Her Kind of Trouble (21 page)
Sometimes, chivalry can be a pain. The hardest part about smuggling Kara onto and then off of the Turbo-train to
Cairo
was keeping men from wrenching the suitcase away from me. Once we arrived at the Ramses Railway Station, I wheeled Kara down the open platform to the white, brightly lit terminal and its rest rooms. There, using the relative privacy of the oversize, handicapped stall, I could let her climb out and stretch for a few minutes.
"This is exciting," she whispered, her face shining. "Like in a film!"
At least one of us was having fun.
"Glad you're enjoying it," I mused, swallowing back my own uncertainties. I wondered if her Grailkeeper grandmother, or ex-stepgrandmother, would be able to visit her in
England
and pass on some of the legacy. Now
Kara
might grow up to be a champion.
I politely turned my back for her to make use of the facilities. Then I had to zip the kid back into the suitcase for the last leg of our journey out of
Egypt
—here, in the very
heart
of
Egypt
.
So many women wore head scarves around here, I already felt conspicuous. Feeling conspicuous in an area guarded by men in white uniforms, with machine guns, is even less pleasant. But soon enough I made it into the ungodly
heat and bunding sunlight in front of the station, with its huge statue of Ramses II.
Again, I had to fight the cabby to load my own damned suitcase. When he tried to yank it from my hands, despite my loud protest, two old women swathed in full black burkas ran to my rescue, swatting at him and scolding in Arabic until he let go. When I tried to thank them, they simply nodded and turned away.
There are different kinds of feminine empowerment, I guess.
"American Embassy," I told the driver.
"Ah, Fortress Amerika," he said in good, if singsong English, with a knowing nod.
Once we pulled away from the curb unaccosted, I tried to make myself relax. The embassy district in
Cairo
, as I had learned on my previous day-trip, was in an area called Garden City, not two miles from the station. We turned off the main road into a lacework of tree-lined, curving streets and stately, colonial buildings.
We were almost there.
But almost isn't always good enough.
Cairo
traffic was bad enough—and this from someone who grew up just outside
Unlike the first-class railcar, the taxi wasn't air-conditioned. I already had my window rolled all the way down, and I leaned across my suitcase to crank down the one on the other side, too. I could imagine how hot it was inside the suitcase, but I only dared leave a few inches unzipped for air.
Come on, I urged silently.
Come on
!
"Ah, me," mused the driver, after we'd been sitting dead still for about five minutes. "This may take time."
I leaned out the window and saw that there was some kind of accident ahead involving a camel—which seemed to be unhurt—and a haystack-size pile of alfalfa fallen across another car. On the one hand, we could wait. This escape would be easier if we were dropped off at the embassy door. On the other hand, it was stifling in here…
And every minute that passed was another minute Hani Rachid might discover Kara gone from
Alexandria
.
"How far?" I asked, digging out my Egyptian money. "How far to Fortress Amerika?"
"Two blocks," he assured me. "We wait. I give you discount."
But instead of taking his discount I paid him and climbed out of the cab, hauling the suitcase with me. I began wheeling it and Kara in the direction he'd indicated, glad to note that at least the sidewalks around here were well kept. The greenery helped temper the heat a bit. I could catch glimpses of the wide expanse of the
Nile
to my left, felt its ancient call.
But damn it, I wanted to have this done. I had to know Kara was safe.
And then…
Damn it
. I sensed it partly from a prickling along the back of my neck and, more, from a tightening of my throat.
We were being followed.
I picked up my pace, never so glad to see the stately embassy rising ahead of me, beyond a high iron fence that I didn't doubt was wired to the max.
The Stars and Stripes beckoned to me from over the building's entrance.
Armed marines stood outside.
Having already visited once, I fully understood why the cabdriver called the place Fortress Amerika. There was no way I could simply dart into the sanctuary of the building with an oversize suitcase, even carrying my passport and singing "The Star-Spangled Banner." Not with terrorism such a real threat.
But I could get closer. I sped my step, my breath starting to rasp in my lungs from the exertion of pulling the heavy suitcase.
Only when my throat actually clenched did I glance behind me—and start to run.
Crap.
It was Hani.
No way could I pull a suitcase with even a
small
twelve-year-old in it faster than he could chase me. But we had the attention of the guards, anyway.
And I had one last trick up my sleeve.
Just as I heard Hani's footsteps pounding up behind me, I spun and raced across the street,
away
from the American Embassy. I unzipped the suitcase as it fell to the sidewalk, and I yelled, "Head right!"
Then I spun to face the girl's father, deliberately blocking his way.
Hani's eyes burned bright, like a predator's in mid-hunt. He must have guessed who was hidden in the luggage. Even so, I could see him visibly start when Kara scrambled out of the case and scampered not left, toward the American, but toward the British Embassy across the street.
Hello?
I
was the only American here.
I wished I could watch her, wanted to make sure she was waving her passport the way we'd told her to. It's not like the British guards were any less aware of terrorist threats than the Americans. And, terrible or not, we weren't that far from a part of the world where children were sometimes used in suicide bombings.
