Mysterious Cairo

by Edited By Ed Stark

"You will be their weapon . all of you . fanatics ... I told them it was not our way, but they wouldn't listen. I went along at first, but then . Tonight . midnight ... 'Peace Through God' ... you must stop them, Scarab ."

  He was gone — and he had known my identity. He'd come to Sadi trying to tip me off, but Malraux's goons found him first. Were they behind this? I needed to get out of this slaughterhouse, get some time to think.

  I picked up my gun and went out the way I came. Somebody would report the stiffs in the morning, but nobody would make too much effort to find out who killed four "enemies of the Pharaoh."

  I was on my to find a cab when I heard the newsboy hollering. "Extry! Extry! Get'cher Clarion! Mystery Men maul Malraux! Fighters foil Frenchmen! Get'cher paper!"

  I tossed the kid a coin and grabbed a handful of news. Up to now, I'd felt as blind as those cyberpriests after the big flash — suddenly, things were starting to clear up, and they looked like hell.

  The story was short and sweet: costumed vigilantes were trashing Cyberpapal fronts all over the Empire. The Guardian had slain the French ambassador in Thebes — the Whisper had blown up a secret cyberware factory in Luxor, killing everyone inside — Justice had aced three deep-cover agents for Malraux working out of Khartoum. The government had no comment, but given Mobius' hatred for the Cyberpope, he was probably dancing for joy.

  I ran for the nearest pay phone and called Sadi, waking her up. There were pieces missing, but with her memory for people and places, she might be able to fill them in.

  "Sadi, what do you know about some outfit called 'Peace Through God?'"

  She hesitated a minute, and then said, "What? Um ... 'Peace Through God' is a group of clerics who claim religion is the answer to all the world's problems. They're based in Brazil, but they're a front for Malraux. What time is it, Rex . ?"

  "Later than you think," I said. "Listen, do these guys have a base in Cairo?"

  "I don't . wait, yes, they do! It was in the paper — Al Nil Street, near the hospital! The head of their group, Father Montes, is visiting this week. Rex, do you need help?"

  Al Nil wasn't far from where I was, but I still wasn't sure how big this thing might be. I figured I better let someone else in on it. I gave Sadi what I'd put together so far, and then said, "Get on the horn to Dr. Frest. He always knows how to get ahold of the union-suit brigade. If I'm right, they've had their uniforms and gizmos stolen, too. The whole thing was a set-up to bring Malraux down on top of us, and so far it's worked like a charm."

  "But who is behind this?"

  "I don't know yet, angel. But Father Montes is going to get a visit from the Silver Scarab tonight, and if I don't get there in time, my alter ego is going to be wanted for murder by morning."

  * * *

  Malraux's Boy Scout brigade had renovated a three-story slum building a stone's throw from the Aguza Hospital and turned it into their private clubhouse. I looked at my watch — ten minutes to midnight, and the place was quiet as a tomb. One light burned on the top floor and every now and then a man passed in front of the window. Pacing, probably working on a sermon, and more than likely about to be deep-fried.

  There were a couple of things I could be sure of: the cops would be here soon, because without witnesses to the killing, the whole point would be lost; and the fake Scarab would have an escape route all planned out. It wouldn't do to have him captured, especially if a heavy French accent exposed him as a fake.

  I tried to put myself in his boots. The heat would block off both ends of Al Nil and probably have motor launches on the El Bahr too. There were always the alleys, but I doubted my counterpart knew them well enough to risk an escape. That left —

  The rooftops.

  I started looking for a way up, but the old firetrap didn't have a ladder on the side. It must have rusted and collapsed and nobody bothered to replace it. Time was running out. It looked like I would have to take the long route.

  I dashed up the steps and started banging on the door like all the demons of Hell were after me. A few seconds later, an old geezer in a robe opened it up and started babbling n French.

  "You have to let me in," I said, cutting him off. "I'm with the police. There's going to be a murder here!"

  The word "murder" shut him up long enough for me to push past him and head for the stairs. He tried to stop me, but he was too slow. By the time he roused the rest of the house, I'd be where I was going.

