Countdown in Cairo by Noel Hynd Page A

she was. Well, he told himself as he watched with narrowed eyes, the first time he had his opportunity, he would be on her like a big cat.
    He would put his gun to her head and force her to come with them. Or he would stick a needle into her if he couldn’t get his hand across her mouth fast enough, and he would drag her into the car. He had a syringe in his pocket. He savored the notion of tying her up and throwing her in the trunk. He fantasized about that part. His assignment was to bring her in alive to his employers if he could, but he had also been warned that there would be no second chances. If he muffed her abduction she would be on high alert in the future, and no one would be able to snatch her off the street. So if he had to kill her right there on Calvert Avenue, that would be acceptable too. But in the end he hoped to take her alive. His employers could talk to her, torture some truth out of her, find out everything she knew, and then turn her over to him for disposal.
    Abruptly, Rashaad nudged him. They saw a female figure turn the corner of the side street down the block. Nagib picked up a small pair of binoculars. He steadied them, and fixed his gaze upon a nicely shaped woman approaching with a gym bag. She wore snug jeans and a light blue windbreaker. She was very pretty. Her hair was dark and wet. She looked as if she had just showered in a nearby gym and was on her way home.
    Sure enough. Nagib started to breathe a little more heavily. There was no thrill like stalking a female. His hand went to his lap where it settled restlessly upon his pistol.
    She was about fifteen meters from the awning that led to her building.
    “Is that her?” Nagib asked in Arabic.
    “I’m not sure,” said Rashaad.
    “Why aren’t you sure? How many opportunities will we have?”
    “Be patient,” Rashaad said.
    Nagib reached to the handle of his door. Time to get out and get a better look. Then, as he opened the door, he saw something else. There were headlights coming up behind him, a sturdy American car that had turned the corner and was proceeding slowly down the block. Nagib had a sixth sense about cars that moved at that speed.
    Then Rashaad confirmed it. “Police!” he said.
    Nagib closed his door again and felt his heart pound. He watched the car through his side mirror. Sure enough, there was a rack of lights on top of the car.
    District of Columbia Police.
    He stashed the gun under his coat.
    He leaned back. So did Rashaad.
    The police car came to a halt next to him on the passenger side of their car. Nagib turned and looked into the gaze of two district cops, one African American male who rode shotgun and one white female who drove. They stared at him. Slowly, his hand moved to his pistol. And yet the police car was positioned so that his own car couldn’t exit if he wanted it to.
    Nagib gave the police a wide smile and moved away from the pistol. He held up his empty hands and gave an engaging shrug. Then he produced the half-eaten apple and showed it to them.
    “Lunch time,” he said.
    “Yeah,” the male cop said, his window down. “Right.”
    “What are you fellows doing?” the female cop shouted from farther across the front seat.
    Rashaad handled it. “My nephew works in that building down there,” he said, pointing. “We drive him home at midnight.”
    “Never seen you here before,” the male cop said.
    Nagib’s damp hand went back to the pistol and clicked off the safety catch. This was going the wrong way.
    “My nephew’s car broke down,” Rashaad said. “What can he do? We must wait.”
    No smiles in return from the cops. They glared at the two Arabs. Nagib’s hand broke into a heavier sweat and tightened on the pistol.
    The male cop gave a little nod to his partner. Then there was movement. The police car lurched forward and eased away. The lame excuse had worked.
    Nagib let an extra second go by, heaved a long sigh of relief, then looked back to the Calvert Arms. The street