19

HAZARD HAD been detained at Cairo International Airport because he didn’t have a visa.

“The purpose of your visit?”

“Sightseeing,” Hazard told them.

They examined his passport page by page, to make sure he hadn’t been to Israel. They also opened his piece of luggage. Seeing it contained only a soiled pair of jeans, shirt, and toilet articles, they asked, “How much currency are you bringing in?”

Hazard decided it would be beneficial to show them. He flashed it all—a little over eight thousand in dollars, pounds, and francs. He fanned it out so they could do a quick count.

The senior immigration officer’s eyes were stealing the money while his hand reached for the visa stamp. He took his frustration out on the passport, slammed a complicated pink impression on a fresh page, and initialed it with a steel-pointed pen that had to be dipped into a well.

For a while Hazard had thought they might search him routinely, find the Llama and give him real trouble. Saved by money. It didn’t just talk, it knew all the languages.

A half hour later he was in a taxi in night traffic on Shari El Nahda, also known as Ramses Street. Feeling more displaced than ever, he gazed out at Arab words, chicken scratchings that seemed even more incomprehensible in neon. Just ahead was some Pharaoh’s statue presiding over the upward spurts of a public fountain, and a bit further on, contrasting with blocks of anonymous concrete business buildings, was the fancy minaret of a mosque.

Hazard suddenly realized he was on the edge of the seat, anticipating, behaving like a gawky tourist. He eased back but continued looking out, and it occurred to him that probably Carl had walked along that very street many times. He recalled several letters from Carl, long ones describing Cairo. Letters never answered because Hazard had never been a writer. Carl knew that and hadn’t blamed him, Hazard hoped.

The taxi went on past the Egyptian Museum to Shari El Corniche. On the left were such large hotels as the Hilton and Shepherd’s. On the right was water that had to be the Nile. It looked no different from any other old river. They crossed over via the El Gama’a Bridge, not far from the spot where Moses was found in the bullrushes.

It seemed too long a ride. Hazard suspected the driver was taking him for one, just running up the meter. He leaned forward and crisply reminded the man, “Mena House!” The driver glanced around, nodded, displayed bad teeth with a big smile. “Zoo,” he said, indicating the park-like area they were now passing. Hazard decided he’d know for sure he was being hustled if they recrossed the Nile.

Soon they reached the section called Giza and headed down Shari El Haram. It was an absolutely flat street aimed straight at the Pyramids. Hazard caught sight of them through the dirty windshield. About five miles away, illuminated, geometrically perfect. He’d take time to visit the Pyramids no matter what, he promised himself.

The taxi continued on Shari El Haram. Hazard kept his attention on the Pyramids, which grew larger in view and still larger until they loomed ahead as though they were the only possible destination. Fascinating, thought Hazard, but hell he didn’t want the Pyramids tonight, he wanted his hotel. He was about to tell the driver that when the taxi wheeled sharply right and after a brief, gritty skid stopped at the entrance to Mena House.

Hazard was pleased and a little disappointed that the driver had turned out to be an honest Arab. He paid the fare in dollars, ten, which he knew was three times the hundred and fifty piasters that had registered on the meter. The driver said “hello” for good-by and made a fast getaway with what he believed was a foreigner’s stupid mistake.

From the moment Hazard entered the lobby he was glad he’d decided on Mena House. It was over a century old and all the better for it. Originally built by the Khedive Ismail as a royal hunting lodge, it was later expanded to serve as a royal guest house during the opening festivities of the Suez Canal. Since then, all of its palatial ambiance had been conscientiously preserved. Ornamental blue tiles and intricate mosaics, brass-embossed doors, huge hanging Islamic lamps, furnishings inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl, rich Persian carpets and, throughout, an abundance of that highly decorative antique lattice woodwork known as mushrabiyyeh, much of it dating back to the fifteenth century.

Royalty had stayed there. Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, Princess Eugénie, King Gustav of Sweden, King Alphonse of Spain, Emperor Haile Selassie. And celebrities such as Churchill, Roosevelt, the Agha Khan, Cecil B. de Mille and, of course, Tyrone Power.

