Prince of Fire

cannot be bothered with a husband or children. Gabriel wondered what on earth she was doing in Cairo.
    The Moroccan quintet took a break and threatened to return in ten minutes. The houselights came up slightly, as did the volume of the conversation. The woman detached herself from the bar and began working the room, moving effortlessly from table to table, alcove to alcove, as a butterfly floats from one flower to the next. Old acquaintances she greeted with kisses and a whisper. New friends were treated to a long handshake. She spoke to them in Arabic and English, in Italian and French, in Spanish and respectable German. She accepted compliments like a woman used to receiving them and left no turbulence in her wake. For the men, she was an object of cautious desire; for the women, admiration.
    She arrived at the table of Herr Klemp as the band was filing back onto the stage for a second set. He stood and, bowing slightly at the waist, accepted her proffered hand. Her grip was firm, her skin cool and dry. Releasing his hand, she pushed a stray lock of hair from her face and regarded him playfully with her brown eyes. Had he not seen her give the same look to every other man in the room, he might have assumed she was flirting with him.
    “I’m so glad you could join us this evening.” She spoke to him in English and in the confiding tone of a hostess who had thrown a small dinner party. “I hope you’re enjoying the music. Aren’t they wonderful? I’m Mimi, by the way.”
    And with that she was gone. Gabriel turned his gaze toward the stage, but in his mind he was back in Natan Hofi’s underground lair, listening to the recordings of the mysterious woman with a friend named Tony.
    I’m Mimi, by the way.
    No, you’re not, thought Gabriel. You’re Madeleine. And Alexandra. And Lunetta. You’re the Little Moon.
    N EXT MORNING Mr. Katubi was standing at his post in the lobby when the telephone purred. He glanced at the caller ID and exhaled heavily. Then he lifted the receiver slowly, a sapper defusing a bomb, and brought it to his ear.
    “Good morning, Herr Klemp.”
    “It is indeed, Mr. Katubi.”
    “Do you require assistance with your bags?”
    “No assistance required, Katubi. Change in plans. I’ve decided to extend my stay. I’m enchanted by this place.”
    “How fortunate for us,” Mr. Katubi said icily. “For how many additional nights will you require your room?”
    “To be determined, Katubi. Stay tuned for further updates.”
    “Staying tuned, Herr Klemp.”

14

C AIRO
    “I NEVER SIGNED UP FOR ANYTHING LIKE THIS ,” Quinnell said gloomily. It was after midnight; they were in Quinnell’s tired little Fiat. Across the Nile, central Cairo stirred restlessly, but Zamalek at that hour was quiet. It had taken two hours to get there. Gabriel was certain no one had followed them.
    “You’re sure about the flat number?”
    “I’ve been inside,” Quinnell said. “Not in the capacity I’d hoped, mind you, just one of Mimi’s parties. She lives in flat 6A. Everyone knows Mimi’s address.”
    “You’re sure she doesn’t have a dog?”
    “Just an angora cat with a weight problem. I’m sure a man who claims to be a friend of the great Herr Heller will have no problem dealing with an obese cat. I, on the other hand, have to contend with the seven-foot Nubian doorman. How did that happen?”
    “You’re one of the world’s finest journalists, Quinnell. Surely you can deceive a doorman.”
    “True, but this isn’t exactly journalism.”
    “Think of it as an English schoolboy prank. Tell him the car’s died. Tell him you need help. Give him money. Five minutes, and not a minute longer. Understood?”
    Quinnell nodded.
    “And if your friend from the Mukhabarat shows up?” Gabriel asked. “What’s the signal?”
    “Two short horn blasts, followed by a long one.”
    Gabriel climbed out of the car, crossed the street, and descended a flight of stone steps leading to a quay along the waterfront. He paused for a moment to watch the graceful, angular sail of a felucca gliding slowly upriver. Then he turned and walked south, Herr Klemp’s smart leather satchel hanging from his right shoulder. After a few paces the upper floors of Mimi’s apartment house came into view above the rise—an old Zamalek building, whitewashed, with large terraces overlooking the river.
    A hundred yards beyond the building another flight of steps rose toward the street. Gabriel, before mounting them,