by Nick Carter
As I sat down, he called a servant and ordered us two mint teas. I could never bring myself to tell Hakim that I disliked mint tea. He thought it was one of my favorite drinks.
'Now, what brings you to my humble home?' he said, smiling. He was a tall but hunched man with the face of a slave trader. His cheeks were badly pockmarked and his thin lips looked cruel even when he was smiling. But he was an extremely well-educated man, his English better than mine.
'You and I are going to rob the Museum of Antiquities,' I said.
He looked at me expectantly, his eyes lighting up, and then he saw that I was joking. 'Ah, you are a funny fellow, Nicholas!' He laughed loudly, but he leaned toward me conspiratorially: 'It isn't such a bad idea, you know.'
I grinned back at him. Hakim was one of the most colorful figures that AXE had hired in the recent past. In his red fez and djellaba robe, he looked very much like a treacherous desert bandit.
'If I had the time, I'd like to try it with you,' I told him. 'But I'm afraid I've got trouble, Hakim.'
His eyes narrowed, and he touched a finger to his caramel-colored nose. 'Ah. Let me tell you what your trouble is, Nicholas. The American found dead in his hotel room last week. He was an AXE agent, right?'
'Right,' I said. I pulled out the deciphered note and gave it to Hakim. 'He left this for us.'
Hakim studied the note carefully, then looked up at me. 'If the substitute case did contain heroin, Nicholas, the switch surely was an error. And if it was an error and your man tried to make it right, why was he killed?'
'A good question,' I said. 'It could be that the Russians found Drummond and the substitute case is only a red herring to throw us off. But if the underworld is really involved here, there could be a dozen explanations for Drummond's death. The important thing is to recover the film he was carrying in that attaché case.'
The small, thin servant with a brown walnut face, brought us our tea. Hakim stirred the green mint leaves around in the glasses for us. I declined as graciously as possible to have mine sweetened. When the servant was gone, Hakim glanced up at me.
'This film is important then?'
'Very important, Hakim. If you still have connections with the underworld in Cairo, I'd appreciate some help. I have to find out who killed Drummond and why. That just might lead me to the film.'
Hakim slowly stirred his tea. 'I must admit, Nicholas, that I have lost contact with the criminal element here in the past year. My help would be miserable indeed. But it so happens, my friend, that I know an Interpol agent who might be able to help you.'
'None of this must get into official records,' I said. 'Can he keep his mouth shut?'
Hakim smiled, a smile that, if I hadn't known him, would have convinced me he was about to cut my throat. 'The agent is a girl and she is quite lovely. She is Arab with some French blood somewhere along the line. Her name is Fayeh Nasir. In Arabic, Fayeh means Flame of Desire.' The smile widened into a degenerate leer. 'She is an entertainer at the Sheherazade, a nightclub out on Alfa Bey Street. An exotic dancer. You must make your own judgment of her, of course. But she just may be able to help.'
I took a sip of the tea and tried not to make a face. 'All right, I'll see her,' I said. 'I have to make a start somewhere.' I rose from the low sofa and Hakim did too. 'Now I must go.'
'You must come when we can talk, Nicholas,' Hakim said.
'That would be nice. And thanks for the lead.'
He shook his head. 'I wish I could be more personally involved. Keep in touch. And don't let me find your name listed in the obituaries.'
'Irish' Allah,' I said. 'May it be Allah's will.'
Hakim's crooked grin showed again. 'You should have been born an Arab.'
It was almost midnight when I left Hakim's house. I took a taxi back to the center of town. On the way there, moving along the dark streets, I could have sworn we were being followed. When we hit the Sharia Maspero with its brighter lights and heavier traffic, I dismissed the cab, planning to walk the rest of the way to the hotel. The car which had seemed to be following us moved on past when the cab stopped and turned a corner. I was probably imagining things, I told myself.
I started walking, nudging Wilhelmina unconsciously with my left arm. Even on this wide street — with the Nile on my right — the buildings on my left all seemed to have narrow dark doorways and I walked by several gloomy alleys.
