Why was he now walking away the way he was? Shouldn’t a black Hummer have attracted his attention, his curiosity? There was also a gaggle of women sitting by the bus station. No problem there-they looked fat and middle-aged-unless they weren’t women, had weapons stashed and were going to spray the vehicle as soon as a door opened. They had bags with them. Big bags. Ominous. The tall Arab threw his cigarette away. A sign?
There were two other small knots of Arabs, all men. Alex took a quick census. Four in one group, three in the other. Good Lord, if she was walking into a trap and there were five to eight guns out there, she didn’t stand a chance. They wanted her dead, and they wanted to make sure, so, again, why wouldn’t they be here?
“Our instructions are to take you to the rear entrance,” Len said. “The morgue, not the hospital.”
“I know. Follow the instructions. Do everything by the book.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
The SUV rolled through the semicircle. No one paid them much notice. She heaved a long breath, then assumed-or hoped-they were clean.
McWhorter turned in his seat and looked at a vehicle behind them. He smiled.
“Our backup is on our tail,” he said. He raised a hand and gave a slight wave.
Alex pulled the veil up onto her face. It felt strange, like a mask she would use to examine toxic evidence. She wished she were back on the friendly beaches of Spain, wearing almost nothing. Or maybe back in Washington at her desk. Or anywhere but here right now-not that there was any turning back.
“I thought they were two minutes behind us,” Alex said.
“He must have hauled ass and caught up,” McWhorter said. “Anyway, he’s here. That’s good.”
“We’re going around back,” Len said.
“Good thing,” she said.
On the side of the building, at the base of the wall, a man was lying down. Dead? Rotting in the sunlight and heat? Sleeping? Faking? She didn’t know.
Len turned the corner. The back of the building was void of people and vehicles. A good sign. She scanned. Nowhere to take a shot from either.
No trees, just sand.
She looked carefully, keeping the Beretta in her palm.
She checked her veil to make sure it was secure.
Len came in close to the building. Then they rolled to a halt. She flicked a glance through the car’s rear window. The backup vehicle came around the corner and stopped about twelve feet away. She glanced at it carefully, then turned to McWhorter.
“Are the right people in that car?” she asked.
He looked, squinting. The driver gave a thumbs-up signal.
“Yeah. We’re cool,” he said.
McWhorter put a hand of support and caution on her shoulder.
“I know it’s not in the plan, but do you want me to go through that door first?” he asked.
“That would give us away, wouldn’t it?”
“It might, but-”
“I’ll be okay,” she said, hand on the door.
“Good luck,” Len said.
“Yeah,” McWhorter added.
She gave him a nod. Then she was out the door, prim and proper, like a middle-class Arab woman calling on a medical facility.
For some reason, her feet felt strange on the sand. Must have been her slippers. The heat radiated upward. She carried her bag. A change of clothes. The gun remained in her palm. The steel door was a few feet away. Somehow she felt more vulnerable out in the open, even though if this operation were tainted, a volley of bullets might lurk on the other side of the door.
She moved quickly. The Egyptian sun pounded down. Ra the sun god wasn’t a benign spirit.
The service entrance was unlocked, a dull steel door that could have been pulled off its hinges by any strong man or woman. She pulled it open and glanced back. The Marines gave her a final wave.
Suddenly, she liked them a lot and missed them. They weren’t hillbilly tourists with guns anymore. They were big brothers-in-arms.
She entered the morgue. Stench assaulted her nostrils. Formaldehyde, disinfectant, rotting flesh. The aroma of ugly death.
She hadn’t been ready for it. She gagged.
Okay, memory. Don’t fail on me.
She steadied herself. She had memorized the directions to the office of Dr. Badawi.
End of the corridor, turn left. Follow that corridor about ten feet, turn right. Ignore everyone. If spoken to, don’t talk. What the heck could I say, anyway? “Loved your pyramids? Hated your radioactive crystals.”
She traveled through a warren of dingy corridors. She picked up signs that would lead her to the medical examiner’s station. There were voices and sounds from adjoining rooms. Mostly in Arabic. Nothing good. Some wailing. Some fool was playing music.
Supplies were stacked up in the corridor. There were two body bags, both looked full. Cadavers on top of each other. Small. Probably children. She shuddered. It was hot. Humid. Fetid.
She passed two nurses who eyed her strangely but didn’t speak. Proper ID? She noticed quickly. No one had anything. What was proper ID in a place like this? A scalpel? Bloodstains? A pulse?
Then she arrived. An office, door opened, just where it was supposed to be. Cluttered. Much noise from adjoining chambers. Some piece of heavy equipment was rumbling.
A heavy saw? Were they cutting a body? She cringed again. She couldn’t wait to get out of here.
She found Dr. Muhammad Badawi at the desk in his office. He looked up when she arrived at the door but said nothing for a moment. Then, “Yes?” he asked in English, suspicious.
“I’m Signora Ijerra from Rome,” she said. “I believe you know my brother.”
“I believe I do,” he said. A long pause. “You’re alone?” he asked.
She glanced over her shoulder up and down the corridor.
No one.
“I’m alone,” she said.
He made a motion with his head, indicating that he would follow and she should lead. He passed her and entered the corridor, bringing her along.
“I believe your brother is en route,” he said. American educated, she could tell instantly from his accent. Her feverish nerves eased slightly. He spoke good English and, even better, spoke it softly.
“I believe so. Brother Gian Antonio.”
“Yes,” he said.
Dr. Badawi led her to an adjoining chamber two doors down. They went through a door and entered the room together. It was an examining room of sorts, combined with storage. Supplies and a sink, a couple of guttered tables in a disgraceful state of nonhygiene. On a shelf above a side table were three jars with bodies of stillborn human infants floating in amber liquid. She gagged and tried to keep her thoughts on the task at hand.