At the moment, this being summer and not the season, there were plenty of accommodations available. Hazard got a deluxe third-floor suite at the incredible rate of seven hundred fifty piasters, about twelve dollars a day. A boy robed in impeccable white and topped with a bright red fez carried Hazard’s bag up. The boy lighted the rooms all around, checked to see the bath had an ample supply of linens, and as a final show of service (knowing it nearly always inspired a more generous tip) he folded open the tall louvered windows to present the view.

It was like having the Grand Pyramid in one’s own backyard.

Hazard doubled the dollar he’d intended to give. The boy bowed and said seven “thank yous” on his way out.

Hazard now observed something strange about the lights on the Pyramid. They weren’t constant. They brightened and dimmed, went off and on all around the structure. Along with that was a loudspeaker voice in the distance speaking in German. Curious, Hazard asked about that when he called down for a pair of gin-and-tonics. He was told it was Son et Lumière, the nightly sound-and-light show that related the history of the Pyramids and Sphinx.

“Why in German?” he asked.

“Tomorrow night English, sir.”

Hazard closed the louvered doors.

First thing off were his new trousers. He’d been suffering the cut of their tight crotch for ten hours, and during the long flight he’d had to take frequent walks up and down the aisle to maintain circulation. Now, getting some revenge, he balled the trousers up and threw them into a corner. He put his money, passports, the Llama, and the special knife under the bed pillow and went into the bathroom. There was something he’d never seen before—a brass bathtub and sink, shiny and luxurious looking. He washed up in the sink with sandalwood-scented hotel soap.

Mindful of the next day’s comfort, he filled the tub and tossed in his jeans. He was on his hands and knees plunging and rubbing when the drinks arrived. They were tall and strong enough to be doubles. He downed one and went back to doing his laundry, thinking that if Keven were there she’d be doing it. Maybe. After wringing, he shook and snapped out as many wrinkles as he could and hung the jeans to dry over one of the towel racks.

With the second drink in hand he reopened the louvered windows and saw no lights on the Pyramid now. Evidently the Ministry of Tourism had finished its number for the night. Hazard switched off all the lights in the room, drew over a chair and sat there nude, looking out.

Fronds of tall date palms were silhouetted and being rustled by a slight breeze. The moon was close to full and it had a face. He slid a sliver of ice into his mouth and contemplated the massive funerary monument of Cheops. To accompany his point of view, he thought on some of the things he knew about it.

Statistics: 2,300,000 chunks of granite averaging 5,000 pounds, some weighing as much as 60,000. Covering an area equal to seven midtown blocks of New York City. Two hundred and one stepped tiers arranged in regular all-around courses rising 481 feet, the height of a modern forty-story building. Blunted on top with a level platform because seven of the original uppermost tiers and the capstone were missing. On the north side sixteen courses up was the authentic entrance, and ten courses below that was the gaping scar where the Arab Al Mamum had forced entry in the year 820. Those two passageways converged at a point 100 feet in, and from there the way went down and up to the various chambers. It was said that on August 12, 1799, Napoleon spent three hours alone in the king’s chamber and came out noticeably changed, pale and shaken, as though he had witnessed something extraordinary.

Possibly, thought Hazard.

It was also said that for some inexplicable reason the Grand Pyramid possessed a natural power to mummify; that is, a corpse would dehydrate but not decay within its confines. Some scientists theorized that the pyramidal shape was the reason.

Could be.

Then there were those who said that the builders of the Grand Pyramid were of an ancient civilization that had progressed far beyond ours, and had used levitation to raise those gigantic stones into place. Supposedly the structure had served as an earthly reckoning point for space vehicles.

Not very likely.

Nor did Hazard go along with the idea that the Pyramid was an instrument of divine message, cryptically prophesying with all its degrees, measures, crevices, and niches the fate of mankind, like a creator’s calendar that timetabled in advance all major occurrences: the revelations of Moses, the birth of Christ, plagues, wars, discoveries, and eventually holocaust and extinction.

For sure, that bewildering arrangement of rocks transmitted an unusual eeriness. If it stood for anything, Hazard concluded, it stood for death.

He was suddenly chilled, shivering.

He blamed that on the ice, the desert night, and his nudity—rather than the fleeting impression that the Pyramid was reminding him how slim were the chances of anyone winning a four-horse parlay.

