The Mark of the Assassin

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    Zamalek one hears the French brought to Cairo by Napoleon. The
    inhabitants wear Western clothes, eat Western food in restaurants and
    cafes, and dance to Western music in discotheques. It is the other
    Cairo. Eric Stoltenberg lived on the top floor, the ninth, of a building
    overlooking the river. His neighbors complained about his loud parties
    and the mating sounds of his constant conquests. He ate dinner each
    night in one of Zamalek's fashionable restaurants, then stopped at a
    nightclub called Break Point to do his late-night drinking and hunting.
    It was all in Delaroche's dossier. The Break Point had a doorman and a
    statutory line, like a New York club. The doorman selected important
    clientele and pretty girls for quick entry. Eric Stoltenberg fell into
    the first category, Astrid Vogel the second. Delaroche, single male,
    attractive, mid-forties, had to wait ten minutes. He immediately went to
    the bar. In Cairene-accented Arabic he ordered Stella beer, the Egyptian
    brew. In the nightclub, with its murky lights and pall of smoke, he
    could pass for a certain kind of upper-class Egyptian. He paid for his
    beer and turned around to face the room. The place was filled as usual:
    scantily clad Egyptian girls who would sleep with strangers, boys who
    would do the same, a few high-class tarts, a smattering of adventurous
    tourists who couldn't stand another evening in the dreary bar at the
    Nile Hilton. A pretty girl asked Delaroche to dance. He politely
    refused. A moment later her guardian angel appeared, a rough boy with a
    leather jacket and tight-fitting shirt to prove he lifted weights.
    Delaroche murmured something in his ear that made the boy immediately
    leave the bar, pretty girl in tow. Astrid was dancing with Stoltenberg.
    She wore one of the black skirts purchased in London and a tight-fitting
    black pullover. She was a tourist named Eva Tebbe, born in the East, who
    spoke German with a Saxon accent. Astrid and Stoltenberg met the
    previous night, when she had come with Delaroche, who posed as a
    Frenchman from her tour group. Stoltenberg flirted with her
    relentlessly. She had two days left in Cairo; then it was off to Luxor.
    Stoltenberg had tried to pick her up, but she sadly declined, saying the
    little Frenchman would be furious. Tonight she was supposed to be alone,
    which is why Delaroche didn't want to dance and why he remained at the
    bar in shadows. Stoltenberg had been good-looking once, but he had gone
    fleshy with alcohol and rich food. He had short-cropped iron-gray hair
    and ice-blue eyes. He wore black--black jeans, black turtleneck, black
    leather jacket. He was touching Astrid as she danced, and by her
    expression she enjoyed it very much. After three songs they adjourned to
    Stoltenberg's regular table. They talked, close.
    After ten minutes they stood and sliced their way across the dance floor
    toward the door, Stoltenberg pulling Astrid by the hand. Her eyes
    flashed across Delaroche but did not linger on him. Astrid the
    professional. He looked carefully at her face, and he realized she was
    frightened.
    BUSINESS WAS OBVIOUSLY GOOD for Eric Stoltenberg. He had a large black
    Mercedes and a driver. He opened Astrid's door, then walked behind the
    car and got in next to her. The car roared through the narrow streets,
    then turned onto the cor-niche and headed south along the river.
    Delaroche followed on the motorbike, lights doused, head covered by a
    helmet. He eased off the throttle as they approached Stoltenberg's
    river-front apartment house. Just like London, he thought. Take him
    inside, get him into bed, leave a door open if you can. No problems. The
    Mercedes accelerated suddenly, sweeping past the building. Delaroche
    swore aloud, then opened up the throttle and chased after them.
    "YOUR NAME is not Eva Tebbe," Stoltenberg announced, as the car
    accelerated. "It is Astrid Vogel. You are a former member of the Red
    Army Faction."
    "What the hell are you talking about? My name is Eva Tebbe, and I am a
    tourist from Berlin. Take me back to the club now, you crazy bastard, or
    I'm going to scream for the police!"
    "I knew it was you five minutes after we met. That crazy Saxon accent of
    yours wasn't good enough to fool a professional."
    "Professional what? Take me back to the club now!"
    "I worked for the Stasi, you idiot. I handled the RAF. You were never in
    the East, but plenty of your comrades were. We had photographs and
    complete dossiers on every RAF