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  I got Sykes' knife, wiped my prints off it and slipped it back into his pocket. Then I pulled the body up over to the wall and propped it in a sitting position, closing the dead eyes.

  Now came the part of the operation that could be touchier than getting Sykes. I had to break out of this East African excuse for a jail. I unbuttoned my safari jacket and examined my bleeding shoulder. As I thought, the wound wasn't deep. I reached under my arm, peeled away a bit of skin-colored plastic and removed the small length of metal it hid. It was a lock pick.

  I had just started toward the cell door when I heard a sound from the room beyond the corridor. I moved quickly back to the wall near the corpse and hid the metal pick. I closed my eyes as the duty man came through the door and moved down the corridor.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I listened to the footsteps. They stopped and I knew the guard was at the cell door. There was a long pause. I wondered if Sykes looked asleep — or dead. Another thought hit me. Suppose the duty man wanted to speak to Sykes about something? I might be in trouble.

  I kept my eyes closed. Then I heard the guard pull the string on the weak bulb and the footsteps retreated back down the corridor.

  I got up cautiously and moved to the cell door. The only light now came from the window in the corridor and the office doorway at the far end. It was hard to see the lock at first but finally I manipulated the pick into it. The Kikuyu watched with interest. The tumbler was large for the pick I had and at first I couldn't move it. I swore under my breath after five minutes of unsuccessful effort. I did not have all night. Soon policemen would be reporting in from their rounds and that would complicate things.

  I wiped my sweaty hands on my trousers and tried again, working more slowly. I felt carefully for the tumbler, got the pick in good position and twisted it sharply. The lock sprang open.

  I opened the door just inches and stuck the pick into my pocket. The Kikuyu was watching me closely. I nodded to him, gestured silently to see if he wanted to leave with me. He understood and declined with a movement of his head. 'Santa sana,' I said softly, hoping he spoke enough Swahili to know I was thanking him for minding his own business. He nodded.

  I moved through the cell door and stood in the corridor. The whole Sykes thing would turn out to be a poor gamble if I did not get out of here. If I didn't make it, I would undoubtedly rot in an African prison for life.

  There was only one way out and that was through the office where the armed duty guard sat. I moved toward its light, debating my next move as I approached. When I got to the doorway, I sneaked a look inside the office. The guard sat at the desk reading what appeared to be a comic book. The gun on his hip looked big and ugly.

  I ducked back into the shadows beside the door. Well, it was now or never. I turned away from the doorway and shouted so my voice would carry back down the corridor.

  'Guard!'

  A chair scraped the floor and I heard the man grumble. Then footsteps approached the doorway. I flattened back into the shadows as the guard moved past me.

  I struck out swiftly, chopping at the base of the man's skull. My aim was slightly off and I hit more bone than I had intended. The man grunted and fell to his knees, dazed.

  Before he could recover, I clasped my hands together and brought them down hard into his thick neck. He grunted loudly and sprawled forward on his face, motionless.

  I grabbed his gun, stuck it into my belt and stood up tiredly. It had been a very long evening. Quickly I moved through the brightness of the office to a door in its back wall. I opened it, stepped cautiously through it. Outside there was a cool blackness and the cheering sound of crickets. Just a block away was a stolen Land Rover that would carry me over back roads to the border in a couple of hours.

  I moved swiftly into the dark…

  Hawk chewed on his dead cigar pensively, staring down at the small table between us. I had just joined him at the Thorntree Patio of the New Stanley and sensed immediately that something was wrong.

  He took the cigar from his thin lips, turned those icy gray eyes on me and managed a half-hearted smile.

  'That was excellent work at Arusha, Nick. Sykes had been giving AXE and the CIA fits for some time.'

  I studied the thin, tired face below the gray shock of hair. 'But something has gone wrong, hasn't it?' I prompted.

  Hawk gave me that look that seems to see right through you — and behind. 'That's right, Nick. I'm sorry to tell you this, after your successful foray into Tanzania, but — John Drummond is dead.'

