“If you’re quick, you can wrap this up by tomorrow at noon,” Johnson said.
“I’m planning to,” Justin said.
“When’s your flight out of Cairo?”
“6:00 p.m.”
“Yeah, you can make it.”
Justin nodded. “Anything else?”
“No, I don’t think so. Let me know when you’ve heard from Ali, or if not from him, your other contacts on the ground.”
“By all means,” Justin replied.
“Perfect.”
Johnson turned off the satellite feed and the screen went black.
George signed them out of the connection with a big sigh. “What was that? You have a death wish?”
“Relax, George,” Carrie said. “Nobody’s going to die. Well, at least we’re not.”
“You’re crazy, going all alone into the lion’s den.”
“Listen, the sheikh could have killed us today, if that’s what he wanted,” Justin said calmly. “I don’t think we’ll be of much use to him dead. He wants to talk. We want to listen.”
“We’ll fly down there and learn about this assassination plot,” Carrie said.
George threw his arms up in the air. “Do as you wish,” he said. Then he added with a sigh, “The two of you always do.”
Justin stood up. “Thanks, boss. We’ll bring back the intel. Now I’ve got to get in touch with Ali and finish making preps. Carrie, we’ll leave ASAP.”
“I’m ready,” she said and gulped down the rest of her tea. She placed down the cup on the table. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Three
Justin began to lose track of time as the hot shower splashed over his head and shoulders. He leaned against the white ceramic tiles, his fingers combing aimlessly through his wet hair. His scalp was smooth and soft, but he noticed some gray hairs stuck to his fingernails when he rinsed his hands. The water took them away and his eyes followed their swirl in the shower drain. A single hair became stuck to his left toe and it resisted the stream for a brief second. More water trickled down from his chest and the stubborn hair disappeared into the drainpipe.
Justin could not help but wonder about his swimming against the tide of death. He did not think much about dying, for death was an almost daily occurrence in his life. Few days went by without Justin shooting at or being shot at by someone. So far he had been wise and, in part, lucky. Flesh wounds, broken bones, stitches, but nothing he had not overcome. Despite that, his mind still raced at the moment when the current of violence facing him would grow strong, stronger than him, and it would drag him down the drain. Like the hair strand that had gone and could be seen no more.
“It hasn’t happened in the last eleven years. It didn’t happen today and it’s not going to happen tomorrow either,” Justin cried in a loud voice and slammed a clenched fist against the shower wall.
Speckles of grout burst out of the tile edges. Justin used his foot to push them toward the drain. He blinked to clear the last drops of water from his eyes and stepped out of the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and navy blue pants, Justin waited for Carrie in the hall of their apartment building, a short walk away from the Canadian Embassy. Both agents rented two-bedroom apartments paid for by the Service. At one time, Justin used to live in a small house, northeast of the Garden City, by the American University. But that was seven years ago when he first arrived in Cairo. At that time, field missions took him away once or twice a month. Now, he could not remember the last time he spent a full week in the city.
“Hey, you look sharp,” Carrie said as she stepped out of the elevator.
“You, on the other hand, you look gorgeous.”
Carrie’s V-neck black dress flowed down to her knees. A gray cardigan added a casual touch to her look. Her shoes were the essential pumps, with a rounded toe and four-inch stiletto heels. She had applied very little makeup, just a light shadow of mascara and pink lip gloss. Her hair was pulled back and arranged in a small ponytail. A black leather purse hung loose around her left shoulder.
“A bit of overkill, you think?” Carrie pointed to her dress, noticing Justin’s gaze moving up and down her body.
Justin hesitated for a second then nodded.
Carrie shrugged. “I thought so. Oh, well. How often do I get to wear a dress and heels in his job?”
“Not very often, but this is a simple dinner.”
“If you knew how to cook, you’d know there’s nothing simple when preparing a delicious meal.”
Justin grinned. He remembered Carrie taking pride in cooking suppers when they were still dating. They had soon discovered they were better off being good friends. Once in a while, Carrie came over to his apartment and cooked supper for the two of them. Some of the best steaks he had ever enjoyed were grilled by her hands.
“I meant—”
She waved a hand. “I know what you meant. We’ll go and enjoy our meal. Let’s just hope nobody is planning to interrupt us like the last time.”
“You never know.” Justin swung open the doors for Carrie. “New York is two blocks away and that place has more Westerners than locals. Still, one crazy bastard wearing explosives can blow everything to pieces.”
They walked out in the warm evening toward New York, an Italian restaurant around the corner. The narrow alley, cordoned off to vehicle traffic, was well-lit, with lampposts at every ten steps. The sidewalk was in a decent shape and a few security guards patrolled the area, offering a visible safety presence. But a dog yelp, followed by a short burst of gunfire, reminded them of the ever-present danger.
“Jim doesn’t like it when you come in packing heat,” Carrie said, pointing to Justin’s right thigh.
The pistol in his waistband holster was not visible, but she knew it was there. And so did Jim, the restaurant’s head of security. Three months ago, a brawl among a group of drunken Russian military contractors had ended in a free-for-all shootout. Justin had sent four Russians to the hospital, and New York’s renovation bill had been over fifty thousand dollars.
“And I don’t like it when they burn my steak.” Justin nodded at two guards stationed in front of the Belgium Embassy. “Don’t tell me you didn’t bring yours.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” She glanced at her purse. “But Jim doesn’t seem to mind it.”
Jim — the man Justin had nicknamed “Rhino,” not only because of his body size, but also for his unexpected charge toward targets — was off duty this evening. Much to the delight of both agents, Wilson, Jim’s underling, threw them a disinterested gaze when they came in. They had no reservations, but it was a slow night at New York. The hostess escorted them to their table, next to a window overlooking the eastern shore of the Nile. They were the only people sitting in the dimly lit, non-smoking section of the restaurant.
While Carrie took her time flipping through the menu, Justin ordered his usual fare at New York: bruschetta, a 20-ounce ribeye steak, and sparkling lemon water. He tapped his fingers on the black tablecloth and fiddled with the pepper holder, a replica statuette of Lady Liberty. The waiter arrived with his drink as Justin’s BlackBerry chirped.
“Is that Johnson?” Carrie asked, her eyes still glued to the menu.
Justin did not reply. He frowned as he glanced at the screen. He pressed the answer button then barked at the phone, “This is Justin. Who’s dead?”