Desert Rogue (34 page)

Jed was on his way to answer the unexpected summons when there was a fresh burst of pounding more insistent than the first. From the sound of it, someone was mighty riled about something, Jed thought, reaching out to open the door, his other hand ready to grab for the knife he had placed on a nearby table.

The moment the latch clicked, the door burst inward and five policemen, headed by the chief constable Jed had inadvertently punched at Nadir's brothel weeks earlier, poured into the room.

“Well, boys, I assume this isn't exactly a social call,” a nonplussed Jed said with a quick glance at his pocket watch. “I have plans for this evening, so suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

“You'll have to come with me,” the chief of police announced, his face alight with vengeful pleasure. “Our business with you concerns the illegal shipping of stolen firearms to the Sudan.”

“I'm the one who reported that activity to the British Consulate in the first place. Should Reed want me questioned further in the matter, that's for him to do, not the Egyptian police.” Jed shrugged into his evening jacket. He had no intentions of allowing himself to be detained by this charade. If Hayden thought to keep him away from tonight's dinner party, then the Englishman could damn well come and get him personally rather than sending his toadies. That way, they would both be absent from the table where Vicky would be dining this evening.

“A clever ploy, American, designed to make you appear the innocent. But it was not a foolproof plan, especially in light of your latest crime.”

“Oh, and what's that?” Jed asked, affecting boredom as he straightened the cuffs of his formal shirt.

“The one for which I'm arresting you, the murder of Yosef Ahmed,” the constable announced, relishing the prospect of having this foreigner in his jail cell. Kincaid would pay then for his past surly behavior.

“Yosef, the fellow at the warehouse?” Jed asked quickly, finally giving the Egyptian his full attention. One dark eyebrow rose quizzically as Jed tried to put this newest piece of the puzzle into place.

“So you admit to knowing him.”

“I spoke with him today,” Jed acknowledged. He had been certain then that the watchman had been hiding something, and he berated himself for not employing more persuasive methods to draw that information out rather than playing a waiting game. His reticence had created a situation that was damned inconvenient.

“At which time you killed him.”

“Whoa!” Jed commanded, beginning to step back into the room as he cast subtly about for an escape route. “Talking with a man doesn't mean murdering him. What possible reason would I have for doing away with the watchman? I wanted information from him, and I couldn't get that if he was dead.”

“Perhaps it is that you wished to keep him from linking your name to the gun smuggling. At least that is what Mr. Reed thought when we found Yosef's body this afternoon.”

“Reed was with you?” Jed demanded. He eyed a window on the far side of the room that led to a balcony.

“It was he who asked for our escort when he went to question the watchman. But what we found was the man's body and your rifle,” the police chief stated, his voice cold and virulent.

“My rifle!”

“The weapon used to kill Yosef had your initials carved on it.”

“Why the hell would I leave it there? Use your head, man!”

“Maybe someone entered the building and you dropped the weapon as you ran. But there will be no escape for you now, Kincaid. You are coming with us.”

“Like hell I am,” Jed growled, lunging at the head constable. He punched him with such force that he fell back into the men behind him. Grabbing a rifle from one of them, Jed wielded it like a club, lashing out with the broad side of the stock to slam and jab it into the group converging on him. All the while, he worked his way toward the open window, fending off blows and landing a few of his own, keeping himself so close to the Arabs that they could not fire their guns for fear of hitting each other.

Then, with the effortless grace of a jungle cat, he sprang through the air and out the window, leaving the rifle behind. A few fast somersaults saw him to the edge of the balcony, while the Egyptian police, packed too tightly at his window to fire accurately, sent shots flying all around him.

With another leap, Jed jumped to the extended roof of a patio below, and then dropped to the street, quickly rounding a corner and striking out for the Arab Quarter, a section of the city with streets so convoluted that a man might, if he was lucky, lose himself, and those who pursued him.

Going to the authorities, British or Egyptian, would be fruitless, Jed decided as he ran. What he needed was time to learn the identity of the Englishman embroiled in the smuggling. Once that was done, there was no way Reed could hope to frame him for any of the crimes with which he was being charged.