I passed an armless beggar who chanted out a request for alms. I paused and dropped some piastres into a container between his legs. He thanked me volubly, grinning a toothless grin, and I found myself suspecting even that poor helpless man. I moved on toward my hotel, unable to shake the feeling that all was not right with my world. I'd gone another block when I heard the footsteps behind me.
They were soft footsteps and most people would have missed the sound. But they were there, and they were gaining on me. I did not turn or quicken my pace. In my mind's eye I pictured the beggar behind me. He had grown arms from under his djellaba and was holding a long, curving knife tightly in his fist.
But that was nonsense. If the footsteps were in fact stalking me, as they appeared to be, the culprit doing the stalking was undoubtedly from the black car that had followed the taxi from Hakim's.
The footsteps were close now. I had decided to stop, turn and confront my harasser. But before I could, I reached another dark alleyway. I was so preoccupied with the footsteps behind me I paid no attention to the alley as I moved past it.
A hand shot out of the darkness of the alley, grabbed at my arm savagely and pulled me off-balance into the blackness. I was taken completely unaware and can remember being angry with myself for being so careless as I hurtled to the pavement over a stuck-out leg. In the next instant, I was looking up from a supine position at the robed figure who had grabbed me. He was wearing an ankle-length striped djellaba and his head was covered with a desert kaffiyeh which hid his face. Then I saw a silhouette appear in the alley mouth, another big robed figure, and I knew that this was the man who had been following me. He held an ugly pistol with a heavy silencer while his comrade standing over me had a wide-bladed dagger.
'What's going on?' I said. 'What do you want — my money?'
But they had no intention of talking things over with me. While the man with the knife held the weapon toward me menacingly, the man with the gun raised the muzzle, aiming at my chest.
There was little time to think. Just as he squeezed the trigger, I twisted away from the line of fire toward the building wall to my left. I heard the soft whunk of the silenced gun and felt fire lick at my upper right arm. The bullet had grazed me.
I had landed beside a wooden crate in which considerable refuse was piled. I grabbed the crate with one hand and heaved it in a swinging arc toward the gunman. The crate and its contents hit him in the face and chest, and he staggered backwards off balance.
But then the other man was on me. He threw himself bodily on me, the knife plunging toward my chest. I twisted, managing to grab the knife arm. His body hit me hard and I almost lost my grip on the arm. His face was next to mine, lean and cruel, as he struggled to thrust the knife home.
I gathered my strength and pushed viciously against the robed figure. He went flying off me, hitting the pavement several feet away. But now the gunman had recovered from the collision with the crate and was again aiming his gun at me. I swore in my throat and rolled away from the wall as he fired. This time the slug chewed into the pavement beside my head.
As I rolled, I contracted my right forearm and Hugo slipped into my palm. When I came up facing the gunman, Hugo was ready. I swung my arm up in an underhand pitching motion, and the stiletto slipped silently from my grasp. It turned over once and buried itself silently in the Arab's lower chest.
Even in the darkness, I could see the gunman's eyes widen, and then he was stumbling toward me, clutching at the handle of the stiletto with one hand, the gun hanging loosely from the other. As he stumbled on into the alley, the gun went off twice, two
dull thumps, the slugs singing off the pavement near my feet and the wall I had just moved away from. Then the man was falling. He fell like a timber tree, slowly, and he hit with a thud on his face and chest, driving Hugo in even further.
The gunman lay very dead between the other Arab and me. The survivor looked at his dead companion, then turned. The cruel eyes closed down to ugly slits. Suddenly, he threw himself at me.
The knife was at my throat. I struggled to keep it away. One swipe would cut the jugular. My attacker's arm trembled with his effort to get at me. I eased a foot between his legs and kicked out to my right at the same time pushing his arms and shoulders to the left. He fell off me, grunting. I rolled onto him and got a better hold on the knife arm, trying to twist it. He struck out at me with his left hand, and I lost my balance. In a moment he was on his feet.