He closed off the Pyramid and climbed into bed. Lonely goddamned bed. He finally fell asleep while reminiscing about exceptional poker hands he’d held.

At ten the next morning he was awakened by splashes and playful shouts. He got up for the bathroom, on the way back glanced out to see the hotel swimming pool directly below. Center of attraction were two, three blonde girls in mini-bikinis, showing off what they were sure they had. Frauleins on vacation from Dusseldorf. It was too early for Hazard to appreciate them. It looked hot, blazing bright out there. Maybe later he’d get some trunks and take a dip. Anyway, he’d stay around the hotel not to miss Gabil’s call.

He ordered up some breakfast. While waiting for it he put on the jeans that now fitted good and snug, the way jeans did when freshly washed. They were still damp at the waistband and around the pockets but they’d dry on him.

A knock on the door.

That would be room service. Hazard opened and found himself looking up at Gabil.

Right off it was apparent Gabil hadn’t dropped by to bid him welcome to Cairo. The man was grim. He didn’t return Hazard’s smile. He sat down as though his body were a burden.

“Mustafa expects me back in an hour,” said Gabil.

“Where is he?”

“Not far from here.”

“Where?”

Gabil went to the window. He directed Hazard’s attention across the way to the sun-scorched golf course, one of the hotel’s facilities. At the distant edge, about a half mile off, was a line of cypress trees and beyond those, mainly obscured, were some white structures.

“The house is there,” Gabil said.

“Whose?”

“It once belonged to the Pinchons.”

That was a piece of luck, thought Hazard, having Mustafa that close by, not having to contend with the problem of unfamiliar (and unfriendly) Cairo.

Breakfast came. There was only one cup on the tray. Hazard filled it with coffee for Gabil. He drank his own from a water glass.

“What’s Mustafa doing over there?” asked Hazard.

That opened the way for Gabil to talk about it, let out some of his tension, and perhaps see things even more clearly by hearing it himself. He gave Hazard a detailed rundown on the situation. He’d seen the atomizing pods and the two canisters of vx–10 nerve gas. The special transfer valves were finished and in place. The gas could now be released. The only hold-up was a minor additional attachment, a nozzle, that would fit onto the intake valve of the pods. The nozzle was being made, would be ready in two days. On Sunday, three days from now, the pods would be filled and transported elsewhere by truck.

“Where?”

Gabil didn’t know. He’d tried to find out from the workers and guards around the place, but they didn’t know either. They only knew the vx–10 was somehow destined for Israel. That was how the operation had been set up, on various levels, with each limited to knowing about and performing its special phase. Of course, Mustafa and surely a few others higher up had full knowledge.

It seemed incredible to Hazard that anyone would go to such extremes, but then he thought of the Lod Airport massacre, the 1972 Olympics, the murder of diplomats in Sudan … “Where did they get the vx–10?”

“From your country.”

“How do you know that?”

“From the markings on the canisters.” Gabil, with difficulty, had memorized the serial numbers. He now wrote them down and gave the slip of paper to Hazard.

USACC–FD–12–70–B2046–ABV–10

USACC–FD–10–71–B2867–ABV–10

The first three and last three digits of each of the series were enough to verify the source. “How did they manage that?” Hazard asked.

“Pinchon arranged it.”

“How?”

Gabil could easily have said that was something else he didn’t know. Just the day before Mustafa had proudly revealed to him the success of the operation thus far, including how Carl had been used. The Arab had especially enjoyed the part about Carl. It was a way of dishonoring a sworn enemy—in this case, Hazard.

Gabil decided omission would be as bad as a lie. He preferred to keep things straight with Hazard. He told him all of it.

Hazard was obviously shaken, but he insisted that Carl didn’t give them the information.

“Perhaps he did.”

“No.”

“Perhaps he saw no possible harm in it. Considering where the canisters were, under that much ocean, they doubtless seemed secure enough. I myself would have thought so.”

Hazard wanted to believe that.

“Did you know there was such a ship as the Sea Finder?”

“No.”

“Nor did I,” Gabil said. “And I doubt your brother did. Evidently Pinchon disliked your brother personally.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He ordered him killed.”