Vicky's fiancé was playing a more lethal game with him than Jed had at first supposed. To be placed in an Egyptian jail, at the hands of the chief constable who already held a grudge against him, was tantamount to being handed a death sentence. And Jed Kincaid was not about to calmly place his head in a noose of Hayden Reed's making.

As he continued his flight, Jed observed with no small sense of gratitude that the raucous shouts of his pursuers were at least growing no closer. Running for his freedom in formal attire was no easy feat. His evening dress was not only uncomfortable, but it made it impossible for him to appear inconspicuous.

The young Cairene children clamoring with glee as they saw him invade the native quarter did not help his cause, either, their excited voices alerting the authorities to every twist and turn in his evasive path through the winding streets. Yet Jed knew he had no other choice but to flee, and flee he did, swiftly and without visible pattern, hurrying through the labyrinth of the Arab sector, sometimes doubling back upon himself, using every trick he knew.

Needing to catch his breath, he slipped around a corner and ducked into a small booth in the
medina,
its wares packed away, but its presence a godsend. Squatting low behind the wooden slats, Jed drew long breaths and considered his next step. But even here he was not safe, he realized as the shopkeeper came out from his private quarters to complain about Jed's invasion. Tossing a fistful of coins to the man, Jed addressed him urgently in Arabic.

“There is more for you if I get away safely,” he promised, trusting greed would outweigh any civic responsibility the fellow might harbor. “The police claim I didn't pay my hotel bill.”

Without hesitation the Egyptian pocketed the money and lifted the curtain between the stall and his living quarters.

“You go out through the back alley. I will send the devils the other way,” he offered. “But first you pay
baksheesh.
”

Thankful for the man's ready cooperation, Jed nearly lost his advantage by taking money from his pocket to oblige the merchant. Just at the police entered the street, their voices bellowing his name, he slipped behind the draping and hurried out to the rear street. His path, he discovered with a grim smile, circuitous as it had been, was true. He was but a half block from Ali's and safety.

It seemed an eternity, however, that he waited on the step, persistently knocking at the door. Standing on the street, watching over his shoulder for the police, the American could never recall feeling so vulnerable nor so dependent on others. What he would do if Ali refused to assist him did not bear thinking about, but then the door opened and Jed was inside.

“Welcome, but you need not dress so formally to visit us, Jed.” The Egyptian chuckled. “We are glad to see you, even if British society
has
learned the truth and cast you out on your ear.”

“They would do no such thing,” disputed his wife, coming from the back room. “A handsome man like our Jed would be welcome anywhere there are women. Will you take dinner with us?”

“No, I can't. Ali, I desperately need your help. Hayden Reed has put out a warrant for my arrest—”

“Not for Ali, too?” cried Fatima.

“Arrest? For what? Spending part of the ransom he was too cowardly to deliver? It bought him Victoria, didn't it?”

“It has nothing to do with that. Reed claims I murdered a man. Half the Cairo police are searching for me.” Jed's voice was tight with anger.

“And you came to me?” Ali was astounded. Usually Jed's instincts were sound, but not this time. “Don't you think they will come here after you? Once Reed sees you did not run to the Shaws, this will be his next logical stop.”

“If I could hide in your shop, you could say I broke in—”

“Jed, you have seen it. There isn't a spare inch in my shop. What about one of those bars you used to frequent? They are dark and crowded, wouldn't they hide you?”

“Not when their livelihood depends on the police overlooking their illegal existences,” said the American, shaking his head. It was a solution he had already considered and discarded. “I knew my going to Hayden's superior irritated him, but I never imagined he would make such trouble when I was trying to help Britain.”

“You forget the woman,” intruded Fatima quietly. “I suspect this Reed's blood boils hotter from his jealous anger at your courting his Victoria than it does because of any politics—”

Before Jed could reply, a sudden blast of whistles erupted in the street outside. Jed jumped to his feet and started toward the exit at the back of the house.