  I looked at him incredulously. 'Where?'

  'In Cairo. Day before yesterday. We just got word.' His spare, stringy frame seemed to settle further into itself.

  'The Russians had an assassin there too?' I asked.

  'Maybe, maybe not. All we know at the moment is that Drummond was found in his hotel room with his throat cut. And the microfilm is gone.'

  I shook my head slowly. 'Damn, Drummond was a good man.'

  Hawk punched the dead cigar into an ashtray. 'Yes. And we need that film, N3. The Novigrom I is the most sophisticated fighter plane ever designed, far better than anything we have in the planning stage even. It will give the Russians an intolerable military advantage over the free world when it's operational. I don't have to tell you that stealing the plans for it was our biggest intelligence coup in years. And now we've lost the plans before Drummond could get them to us. The President will not be happy…'

  'No,' I said.

  Hawk looked up at me. 'I'm sending you to Cairo, my boy. I don't like to put this on you so soon after Arusha, but I have no choice. You're our best hope, Nick. Find out exactly what happened to John Drummond and the microfilm. And if you can, get the film back.'

  'Are you willing to spend money for it?'

  Hawk grimaced. 'If that's what it takes.'

  'Good. When do I leave?'

  He said, almost apologetically, 'There's a BOAC flight out of here late tonight.' He reached into his pocket, took out an airline ticket and handed it to me.

  'I'll be on it.' I started to stuff the ticket into my jacket when he caught my hand.

  'This is a tough one, Nick,' he said carefully. 'Look over your shoulder now and then.'

  I pocketed the ticket. 'If I didn't know you better, sir,' I told him, 'I'd swear that I just glimpsed a paternal interest in my welfare.'

  He grimaced. 'What you glimpsed was a proprietary interest, not a paternal one. I can't afford to lose my whole staff in one operation.'

  I grinned and rose from my chair. 'Well, I have a few affairs to put in order before I go.'

  'I can imagine,' he said dryly. 'Whoever she is, give her my regards.'

  My grin broadened. 'I'll do that. And I'll be in touch as soon as I can manage it.'

  Hawk let a small grin move the corner of his mouth and twitched in a small smile as he delivered one of his favorite parting speeches: 'I'll see you when I see you, Nick.'

  I went directly to my room in the hotel, packed the small case I always carried with me and advised the management that I would be checking out later. Then I took a taxi to the Norfolk where a very lovely Belgian colonial named Gabrielle kept an apartment. Whenever I was in Nairobi I made a point of spending some of my few leisure hours with her, and I always said goodbye when I was able. This time she was quite petulant about my sudden departure.

  'But you said you would be here for a while,' she protested. She had an utterly charming French accent.

  I slumped down onto a long sofa in the middle of the room. 'Are you going to be difficult and spoil our goodbye?'

  She pouted a moment. She was a small girl but what there was of her was choice. Her hair was brown, worn in a pixie cut, and her eyes were huge, wide-spaced and dreamy. She had lived in Africa almost from birth, migrating from the Congo to Kenya with her parents when she was in her teens.

  When her parents were killed by the Mau Mau, Gabrielle had faced a difficult adjustment. She had been, for a short time, a highly paid prostitute in Momb
asa. But that was all in her past and now she held a responsible job in a government agency. Fortunately for me, she still liked men.

  'It's just that you come here so infrequently,' she said slowly. She turned those big eyes on me. 'And I like to have you for a while.' She was wearing a tight sweater and miniskirt. Now she pulled the sweater casually over her head and dropped it onto a nearby chair. She looked spectacular in a bra.

  'You know I'd stay if I could,' I said, studying her appreciatively.

  'I know what you tell me,' she said, still sulking. She unbuttoned the short skirt and let it drop to the floor, then stepped out of it. White lace bikini panties covered almost nothing. She turned away from me for a moment, kicking the skirt away from her and displayed the delicious curves of her backside. 'And what you tell me is very little, my lover.'

  I grinned at her and knew that I liked Gabrielle very much. Maybe my quick departure was for the best. She kicked her shoes off and moved over to me languidly, turning her back to me.

