Reprisal (22 page)

The call came in. The car was parked near the Citadel, with the driver sitting in it. Zaid rushed to the black van. He drove
recklessly across Cairo until he neared the area. Then he eased along until he saw the green Renault. He checked the plate
numbers to be sure as he pulled into a space some distance behind the car. The driver was behind the wheel.

In a few minutes he noticed a black Citroen with two men pull away from the opposite side of the street. Those would be the
ones who had spotted the car—probably regular police. They had done a good job. He had no complaints. Zaid settled himself
down to wait.

Sitting quietly in a car was one of the most effective forms of surveillance. A man sitting in a car went unseen because he
was below the visual level of most people. He was not exposed, so that particulars about him as an individual did not arouse
the curiosity of others. Nor was he loitering or obviously trying to hide. He could keep in radio contact with others,
take photographs, record sound and keep quite large weapons ready next to him. The American could be doing any or all of these
things, but the first question Zaid had to answer was, why here?

Zaid wondered what the American was watching. Nothing seemed unusual to him, but maybe that was because he was Egyptian and
took something for granted which the American considered important. Zaid told himself he must try to see his native city through
this foreigner’s eyes. Much as he tried, he still saw nothing of interest to an American spy. He was mystified.

The American might be waiting for someone who was late in turning up. But why wait in a car in hot sunshine, next to the fumes
of traffic? He was sure the little Renault did not have air-conditioning, to which Americans were so devoted. Something was
keeping him here.

Three Range Rovers charged by at top speed, bristling with guns and crowded by people in camouflage fatigues. Zaid recognized
the presidential party leaving the Citadel for the presidential palace. So that was it! No matter how often the president
varied his route, he would pass by this spot close to the Citadel maybe ninety percent of the time. This was what the American
was watching.

Zaid started the van’s engine and waited. The American would give the president’s group a few minutes and then leave. No doubt
he was selecting a similar spot that had to be passed most of the time near the presidential palace. Then he would compare
the advantages of one with the other before choosing his ambush point.

The green Renault pulled out and drove away. Zaid followed at a distance. The car was headed toward the presidential palace
when it made a sudden turn. Zaid slowed and followed cautiously. The Renault was up ahead. It made another turn. Zaid speeded
up so he would not lose sight of it. He followed the little French car through heavy traffic right across Cairo to the east
bank of the Nile, caring little anymore whether he was seen as a tail because of the difficulty in following.

Several times it occurred to Zaid to radio for assistance. But that would have been a triumph for Awad. With Awad along, he
had never had to radio for assistance. Awad would laugh and claim Zaid could not handle anything alone! Zaid compromised by
deciding to phone, next opportunity he got, to see if Awad had returned. He would not radio for help.

The Renault found a gap in the traffic and speeded onto the 6 October Bridge. Zaid followed as best he could, and saw the
car exit onto Zamalek Island. He wondered if the American, through some twisted sense of humor, was luring him back to the
same residential street where they had tried to trap him before and lost four men. But no, he had not gone that way. For one
bad moment, Zaid thought he had lost him—then he saw the green Renault pulled up near the Marriott Hotel. He checked the rear
plate. It was the one. But there was no sign of the American!

He couldn’t have gone far. Zaid pulled his black van into a space two rows back and turned off the engine. No one was about,
although it was early evening and the day’s heat was gone. He sat for a minute, hoping to see something.

Had the American had time to enter the hotel? Hardly. But Zaid couldn’t be sure. Perhaps he was staying there. The Marriott
had more than twelve hundred rooms, in two highrise blocks, one at each end of a royal palace facing the water. There were
gardens, swimming pools, tennis courts—and lots of foreigners. Zaid knew that the foreigners stayed here so they could live
in the finery of corrupt kings, drink alcohol, fornicate, and escape the vengeance of Islam in the heart of an Arab country!
It was an insult to Allah. Zaid would radio for a search team to scour the place while he waited here.