“For the information?”

“Hardly. It wasn’t the kind of secret one would need to kill for. It could have been easily and cheaply purchased from numerous other sources.”

It took a moment for Hazard to rearrange his perspective, but then it all did fall into place. Carl, Catherine, Pinchon. That had to be it. Bitterly, Hazard added Pinchon to his list, telling himself that he should have had him there all along, on the top, with an underline.

Gabil noted the time. “I have to get back.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The only thing I can do.”

“What?”

“Empty the canisters.”

“You mean just open the valves and let it come.”

“It’s the one sure way.”

“But–”

Gabil raised his huge hand. It was settled, understood. What Gabil proposed to do was sacrifice himself.

“When?” Hazard asked.

“The day after tomorrow. Before they can transfer the gas to the pods,” Gabil said. “I have a favor to ask you.”

“I owe you a few.”

“Go to Tel Aviv for me, to the Mosad. Tell them about all this.”

“Don’t you have a contact here in Cairo?”

“None that I can trust, not landsmen, only opportunists who may be working both sides. Those I could be sure of were recently exposed and arrested.”

“I’m not a landsman.”

Gabil grinned. “You might be, if you looked deep enough.”

“Why not just phone a contact in Paris or Rome and have him relay the information?”

“Telephone service here is under Government control. Every international call is strictly monitored by security people. If they hear one questionable word, they cut you off.”

It made Hazard realize how little he knew about this business. “Anyway,” he told Gabil, “what can the Mosad do?”

“If I fail at least they will be alerted.”

Hazard said he would see that the Mosad was informed.

Gabil thanked him. He took a final gulp of the coffee that was cold by now.

“Do me one more favor,” Hazard said. “It might help if I knew the layout of that house.”

“You still want Mustafa.”

“More than ever.”

After Gabil left, Hazard sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes. Maybe, he thought, that was the last he’d ever see of the Israeli—the big, ugly son of a bitch. It made Hazard depressed.

He shaved, finished dressing and left the hotel at noon. It was even hotter outside than he’d thought, an arid heat that reminded him of a long ago July in Needles, California, when he was on the road thumbing at cars all day and finally got a ride from a wife on her way to a Tiajuana divorce, so eager for freedom she couldn’t wait.

He went up the short, steep rise to the plateau of the Pyramids. Immediately he was set upon by a swarm of dragomans, Arab guides with their camels and donkeys in bleached, dusty trappings, wanting to show him around for a price. One in particular was persistent, followed, kept selling and stopped him. Hazard asked him where the Sphinx was and gave him two dollars just for pointing the way.

The heat made it seem a longer walk than it was, and Hazard wished he’d thought to get some dark glasses because everything reflected the sun harshly. He passed by the much smaller satellite pyramids on the eastern side of the Grand one and continued down to the large excavated recess that held the Sphinx.

It didn’t appear as impressive as he’d imagined. Not wise as legend had it nor as large and mysterious, really. Baking and biscuit-colored, it looked like something that had come crumbling unsuccessfully out of an oven. Hazard remembered a sphinx was also an ancient symbol for female lust, but he saw no reason for that, unless it was the preying, ready-to-spring posture. Standing between its extended paws, he realized the reason for his apathy. He was just too distracted to appreciate anything at the moment. His mind was taken up with thoughts of Gabil and those canisters of nerve gas bearing the serial numbers like a trademark, made in the U.S.A.

By the time he returned to the hotel and air conditioning, perspiration was dripping from his nose and trickling down his back. He found the bar and ordered another of those generous gin-and-tonics. Except for the bartender and an older foursome at a table, he had the place to himself. Music was coming from somewhere. An old Beatles song. He dug the section of fresh lime from his glass and sucked on it without making a sour face. Those serial numbers came to mind again, kept intruding, the last three digits especially standing out from the others. Serial numbers. He supposed there was one on every bomb, every grenade, every weapon. And somewhere there were clerks who kept an accurate corresponding record, a death-dealer’s catalog.

Just for the hell of it, a small challenge, he started to try to translate the serial numbers of the canisters. USACC was obviously United States Army Chemical Corps.