  'Help me with the bra.'

  I stood up and undid the hooks and let the bra slide to the floor. Over her shoulder, I could see the full breasts thrust outward in their new freedom. I reached around her and moved my hands slowly over those breasts. Gabrielle closed her eyes.

  'Mmmm,' she breathed. 'I suppose I am going to have to forgive you.' She turned to me. Her hungry mouth found mine.

  When the kiss ended, she reached down and slipped her panties off over the swell of her hips. She pressed her nakedness against me and my hands caressed the softness of her skin.

  'Well?' she said into my ear. 'Don't you think you should get undressed?'

  She helped me off with my clothes and seemed to enjoy it. She pressed her lips against mine again and I kissed her savagely, my tongue exploring. I held her easily to me as the pleasure and sensuality of the love-making increased.

  'Oh, Nick! Nick!' she gasped.

  'Let's go to the bedroom,' I said huskily.

  'Mmm. No, right here. I can't wait.' She dropped down to a sitting position on the thick rug at our feet and pulled me down beside her. 'All right?' She lay back on the rug, the full breasts pointing at me. 'All right?' she repeated.

  I did not bother answering. I moved onto her quickly. A sudden, sharp gasp escaped from her lips. I took her savagely, brutally, with no thought of finesse, because she had really gotten to me and there was no other way. The sounds in her throat grew louder and louder. I could feel her nails but I was oblivious to pain. We exploded together in a brilliant dazzling climax.

  I lay weakly on her. Her eyes were still closed, but her lips parted in a smile. 'Mon Dieu,' she said softly.

  It had been a wonderful way to say goodbye. And I had not thought of Cairo at all.

  Two

  Cairo is not a civilized city. Not by Western standards at least. I sensed it, as I had on previous visits, in my first contact with the place at the airport. Arabs rudely pushed and jostled each other and the tourists — jamming elbows into ribs, shouting obscenities, fighting for position at the reception desks.

  It took me two hours to get checked through, but my phony papers passed inspection. I took a taxi into town. We passed through the old town and the bazaar area where the streets were full of dragomen and pimps and tourists with their guides. There were also dark veils and kaffiyehs hiding sullen faces and legless beggars asking for alms for the love of Allah. Over it all rose a persistent kind of belligerent clamor, an unnerving chaos. I remembered that you do not walk the streets of Cairo at night, and in the daylight, you keep your hand on your wallet.

  At the New Shepheards Hotel I checked into my room and then visited the fifth floor. Drummond had been killed in 532. The corridor was quiet. I removed Wilhelmina from my shoulder holster, checked the Luger for ammunition and slipped it back. I moved down to room 532. Listening briefly at the door, I concluded that no one was inside.

  Taking a master key from my pocket, I inserted it into the lock and turned it. The lock clicked and I pushed the door open. Silently I moved inside and closed the door after me.

  The room was in partial darkness because of the pulled draperies at the windows. I moved over to them and pulled them open, admitting bright sunlight. Then I turned and surveyed the room. The hotel had apparently decided not to rent it out yet. Maybe the police were not finished with their investigation. I moved over beside the large double bed, to the spot where Hawk had said the body had been found. I grimaced when I saw the slash of dark blood stain still on the carpeting. I dislike messy killings.

  The room seemed to have been left pretty much as it was found by the police. The bed covers were pulled down, as if Drummond had been ready to call it a night. On the woodwork and doors I spotted several places where the police had made an attempt to lift fingerprints. A straight chair near the bed was overturned, but there was no other evidence of a struggle.

  I recalled my last sight of John Drummond, back at Langley, just a few months ago. He was tall with sandy hair and had an athletic look about him. One of the last things he had said to me was, 'Nobody fives forever in this business, Nick.' But standing there grinning at me in the sun, tanned and fit, he had looked as if he just might be the exception.

  I sighed heavily and moved slowly around the room. It was days like this that made an agent take a good hard look at what he was doing for a living. It made you look at the odds, something you did not like to do very often.

