed.

Irina sipped her drink and listened in on Jack's side of the conversation, constantly looking for threats. Her gaze skimmed over faces, committing them to memory and sorting them into categories. No, no...yes?...no...no... She kept an eye on the tourist and his friend. They were making their way back toward each other, slowly. As they neared, she saw the tourist lean against the side of the coffee shop. He took out a cigarette and lit it. 

She heard the negotiations complete, and a few minutes later, Walker came out of the shop. The tourist flashed him the 'all clear' signal, and the Englishman responded by putting his phone to his ear. Irina watched as the tourist answered his own phone. She wasn't close enough to hear Walker's side of the conversation, but it was brief. Irina straightened abruptly as the tourist looked over to the blond man with the crew cut and drew his finger across his throat. Now, that gesture is universal, she thought. Her eyes narrowed as the tourist packed up his camera and slung the case over his shoulder.

"Blackbird, he's not buying it. His two men are flanking the coffee shop, waiting for you. I think he ordered a hit. Hold position."

"Where's Walker?" Jack responded in hushed English. "We can't lose him."

"Head west when you leave the shop. Wait for my signal." 

"Nighthawk-" Jack began.

"Not now." Irina cut their connection.

Crew Cut had taken position to the right of the coffee shop. Irina felt a surge of adrenaline rush through her, but she tamped it down. Scanning the area, her gaze lit on a tall display of sunglasses just behind him. She cut her way through the crowd, making sure her moves were casual. Reaching the display, she turned sharply, and bumped into it. Sunglasses clattered to the street. The cheap display wobbled, then went down–knocking Walker's man flat.

Irina felt something brush against her side. A street urchin was making his way stealthily through the crowd, Crew Cut's wallet and phone clutched in one hand. She reached out and grabbed the boy by his shoulder. "You're good," she said in Arabic. "But not good enough."

The boy's eyes widened. "You speak Arabic?"

Irina smiled, taking the phone and wallet from the boy. Opening the latter, she pulled out the cash before shoving the rest into her bag. "Here, let's make a deal."

The kid lunged for the money, but Irina batted his hand aside. "I'll give you this, if you do one little thing for me."

The kid's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's that?"

"Yell, scream, say that man," She pointed at Crew Cut, "Hit you, or knocked you over. Make it look convincing."

He nodded sharply, snatching the money from her hand. Irina backed away from him, and a wall of people filled in the gap. As she pushed her way through the crowd, she heard the boy wail. A stream of profane Arabic followed. Irina choked back a laugh as she turned on her comm unit. As she watched, the tourist glanced around wildly for his compatriot as people surged by. She tapped her comm.

"Blackbird, head west, now."

Jack grabbed his cane and ducked out of the awhua. His heightened awareness of the tail–and the implied threat–warred with his need to maintain his original cover as the elderly sheikh. His exit strategy required that he be obvious and easy to follow, at least until his first objective. He schooled himself to stoop his shoulders and back, to lean into his limp and the cane. 

He emerged from the darkness of the awhua and into the golden twilight of the souk. The lanterns had been lit, giving the crowded and sometimes shabby marketplace a magical glow. He noticed the commotion in front of the awhua, and registered a shouting boy, a confused crew-cut Westerner, and in the corner of his eye, the Tourist glancing around, momentarily befuddled. 

He did not see Irina. 

With the cane tapping along the stone pathway, Jack shuffled through the souk, apparently oblivious to his danger.

She watched as Jack hobbled out of the coffee shop and followed her instructions. The tourist saw Jack leave, and after a few moments of indecision, followed.

"Blackbird, you now have one tail. The Tourist, about twenty meters behind you."

Irina took a moment to glance through Crew Cut's wallet. Credit card, a few coins, an I.D. with what Irina assumed was an alias, and the keycard to a hotel room. She removed this and flipped it over. "The Fairmont," she murmured. She glanced at the flow of shoppers. Jack was a white speck in the distance. She didn't see the Tourist, but she had to assume he was still following Jack. Part of her wanted to stick with Jack, in case he needed backup. But then, there was Simon Walker. And Sydney. Jack would be able to handle one assailant, if it came to it–even injured as he was. 

"Blackbird, I'm going after Walker. He's staying at the Fairmont Nile City. Our driver will meet you in Al Hussain Square." 

"Copy that," Jack replied. 

With patient deliberation, Jack navigated the narrow alleys of the souk. Moving into the rug district, he made a show of stopping and leaning heavily against a kiosk while admiring some finely-woven specimens. The Tourist caught up to him, waiting in the next shop over. Jack pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, using it to obscure his features from the follower's line of sight. 

Jack assessed the possible danger. The man's camera bag could hold almost anything short of a long gun. He couldn't totally discount a handgun, but the marketplace would be a bad place to fire one. Silencer? Possibly, but still. Probably a knife or garrote. The Tourist kept one hand in his jacket pocket while making a less than convincing attempt to loiter in the shop.

Knife, Jack decided. The pocket wasn't large enough for quick deployment of a silencer. Good.