  I reached the third floor landing and ran for the door with light streaming out from under it. I was gambling that he was the one still awake, and if I was wrong, there'd be no time to guess again.

  The door was locked. I could hear the rest of the priesthood racing up the stairs after me. I put some shoulder into it and knocked the old door off its frame.

  My hunch had paid off. The priest facing me — gun in hand — was asking who the hell I was in Spanish. I was about to explain when I saw a flash of silver outside the window. I dove for Montes as his gun went off, the bullet creasing the side of my skull. We hit the ground just as I heard a familiar sound from the window.

  A bolt of lightning shot across the room and blew a hole in the wall, scattering Montes' followers to hell and gone. The idiot had the Sting turned up all the way! Montes would have been barbecued.

  I couldn't give the impostor a chance to fire again. I wrenched the priest's gun from his hand and fired twice at the window. I could hear sirens in the distance — I had to hope the ersatz Scarab would have the sense to give up on Montes and make a break for it.

  The priests were regaining their courage and starting to make noises about grabbing me. I scrambled to my feet and poked my head out the broken window, just in time to see a guy clad in silver and red climbing a rope ladder toward the roof.

  I grabbed for the last rung and was up to the ledge before he had time to unhook the ladder. He greeted me with a wicked kick to the head that almost made me lose my grip. Then he was running like an Olympic sprinter across the roof.

  Forcing the canaries in my brain back into their nests, I started after him. Spotlights were starting to pierce the air now and cops on megaphones were asking us politely to let them lock us up and throw away the key. I saw the guy in the Scarab suit hesitate for a split second and then leap across the abyss to the next building.

  I followed, though not quite as gracefully. He was heading south toward the October bridge—if he made it across the El Bahr, he could lose himself on the grounds of the Gezira Racing Club. If he shed the costume, I'd never be able to pick him out of the crowds.

  I had to make up some ground, fast. He was about to leap another alley. I took careful aim and blasted some of the masonry off the ledge he was fixing to land on. It rattled him—he tried to twist in mid-air and wrenched his left arm grabbing hold of the building. I was closing the gap and made the jump just as he was pulling himself onto the roof.

  I aimed for the bad shoulder and connected. He went down, but caught my legs with a kick and brought me with him. He smashed me once, twice in the face, but I shook it off and head-butted him. He might have been a better fighter on paper, but he hadn't grown up on the back streets of Chicago, that much was certain.

  Cops were barking orders. They'd be taking to the roofs themselves pretty soon and be sitting ducks if he decided to cut loose with the Sting. I made a grab for the gun, but he wasn't having any — he pulled my arm practically out of the socket and smashed it against the roof. I wrapped my other arm around his neck and yanked, a little trick I picked up from "Diamond Jack." He always said it made them pass out or get taller, he couldn't remember which.

  He let me have my arm back. I put it to good use around his kidneys, and he responded with an elbow to my gut that made me wish I'd skipped dinner. He was free now while I was still trying to get my wind back. He ran back the way he had come and peered over the ledge. Next thing I knew, he used my gizmo to melt the bolts that held the fire escape to the wall. I heard the screams of the cops who must have been climbing it and th
en a horrible crash.

  He started past me and I staggered to my feet. I had to make one more try to stop him, but the flesh was weak. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, only to see the Sting pointing at me. He seemed to think twice about it. Then he fired, and what felt like enough electricity to light a small city shot through my body.

  The darkness, when it came, was a relief.

  The first thing I noticed when I awoke was the smell— a musty scent, like no one had been in the room for days. I had expected to see harps and Joes with wings when my eyes opened, but didn't. And though I felt like a boiled lobster, it wasn't anywhere near hot enough to be Hell. Instead I seemed to be in the back room of a warehouse, the one where defective junk gets tossed. It seemed somehow appropriate.

  Standing over me was a linebacker with a haircut that went out sometime around 1400. He was wearing some kind of chain mail and carrying a sword big enough to be a toothpick for a borr aka. My throat was parched— I managed to croak out a request for water and Sir Lancelot poured me a tin cup full.

  "Nice costume," I said when I had drained the mug. "What time's the party?"