I scrambled up as he circled me. He was going to be careful now and wait until he could go in for the kill. He saw an opening and stepped in, swinging the broad knife toward my belly. I pulled back and the blade sliced through my jacket and shirt. I swallowed hard. He was very good with the knife.
We circled some more. My eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and I could see better what I was doing. I did not watch the knife, I watched the man's face. The eyes changed, telegraphing the second attack, and I was ready. I grabbed the knife arm and pulled it toward me and past me. Turning at the same time, I swung the man over my shoulder and threw him down hard. He smacked the pavement audibly with his back and head, losing the knife.
I pulled him to his feet. He struggled to clear his head and fight back, but I threw a punch into his face, knocking him back against a wall of the alley. I moved in on him, drove a right into his belly and heard him gasp as he doubled over, clutching his midsection.
I jerked him upright and took a good look at the hard lean face. I had never seen it before; I wondered if he was the man at the hotel outside Drummond's room.
'Who are you?' I said. 'What do you want?'
He glanced at the man on the ground, gasping, 'Our Brothers — will find you.' He spoke in English with a strong accent.
Then he broke free and stumbled out to the street. I let him go; I knew there wasn't much chance of getting anything more out of him.
I moved to the dead man and turned him over. His face was unfamiliar too. And this face looked more Spanish than Arab. I pulled Hugo from his chest, wiped him on the djellaba the man wore and returned the stiletto to its sheath. Then I looked through the dead man's clothing for identification. There was nothing.
I leaned against a wall near him, trying to get my strength back. These two were sent by somebody who knew I had been in Cairo to look into Drummond's death. And if I had not gotten lucky when the dead killer began firing that pistol, I would have joined Drummond in the ranks of deceased AXE agents. It was not a pleasant thought.
Moving heavily to the street, I glanced out cautiously and saw that the boulevard was almost empty of pedestrian traffic. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and headed again for the New Shepheards.
I had to get to the girl from Interpol quickly, that was for sure.
Three
The nightclub was all dim lights and incense and heavy draperies with a string ensemble under a lavender light playing a very unmelodious Egyptian song. Cigarette smoke hung acrid and thick over the heads of the customers at the small low tables.
In the center of the tiled floor a girl danced a kind of belly dance. She was slim and dark with long straight hair falling over bronze shoulders. Her dark eyes were outlined with makeup to make them appear even bigger and darker. Below them was an aquiline, finely-chiseled nose and a pouting, full-lipped mouth. She was thin but she had enough flesh where it counted. Her legs were long and perfect. She wore a bra that covered the nipples of her breasts with a small triangle of cloth serving as the rest of her costume; a transparent ankle-length veil hung from the bikini-type panties. Her ankles were banded with small bells and in each hand she held tiny metallic cymbals.
The cymbals issued a tinny rhythmic sound as she moved around the floor to the off-key music, vibrating the firm muscles in her lovely hips, snaking from one table to the next. She arrived at my table just as the music reached a crescendo. She moved her hips close to me, vibrating them unnervingly, and shook her shoulders so that her breasts moved excitingly in the fragile bra. All the while she smiled, a smile that was calculated to tell a man she understood his desire for her.
The music was over suddenly in a burst of sound and Fayeh Nasir, the Flame of Desire, was acknowledging the scattered applause from the patrons. Then she came and sat down across the table from me. A juggler came onto the floor to follow her act.
She smiled at me, showing perfect teeth. 'Did you like my dance?' she asked.
Before I could answer, a turbaned waiter came and we ordered two glasses of a local wine. I realized I was staring at the way Fayeh's breasts seemed to be trying to escape that tiny bra. 'Yes,' I finally managed. 'You're very good.'
She was pleased. 'Thank you,' she said. 'It is more important to me to be a good dancer than a good policeman.'
I grinned. 'Some policeman,' I said. 'I'm pleased to meet you, Fayeh.'
'And I you, Mr Carter. I was told to expect you.'
The waiter brought the wine. I tried it, and it was surprisingly good. The girl smiled at me over her glass and then the sparkling dark eyes grew somber. 'I am sorry about your colleague,' she said.
