CONWAY SAT IN A chair in the Hilton, looking out at the river through the glass window. From the bathroom came the sound of a shower running; the little girl from Hong Kong. She had become quite attached to him.
On the Nile, several boats drifted up and down. There was a good breeze; the sails were puffed full.
He watched as one boat came downstream, passing beneath the Koubry el-Tahrir, the bridge connecting the east bank with the island of Zamalik. It was an old boat, riding low in the water, unremarkable except for the sail.
A blue patch.
He looked again, then picked up the binoculars. In the stern, slumped in the sun, was Nikos. He watched as Nikos brought the boat down past the Hilton, then around the northern point of the island.
A cool customer, Conway thought. He never once looked up at the windows of the hotel.
Conway met Pierce at dinner. “We have a visitor.”
“Nikos?”
“Uh-huh. Came by right on time, at twelve-thirty.”
“How’d he look?”
“Like anybody who had just spent two weeks on the Nile. Bored out of his mind.”
“We have a busy night.” Pierce said. “Where’s Barnaby?”
“Probably in his hotel room.”
“Go see him. Tell him to meet us in Liberation Square at ten tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Meet me in the lobby here at nine.”
“What’re we going to do?”
“Get a taxi.”
“It won’t take us an hour to—” He stopped. “Oh. I see. You mean you want to get a taxi.”
“That’s right,” Pierce said.
They walked quietly through the eastern quarter of the city, down dark streets.
“I feel like a fool,” Conway said. “When I was a kid, I used to wear pyjamas like this.”
He was dressed in a galaba which they had bought new and made appropriately dirty by dropping in the street and stomping on.
“Don’t worry,” Pierce said. “You look fetching. Are you sure you know how to start up one of these cars?”
“A Fiat? You insult me.”
After half an hour of searching, they found what they wanted. A Fiat taxi parked by itself. It stood alongside a café brightly lighted in red neon. The owner was probably inside, eating dinner.
“Risky,” Pierce said.
“Naaa.”
Conway wore a suit and tie beneath the galaba. If anything went wrong, he would run down the street, into an alley, and pull off the robe, emerging a new man. Nobody would challenge a Westerner. “It’s my superman act,” he explained.
They stopped at the end of the street.
“Okay man,” Conway said. “Now you wait here, and if you see anything coming, you start coughing. Cough like hell. I’ll hotfoot it out and meet you back at the hotel. Otherwise, wait here, and I’ll pick you up. Right?”
“Right.”
“Now, uh, give me the cutters and the knife.”
Ho took them and walked quickly across the street. Pierce saw him stop at the taxi, bend over, and open the door. Conway shut the door silently and disappeared from view. He was working underneath the dashboard.
It seemed to take forever.
Pierce lit a cigarette and felt a sudden urge to cough. God, not now. He swallowed hard. The urge passed.
Nobody appeared on the street. Then, three blocks away, a policeman. Coming toward him.
What was Conway doing down there?
The policeman came nearer. Now he was only two blocks away. Pierce saw his uniform clearly in the streetlamp.
Conway sat up in the car and slipped behind the wheel. The taxi roared to life. He shoved it in gear and sped around the corner.
The policeman walked steadily forward. He had not noticed anything. Pierce stood on the corner and waited. He smoked the cigarette and tried to appear unconcerned.
Λ Fiat came around the corner, three blocks away. It sped by.
“Taxi!”
Red brake lights.
Pierce got into the back seat.
“Sahib?” Conway said.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Inevitably, they became lost. It was a natural consequence of the labyrinthine city and street signs in Arabic. Nearly half an hour later, they pulled into Mtdan el-Tahrir, Liberation Square. It was a scene of great activity, even at night. Trolleys and buses rumbled around the turnabout; pedestrians walked, talked, argued, or stood at the little stands that squeezed fresh fruit juice.
Pierce spotted Barnaby: “There he is.”
“Where?”
“Pull over to the right.”
Conway did. Pierce got out and waved Barnaby over.
“Listen,” Barnaby said. “We can’t trust a cab driver—”
Then he saw Conway.
“Oh.”
“Whaddya mean, oh? Is that all you have to say for the fella who presented you with this marvelous machine? Oh?”
“Sorry,” Barnaby said, slipping in. Pierce followed him and shut the door. They pulled out into traffic.
“Why a cab?”
“Because,” Pierce said, “it’s the least likely vehicle to be stopped at night. You’re an archaeologist, I’m your friend. We want to see the pyramids by moonlight. How do we get there? By taxi, of course.”
“Did you have trouble stealing it?”
“No,” Conway said. “I’m an old joyrider from way back. Now where do I go?”
“Turn right,” Barnaby said. “I’ll direct you.”
“Try to keep us on back streets,” Pierce said.
The taxi sped off into the night.
Sixteen miles to the south, they passed the sleepy village of Badrshein, and continued on toward Masgun. The road was lined with date-palm trees; there was no traffic, except for a few donkey-carts returning to their villages for the night.
“Near Masgun, the road runs near the river,” Barnaby said. “Slow now.”
They passed a camel sitting by the roadside.
Barnaby was looking out at the river. It was a dark night. “Slower.”
Suddenly, up ahead, they saw the boat moored at the shore.
“There.”
Conway pulled off the road onto the sand. Nikos was sitting in the boat.
“About time.”
“We came as soon as we could,” Pierce said.
“Who pinched the taxi?”
“I cannot tell a lie,” Conway said.
“Nice job.” He stood up. “A taxi. That was very clever.”
“Let’s unload the stuff,” Barnaby said, glancing around nervously.
Half an hour later, the boxes were stacked in the trunk and back seat. Conway had removed his galaba; Nikos would drive, in case the police stopped them. He spoke Arabic.
“What do we do with the boat?” Barnaby asked.
“We leave it,” Nikos said. “What else?” He put the car in gear, and they turned west toward the desert.