After twenty minutes and another gin he felt he had most of it deciphered. United States Army Chemical Corps—Fort Detrick (Maryland)-December, 1970-Batch number 2046.

USACC–FD–12–70–B2046–

But those last five digits:

ABV–10

had him stumped. Assuming v–10 represented the type of gas, why had they left out the x? Was it army shorthand or army oversight? But then, what did the AB stand for? What difference did it make, anyway?

He gave up on it, went up to his suite and decided on a bath in that big brass tub. He was in the water, observing his distorted, yellow image in the curvature of the tub when he got back to it again—because it was taunting, eluding him like a critical word in a New York Times crossword puzzle.

ABV–10

Look at it from a different angle, he told himself, a fresh approach. If he’d never heard of vx–10, what would he have thought? Well, B could stand for base, or battle, or booster, or biological. Only the last seemed plausible, although chemical and biological were two distinct categories. CBW were initials he’d seen in articles, short for Chemical-Biological Warfare. A biological v–10 nerve gas didn’t make sense. But he felt he was on the right track and should keep on it. He associated biological and got bacteriological, and then it occurred to him there probably wouldn’t be an adjective in a serial number. The noun was bacteria. That could be it. Assume it, work from that. What could the A stand for, an A-Bacteria? The first, and worst, one that came to him was Anthrax. Anthrax bacteria? Sure, why not?

But if it was anthrax bacteria the v–10 couldn’t be a nerve gas. Not both. It had to be one or the other. Was that why the x was missing? If so, what did v–10 signify? The number 10 could be a rating or type designation. That would mean there were other types, a variety of them numbered from one up. A variety. Variety? Variant? Same thing. He settled for variety and put it in sequence:

Anthrax Bacteria Variety 10

He felt as if he’d accomplished something. But was it possible that Pinchon and the Arabs didn’t have what they thought they had? When they’d retrieved the canisters from the ocean floor, in their hurry and eagerness, had they been misled by those last three digits? The United States had dumped all kinds of chemical and bacteriological stockpiles into the Canary Basin. The Arabs could have made that logical error.

So what? In many ways anthrax was even more horrible than nerve gas.

Anthrax, also called Black Bain, Charbon, Malignant Postule, Splenic Fever, Woolsorter’s Disease. One of the most dreaded of all infectious diseases. Caused by a rod-shaped bacterium or spore, Bacillus anthracis. Infects the bloodstream. Can cause death within eighteen to twenty-four hours when inhaled.

Another ugly fact Hazard recalled about Anthrax—its extreme resistance. As a spore it could contaminate the earth, remain alive in the soil, and be capable of causing the disease for as long as a hundred years. The promised land could suddenly become a disappointment—a vast, diseased wasteland.

He felt futile. Nothing had been gained from his mental efforts. Besides, he was probably wrong about the serial numbers. He had only been playing a game with himself, following a hunch.

At six o’clock a hotel boy delivered an envelope. It was from Gabil—the plan of the house and other useful information. Gabil had drawn, freehand but carefully, a detailed overhead view with everything indicated, including approximate measurements. He had marked Mustafa’s room with a red circle. One notation said that no one was allowed in or out of the house from dark to dawn. Hazard examined the plan briefly and then tore it into small pieces that he flushed down the toilet.

At nine o’clock he sent to Keven.

His first message told her to stand by for further messages he would be sending every fifteen minutes exactly on the quarter hour.

For accuracy, he sent only four words at a time. He did it with confidence, drawing assurance from past successes, telling himself it was undoubtedly possible. His mind was lucid, his concentration good. Despite the pressure, or maybe because of it, he was able to superimpose and hold the required images in position for longer than before. It took him an hour and a half to complete the transmission, and not until he was done did he realize how much energy he’d used. It left him thoroughly drained.

He lay on the bed in the dark, his body sapped but his mind racing. He tried to bring his mind to rest, but it was charged with impressions of Mustafa, Pinchon, the canisters, the situation. A stray thought came through. It seemed only another piece of triva from his mental storehouse. He passed over it but it returned for attention:

The disease anthrax may be contracted through
the eating of inadequately cooked meat.

It set him to thinking in a new, possibly more hopeful, direction.