NEXT MORNING Mr. Katubi was standing at his post in the lobby when the telephone purred. He glanced at the caller ID and exhaled heavily. Then he lifted the receiver slowly, a sapper defusing a bomb, and brought it to his ear.

“Good morning, Herr Klemp.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Katubi.”

“Do you require assistance with your bags?”

“No assistance required, Katubi. Change in plans. I’ve decided to extend my stay. I’m enchanted by this place.”

“How fortunate for us,” Mr. Katubi said icily. “For how many additional nights will you require your room?”

“To be determined, Katubi. Stay tuned for further updates.”

“Staying tuned, Herr Klemp.”

14 CAIRO

14

CAIRO

“I NEVER SIGNED UP FOR ANYTHING LIKE THIS,” Quinnell said gloomily. It was after midnight; they were in Quinnell’s tired little Fiat. Across the Nile, central Cairo stirred restlessly, but Zamalek at that hour was quiet. It had taken two hours to get there. Gabriel was certain no one had followed them.

“You’re sure about the flat number?”

“I’ve been inside,” Quinnell said. “Not in the capacity I’d hoped, mind you, just one of Mimi’s parties. She lives in flat 6A. Everyone knows Mimi’s address.”

“You’re sure she doesn’t have a dog?”

“Just an angora cat with a weight problem. I’m sure a man who claims to be a friend of the great Herr Heller will have no problem dealing with an obese cat. I, on the other hand, have to contend with the seven-foot Nubian doorman. How did that happen?”

“You’re one of the world’s finest journalists, Quinnell. Surely you can deceive a doorman.”

“True, but this isn’t exactly journalism.”

“Think of it as an English schoolboy prank. Tell him the car’s died. Tell him you need help. Give him money. Five minutes, and not a minute longer. Understood?”

Quinnell nodded.

“And if your friend from the Mukhabarat shows up?” Gabriel asked. “What’s the signal?”

“Two short horn blasts, followed by a long one.”

Gabriel climbed out of the car, crossed the street, and descended a flight of stone steps leading to a quay along the waterfront. He paused for a moment to watch the graceful, angular sail of a felucca gliding slowly upriver. Then he turned and walked south, Herr Klemp’s smart leather satchel hanging from his right shoulder. After a few paces the upper floors of Mimi’s apartment house came into view above the rise—an old Zamalek building, whitewashed, with large terraces overlooking the river.