an eye on your career over the years. When Elena needed a replacement, he naturally thought of you.”
“That was… very good of him.”
“He’s a very good man,” nodded Nicolas seriously. “And he wants you to have dinner with him this evening.”
Gaille frowned. “He’s in Alexandria?”
“No. Thessalonike.”
“But… I don’t understand.”
Nicolas smiled. “Have you ever flown on a private jet before?” he asked.
Chapter Twenty-two
KNOX RACED THROUGH the back streets of Alexandria, his recaptured belongings piled high on the seat beside him. It had felt good putting one over on Nessim. A man can only run for so long before his pride begins to smart. He drove east toward Abu Qir, putting distance between himself and his pursuers; then he parked to see what he had.
His laptop battery was old and had only an hour’s juice. He flicked through his photograph CDs, checking file names, but he couldn’t find a trace of Akylos or Kelonymus. He scowled in frustration. Nessim had either left them behind or removed them from his car. How unlucky was that? It was a minute or two before another possible explanation occurred to him.
There was a pay phone on the corner. He didn’t dare telephone Rick directly. Instead, he called a mutual friend who worked next door at the water-sports center in Sharm, and asked her to fetch him. He came on the line a minute later. “Hey, mate,” he said. “You forgotten my number or something?”
“It may be tapped.”
“Ah. Hassan, huh?”
“Yes. Listen, you haven’t borrowed some of my photographic CDs, have you?”
“Christ, mate, I’m sorry. I was just practicing my Greek.”
“Not a problem. But I need them. Any way you can get them to me?”
“No sweat. There’s nothing happening here. Where do you want to meet?”
“Ras el-Sudr?”
“You mean that dump south of Suez?”
“That’s the one,” said Knox. “There’s a hotel there called the Beach Inn. When do you think you can make it?”
“Give me four hours. Maybe five.”
“Perfect. Will you come in your Subaru?”
“Unless there’s a reason not to.”
“You might want to check it for tracking devices first. And make sure you’re not followed. These guys are serious.”
“So am I, mate,” Rick assured him. “So am I.”
MOHAMMED AND NUR clutched hands as they waited for the phone call to tell them the results of the bone marrow tests. They had used a private health care group with medical centers in Alexandria, Cairo, Assiut, and Port Said to make it easier for far-flung friends and family. Especially family. Bone marrow compatibility was heritable, so the chances of finding a match was significantly higher among kin. They had tested another sixty-seven people, using up all the funds Ibrahim had made available. Dr. Serag-Al-Din had promised to call with the results an hour ago. Waiting for the phone to ring was about the most grueling experience of Mohammed’s life. Nur winced as he squeezed her hand too tightly. He apologized and let go. But she needed the contact as badly as he did, and within moments their hands found each other again.
Layla was in bed. They had decided not to inform her of this process until it was done. But she was a sharp child, sensitive to atmosphere. Mohammed suspected that she knew all too well what was going on: the sentence of life or death that would shortly be passed on her.
The phone rang. They looked at each other. Nur made a face and started to weep. Mohammed’s heart started pattering as he picked up the receiver. “Yes?” he asked. But it was only Nur’s mother, anxious to learn if they had heard. He bit his lip in frustration and passed her across. Nur got rid of her with promises to call the moment they knew. Mohammed crossed his legs. His bowels felt loose and watery, but he dare not go to the toilet.
The phone rang again. Mohammed breathed deeply and picked it up. This time it was Dr. Serag-Al-Din. He said: “Mr. el-Dahab. I hope you and your wife are both well.”
“We’re fine, thank you. Do you have our results?”
“Of course I have your results,” he said genially. “Why else do you think I’d call?”
“Well?”
“Bear with me a moment. I seem to have lost my place in your file.”
Mohammed closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Come on, you son of a dog. Say something. Anything. “Please,” he begged.
There was a rustling of paper. Dr. Serag-Al-Din cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Here we are.”
IT WAS DUSK when Ibrahim and Elena arrived in Cairo for their meeting with Yusuf