The Mark of the Assassin

agent. The plot was foiled,
    and several members of the al-Gama'at Islamiya were arrested. Michael's
    man received a big promotion that gave him access to better
    intelligence. The Nile Hilton is located on Tahrir Square, overlooking
    the river. Tahrir means liberation in Arabic, and Michael always thought
    it was the most inappropriately named place on earth. The immense square
    was jammed with traffic well into the night. The taxi hadn't moved an
    inch in five minutes. The blare of traffic horns was unbearable. Michael
    paid the fare and walked the rest of the way.
    He checked into the room, showered and changed, and went out again. The
    Mukhabarat had one of the most extensive monitoring operations on earth.
    Michael knew his room telephone was certainly bugged, even though he was
    traveling as an Italian businessman in town for a round of meetings. He
    went into the Tahrir Square metro station and found a telephone kiosk.
    He spoke quietly into the receiver for two minutes, raising his voice
    once to shout over the clatter of a train entering the station. He had
    two hours to kill. He would put the time to good use. He boarded the
    next train, got off at the first station, and doubled back. He walked.
    He went to the Egyptian Museum. He was lured into a tourist shop that
    specialized in fragrant oils. The shop boys plied him with tea and
    cigarettes while he sampled several oils. Michael rewarded their
    hospitality by purchasing a small bottle of vile sandalwood oil, which
    he tossed in the nearest rubbish bin as soon as he left. He was clean,
    no surveillance. He flagged down a taxi and climbed inside.
    CAIRO IS A CITY of lost elegance. Once there were fine cinemas and an
    opera house and walled villas that spilled chamber music into the warm
    nights. Little is left, and what remains has the quality of newspaper
    left too long in the sun. Many of the villas have been deserted, the
    opera house is gone, and the theaters stink of urine. The restaurant
    Arabesque has the feel of old Cairo, rather like an old man who putters
    around the house all day dressed in a suit and tie. It was midafternoon,
    the quiet time between lunch and dinner, and the dining room was nearly
    deserted. Michael actually had to strain to hear the din of traffic
    noise, so thorough was the restaurant's insulation. Yousef Hafez was
    seated at a corner table, far from anyone else. He looked up and smiled
    as Michael approached, flashing two rows of perfect white teeth. He had
    the look of an Egyptian film star, the fleshy type in his fifties with
    thick graying hair who attracts younger women and beats up younger men.
    Michael knew it was not far from the truth. They ordered cold white
    wine. Hafez was a Muslim, but he thought strict adherence to Islamic law
    was for "the crazies and the peasants." They clinked glasses and talked
    about old times for an hour while the waiters brought plate after plate
    of Lebanese-style appetizers. Michael finally got around to business. He
    told Hafez he was in Cairo on a personal matter. He hoped Hafez would
    help him out of friendship and professional courtesy. Under no
    circumstances could he discuss this matter with his current control
    officer. He would be paid for his help, directly from Michael's pocket.
    "You can buy me lunch, and another bottle of this wine, but keep your
    money."
    Michael signaled the white-jacketed waiter to bring more wine. While the
    waiter poured, Hafez talked about a pizza he had eaten in Cannes that
    summer. The Mukhabarat employed tens of thousands of informants; it was
    always possible the waiter was one of them. When he was gone, Hafez
    said, "Now, what can I do for you, my friend?"
    "I want to talk to a man named Eric Stoltenberg. He's former Stasi,
    living in Cairo doing freelance work."
    "I know who he is."
    "You know where to find him?"
    "Actually, I do."
    Hafez set down his wineglass and signaled for the check.
    THE BODY was in a warm room with a hundred others, covered in a gray
    sheet. The attendant's coverall was spotted with blood. Hafez knelt next
    to the body and looked to Michael to make certain he was ready. Michael
    nodded, and Hafez drew back the sheet. Michael looked quickly away and
    retched once, the lunch at Arabesque rising in his throat. "Where did
    you find him?" Michael asked. "Near the pyramids on the edge of the
    desert."
    "Let me guess--shot three times in the face."
    "Exactly," Hafez said, lighting a cigarette to cover the smell. "He was
    last