  He didn't crack a smile. Either he didn't speak English, or he had no appreciation for my wit. It might have been both.

  He opened the door a crack and made some kind of signal. An old guy I took to be a sawbones came in a minute later and looked me over. "You are very lucky, my son," he said as he helped me up. "Only a few minor burns. If Alain had not recognized you at the last moment . well, he can be a bit overzealous at times."

  "Where the hell am I?" I asked. "Who are you people? What's with the masquerade costumes?"

  He smiled and shook his head. "You will have your answers. We have no choice, now. When it is done, you will understand why it had to be."

  The doc led me out of my "cell" and into the huge warehouse. It had been converted into a barracks of sorts—mats of straw everywhere, guys who looked like they had walked out of a King Arthur movie polishing swords and axes.

  "If all goes well, you will get your costume and equipment back when you leave here. We regret having to resort to theft, but —"

  "There is no need to apologize, old one," said a rich, commanding voice from behind us. "Monsieur McMasters' wares were needed in the service of a higher cause."

  We both turned. Standing before us, decked out like the rest in medieval clothing, was the beggar I had saved from Sam Burke the morning of the break-in. Cleaned up, he looked imposing, and there was a gleam in his eye I didn't like at all. I had found Montaigne's "fanatics."

  There was one other little thing I noticed. My friend, the beggar, was standing up on the legs that had been useless the day before. Not only that, they looked like flesh and blood limbs, not cyberware.

  He caught my glance and smiled. "The metallic legs are part of a little charade I perform. You will find very little of the Antipope's unholy works here — we do not traffic in tools that corrupt the spirit."

  He beckoned me over to a table where some fruit and wine was laid out. I started making notes for a possible escape. There were two swordsmen dogging my footsteps. The main entrance and loading bay of the warehouse were barred and heavily guarded. There was a catwalk running around the place, but it too was manned by members of this private army. True, they were all carrying weapons more suited for Aysle than here, but they'd be enough against one unarmed guy. The only things that looked interesting were the pipes running alongside the walls and my costume hanging on a hook above the catwalk.

  "My name is Leroux," my "host" said as we sat down. I was growing royally sick of French accents. "I bid you welcome to the Egyptian home of the Order of the Temple. I am the Grand Master of this particular group, and you are welcome in our company."

  It had the feel of a rehearsed speech. "I can't say I think much of your way of extending an invite, pal," I said. "Why didn't you just send me a telegram?"

  Leroux apparently didn't have much of a sense of humor. I wondered if it ran in this group. "Alain's actions were regrettable, but necessary. You were jeopardizing an important aspect of our crusade against the Antipope. But we had no wish to take your life, and so brought you here."

  "That's real big of you," I said, taking a bite of an apple. I hate slinging bull on an empty stomach. "If I'd known I was coming, I'd have written up a bill for damages. It was your boys who trashed my office, right?"

  Leroux frowned. "I should simply let you go, knowing no more than you do now. But there is something about this place that seems to compel one to explain all. I do not fully understand it."

  The "Grand Master" stood and started to pace. "You have heard of the Knights Templar, have you not?"

  I searched my addled brain and found a few tidbits. "Yeah, sure. Part of the French Resistance, aren't they? Some bunch of clowns fighting GodMeeters with swords, if I remember right."

  He gave a me the kind of smile you use when you're dealing with a moron. I was looking forward to wiping it off his face. "That's correct, monsieur. The Knights Templar are a modern-day incarnation of a band of crusaders who fought in this land over seven centuries ago. Some of us are from Core Earth, others Magna Verita — we are united in our hatred of Malraux and his False Church."

  "What's all this have to do with me? I'm no friend of the Cyberpope and his crew," I growled.

  "The Templars have branches all over the world, differing in size, wealth, and strategy regarding this war. Shortly after I came here, I realized that one of the most potent weapons in this realm was its Mystery Men. I resolved to make you my weapon."

  So Montaigne had steered me straight. "Let me see if I have this doped out, Grand Poohbah. You and your boys found out all you could about the cape-and-cowl crowd — including our secret IDs — then you stole our stuff and put together a little group of phoneys."

