Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [145]
‘Come to think of it, my mother is probably not very happy either,’ I said guiltily. ‘Does the whole world know I’ve been abducted?’
‘Count on it,’ Feisal said’ grimacing.
‘Yeah. It’s the kind of story reporters love. Damn! My dad’s probably on his way to Cairo right now. Well, they’ll have to wait a few more hours, I can’t put through an international call from a public phone.’
The food arrived – chunks of meat and pieces of pepper and onion, on little wooden skewers.
‘It won’t take long,’ Feisal said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
It was two o’clock. Three more hours to wait. At least three. If they weren’t there at 5 p.m. . . . I tried not to think about it.
When Feisal came back he was smiling. I hadn’t realized how tired and old he had looked until I saw that smile.
‘It’s all right,’ he announced, settling into his chair. ‘He wants us to meet him.’
‘Your father?’
‘He started out ordering me to turn myself in. But when I explained, told him you were with me and that you’d confirm my story, he said he’d be willing to listen.’
‘Danm nice of him. Look, Feisal, I’m not sure – ’
‘It’s okay, I tell you. A friend of his is away on business, Father has the key to his apartment, which is not far from the train station. We can hole up there, use his telephone to call Munich and your parents and, if you like, the Embassy. That’s much safer than the central telegraph office. You can have that shower and maybe even a drink with ice in it.’
‘Where does he want us to meet him?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘Ezbekiya Gardens. It’s not far from his office. He didn’t want us to go there or to the house.’
‘The police have probably got both places staked out.’
‘He hinted as much. Have you finished?’
I sat in front with Feisal this time. He was in a very happy mood, relaxed and smiling. He kept pointing out sights – mosques and museums and parks. The traffic was horrendous and parking seemed to be hit or miss. I wouldn’t have considered the place where Feisal stopped, in between a barrow piled with cauliflower and a little old lady who had apparently set up housekeeping on the kerb, as a legitimate spot, but he waved my comments aside.
‘God willing we won’t be coming back to the damned car anyhow. We’ve got a couple of blocks to walk.’
‘Okay.’
‘Vicky.’
‘What?’
‘Just in case . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I’m sure it’s all right. But stay a couple of hundred feet behind me. I’ll talk to him, get the key to the apartment. Wait till I wave or call to you before you join us.’
He didn’t give me a chance to reply. He started walking.
I followed, close enough to keep him in sight, but no closer. What he had suggested was only a sensible precaution; his father might be under surveillance and unable to shake it.
Crossing Cairo streets is a death-defying procedure. The street on the west side of Ezbekiya Gardens is a wide, very busy thoroughfare, and I lost sight of Feisal for a few seconds while I tried to avoid being run down by taxis, buses, and trucks. Reaching the other side breathless but intact, I caught sight of him standing by a little kiosk. The gardens were large; they must have arranged to meet at that precise spot. Hanging back, per instructions, I saw a tall grey-haired man approach Feisal. He was wearing Western clothes, and even at that distance I noted the resemblance. They stood talking for a while; then the older man threw his arms around Feisal.
Any father might embrace a returning prodigal son, and Middle Eastern males have no hang-ups about expressing affection physically. Not until I saw the crowds disperse, like hens when a fox enters the chicken yard, did I realize what was happening. Feisal saw the foxes too. They were hard to miss – four of them, carrying automatic weapons. He twisted away from the arms that tried to hold him, and gave his father a shove that sent him staggering back.
‘Run,’ he yelled. ‘Run, Vicky!’
He wasn’t trying to escape. He was just trying