But first he would do something. Zaid slid open the door and climbed down from the van with a smile on his face. He drew a
revolver and advanced quietly on the Renault. It was a simple trick—to park quick and duck down out of sight so the car looked
empty.

Zaid had a strong feeling that this American had not gone far—that he was still in that Renault, crouched down out of sight,
waiting for Zaid to chase into the hotel after him. He crept alongside the car, crouched down below window level, then stood
suddenly and pointed the revolver at the side window. The car was empty, front and back.

After a quick look in some nearby bushes, gun at the ready, Zaid decided that the American had gone into the hotel after all.
He would call in a search team.

He strode quickly back to the van, reholstering his revolver, and slipped through the open door into the driver’s seat. He
reached for the radio transmitter.

As he did so, something dropped in front of his
face and tightened with the speed of a serpent around his neck. He felt it bite into his throat and raised both hands to pluck
it from his neck.

But this was not a long, thin snake which had attacked him. He tried to force his fingers between his neck and the scalding
plastic line, but the electric flex had bitten too deep into the muscles of his scrawny neck.

It burned like fire! He tried to suck in air Nothing came. He could not cry out. Blood was throbbing in his neck. His face
was twisted. He could not close his eyes.

Again he tried to tear the line from around his neck. He tried to twist his body about to face the attacker behind him, but
his head was yanked savagely back against the headrest and held pinioned there by the wire around his throat.

Enough! He’d had enough! Zaid signals with his hands. His lungs were bursting! He had to breathe! He could not see! Everything
was red before his eyes.

Air! Air! He needed air.

Please.

In sha ’allah.

Omar Zekri carefully stapled the papers to the top of a small rug, dirty and with ragged ends. When all the papers were secured
by their corners, he rolled the rug up tightly and bound it with string. Then he put the rolled rug under one arm, left his
apartment and strolled jauntily through the streets. He was on his way to sell this rug to an undersecretary from the American
Embassy for six thousand American dollars, five for the information on Laforque plus one for other services. The rug itself
wasn’t worth a dime.

Pritchett was not coming today, and Omar avoided handing papers to other Americans when he could. Nobody thought anything
of an Egyptian selling any kind of garbage to tourists, but if an Egyptian national was seen passing papers to a foreigner—immediately
everyone thought espionage! In his case they would happen to be correct. Which was all the more reason for him not to be seen
doing anything suspicious. Those at high levels knew about him, of course.
What Omar feared was being caught in the act by an ordinary policeman and being kicked to death by an enraged mob in the street
or cellmates in a jail before he could be rescued. But if he lost his cover to that extent, would they bother rescuing him?
The answer was no.

While Omar had a carefree look and a confident walk, his mind always seethed with anxiety. He had seen too much, done too
many treacherous things to ever have peace of mind. Now he did what he could to keep the dragons at bay. He knew that one
day, at the appointed hour, he would not be able to wriggle away. He kept a wary lookout for anything or anyone that looked
as if they might be part of that fateful hour.

The American wheat expert Thomas Lewis had been such a one. Omar instinctively sensed it. He was glad he had phoned Zaid about
him the previous day. It also showed Zaid and Awad that he was cooperating with them, being a loyal Egyptian and supporting
the Islamic revolution—in his own way, of course.

As the English liked to put it, think of the devil and the devil appears. He had just been congratulating himself for having
delivered Thomas Lewis to Zaid the day before when who should he see waiting for him at his usual cafe for this time of day
but this same American who should be dead by now or chained in a dungeon in the depths of the Citadel at the very least. Omar
turned away from the cafe and continued along the crowded sidewalk, hoping to have slipped away unseen.

Even if he had not escaped unseen, what could the
American do to him on this crowded sidewalk? His fellow countrymen would never stand by and let a foreigner—an American!—attack
an Egyptian on a Cairo street. Omar glanced over his shoulder. The American was there.

No use running. Do not show guilt. The American had no proof he was the one who sent Zaid. Maybe Zaid could not trace the
car. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that? He would act friendly and find out where the American was going, then call
Zaid and Awad again. Maybe this time they would get it right.