  Leroux seemed pleased that I wasn't as stupid as I looked. "Precisely. The perfect crimes, since the victims could never report what was truly stolen without exposing their alter egos. Then my men struck at the Antipope in your guises — he would be certain to respond in kind. Thus the Mystery Men would be drawn into our crusade against Malraux, in the interests of saving their own lives."

  He wasn't kidding. I could just imagine what the Guardian and the Whisper were going through about now, with Cyberpapal goon squads out for revenge. But I still hadn't figured out a way to escape this nut farm. I had to keep him talking.

  "But not everybody in the group thought this was such a hot idea, right? That's why Montaigne came looking for me."

  Leroux's face went dark. "Montaigne was a bumbling idiot. He objected to my plan from the first, but agreed to deliver the money to Nash. I feared what instructions he might have given the gunmen, and so positioned myself to ensure that they would not deviate from my strategem. That is how you found me that morning, and why I warned you when it appeared they were about to slay you. We needed you alive.

  "Montaigne protested that it was dishonorable to win allies in this manner. He slipped away that night to warn you of our plans. We were reluctant to expose our presence by hunting him down, but Malraux saved us the trouble — Montaigne was known as a Templar, and when he let himself be seen in Cairo, he signed his death warrant."

  So the cyberpriests' attack on Montaigne had nothing to do with the case as a whole. They just had a mad on for him on general principles.

  Leroux sat back down. He was apparently reaching a part of the story he liked. "Our plan proceeded. The death of Pere' Montes would have placed the Silver Scarab firmly on Malraux's enemies list. We would then have returned your equipment to you and allowed you to join the fight.

  "But you interfered. Alain was forced to subdue you and bring you here. Our goal has still been achieved — the attack was made by the Scarab, in front of witnesses — but I now must ask you: will you join our cause?"

  I was pretty disgusted after hearing Leroux's little story. If these were the kind of people fighting the High Lords, maybe we'd be better off if
the Malrauxs and Mobiuses won. "Why ask me now? And even if I agree, what's to stop me from blowing your little setup in the papers?"

  Leroux looked like he'd swallowed some bad meat. "We considered that. We went so far as to attempt an abduction of your secretary this evening, to guarantee your silence. Unfortunately, she is apparently quite ... capable. The two men I sent for her have not returned."

  The news that Sadi was still out there somewhere gave me a little bit of hope. Remembering a move I'd seen in a movie serial gave me some more, but I needed a few more minutes to lull the guards behind me to sleep. I played my last card. "Leroux, if all of us Mystery Men fall in line behind you, who's left to fight Mobius?"

  The Grand Master tensed. This was apparently a sore point with him. "Mobius is a buffoon! Malraux is the true threat to this world, for he strikes at the spirit, the soul! He must be crushed like a viper beneath our heel!"

  That sounded like my cue. I kicked out and upended the table on the High Muckamuck, at the same time flipping the chair backwards. The guards were off-balance for just a second — maybe the wine on their leader's tunic looked too much like blood. I got to my feet and yanked a sword out of one of their scabbards. I was still outnumbered twenty to one, but at least now I had a chance to go out fighting. In the Nile, that's the best you can ever hope for.

  The doors were out — the catwalk was my best bet. The troops were coming on the run and I was swinging the blade like "Bam-Bam" Bodansky going for the bleachers in '28. But I was still a long way away from the ladder — and if I made it, what then? More bully boys with axes, that was what. I was beginning to think this wasn't the brightest move I had ever made.

  I was starting to get tired and they were starting to back me into a corner. I'd take a few with me, but that was all — until I realized what I was standing near, and thought back to Montaigne's apartment.

  I was in a narrow section of the warehouse near the utilities closets and the main fuse box. The pipes were bunched here and hot to the touch, and if I remembered correctly, these places had steam heat. As the twelve musketeers closed in, I swung my blade and smashed through the pipes, sending jets of scalding-hot steam billowing out. The swordsmen screamed and backed off — I kept my distance from the clouds too, and readied part of my little stunt.