“I'll try not to let them see where I've come from,” he promised softly. “Wish me luck.”

“Check all the houses and don't miss the gardens,” came the shouted orders outside as a knock sounded on the door.

“Jed Kincaid, I won't let you go, not into a trap,” whispered Ali's wife urgently. She grabbed his arms and tried to direct him to the bedroom. “You saved Ali's life in Khartoum. I can do no less for you here. Stall as long as you can before you admit the police, Ali,” instructed Fatima.

“Why?”

“There is no time to explain, my husband. Just remember my mother is visiting us and she is indisposed.”

“You don't have to do this,” protested the American, unwilling to expose Ali and his wife to the police constable's growing fury.

“It is too late to do anything else, friend,” pronounced Ali.

Heavy hammering on the door halted further discussion as Jed reluctantly followed the Egyptian woman from the room.

“Sharouk! Open this damned door at once or my men will kick it in,” yelled an unhappily familiar voice. “We know you are there.”

Of all the police in Cairo, thought Ali sadly, why did it have to be the constable they had interrupted in the brothel, a man with a grudge? Had Allah no mercy?

“Of course I am here, sir. I am coming at once,” called the merchant meekly. Spotting Jed's carelessly abandoned tie, he tucked it in the pocket of his
gallabiya
and moved to answer the angry summons, as slowly as he dared. “Do not worry, sir. I am on my way.”

“From the other side of the city?” demanded the officer impatiently. When Ali unlatched the door, he entered hurriedly and surveyed the room, nodding to the two men with him. “Go through the shop and the garden carefully. Look behind every shrub and piece of brass without fail. I will search here.”

“Search for what?” asked Ali, his fear of discovery lending his voice a realistic quaver. “I have no contraband in my shop.”

“Don't be a fool, Sharouk. What is that to us if we are given a share in the profits? We are after your friend, Kincaid. Where is he?”

“Kincaid is no friend of mine,” retorted Ali angrily. “Do you forget the trouble he made for me? Because of him I was forced to go to Khartoum where he almost got me killed. I would no more hide that villain than I would welcome a case of cholera.”

“He was seen entering your house last week,” interrupted the constable, his eyebrows raised. “One of your neighbors told me as much while we stood outside your door.”

“More the fool I was,” admitted Ali sheepishly. Suspecting what Fatima had in mind, he laid the groundwork. “Kincaid claimed to have brought payment for my coffee service and I showed him my hospitality. Instead of paying me, however, the dog insulted my Fatima, daring to remove her veil to look on her face, a privilege rightfully belonging to no man but those in her family. Because I trusted Kincaid, my wife was humiliated. Have no doubt, sir, from that day, he was no longer welcome in my house.”

The policeman was torn. He had seen Sharouk and Kincaid in the brothel and they had been at odds even then. If Kincaid had approached the shopkeeper's wife as he claimed—well, for some men, that was a crime deserving of death.

“You have not seen him since?”

“At the Shaw estate, though we did not speak,” snorted Ali. “It is a wonder I did not kill the American that night.”

“Perhaps,” smirked the constable, trying to envision the usually placid merchant in a murderous rage. “I will have a few words with your spouse, just to confirm your account.”

“Since when is a woman's word called upon to substantiate her husband's?”

“It is not,” appeased the police chief, “but she may remember something you've forgotten.”

“She is nursing my mother-in-law, who is presently indisposed. I would hate to upset the old woman. She can be ornery,” said Ali, moving toward the bedroom door, visibly reluctant. “Especially where I am involved.”

“So is my own mother-in-law.” The constable chuckled, relaxed in light of the all-too-common affliction they shared. Kincaid was clearly not here, but he would go through the motions to satisfy Reed. “I will be most gracious to her and your wife.”

Ali opened the door to the candlelit room and saw Fatima standing in front of the chair by the window, blocking any clear view of its occupant. Uttering a silent prayer, he put his faith in her wisdom. If she were wrong, there would be no help for any of them. But she had been clever enough to position the chair in the mix of shadow from the candles and the darkness outside, so perhaps—