I could hear her little-girl voice yelling, as instructed, "I'm a citizen, I'm a citizen, God save the Queen!"
And all I could do was keep her father from catching up to her. But that would be more than enough.
Hani tried to dodge around me—I was clearly no longer his target—but I cut him off. When he tried to run right over me, like an American football player, I dropped low—and tripped him.
He was heavy, but I was careful to roll, so as not to take his entire weight. My fighting style is more about using my opponent's force against him—better that Hani take his own damned weight! And he did. Even as I sprang back to my feet, Hani Rachid sprawled heavily onto the pavement.
But not for long.
Scrambling upward, still focused beyond me, he let out a frighteningly bestial bellow of rage. If hatred and violence had a sound, that was it.
Okay, so that scared me. But—
"I've got her, Maggi!" called another familiar voice—Jane's. She'd come to Cairo the previous night, although, with her wearing her flight attendant uniform and Kara visibly waving goodbye as she'd left, Hani's men had no reason to think Jane was doing more than returning to work. "She's here now. It's safe!"
"You thief!"
This time, as Hani charged past me toward the embassy, I didn't dare get in his way—not if I wasn't needed. Instead, I turned and satisfied myself with the sight of mother and daughter, clinging to one another behind high iron bars.
Oh… goddess.
If I accomplished nothing else in
Egypt
, this would have been worth it.
Not that I was giving up on the Isis Grail just yet.
Meanwhile, the two armed guards who stepped forward to block Hani's path were more than up to the task.
"She's a thief!" Kara's father insisted, though he quickly backed away from their presence… and from the presence of their automatic weapons. "She has no right to take the girl."
. But in
Britain
, Jane damn well had that right. In
Britain
, she'd had custody all along. And the embassy grounds were, for all intents and purposes, part of the
United Kingdom
.
Jane stared at the husband who had made her last year hell. Then she turned and hustled Kara safely through the heavy double doors into the embassy building…and that was that.
There would be no betrothal tonight.
There would be no underage wedding.
Of course, I was still out in the open. Hani spun on me. "You think you have helped her, witch?"
I steeled myself, so as not to flinch from his fury. "Yes, I do."
"She is a prisoner now. She cannot leave. She will rot in that damned building, and I will celebrate it."
I frowned. "Which 'she' are you talking about?"
"My wife!"
"
Ex
-wife. You don't give a damn about Kara, do you? This is all about hurting Jane."
"It is about keeping women in their proper place!"
"And how's that worked for you so far?" We've won, Sinbad. You've lost.
"When the child leaves, the embassy, she will rightfully be mine," Hani insisted. "I will arrange her life as I see fit. When my wife leaves, she will be arrested, and she will beg me to help her, and I will only spit upon her as she is dragged to prison. That is all you have done."
I didn't like the suspicion that he was correct—about Kara and Jane being more or less prisoners in the embassy, that is, not about the begging and spitting.
It was still better than a betrothal and possible marriage for a twelve-year-old. "I'll take that."
"Not for long you will not," warned Hani, breathing hard.
"Where's your Eye of Horus?" I asked, and wiggled my fingers at him. "No magical protection today?"
His eyes widened.
Luckily, at that point, Jane hailed me. She did not have Kara with her. "Maggi, come on," she called, from safely within the grounds of the embassy. "I have something for you."
The clue to the Isis Grail?
"See you soon," I told Hani. Not that I
wanted
to see him…but I certainly wanted him to know I expected to.
He spat something at me in Arabic—something that sounded extremely rude—and turned away. As I passed the guards outside the British Embassy, allowed in with my American passport and her request, I gestured toward the sidewalk and the man and the open, empty suitcase. "That's garbage," I said.
Then I muttered, if only to myself: "You might want to send someone after the suitcase, too."
High in the heavens and under the sea
Isis
is everywhere, she cannot be contained. Look for her where she is honored. There, you shall find her cup.
I guess the words lost their rhyme in translation. But my disappointment, as I read the paper that Jane handed me, was over a hell of a lot more than the poem's free verse.
This
had been passed down for generations in Tala's family?
I reread it, hoping to notice something new.
I didn't.
Tala Rachid's "rhyme" didn't tell me squat! At least, no more than I'd already guessed.
Around us, the office was in chaos. An ambassadorial assistant was protesting that they hadn't agreed to Jane and Kara's defection into their embassy—something Jane and I had done deliberately, figuring that it was easier to get forgiveness than permission. Another reminded him that they couldn't exactly evict her now that she was here. Telephones were ringing, and voices had an edge of strain.
And against the cacophony, Kara had her skinny arms around Jane's waist, gazing up at her mother adoringly.
They were safe
.
Even more than me finding the Isis Grail, that was what mattered. Surely
England
could work
something
out before laws or circumstances forced either mother or daughter back out onto Egyptian soil, unprotected.
"I hope it helps," said Jane honestly, about the poem.
Look for her where she is honored
. I supposed that could mean the cup was wherever I would find the altar to
Isis
, in her submerged temple.
"Yes," I said, with forced enthusiasm. "It's just what I needed. Are you going to be okay?"