Jack coughed into his handkerchief, and kept moving. Down one street, and into an old stone breezeway, lined with some of the more permanent and upscale shops. Once around a blind corner, he ducked quickly into a rug shop. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light, and he moved quickly among the large displays crowded into every inch of space on the sales floor. He made his way to the back, hidden by a thick forest of tapestries. The shopkeeper acknowledged him, and pulled a rug aside to usher Jack into a small, concealed alcove. Jack pulled off the red-checked shemagh, black agal headband, and the flowing bisht robe he had been wearing. The result was a quick change in configuration: the robes had hidden a light-grey galabiya, and he settled a more common skullcap onto his head. He rose to his full height, popped out the contact lenses, and handed the shopkeeper his inlaid cane and signet ring. 

The man grinned and bowed, completing the arrangement they had made earlier in the day. He handed Jack a tightly wrapped bundle, which he hoisted onto his shoulder. 

The Tourist was outside the shop, scanning the pathways, craning his neck to try to find his quarry, buffeted by the steady foot traffic moving along the street.

Jack would have to walk right past him, within range of that knife. 

Hide in plain sight, Jack thought. Delay was more hazardous than audacity. He took a quick, cleansing breath, drew himself to his full height, and schooled his wounded leg to hide the limp, at least for a little while. 

Then he plunged into the sea of humanity flowing through the souk. His bundle sat on his right shoulder, shielding his face from the tourist, but also obscuring his vision of the man. For added emphasis (and security), Jack deliberately gave him a rough shoulder-check. After all–he had been standing in the middle of the street blocking the footpath. The man stumbled back into a display of lanterns. 

Jack braced himself to feel a knife through his ribs, but when nothing came except for muttered Spanish curses and Arabic protestations, he joined the flow of pedestrians, away from his pursuer. Now merely one of several hundred men in skullcaps and galabiyas hauling packages on their shoulders.

He took a circuitous route around a short block, where the pathway was so narrow it was essentially single-file. He then entered a district with more modern wares. The atmosphere of a frenetic swap meet combined with the medieval setting of the bazaar.  

He found an electronics store, and stepped inside. Handing a grinning young man the rug and three hundred-dollar bills, he found the stock room and changed configuration again. This time, he stripped off the galabiya, revealing a black track suit. The skullcap was replaced with a ballcap and glasses. He then pulled out a small electric shaver he had kept with him, and removed the two weeks of stubble on his face. 

Clean shaven and in Western garb, he picked up the rug again. The young man had rewrapped it from a square into a long roll and changed the plastic covering from white to blue. 

The last leg of his journey was to the Al-Hussein Square, near two 10th Century Mosques. The population of locals mingled with an increasing number of tourists, and traffic on the nearby street was slowly chugging through the congested streets of Cairo. Jack spotted their car and driver, idling near a group of taxis. He turned and scanned the crowd carefully. Not seeing the tourist, Jack took the opportunity to walk to the car, and shoved his bundle and himself into the back seat.

Irina's driver greeted him and asked for the next destination. 

"Fairmont Hotel," Jack said. 

Irina's taxi pulled up to the Fairmont Hotel. She shot the driver a dazzling smile and a generous stack of bills. "Shukran… shukran ya… um… mister?"

The cab driver took the money and waved away her thanks. 

"For you, Pretty Lady, anything. If you need a car, call me, eh?" He handed her a card with the name Hanbal and a phone number.

Irina took the card and didn't mention that they already had a driver. You never knew what information could turn out to be helpful.

Irina pushed open the Fairmont's tinted glass doors. The hotel lobby was a study in gold, white, and brown. In the middle of the room sat two tables. Each had four plush chairs. Beyond those was the front desk, which boasted a sleek black marble counter.  

It was a busy evening at the Fairmont; she could see tourists gawking and businessmen chatting. She stepped aside to make way for another group of men in suits and ties. She heard a babble of languages as they passed by: Arabic, English, French, Spanish. They all mingled together in a loud hum.

Irina sat in one of the lobby chairs and angled herself so she could see the entrance. Pulling a fashion magazine out of her bag, she flipped through a few pages, feigning mild interest. Sliding her phone from her pocket, she flipped it open on her lap. Surely Jack had lost the Tourist by now? If he hadn't, then he was most likely dead. Unless he did something monumentally stupid (which he wouldn't) the odds were that he was alive and on his way. She tapped out a quick message on her phone:

I'm in position.

While she waited for Jack to return her text, she scanned the lobby again. Walker had yet to show. Irina turned a page in her magazine. It was possible that their quarry had decided to go to dinner, or partake in any number of opportunities that Cairo had to offer. 

FINISHED SHOPPING. EN ROUTE TO HOTEL. DID YOU PICK UP THE SOUVENIRS?

Not yet, she typed back. I haven't found the right one.

Walker came in roughly twenty minutes into her surveillance. Aside from her first, quick glance, Irina did not look at him again. He moved toward the check-in desk, and asked the concierge a question she couldn't hear. The answer came when Walker handed her a single green bill. A fifty or a hundred, she assumed. The concierge opened the cash register and handed him a stack of Egyptian pounds.  

When he turned away, Irina expected him to head for his room. Instead, he made a beeline toward her. Have I been made? she wondered, preparing herself for a confrontation. Walker passed her and sat down on an overstuffed chair nearby. He reached into his coat pocket. She tensed.

He withdrew his cell phone and flipped it open. 

Irina relaxed, and watched as he hit speed dial.

"Julia," Walker said cheerfully. "You're going to be sorry you missed Cairo."