  I moved to an old desk against the wall and pulled the long middle drawer open. It was a meaningless gesture. The police would have found anything worthwhile, and I could not go to them. I stared into the empty drawer. Who had killed John Drummond? Did he suspect trouble before he was attacked? If so, he would have tried to leave some kind of message for us, if he had the chance. I had checked our only dead-drop site in Cairo and had come up empty-handed. But maybe Drummond had not had time to get there.

  Then I remembered something. Drummond had read about an agent leaving a message attached to the back of a desk drawer. He had thought that was pretty imaginative, though Hawk had not agreed with him. I looked again at the drawer. Feeling a little silly, I pulled it all the way out and inspected its backside.

  My mouth fell open. There it was, a paper taped to the back of the drawer. It had to be a message left by John Drummond!

  I tore the note off and slid the drawer back into place. I sat down at the desk, excitement building inside me.

  The message was in code, but Drummond had used the Key Book code, with no complications or variations. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a paperback book titled The Black Continent, the eighth edition. Since Drummond had used page 30 in his last message to AXE, I turned ahead twenty-five pages to page 55 and looked back down at the coded message.

  It was a jumble of unrelated digits, in one line after another, in Drummond's hurried scrawl. I glanced at the first two digits and combined them into one number. I went to the top line of the page, began at the left margin and counted letters and spaces adding up to my first number to the proper letter — which was the first letter of the first word of the message. Then I continued in the same manner on the second line of the page. The message continued on.

  Deciphered, it read:

  Case with film taken at airport. Believe accidental switch of luggage. Found out here at hotel. Substitute case contains uncut heroin. Have contacted local underworld, hope to recover our case tonight. NT.

  I had just finished reading the message when I heard a sound in the corridor outside the room. I listened, but it wasn't repeated. I folded Drummond's note carefully and stuffed it and the paperback into my jacket. Getting up from the desk, I reached for Wilhelmina as I stood. Silently I moved to the door and stood there a moment, arguing with myself in a moment of indecision.

  If it was a hotel employee — or the police — skulking in the hall, I did not want to be caught here. But suppose it was somebody who knew something about John Drummond's death and the luggage switch? I could n
ot afford to let him get away.

  I had just decided to open the door when I heard footsteps outside, retreating quickly back down the corridor. The prowler had heard me, or perhaps seen my shadow under the door. I grabbed the knob and swung the door open, stepping into the hall.

  Looking to the left, in the direction of the sound of the footsteps, I saw a figure disappear around the corner of the corridor. I didn't get enough of a look for identification; I only knew that it was a man. Closing the door behind me, I raced down the hall.

  When I turned the corner, I got another glimpse — but saw no more than the first time. The man was rushing down a stairway.

  'Hold it!' I yelled at him.

  But he was gone. I ran down the corridor to the stairway, Wilhelmina in hand, and started down the steps three at a time. I could hear footsteps pounding down the stairs a couple of flights ahead of me, but did not get another glimpse of the fleeing man. As I neared the ground floor, the door leading out into the lobby was just closing. I stopped for a moment to holster Wilhelmina, then moved on into the tile-floored lobby of the old hotel.

  There were several tourists milling about near the desk, but my man was not visible. The revolving doors at the entrance were moving slightly. I moved quickly across the lobby to them. Outside I looked up and down the busy street, but it was hopeless. I had lost him.

  * * *

  That night I visited an old friend. Hakim Sadek was a rascally professor at a local university with an unquenchable thirst for excitement and adventure. He had worked for AXE on a couple of occasions. I knew he had a certain degree of knowledge of the underworld in Cairo, so I went to him armed with my deciphered note.

  'Nicholas!' he greeted me warmly in his fashionable home on the Sharia Fouad el Awal. 'It has been such a very long time. As-salaam 'alaykum.'

  'Wa-'alaykum as-salaam,' I said. 'Peace be with you, too, old friend.'

  'Please,' he said, offering me a seat on a low sofa.