I looked down at my glass. 'He was very young.' I took another sip of the wine. 'And what he was carrying was very important.'
'Hakim Sadek did not mention what it was.'
I looked over into that lovely face. I was going to have to trust her to some extent or she would not be able to help at all. 'Hakim does not know what Drummond was carrying,' I said slowly and deliberately.
'I see.'
'I'm going to tell you, but I want you to understand that it is in the strictest confidence. You must repeat this to no one, not even to Hakim.' I watched her face closely.
'I understand.'
I took a deep breath. 'It's a microfilm. Drummond was carrying it in the handle of a safety razor. The razor was in a shaving kit in his attaché case.' I told her about the switch of cases and the uncut heroin.
'Mr Drummond seems to have been the victim of an unpredictable accident,' she said pensively.
I suppressed a smile. It suddenly seemed incongruous to me to be sitting discussing the crime with an Arabian belly dancer as if she were a Scotland Yard inspector.
'His murder was not part of the accident,' I said. 'Whoever came to his room to recover that substitute case apparently had no intention of returning Drummond's case to him. Of course, it might be at the bottom of the Nile now with the microfilm because it appeared to have no value. But I don't think so. I think whoever killed Drummond has the film and knows its importance.'
'Which is very great?'
I regarded her seriously for a moment. She would have to know. 'Yes. We stole the plans for a Russian airplane, a very special airplane. The knowledge is of vital importance to the free world. The microfilm was of those plans, and I'm expected to get it back.'
She nodded. 'If the underworld has the plans, Nick, I may be able to help you,' she said. 'I have contacts. I know names and operations. Do you have anything to go on?'
'Very little.' I mentioned the attack on me the evening before. 'I don't even know if I'd recognize either of the faces in mug shots. But one of them said something strange — the one who got away. He mentioned something about his brothers — or their brothers — getting me.'
She looked startled. 'Of course! That makes sense, Nick. He wasn't referring to family relations. He was speaking of partners in crime in a formidable new underworld syndicate, the New Brotherhood.'
'The New Brotherhood?' I repeated. 'Sounds like a branch of the Mafia.'
She gave a small laugh. 'One of the leaders is Sicilian. But the big man, Pierre Bovet, is French, from Paris.
It's quite a cosmopolitan group actually. And we're beginning to think that it is the most ruthless criminal organization we have ever had to deal with. Their actions have stirred public sentiment against them even in Cairo. They are big dealers in drugs. But so far we have been unable to obtain any evidence against them. We don't even know what Bovet looks like.'
'They sound formidable,' I said.
She frowned thoughtfully. 'If the New Brotherhood is involved in this, you are going to have a difficult time. Do you want help from Interpol?'
'No,' I said quickly. 'If you can make use of records without raising suspicion, okay. But you must confide in no one. You're now on the AXE payroll and you will discuss the assignment only with me.'
She shrugged the lovely bronze shoulders. 'You are the boss. I'll do whatever you say.'
I reached over and covered her hand with mine. 'That's good to know. Now, where do we start on this thing?'
She hesitated a moment, then asked, 'Can you pay?' When I nodded, she went on, 'I know a man, a kind of informer, called Thinman. I believe Hakim Sadek is acquainted with him too. He makes his living by carrying information back and forth between the law and the underworld. It is a difficult business to stay alive in, but Thinman has managed to move between the two worlds successfully for several years because he has value to both sides.'
'And he knows how to contact this New Brotherhood?'
'Thinman has more knowledge of that organization than any policeman. Don't ask me how he comes by it. I am sure he knows things he would never tell us. But for money, he may put us in touch with them. They will decide whether they want to talk to you.'
'If last night was any indication, they're not in the mood for talking,' I said grimly.
'There was a report that a New Brotherhood gang member was killed the same night that your agent died,' she said, 'though the police will not verify the story. If it is true, the New Brotherhood may think Drummond killed their man and may have decided that you should pay for the death too. Or they just may not like your presence here.'