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Egyptian inflections he’d heard as a kid came back as he pulled out a long “ laa ,” or “no,” to an offer, falling into a rhythm as he negotiated. The seller finally broke the back and forth to launch into a long harangue about the quality of the material, unsurpassed in Egypt and certainly worthy of an American who had shown himself educated enough to speak the language like a native. Ferguson bowed his head gratefully, listening to the lecture without interruption so he could surreptitiously glance around and see if he was being watched.
     
    If so, it wasn’t obvious. Ferguson held up three fingers for a price, got another frown, and started to walk away. This resulted in a quick agreement; the merchant solemnized the deal with a tirade of praise for the tourist’s negotiating skills, to which Ferguson responded by praising the great artistry of the man’s wares. The vendor wished him a thousand lifetimes of pleasure and handed over his purchase.
     
    Ferguson continued ambling around the bazaar. He spotted Rankin and one of the CIA station people buying some food from a man with a small charcoal burner and decided to walk over. He heard their accents, or so it seemed, and introduced himself as a fellow tourist, new in the city, just a tourist, happy to say hello, his name was Benjamin Thatch, and if they were ever in New Mexico and needed an accountant, they should look him up.
     
    Now that he had announced his name for the benefit of any nearby lookouts, Ferguson went into the café. Tourists mixed with locals in the main room. Though it was early in the afternoon, the place was crowded, and Ferguson had to wait for a table, which suited his purpose perfectly. He pulled out a hundred-dollar traveler’s check and his passport, asking if it was possible to get the check changed. The cashier obliged, and he managed to say “Thatch” loudly enough that the waiter at the end of the counter waiting for a coffee looked up. Ferguson looked at the money he lost on the exchange rate as an investment.
     
    Shown to a postage stamp of a table at the side of the room, Ferguson ordered kahwamazboot, a Turkish coffee with medium sugar. The idea of “medium” was relative; the brew tasted as if it had been made from jelly beans. Ferg leaned back in the chair, watching as a quartet of British tourists shared a hookah pipe, clearly not sure what to make of the experience. An Egyptian soap opera played on the television above the barlike counter; more than half of the patrons were watching it, though they were all male.
     
    The lone exception—an Egyptian woman in western dress— approached Ferguson and asked if he was a tourist.
     
    “Yup. Seeing the sights,” he told her.
     
    “Many sights here.”
     
    “Beautiful ones. Name’s Ben, Benjamin Thatch.” He shook her hand, the sort of faux pas an American tourist would be likely to make. She smiled at him but then turned and walked to another table.
     
    Ferg concentrated on his coffee, sipping slowly. He had a second but declined a third, not sure his teeth would survive another infusion of sugar. He got up slowly and made his way out, walking lazily back to the street. He got to the end of the block before he was sure he was being followed.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    G
    uns pulled the earphones down, figuring that the wireless bugging system they’d planted inside the café was no longer of much use. He pulled his shirt collar up, repositioning the small microphone that was clipped to the inside of his front collar.
     
    “Two guys following him,” he told Rankin and the others.
     
    “Yeah,” said Rankin, watching a video feed on a small handheld device about the size of a PDA. “With our luck they’ll turn out to be pickpockets.”
     
    Ferguson was supposed to walk back in the general direction of the hotel after making contact, and they had set up their plans accordingly. Guns feigned interest in a stand selling cloth wallets as he waited for Ferg and the