“My friend,” Omar greeted Dartley. “Mr. Lewis, are you enjoying yourself? You had a pleasant drive in the car yesterday?”
Omar cursed himself silently for even mentioning it. But what could the American do here, even if he had guessed the worst?
“You were waiting for me, I suppose. It is always a pleasure to do your bidding, or nearly always. You see, today I am in
a hurry. Maybe in three hours time? We will meet then, yes? You tell me where to come or you find me yourself at my usual
places. I will be free. Goodbye.”

As Omar talked, he tried to move away from the American, but the big foreigner rudely bumped people aside and walked very
close to Omar, towering over him. He had something in his hand. Not a weapon. Something small. Omar wanted badly to hurry
away, but his curiosity overcame him.

It was a small glass bottle with a yellow Bayer aspirin label. There was no cap on the bottle and it was filled to half an
inch from the top with a clear liquid. Omar noticed how carefully the American
held this bottle as he walked, taking care that not a drop should spill.

The American walked on his left side while he carried the rolled rug under his right arm, so it was easy for the foreigner
to hold the bottle suddenly next to his belly. Omar looked down and saw the top of the clear liquid tilt back and forth inside
the bottle, catching the light and winking at him like an eye.

“By the time they find an alkaline antidote,” the American said in an eerily calm voice, “this acid will have eaten a hole
through your belly large enough to show everyone your guts inside.” As a kind of pleasant afterthought, he added, “If you
try falling down or running away, I will throw it over your head. You might prefer that.”

It was good that the American had mentioned falling down because Omar had been just about to genuinely faint with fear. He
dreaded this calm, evil foreigner and needed no astrologer to warn him to avoid this danger.

“Whatever you want! Anything!” Omar heard with contempt the fear in his own gasping voice. “My knees! My legs! I will have
to sit down. But don’t pour acid on my face.”

“On your eyes,” the American said in a friendly voice. “On your lips.”

Omar looked desperately up the street. “There is a little park. You see the trees? There are seats.”

The Egyptian hurried, and Dartley withdrew the bottle, so as not to hamper him. The last thing he needed was this little rat
to pass out on him. He saw
the grayness in Omar’s puffy cheeks and the beads of sweat rolling down the unhealthy looking skin, drops of pure terror,
cowardice distilled.

This made Dartley want to kill. He felt the urge rise up in him. Just as fleeing prey stirs a predator’s ferocity, Dartley
felt the urge to strike out and smash a man who cowered before him.

But Richard Dartley had put in long hours training himself, learning to control his impulses—not in repressing them but learning
to channel his wildness to fit his purposes. This was his blend of spirit and mind and physique which made his enemies tremble
the instant before they died.

Omar just about made it to the park seat. He had the shakes so bad he nearly tore a cigarette pack to pieces trying to get
one out. He was beyond pretense. If he tried to lie and bargain, he guessed the foreigner might haggle too by using drops
of that clear liquid.

“What do you think it would feel like, Omar? Cold or hot? I think acid would feel like an invisible cat scratching you, refusing
to stop, scratching harder and harder.”

Omar just sat there, puffing on the cigarette, in fear and misery.

Dartley held the bottle up to the light for a moment and then quickly turned to Omar. “Do you think I would be able to force
you to drink it? I bet I could.” He smiled as if he were issuing some silly challenge. “The acid would eat away your tongue.
Everyone would be amused with the justice of that. They’d all say, whoever it was who took care of Omar,
he had a sense of humor, you’ll have to grant him that.”

Omar began to look groggy and dazed.

Dartley spoke urgently. “What have you for me to buy back your life? Quickly. I am willing to sell your life back to you.
Undamaged. A one-time offer you can’t afford to overlook. What will you pay?”

This was the kind of talk Omar understood. His glazed eyes lit once more with the fire of hope. He feverishly began to untie
the string around the rug.